Lauren Willig - Masque of the Black Tulip

Ooops. Too late.

Henrietta put the note to the side, resolving to write Marianne a quick letter of apology before she dressed for the masquerade tonight.

The second letter was from Amy. And it was thick. Henrietta tore open the seal with a surge of anticipation. That had been fast; Amy must have sat down with her quill and a stack of paper as soon as she received Henrietta's note. Settling back against the settee, Henrietta skimmed rapidly. Amy was delighted, wished she could help in person, was overjoyed to offer her expertise, blah, blah, blah. Ah, the good bit! Henrietta sat up straighter. Amy had jammed in four closely written pages of advice. Some, Henrietta took mental note of, such as the tips regarding ways to bind one's breasts without experiencing excruciating pain, and how to listen at a keyhole without being squashed if the door opened unexpectedly. Others, such as the suggestion that she burgle the War Office at dead of night in case they had extra information, Henrietta discarded out of hand. Spying on one's own side just seemed so… unpatriotic. And no one could accuse Henrietta of lack of patriotic zeal. She knew all seven verses of "Rule Britannia" by heart, even the obscure ones about muses still with freedom found and manly hearts to guard the fair.

Henrietta put Amy's bulky letter aside for further perusal later. There were some bits that required deeper scrutiny. The diagrams on lock-picking, for example, were not the sort of things one could memorize in just one viewing.

Even better, in a cramped postscript jammed onto the very bottom of the very last page, Amy had added an invitation. A week hence, she and Richard were having several people to stay for an intensive training session. The brilliance of it was, wrote Amy blithely, that it would look to be no more than a simple country house weekend. If anyone asked, there would be all the usual entertainments: hunting and fishing for the men, a jaunt to a nearby Norman ruin for the women, and a trip to the village shops. In actuality, they would be learning the subtleties of disguise, the art of eavesdropping, and several other thrilling things. Though Henrietta could still go to the shops if she liked.

Henrietta smiled to herself as she reached for the next letter. It was all so like Amy. And quite, quite perfect. Her mother would never object to her spending a weekend with Richard, "chaperoned" by Amy. She wondered whether Miles would be present. As Richard's best friend, one would think he would be… Henrietta ruthlessly dragged her current employment, Henrietta had never played any role in the hostilities against France other than the passive one of pesky younger sister to the Purple Gentian. If they investigated her actions, all they would find was a list of books borrowed from the lending library, five refused offers of marriage, two volatile voice teachers, and an inordinate number of ribbon purchases.

Henrietta dipped her broken pen absentmindedly in the ink, pulling the sheet of paper towards her.

Miles, on the other hand, was the perfect target. His work with the War Office, while certainly not bandied about town, was no secret — how could it be, with Miles openly going there at intervals for the past several years? His connection with Richard was also common knowledge. If the Ministry of Police were looking to eliminate those who might prove a danger to Bonaparte's ambition… Henrietta looked down to see a spreading pool of brownish ink on the formerly pristine piece of paper. In the dim light, it looked like blood.

For goodness' sake! Henrietta crumpled the spelled piece of paper. No blood was going to be spilled. Miles should be warned, but not by note. It wasn't the sort of thing one wanted falling into the wrong hands, and she and Miles had no code. A thousand private witticisms and shared memories, but no secret cipher.

She could go to his lodgings. Henrietta cocked her head and grimaced. Blast, this was the problem with knowing oneself too well. She knew that her main motive for wanting to go to Miles's lodgings wasn't to warn him of potential danger; it was to make sure that he was home. Alone.

Henrietta took a deep breath, and shoved back her chair. Right. She wasn't going to stoop to that. Yes, she knew she had said that about the hiding behind the hedge plan, too, but this time she meant it. She was making a new resolution: No more skulking about. Except in the interest of England, of course. But when it came to Miles, they had been friends too long to play those sorts of games. If she wanted to know the nature of his relationship with the marquise, she would ask him straight out, not pop into his lodgings at strange hours like the jealous husband in a French farce.

