The Masque of the Black Tulip (26 page)

"What," he demanded, as Henrietta stooped down to retrieve her fallen accoutrements, "were you doing wandering about by yourself like that?"

"Looking for you," she said gaily, smiling up at him.

"You couldn't have waited with the duchess?"

"Have you seen the duchess tonight?" Henrietta rocked back on her heels and stuck her pearl comb haphazardly back in her hair. "I preferred to take my chances here, thank you very much. Um, do you think you could help me up? These hoops are a nightmare."

Miles looked down. It was a mistake. From his current vantage point, all he could see was breasts. Lots and lots of breasts. Beautiful, ripe, tempting breasts mounding over the top of her square bodice. What was she trying to do, kill him?

"You were very lucky it was me," Miles said sternly, yanking her unceremoniously up off the floor. "If someone else had come upon you, they might have—"

"Kissed me?" Henrietta supplied mischievously, shaking out her skirts.

"Um, yes. I mean no. I mean…" Henrietta's grin widened. Miles scowled. Exactly when had he lost control of this conversation? "Dammit, Hen, what if it had been Martin Frobisher? Or Lord Vaughn?"

"But it wasn't," Henrietta said cheerfully.

She couldn't bring herself to spoil the moment just yet by bringing up the alarming interlude with Lord Vaughn. After all, it wasn't every day that one was delightfully and thoroughly kissed by the man one had been daydreaming about. She hadn't even had to ravish him with roses.

Henrietta chuckled to herself at the thought, utterly delighted with the world and everything in it.

Miles's scowl deepened. "I don't think you're taking this seriously enough, Hen."

"Can I be serious tomorrow instead ?"

Miles had to pace rapidly back and forth across the hallway to keep himself from grabbing her. Just for good measure, he locked his hands behind his back, since he didn't trust them to behave themselves. Just look what his lips had been doing with absolutely no direction from his brain—well, not that brain, anyway—just moments before. Miles's lips thinned.

"Damn it, Hen, this isn't a joke. You could have been killed."

He really was adorable when he was trying to be manly and commanding. Henrietta was so busy reveling in the familiar way his hair flopped across his brow and the way his muscles moved against the thin linen of his shirt as he paced, while her mind chortled, "Mine! All mine!" that it took her a moment to register the slight incongruity in the verb.

"Killed?" she repeated, wrinkling her brow. "Don't you think that's a bit of an exaggeration?"

Admittedly, there were moments when she had feared for her life in Vaughn's Chinese chamber, but the more time elapsed, the more ridiculous her worries seemed. Surely no peer of the realm would strangle a marquis' daughter in the midst of his own party, even if he were a French spy. It would be in poor taste, both socially and strategically.

Besides, Miles didn't know about any of that. She would tell him, of course. Eventually. To tell him now would add far too much credibility to his side of the argument. And Henrietta really didn't want to have a serious discussion just now. She wanted to bask in the aftermath of her first kiss (her first kiss that counted, at any rate), giggle for no reason, and maybe twirl in circles a bit for good measure.

She also wouldn't have minded kissing Miles again, but Miles's concerted glower seemed to imply that he was not currently amenable to further dalliance.

"Yes, killed," Miles repeated decisively.

He paused for a moment, thinking rapidly. Hen was a bright girl— and a stubborn one. He knew her well enough to know she wouldn't be impressed by vague warnings of danger. The War Office wouldn't like it, but… Henrietta's safety came first. Of course, that still begged the question of who would be keeping her safe from him.

Miles raked his fingers through his hair. "I probably shouldn't be telling you this, but if that's what it takes… Listen, Hen"—Miles lowered his voice—"there's a dangerous French spy on the loose."

"You know about that?" exclaimed Henrietta.

"What?" Miles's head snapped up.

"The spy." Henrietta made sure to keep her voice suitably low. She drew closer to Miles, her wide skirts brushing his breeches. Miles sidestepped like a skittish colt.

"I was going to warn you tonight, when I found you, but circumstances intervened." Henrietta rather wished those particular circumstances—the ones to do with Miles kissing her—would materialize again, but since they showed no sign of doing so, she continued. "According to my sources, there is an extremely dangerous new spy in London."

