Lauren Willig (42 page)

 

 

Vaughn’s lips twisted into a smile. “I didn’t think…you indulged.”

 

 

“I didn’t,” Mary said shortly. “Until you.”

 

 

Vaughn’s eyes held hers, unreadable beneath their heavy lids. Without the slightest hint of mockery, he said, “Neither did I.”

 

 

For a wounded man, Vaughn had a surprisingly strong grip. His right hand caught the loose end of the robe and tugged. Since she had a choice of sitting or losing her robe, Mary sat, landing heavily on the side of the bed.

 

 

“Your bandages,” said Mary anxiously, as the movement dislodged the covers, revealing the expanse of white linen wrapped about his chest.

 

 

“Never mind my bandages.” With a bemused grimace, Vaughn shifted himself up against the pillows. “Was ever one in this humor wooed? Come here. Please.”

 

 

Mary didn’t move from her perch on the side of the bed. With victory in her grasp, it was easy to be ungracious. She raised both brows. “I thought you wanted me to go away.”

 

 

Vaughn smiled crookedly. “I find that I’m not so noble as I had hoped. You can vouch that I did try, although it went sorely against the grain.”

 

 

“I prefer you as you are—tainted and tarnished.”

 

 

Vaughn’s good hand tangled in her long, black hair. “Rotted black to the core, you mean.”

 

 

“More of a light gray,” Mary corrected. “Practically silver.”

 

 

“‘Love looks not with the eyes, but with the mind,’” quoted Vaughn, lifting one eyebrow in silent challenge.

 

 

There was only one way to stop Vaughn when he started abusing Shakespeare. Mary didn’t scruple to employ it. With her long hair flowing down around them, she employed the excellent method recommended by Mr. Shakespeare and stopped his mouth with a kiss, and let not him speak neither. His lips were dry and cracked beneath hers, not soft as they had been the other night. Where there had once been claret, she could taste the metallic tang of blood where he must have bitten down with the pain of the surgeon’s probing. Mary welcomed the chafing, the sharp taste of blood where once there had been wine. He was hers, every bruise, every flaw, with blood on his lips and the musty aftertaste of opium furring his tongue.

 

 

There was a raised patch of skin just below his collarbone, where he had been wounded once before, and survived. It was a long, thin wound, slippery as snakeskin against the skin of his chest. Mary’s hand slid sideways, exploring the contours of his muscles, the texture of his skin, the curious ridges and bumps of his bones, cataloguing them all for her own private inventory.

 

 

With one deft move, Vaughn twitched free the bow at her waist, his hands slipping beneath her robe. Inch by inch, the caress of silk gave way to skin, as his hands slid slowly up from her waist along the curve of her ribs, unfettered by all the layers of clothing that had thwarted her more adventurous suitors in the past. Unhindered by corset or stays, Vaughn’s hands brushed delicately past her unbound breasts, the slightest whisper of a touch, but all the more tantalizing for that. Mary’s breath caught in her throat as he circled back with deliberate slowness. Mary arched her neck, soaring miles above Belliston Square on her own private cloud as Vaughn leaned forwards to brush a kiss against her pulse.

 

 

She plummeted abruptly back to earth as Vaughn pulled away, doubling over with a pained grunt.

 

 

“Vaughn?” Shoving her hair out of the way, Mary leaned anxiously over him, calling herself a thousand nasty names for having forgotten that there were such things as stitches and that amorous activities tended to dislodge them. With Vaughn looking at her like that, touching her like that, it had been so dangerously easy to forget. “Are you all right? Are you bleeding again?”

 

 

“This,” rasped Vaughn, clasping both hands to his side, “would be considerably more entertaining were I master of all my faculties.”

 

 

Mary scooted sideways off the bed, holding her robe together with both hands. “I’m ringing for Derby.”

 

 

Vaughn’s head inched up. Although white about the lips, he managed to say, with commendable sangfroid, “While he is an admirable butler, Derby would be decidedly de trop. Don’t you agree, my dear?”

 

 

“I’m not letting you tear open your stitches. You need sleep, not—” Mary gestured broadly. She didn’t see any brighter red among the brown stains, but it was hard to tell with Vaughn’s hand clamped over the area. At least, if he was bleeding, it couldn’t be heavily, or it would have seeped through his fingers, as it had before, during those nightmare hours in the park.

