Charades: a cunning game of deception waged by an experienced operative

 — from the Personal Codebook of the Pink Carnation

"Surely, dismemberment is a bit extreme, don't you think, my dear?" Mrs. Cathcart blinked placidly at Amy across the tea table.

"Ah, but can a French agent shoot you if he's missing his arm?" countered Amy. "I thought not. Biscuit?"

The ladies had retired to the Rose Room while the gentlemen partook of their port after dinner. They presented a deceptively charming domestic scene, reflected Henrietta. Amy, her dark curls held back by a bandeau of golden silk, presided over the tea table, pouring steaming amber liquid into dainty rose-painted glasses. Beside her sat Miss Grey, dark hair pulled back with the same severe simplicity as her untrimmed gray dress, placing cups beneath Amy's somewhat erratic spigot with silent efficiency. Across from them, the comfortable form of Mrs. Cathcart spread over a small sofa. In her old-fashioned dress, with its thick, flowered fabric and wide side-panels, her cheeks as rumpled as pressed rose petals, she was the epitome of the country matron, ready to dole out herbal remedies, tie up the bruised knees of clumsy grandchildren, and tote soup to the deserving poor of the parish.

"No, thank you, dear," said Mrs. Cathcart, shaking her white-capped head as Amy offered her a plate of biscuits. From the gentle frown on her face, one would have expected her to be discussing a particularly complicated knitting pattern, or worrying over the fate of a maid who had found herself in the family way. "You're quite right about the difficultly of aiming a weapon without an arm, but wouldn't it be more Christian simply to shoot the man?"

Amy put the teapot down with an emphatic clink of china. "But then how can we question him?"

Mrs. Cathcart considered. "How, indeed?" she murmured, sipping delicately from her cup. "How, indeed."

Amy shifted restlessly in her seat to stare out the window, which reflected back her own impatient face. "I don't understand why Richard won't let us go after him," she expostulated, a wealth of frustration in her voice.

Familial loyalty stirred Henrietta out of her contemplative silence. "We can't risk the school," Henrietta explained for what felt like the thousandth time.

After her encounter with Miles the night before, Henrietta had gathered her scattered wits together, reminded herself of why she had been flitting about the house in the dark in the first place, and betook herself to her brother to announce the appearance of the Phantom Monk. Wars waited for no such trivialities as broken hearts; while it might feel as though the world had shattered into jagged fragments when she wrenched her hand from Miles's in the study, outside, the sun blithely rose and set, the planets circled in their fixed course, and somewhere in Sussex a French spy plotted mayhem.

For a brief moment, Henrietta had basked in the glow of noble self-denial. She could picture herself a veiled figure of mystery, a constant bane to the French, and a source of wonder and speculation at home. "A broken heart, you know," people would whisper. "A heartless rogue — but isn't it always? But her loss is England's gain. Why, the way she captured that Black Tulip…" The daydream bubble popped, and Henrietta grimaced wryly at herself. It was quite impossible to imagine Miles as an evil seducer, any more than it was to cast herself as a tragic heroine. Henrietta had always known she ran more to Portia than Juliet. Besides, she never understood how tragic, veiled figures managed to get anything accomplished with their vision permanently obscured like that. Wouldn't they be constantly tripping over small tables? But that, Henrietta considered, was precisely why she would never make a tragic heroine. She had been cursed with a logical mind.

Her sister-in-law, not being cursed with a logical mind, had been delighted at the news of the spy, and had wanted nothing more than to dash off into the gardens, veil in place and pistol in hand.

Richard had not been delighted.

Hauling Amy back from the door, Richard had pointed out that to go haring out after the spy would only confirm anything the spy might suspect, if — he added dampeningly — there even was a spy. Running around the grounds at night brandishing a pistol would be guaranteed to convince any clandestine observer that there was something worth investigating at Selwick Hall.

"But," Amy had argued, "don't you see, if we shoot whoever it is, there'll be no one to investigate!"

Richard's lips had clamped shut over a sound that might have been a growl if allowed to grow up. "We don't know that he's alone. There might be others. Are you willing to take that risk?"