Miles sat down heavily on one of the small, gilded benches placed against the wall. Since when had Henrietta had sources?

"I won't even ask," he muttered.

Henrietta made a wry face, and joined him on the bench, her skirts frothing over his legs. "It's probably best you don't."

"Do you know anything else about this… new development?"

"All I know if that you and I are both under scrutiny, most likely in regard to our connection with Richard."

"And you still wandered off alone?"

"I needed to warn you," Henrietta said in the most sensible tone she could muster. She hurried on before Miles could plunge back into lecture, "And I also took the opportunity to do a spot of detecting along the way."

"Does your mother know about this spot of detection?" asked Miles darkly.

"That," said Henrietta, "was unkind. Mama is in Kent with the children, and what she doesn't know won't hurt her."

"No, just when you turn up dead in a ditch somewhere."

"Why a ditch?"

Miles made an inarticulate noise of extreme frustration. "That's not important."

"Then why did you mention it?"

Miles responded by banging his head into his knees. Hard.

Henrietta decided it was time to change the subject. "How did you know about the spy?"

"Some of us," commented Miles in a muffled tone, "happen to work for the War Office. Some of us aren't naive young girls who are courting death and disaster by playing with things that they should not be involved in."

"Don't you even want to know what I found out?" Henrietta wheedled.

Still doubled over, Miles eyed her warily. "I'm going to regret this, aren't I?"

"Lord Vaughn," Henrietta began, "has been behaving very oddly."

"He's been doing more than behaving oddly," Miles said grimly. "He stabbed Downey."

All the amusement fled from Henrietta's face. "Is Downey all right?"

Miles let out a deep breath and slumped back against the wall. "The surgeon says he'll make it, but it was close." He closed his eyes, reliving the memory of his valet on the floor, covered in blood. "Someone tore up my flat today, looking for something. Downey was in the way. If I had been home—"

"He still might have been stabbed. You just can't know that."

"If he hadn't been working for me—"

"He might have been attacked by a footpad, or knifed by a thief. These things happen."

"They're far more likely to happen when there are French spies involved," muttered Miles. "I brought this on him. You don't understand. I was careless, Hen. If I hadn't attracted the attention of the spy…"

"But, don't you see?" Henrietta twisted to look at him, gasping as the boning stabbed her in the ribs. "You didn't. At least, not by any action of your own. You were already being watched simply by virtue of having been friends with Richard all these years. If it's anyone's fault," she continued, warming to her theme, "it's Richard's, for being so successful. There. You see?"

As she had known he would, Miles grimaced at her. "That makes no sense, Hen."

"Neither do you, so we're even."

"Thanks," he said gruffly.

"Of course," Henrietta said softly.

Looking at him sitting there, slumped on the bench, no jacket or cravat to speak of, waistcoat unbuttoned, shirt rumpled, disheveled, derelict, and dejected, she had to clamp down on an overwhelming surge of affection. She wanted to smooth back that permanently disordered bit of hair at his brow and kiss away the worried wrinkle just over his nose.

Wise in the ways of Miles, Henrietta did none of those things. Instead, she asked neutrally, "How do you know it was Lord Vaughn who stabbed Downey ?"

"He didn't leave a calling card, if that's what you're asking," Miles said with all the snippiness of a male who has just been bamboozled into revealing emotion.

Henrietta gave him a "Don't be an idiot" look. "It just doesn't seem the sort of thing Lord Vaughn would do."

"You don't think him capable of murder?"

"I wouldn't say that. But can't you more easily picture him slipping someone a thimbleful of poison?" Henrietta refrained from bringing in her own personal experience in this regard. After all, she had no proof the wine had been poisoned. "Stabbing someone is just too… crude. Lord Vaughn likes the subtle, the arcane. If he were going to kill someone, he would set about it more inventively."

Miles frowned in thought. "Point taken. I don't know whether he did it personally, or sent a lackey, but he seems the most likely instigator, if you would prefer to look at it that way."

"Why would he want to ransack your flat?"

Miles took a quick look down either side of the hallway, and dropped his voice to a mere thread of sound. "We have reason to believe he might be the agent we're looking for. One of our agents was recently killed—also stabbed—in a way that suggested a connection to Vaughn."

