Lauren Willig - Masque of the Black Tulip

"If he tries it again — " began Miles, just as Lady Uppington said frowningly, "When I see his mother at the Middlethorpes' tonight…"

"Oh, no," Henrietta groaned. "This is just why I didn't tell you. Mama, please don't speak to his mother about it. It would be too humiliating. And you" — she pointed at Miles — "whatever you were thinking about doing, just don't. I'm f ine."

"Unlike Martin Frobisher's coat," giggled Penelope.

"S!" Charlotte tried to kick Penelope but hit the claw foot of Penelope's chair instead, subsiding back into her own chair with a little cry of pain.

"Didn't you have shopping to do before tonight?" asked Henrietta pointedly of her former best friends, casting them an "I am never telling you anything ever again" look.

"Oh, goodness!" Lady Uppington clapped her hands together. "Charlotte, I promised your grandmother I would deliver you both to the modiste by noon. Come along now — chop-chop. No dawdling, Penelope."

"I'll stay home," interjected Henrietta. "I have some letters to write." Or at least, she could find some letters to write. To someone. She just didn't feel like picking over ribbons and squealing over flounces this morning. A nice gloomy horrid novel would be just the thing.

Lady Uppington cast Henrietta a sharp look, but her maternal eye failed to note any flush of fever, so she hustled Penelope and Charlotte out of the room in a flurry of flounces and rustle of petticoats, issuing orders all the while.

"Don't forget, Miles! Ten o'clock!"

Miles wandered out into the hallway. "How does she do that?"

"Black magic," replied Henrietta frankly, rising from the settee to join him just outside the morning room. "Eye of newt and toe of frog, with just a dash of essence of hedgehog."

"I heard that!" came Lady Uppington's voice from the other end of the hall.

"That also explains," added Henrietta confidentially, "her exceptionally good hearing." The front door clicked shut, cutting off the cacophony of female voices. Henrietta cocked her head to look up at Miles. "I need a favor of you."

Miles casually rested a hand against the wall above Henrietta's head.

"I'm listening."

They had stood that way a hundred times before — Miles liked leaning on things and against things and over things — but for the first time, Henrietta felt uncomfortable. Crowded. She was acutely aware of the stretch of Miles's arm next to her head, the muscles outlined against the well-tailored sleeve of his jacket. The warm, distinctly Miles scents of sandalwood and leather filled the space between them. He was so near that she could see the miniscule blond hairs on the underside of his chin, so near that to sway even slightly forward would bring her into his embrace.

Embrace and Miles were not concepts that went together; Henrietta found the thought distinctly unsettling.

So she did what any mature, poised young lady would do in such a situation. She poked him in the chest. "Do stop looming."

"Ouch!" Miles jumped back. "Don't I loom well?"

Henrietta moved quickly away from the wall. "Yes, splendidly, but it's very frustrating trying to carry on a conversation with the bottom of your chin. Valet knicked you shaving, did he?"

Miles's hand went protectively to the bottom of his chin.

She felt much better standing three feet away, with the black and white checks of tiled floor separating them. Much more like herself.

"About that favor…" she began.

Miles's eyes narrowed. "What sort of favor do you have in mind?"

Henrietta shook her head in exasperation. "Nothing as onerous as all that."

" 'Onerous,'" Miles said darkly, rubbing his abused waistcoat, "is a highly relative term."

"Will you dance with Charlotte tonight?"

"Why?" asked Miles suspiciously.

"What sort of nefarious ulterior motive could I possibly have?"

Miles cocked an eyebrow.

"You don't think… I'm not trying to matchmake!" Henrietta was surprised by the vehemence of her own reaction. "You're not Charlotte's type at all."

"Well, that's reassuring," muttered Miles. "I think."

"Oh, for goodness' sake," sighed Henrietta. "Charlotte was very cast down at Almack's last night because no one — except the most obvious fortune hunters — asked her to dance. She didn't say anything, but I could tell. It's been like that all Season."

"She's very quiet," Miles said, attempting to exonerate his sex.

"That doesn't mean she doesn't have feelings," countered Henrietta. "It's very lowering for her having to spend the evening standing next to her grandmother."