Within moments, despite the lack of cape or mask, Richard had transformed back into the Purple Gentian, ordering extra sentries be placed about the grounds and in the old Norman tower. Preferring to keep the news from the rest of the party as long as possible, Richard had reluctantly agreed to carry on with most of the following day's scheduled activities. Shooting at targets, after all, wasn't so unusual a pastime as to garner undue attention, and a multitude of bizarre behavior could be excused under guise of a picnic. The ropes course had been abandoned, much to Henrietta's relief. It was bad enough combating heartache without being suspended several feet off the ground.

Henrietta pulled her attention back to the present as Amy flourished the teapot in a way that boded ill to the Axminster carpet and Henrietta's new silk slippers. Henrietta hastily scooted her feet further beneath her chair, and tucked her muslin skirts out of the way of the dripping spigot.

"It would have been so much simpler my way," insisted Amy.

"At least we didn't have to abandon today's activities," put in Mrs. Cathcart peaceably. "It was very clever of your husband to post sentries in the tower."

"Autocratic," grumbled Amy.

"Hideously," concurred Henrietta automatically, but her heart wasn't in it. Through the crack in the door, she could hear the faint clip of booted feet against the marble, the sound of male voices raised in boisterous conversation, coming closer, closer… Miles.

Henrietta sat very straight, not sure whether to be glad or sorry that she had chosen a chair facing away from the door. Her maid had dressed her hair in the Grecian style, twisted into a topknot with long curls cascading down, and her exposed neck suddenly felt quite vulnerable. Henrietta squirmed irritably in her chair, causing the cascade of curls to brush across the offending area. It wasn't as though Miles hadn't seen her neck before. It wasn't as though Miles would even be looking at her neck, more likely than not. After last night's episode in the study, Miles's behavior had been characterized by stunning indifference.

Could it really be called indifference, Henrietta wondered, when there was no interaction to which one could contrive to be indifferent? They had moved across from each other all day, like the planets on an astronomer's orrery, always circling, never meeting. As they shot at targets dressed as Delaroche, Fouche, and Bonaparte, she had caught glimpses of his blond head in the distance, but he had taken care to keep several people between them. They had been separated by the length of the table at dinner, a large candelabra preventing even the most minimal of eye contact. Henrietta suspected Miles of having moved the candelabra, but had no proof.

If he was avoiding her, what of it? Hadn't she practically ordered him to do so? She had no right to cry after what was lost, she told herself fiercely, taking a vast gulp of tepid tea. She was the one who had set the terms and now she had to abide by them.

Why couldn't Miles have argued with her when she told him they couldn't go back? If he really cared about her in any way at all, wouldn't he have gone after her? Protested? Done something?

The door swung open, and one polished Hessian boot advanced across the threshold. Henrietta hastily yanked her gaze back to the tea tray, feigning great interest in the plate of biscuits. If Miles didn't want anything to do with her, she wouldn't want anything to do with him, either. So there. Muffled by the carpet, the boots strode towards her — Henrietta chomped off a regrettably large bite of biscuit — past her, and Stopped by Amy's chair. A hand boasting a gold signet ring on the pinky descended upon the back of Amy's chair. Mouth full of glutinous goo, Henrietta's head jerked up. It was her brother.

Not Miles.

Henrietta resolutely swallowed her mouthful of biscuit.

Amy tilted her head up at Richard. "Are the sentries all in place?" she hissed in a stage whisper.

Richard nodded. "If they aren't, someone will answer for it," he said grimly, just as the door swung open again.

Henrietta hastily angled her body towards Mrs. Cathcart, started to reach for the biscuit, and thought better of it. She wasn't making that mistake twice. As to other mistakes she had made…

Miles sauntered into the room, talking very loudly with the two Tholmondelay twins about something entirely incomprehensible that seemed to involve a great deal of sporting cant. The trio made straight for the fireplace, not so much as glancing in Henrietta's direction.

Placing her teacup in her saucer with a definitive clunk, Henrietta twisted in her seat to face her brother.

"What are we doing tonight?" she asked her brother loudly.

"Playing sitting duck for a French spy," replied Richard sourly.