Besides, from a strategic point of view it was a dreadful idea. Aside from all the nasty things it could do to her reputation if she were dis-covered, if she and Miles were being watched by French agents, her slipping hooded into his apartments would only convince the secret police that they had something to hide, thus increasing the danger of Miles being shot, stabbed, or otherwise permanently maimed.

Miles would have to be warned, but she would do it in person, tonight. It was well past seven already, and he was under orders from two of the most fearsome matriarchs in Britain to put in an appearance at Lord Vaughn's masquerade no later than ten o'clock tonight. The masquerade would provide the perfect setting for a clandestine meeting; among the masked and tipsy revelers, she could draw Miles off to a secluded alcove for a private meeting.

After all, Henrietta rationalized to herself gleefully, her mother's stricture about disappearing into alcoves couldn't possibly apply to Miles, since Miles was the one who was supposed to be keeping an eye on her.

Yes, Henrietta decided, shutting the lid of the escritoire with a definitive click, her conversation with Miles would have to wait until tonight.

What could possibly happen between now and ten o'clock ?

Miles didn't remember leaving his sitting room such a mess. He didn't remember flinging his books-across the room, he didn't remember yanking down his drapes down off their rods, and he certainly didn't remember slashing open the seat of his settee.

"What in the hell?" exclaimed Miles.

Miles had to grab hold of the door frame to keep from tumbling over a small table that had been upended right in front of the door. In front of him, chaos reigned. Tables lay on their sides, paintings hung crookedly on their pegs, and a broken decanter of claret leaked its contents into the warp of the Axminster carpet. Dash it all, he had liked that decanter. He'd been pretty fond of its contents, too, before they'd soaked into the rug. Porcelain fragments from a broken urn dappled the floor, warring for space with tumbled books, and crumpled bits of paper. The fabric covering his settee and the two matching chairs hung in tatters from their gilded wooden frames.

Miles took a cautious step over the fallen table and heard shards crunch beneath the heels of his boots. Leaning over, he picked up a book, automatically smoothing the pages. The other contents of his bookshelves also occupied the floor, lying at odd angles throughout the room, some flat on their backs, others bent open, as though someone had flung them out of the bookshelf one by one. Crunching his way across the room, Miles stuck Livy's Commentaries back on the empty shelves, where, of course, it promptly toppled over onto its side for lack of companions.

This was absurd! Unspeakable! A man left his lodgings for, what, five hours at most — no, more than that. He had gone out at eleven to badger Geoff, lunched at his club, toddled over to the opera to question Mme Fiorila, browsed among the boots at Hoby's, shot at targets at Manton's, and finally driven along to the marquise's townhouse on Upper Brook Street to take her driving, cooling his heels in her drawing room until she had finally condescended to emerge, perfumed, powdered, and pouting. Still, even an eight-hour absence didn't justify the complete and utter destruction of a man's abode.

Clutching his head, Miles stared out across the room. Who would have done such a thing? This was clearly not the work of a band of thieves, since as far as Miles could tell from the drawing room, nothing had been taken. A valuable silver snuffbox lay in plain view next to one of the upended tables, too tempting a plum to be left by anyone with a quick profit on the agenda. Besides, what thieves in their right mind would expend that much energy in destruction when their best hope of success lay in grabbing and running?

Crazed vandals? Escaped Bedlamites? An angry ex-mistress?

Miles froze guiltily. No. Surely even Catalina wouldn't… well, he wouldn't be quite so sure about that. Flinging things about for the sheer fun of watching them go smash was very much Catalina's style, but doing it in private wasn't. Catalina liked an audience. She only smashed crockery when there was someone to smash it at. Then there was the added fact that Catalina, experienced courtesan that she was, hadn't shown any signs of tearing rage or towering passion at their parting. She had clung to his leg a bit, flung her arms about, and expostulated in Italian, but the tears in her eyes had been rapidly replaced by a greedy gleam when Miles had presented her with a farewell parure of diamonds and rubies. Miles decided he could safely rule out his ex-mistress. Which only left a far more disturbing possibility. The French.