Lauren Willig - Masque of the Black Tulip

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.

France. Miles stared grimly into the sparkling liquid in the crystal goblet. He had to find enough to conclusively prove Vaughn's guilt. The War Office wouldn't act without proof. They also wouldn't act if it meant damaging their chances of rounding up the rest of Vaughn's contacts first.

The War Office and Miles had slighdy different priorities at the moment.

Across the room, he heard a high, clear, utterly unmistakable laugh, and winced in a way that had nothing to do with French agents.

Maybe if he asked nicely the War Office would send him on assignment to Siberia.

"What do you want? "

A woman with a glaringly white fichu draped over her ample bosom glowered from the open doorway of 13, rue Nicoise.