 

 

Moving very carefully, Vaughn eased himself back against the pillows, keeping one hand clasped against his side. “You won’t refuse a wounded man?”

 

 

“Precisely why I am refusing you.”

 

 

“What if it’s a dying wish?”

 

 

Mary shivered. “Don’t say that.”

 

 

“Would it matter…that much?”

 

 

“Do you have to ask?”

 

 

“Yes.” Vaughn’s lips twisted in a ghost of a roguish smile. “For my vanity’s sake.”

 

 

“Your vanity does quite well enough without my help. But, yes.” Mary snuggled back down next to him, taking care to stay to his good side. “It would matter. A great deal. When I thought you were dying…that I had killed you…”

 

 

“Ah, yes,” said Vaughn, raising an interested eyebrow. “What was that about fighting with the Black Tulip for my miserable life?”

 

 

Mary gave him the expurgated version. “He thinks you’re the Pink Carnation and he wants you dead.”

 

 

“Good Lord, not
again
,” groaned Vaughn.

 

 

“Again?” demanded Mary. “Do you get mistaken for spies frequently?”

 

 

“Oddly enough, yes. I stumbled upon the Pink Carnation during one of my trips to Paris. Or, rather,” he admitted, “the Pink Carnation stumbled on me. I was having a spot of bother with Fouche’s lot, from which the Carnation was good enough to extract me. In return…” Mary felt his chest ripple beneath her cheek as he shrugged.

 

 

“What exactly might that spot of bother have been?”

 

 

Vaughn settled back more comfortably against the pillow. “It is rather amusing when one considers it. The Pink Carnation was operating under the mistaken impression that I was our elusive Black Tulip—it’s the wardrobe, I imagine,” he added as an aside. “There’s no other explanation for it.”

 

 

“Hmm,” said Mary, but forbore to comment.

 

 

“The French, on the other hand, had somehow come by the absurd conclusion that I was embroiled in the affairs of the Pink Carnation. They began to make Paris rather unpleasant.”

 

 

“I’ve heard the guillotine often is.”

 

 

“Fortunately, the Pink Carnation captured me before Fouche did. Once we had straightened out the small matter of my intentions, the Carnation graciously condescended to take on my business in France. In return, the Pink Carnation has called upon me for certain small favors. You were one of them. I resisted strenuously,” he added.

 

 

Mary chose to ignore that bit. “So the English think you’re working for the French, and the French think you’re working for the English.”

 

 

“A delightful little tangle, isn’t it?”

 

 

“We seem to have a number of those,” Mary said ruefully.

 

 

Vaughn rested his cheek against the top of her head. When he spoke, she could feel his breath rustling against her hair, like the wind through the leaves in the Square. “I wish I could do it all over, start again.”

 

 

“Without an Anne,” Mary finished for him.

 

 

“Without an Anne,” Vaughn agreed.

 

 

“If it hadn’t been her, it would have been someone else,” Mary said philosophically. Remembering something that had nagged at her before, she pulled back just far enough to see Vaughn’s face. “Who was Teresa?”

 

 

The old guards clamped down across Vaughn’s face. “Never my wife.”

 

 

“Clearly.”

 

 

Mary could feel the moment when Vaughn’s tense muscles relaxed beneath her cheek, as her silence won out over reticence. “She was my lover. In Paris.”

 

 

“Your mistress,” Mary translated.

 

 

“Not as such,” replied Vaughn thoughtfully. She could feel his chest shift beneath her cheek as he settled back further against the pillows. “The term never suited her. She would never have admitted to being anything other than an equal partner.”

 

 

“You cared for her.” Mary did her best to keep her tone neutral.

 

 

“I admired her,” Vaughn corrected. “She was clever. Strong-willed.”

 

 

“Beautiful, too, no doubt,” said Mary acidly.

 

 

She could hear the smile in Vaughn’s voice. “Very.”

 

 

Shifting out of the circle of Vaughn’s arm, Mary swished her hair back over her shoulder. “I can’t imagine how you could bear to part with her.”