"That would explain a great deal," Henrietta said slowly, thinking back over his unexpected interest in her once the Purple Gentian's name was invoked, his odd behavior in the windowless chamber. Something nagged at her, though. Something didn't quite add up, and she couldn't figure out why. She made a wry face at herself; Miles wasn't going to lend much credence to woman's intuition. Nor would she if their situations were reversed. Nonetheless, she ventured, "But what would he have to gain?"

Miles shrugged. "Money? Power? Settling a personal score? A man could turn traitor for any number of reasons."

Henrietta shivered.

Miles risked a glance in her direction, trying very hard to keep his eyes above her neck, and almost succeeding. "Are you cold?"

Henrietta shook her head, grimacing, "No. Just alarmed by human nature."

"You should be," Miles said grimly. "They knifed Downey with no more consideration than if he had been a—"

"Rabid dog?"

"I was thinking more a bug, but something like that."

Miles looked soberly at Henrietta, cursing himself for being ten times a fool. He should have grabbed her by the arm and hauled her straight back to the dowager the moment he had barreled into her. There was no excuse for his behavior—either of his behaviors; this last interlude had been just as self-indulgent and just as dangerous as that damnable kiss. He had been swept up in the relief of having someone to talk to, to confide his guilt over Downey, to trade ideas about the progress of the mission, someone he could trust. But that was no excuse. He knew Henrietta well enough to know exactly how she would react. This was, after all, the girl whose favorite phrase as a toddler had been "me too."

To have Downey hurt by his carelessness was bad enough; for anything to happen to Henrietta… it was unthinkable. Miles considered dragging out some of the past exploits of the Black Tulip, including his charming habit of carving his calling card into the flesh of his victims, but prolonging the discussion would only make matters worse. The more he said, the more intrigued Henrietta would be, and the more intrigued Henrietta was…

His voice came out harsher than he had intended. "Stay out of this, Hen. This is no parlor game."

"But, Miles, I'm in it already. Whoever, it is, he's looking for me, too."

"All the more reason for you to be even more careful. Have you considered joining your mother in Kent for a few weeks?"

"And catch the mumps?"

Miles stood abruptly. "The mumps are the least of my worries." Henrietta stood, too, looking mutinous. "The best way to secure all of our safety is to catch the spy."

"Don't worry." Miles started off down the corridor. "I will." Henrietta trotted along after him. "Don't you mean, we will?" "You are going back to the duchess. That woman is better protection than a citadel."

In front of them, Henrietta could hear the hubbub of voices that betokened the more populated parts of the party. She yanked on Miles's arm, eager to have her say before they once more joined the throng.

"Miles, I'm not going to sit idly by while you do all the work." Miles didn't say anything. He just looked stubborn.

Ha! thought Henrietta, clapping her golden mask to her face and following her glowering escort in the direction of the dowager. Miles didn't know the first thing about stubborn. She would talk him around tomorrow, she decided confidendy. She would ply him with tea and ginger biscuits. (Cook would surely be amenable to whipping up an extra batch.) And if that failed—Henrietta's lips curved into an anticipatory smile— why, then, she would just have to kiss him into compliance. A hardship, but such were the sacrifices one had to undergo for the sake of one's country.

Henrietta grinned all the way back to the dowager.

Miles glowered all the way back to the dowager. Miles glowered the length of three rooms. Miles glowered as he deposited Henrietta with the Dowager Duchess, and sternly advised them all to go home. Miles glowered particularly forbiddingly as the Dowager Duchess pinked him with Penelope's spear.

"I'll see you tomorrow," called out Henrietta, waving her mask at him like a triumphal banner.

Miles grunted in response. Then he resumed glowering.

Appropriating a glass of champagne, he retreated to an unoccupied alcove where he could glower at Henrietta from a safe distance. At least, he thought darkly, rubbing his bruised posterior, she would be free from harm so long as she was with the Dowager Duchess; the woman provided a better deterrent to would-be assassins and abductors than an entire Greek phalanx. Hell, ship her over to France and Napoleon would surrender within the week.