"Ten o'clock," Miles repeated. The tall cabinet clock in the corner was missing its glass fronting, but behind the jagged break, the hands still faithfully ticked off the minutes. It was nearly half past eleven.

Miles bolted for the door.

A faint whisper rose from the couch. "If sir would divest himself of bloodstains before leaving…" Downey managed, before his head dropped back onto the pillow.

It was too late. Miles was already halfway down the stairs, doing his damnedest not to think about all the things that might be happening to Henrietta at this very moment, and failing miserably.


Miles was late.

Henrietta peered into the crowd of masked revelers overflowing the spacious reception chambers of Lord Vaughn's London mansion, searching for a familiar blond head. Given the number of powdered wigs, feathered hats, and shuttered medieval helmets in evidence, the task was proving less straightforward than usual. In front of her, a self-satisfied Marc Antony, resplendent in breastplate, tunic, and Roman helmet, strolled arm in arm with a very scantily clad Diana the Huntress, whose arrows lay abandoned in their quill as she simpered up at the Roman general. Definitely not Miles.

Henrietta heaved a sigh. The heaving was a mistake, since the sudden inhalation of air brought her ribs into contact with her tightly laced stomacher with a force that would have made her double over had she had the capacity to double over. Henrietta scowled in the direction of her stomach, and got a curl in her eye for her pains. Nasty, silly costume. Yet, so becoming, which was really the point of the whole exercise.

With only two days in which to plan for Lord Vaughn's masquerade, Henrietta's choice of costume had been limited. She had wanted something that would make her seem alluring, mysterious, irresistible, something that would bring Miles to his knees. "I don't think they have costumes for that," Charlotte had commented. Penelope had suggested that, if that was what she wanted, why not just be direct about it and come as Nell Gwynn, with her bodice open to her waist, and a basketful of oranges holding suggestive messages. Neither comment had been appreciated.

In the end, Henrietta had done some rummaging, and appropriated one of the dresses from her mother's own long-ago debut, a shimmering thing of greenish blue brocade, trimmed with gold lace around the low, square neck. The overdress laced tightly over a white silk stomacher embroidered with tiny sprays of flowers before opening out again over an underskirt embroidered in the same pattern. It had to be lengthened, of course, since Lady Uppington was a good five inches shorter than her daughter, but otherwise the old-fashioned style suited Henrietta perfectly, making the most of her small waist, and hiding a set of hips that were rather too lavishly curved for current fashion. She only hoped Miles appreciated it.

Where was the blasted boy?

Henrietta dropped her golden mask (her arm was beginning to hurt from holding it up) and turned to Charlotte, who was standing beside her. "Would you care to take a turn around the room with me?"

Taking a firmer hold on her crook, Charlotte shook her head miserably, setting the little bows on her cap waving. Charlotte had wanted to dress up as the Lady of the Lake, clad in a gown of flowing white samite, but her grandmother had dismissed the notion with a derisory snort as namby-pamby nonsense. Instead, she had squeezed Charlotte into a short, tightly laced shepherdess costume, complete with striped stockings, ribbon-bedizened crook, and even a stuffed sheep.

"I'd prefer to hide here, if you don't mind," sighed Charlotte, nudging her sheep gloomily. "Maybe Penelope would go with you?"

The two girls turned to look at Penelope.

Penelope had come dressed as Boadicea, draped in a length of blue plaid that had the dual benefit of flattering her complexion and annoying her mother into a rapid departure. Lady Deveraux had last been seen heading towards the balcony, bemoaning the hard lot of a mother cursed with a difficult daughter to a very sympathetic King Lear. The Dowager Duchess had very little use for Penelope's mother, and thought the costume was a brilliant idea; her only objection was that Penelope had neglected to include a war chariot. The dowager had rapidly appropriated Penelope's spear, and was amusing herself and Penelope by poking unwitting fops in sensitive parts of their anatomy.

Henrietta and Charlotte exchanged a resigned glance.

"I don't think Penelope will want to join me. If your grandmother asks, will you tell her I went to the ladies' retiring room to, uh…"

"Fix your flounce?" suggested Charlotte, with the first hint of a smile she had shown all evening. "Give my regards to Mr. Dorrington when you find him."

Henrietta impulsively leaned over to hug her, her wide skirt whap-ping into Charlotte's panniers.

"If I find any amorous shepherds, I'll send them your way."

Charlotte flapped the stuffed sheep at her in farewell.