 

 

“She was also,” said Vaughn very delicately, “an agent of the French government.”

 

 

“Oh.” There didn’t seem to be anything else to say. Mary looked down at him, at the deep circles beneath his eyes and creases in his cheeks, tokens of years in which she had had no part. Years of Hellfire Club outings and trysts with French spies and heaven only knew what else. “Did you know that at the time?”

 

 

Vaughn raised one eyebrow. “In the beginning, it wasn’t really a consideration.”

 

 

Mary folded her arms across her chest, very conscious of the robe hanging open with the belt lost somewhere among the bedclothes. “I’m sure you were too swept away by her manifold charms to care.”

 

 

Vaughn considered that for a very long time. “Not really,” he said, after a pause that seemed to go on forever. “The question never arose.”

 

 

Mary’s skepticism must have been readily visible, because Vaughn raised his good hand in a gesture of graceful helplessness.

 

 

“Paris in ‘91 was…different.” His eyes drifted past her, fixing on a fold of the blue velvet bed hangings as his memory roamed back a decade along the twisting streets of Paris. “Oh, the Bastille had been taken and the mobs had marched on Versailles, but it all still felt like a game—a dangerous game, to be sure, but what’s the joy of playing for low stakes?” His lips twisted in reminiscence, a smile with a sting in its tail. “We used to place bets on which concession the King would make next, which ridiculous acts the Assembly would pass, which district would be the next to go up in arms.” His eyes darkened. “We never thought they would kill the King. And then the Terror…”

 

 

His gaze settled on Mary’s face, where she sat as still and solemn as a marble statue of Justice. With an effort, he mustered something of his old urbane demeanor. “As you can see,” he said, with a nonchalant shrug that might have been more convincing but for the lines of strain around his eyes, “events took me somewhat by surprise. As they did us all.”

 

 

“But not her,” Mary supplied, sticking doggedly to the main point.

 

 

“Who can say? It may have been her goal all along, or she may merely have seen her chance and seized it. I only knew the extent of it once the Terror was well under way. By then…” Vaughn let his silence speak for itself. “Having no desire to tangle with a pack of maddened ideologues, I chose the route of least difficulty to myself. I left.”

 

 

Mary ignored the self-condemnation and seized on what she saw as the more important point. A woman scorned was always dangerous; a woman scorned with a habit of executing her enemies was even worse.

 

 

“Will she be back to haunt you, too?”

 

 

“No.”

 

 

Arms akimbo, Mary shook back her hair. “You seem to have a talent for inspiring resurrections.”

 

 

Despite himself, Vaughn’s cheekbones lifted with amusement. “Setting me up as your savior?” As Mary made a face at him, he shook his head, his amusement fading. “There’ll be no resurrection this time. Teresa is dead. Quite genuinely and indisputably dead.”

 

 

“How?” Mary asked apprehensively. She had a suspicion she wasn’t going to like the answer.

 

 

Vaughn’s face was grim. “She was killed this past summer, by her own master. The Black Tulip.”

 

 

“That’s why,” Mary said abruptly, her nails digging into the feather tick. “That’s why you told me the Tulip was running short of petals. Let me guess: She had black hair, too.”

 

 

“Yes.” The candle threw strange shadows across Vaughn’s face, throwing one cheek into relief, the other into shadow, like the parti-colored costume of a harlequin in an Italian commedia dell’arte. Only there was nothing lighthearted about Vaughn’s expression. His hand sought hers among the bedclothes, his fingers closing tightly over hers. “I should never have got you involved.”

 

 

The outlines of the trees, silhouetted in relief against the walls, reminded Mary just a little too much of that deserted copse deep in the heart of Vauxhall gardens. She could very well have done without ever having made the acquaintance of the Black Tulip. Of course, if it weren’t for the Black Tulip and his machinations, she wouldn’t be here with Vaughn.

 

 

“You didn’t know me then,” she said mechanically. “I was expendable. Anyone would have done the same.”

 

 

Vaughn’s thumb brushed caressingly across the vein at the base of her wrist. “Spoken like a true pragmatist,” he said tenderly, but Mary’s mind was too full of other concerns to be distracted by compliments.