"If I had to spend the evening standing next to her grandmother, I'd be low, too. The woman is a menace to society."

Henrietta looked at Miles expectantly. "Well?"

"Tell her to save me the first quadrille."

"You really are a dear," Henrietta beamed, standing on tiptoe to press a quick kiss to Miles's cheek. His skin was warm beneath her lips, and surprisingly soft. If he turned his head just a litde bit to the right…

Henrietta clunked back down onto her heels with such celerity that she staggered.

"I know," Miles said smugly.

"Toad," countered Henrietta, wrapping the old insult around herself like an old and beloved blanket.

"Come for a drive with me this afternoon?" Miles asked.

Henrietta shook her head regretfully. "I can't. My new voice teacher is coming at five."

"New voice teacher?" Miles strolled with Henrietta in the direction of the door. "What happened to Signor Antonio?"

An elusive dimple appeared in Henrietta's right cheek. "He and Cook had an artistic disagreement."

"An artistic disagreement?"

"Signor Antonio thought that a true artiste didn't need permission to help himself to Cook's biscuits. Cook disagreed." Henrietta glanced up at Miles. "Cook, as you know, has a formidable way with the rolling pin."

"Not with me," said Miles smugly.

"Braggart."

Miles stepped aside as a footman trotted forward to open the front door for him. "Jealousy does not become you, my dear."

Henrietta skidded to a stop just before the open door. "Who said I was jealous?"

"Don't try to hide it," Miles said knowingly. Too knowingly. "You know Cook likes me best."

"Oh. Right. Cook." Hen took a deep breath. "Of course."

"Are you all right, Hen? You seem a bit flustered."

Henrietta mustered up a smile. "Fine. Perfectly. Just a little… um, well…"

Miles clapped his hat on his head. "See you tonight, then! Tell Cook I adore her."

The door slammed shut behind him. Henrietta stood there, in the marble foyer, staring at the inside of the door. She stood there so long that the footman shifted uncomfortably and asked if she wished him to open the door again. Henrietta shook her head, not altogether sure what he had asked, because her mind was somewhere else entirely, finishing that last sentence. She wasn't sure she liked the result. In fact, she was quite sure she didn't.

Just a little… jealous?

Miles bounded cheerfully down the front steps of Uppington House. His cheek still tingled where Henrietta's lips had pressed against it, and Miles lifted a hand to rub absently at the spot. The scent of her toilet water — some flower or another, Miles never could keep them straight — tickled his nostrils. It smelled nice. Like Henrietta. Settling his hat more firmly on his head, Miles pushed the thought aside and contemplated the sun-dappled street. Just past noon, and the rest of the day still ahead of him.

It was, considered Miles complacently, shaping up to be an exceptionally fine day. Downey had manipulated his cravat into a Waterfall after only three ruined squares of linen; Cook's ginger biscuits were, as always, the epitome of gingery goodness; there were rumors of a new soprano at Haymarket (Miles being, at the moment, lamentably between mistresses); and he had a spy to catch.

Shaking a floppy lock of blond hair out of his eyes, Miles looked back at Uppington House with a smile. Even now that he had London lodgings of his own, it still felt more like home to him than anyplace else in the world.

The first time he had ever gone up that shallow flight of steps, he had been a terrified eight-year-old with nowhere to go for Christmas. His parents had been on the Continent, his old nurse had been called away to take care of her ailing sister, and Miles had been left at loose ends until Richard suggested he accompany him home.

Richard took his friend by the collar and tugged him forward. "I've brought Dorrington home," he announced helpfully.

Lady Uppington, with fewer gray hairs, but just as imperious a disposition, bustled forward. "Does Dorrington's family know he's here?" she asked.

This consideration had, indeed, eluded both Richard and Miles. Richard considered a moment. "No."

Her worst fears about her son's career as a kidnapper confirmed, Lady Uppington looked sternly at her wayward offspring. "You are going to have to return him."

"It's all right," said Miles matter-of-factly, just as a chubby toddler in a frilly dress waddled into the room. "They don't want me returned."

Before Lady Uppington could react to that startling statement, the toddler thrust the grubby doll in her arms at Miles. The china head wobbled ominously and bits of stuffing escaped out the neck. "Play."