Henrietta maneuvered past a Henry VIII who looked like he needed very little extra padding for his doublet, and a morose Katherine of Aragon clutching a rosary. Henry made a perfunctory grab for Henrietta's waist as she twisted past him, and Katherine whacked him with her beads. Henrietta kept going.

There, to her left, was Turnip Fitzhugh, dressed as… good heavens, was he a giant carnation? The mind boggled. He was chatting with a woman draped mysteriously in black, who, at first glance, Henrietta thought might be the marquise. She started forward to take a closer look, but two Pierrots surged in front of her, clinging to each other for balance and breathing brandy with every breath. Henrietta yanked her wide skirts out of the path of the swaying men, scanning the crowd for Turnip's pink petals, or the black lace of the woman beside him, but they had disappeared into the masses of people milling through Lord Vaughn's reception rooms like so many drops of water into a pond.

Henrietta had her own reasons for wanting to locate the marquise.

It had occurred to her, as she wiled away the hours before the evening's entertainment, that if a spy was trailing along after her and Miles, it stood to reason that this individual would be someone who had recently begun paying a great deal of attention to them.

Henrietta entertained the fleeting thought that a truly talented spy would be quite careful not to pay marked attention to his prey, but she quickly dismissed the notion as unhelpful. Even if it were true, what use was it? Trying to sift through the number of people who hadn't singled her out recently was the sort of pointless task imposed upon heroines in fairy tales. They at least had fairy godmothers to help them sort through stacks of beans or spin straw into gold.

The marquise had certainly made no secret of her interest in Miles; she had dogged his footsteps — or something else — at every opportunity.

Of course, there was the slight problem that the marquise had everything to lose and nothing to gain from the Revolution. She had itemized it all in the phaeton. The houses, the paintings, the clothes… and her husband. The marquise still wore the dark hues of mourning for her husband, but Henrietta harbored the ignoble suspicion that her wardrobe choices arose less from affection than because she knew the colors suited her better than pastels. Love wouldn't win the marquise's loyalty, but a chateau in the Loire Valley, a wall full of Van Dykes, and a treasure trove of family jewels certainly could.

Blast. Henrietta would have so dearly loved for the marquise to be engaged in something underhanded.

Unless… Henrietta brightened. Unless the marquise had come to an agreement with the French government, whereby she got to keep her jewels and her chateaux in exchange for a wee bit of treason in her native land. As a theory, it didn't have much to recommend it, but it was the best Henrietta could come up with. She would have to keep an eye on the marquise. For the good of England, of course.

Just before she left the house that evening, Henrietta had penned a quick note to Jane, asking her to look into the background of the marquise. She did feel more than a little bit foolish about using the resources of the Pink Carnation on what was most likely a personal grudge, but… just in case.

But, aside from the potential sighting with Turnip, she had only caught one glimpse of the marquise that evening, engaged in entirely unsuspicious behavior. The marquise had been dressed as Isabella of Spain, swathed in an elaborate Spanish mantilla, but through the swirls of lace, Henrietta had seen the glint of blue-black hair that proclaimed its owner as unmistakably as the conscious grace of her movements. She had been deep in conversation with Lord Peter Innes, a scapegrace second son who had installed himself as an intimate of the Prince of Wales by dint of excessive drinking, gaming, and (although Henrietta wasn't supposed to know about such things) wenching. Try as she might, Henrietta couldn't find anything the least bit sinister in their conference. Ill-advised, if the marquise's purpose was to replenish her coffers through an advantageous marriage — the prince's intimates were not the marrying kind, and the state of their coffers didn't bear commenting upon — but not treasonous.

All the same, Henrietta kept her eye out for a black lace mantilla, just in case.

Nor had Henrietta yet encountered her host. Henrietta added Lord Vaughn to her little list of suspects. His attentions to her had been as sudden as they had been assiduous. He had fetched her champagne at the Middlethorpes' ball last night — and Lord Vaughn struck Henrietta as the sort of man who seldom fetched anything for anyone without good reason. Henrietta just didn't know whether his reasons were amorous or otherwise. She didn't delude herself that she was the sort of woman who drove men wild with uncontrolled passion, but Lord Vaughn was of an age when he might well be seeking a second wife and an heir rather than letting the estate and title devolve to some vile fifth cousin twice removed (distant cousins who stood to inherit were invariably vile). Henrietta made excellent heir-bearing material. She was the daughter of a marquis, and possessed of a ready wit, pleasant features, and no history of insanity in the family.