Lauren Willig - Masque of the Black Tulip

Henrietta discovered a sudden interest in the scenery.

Wedding night, thought Henrietta, staring unseeingly at Streatham Common. That was what generally followed after a wedding. Usually at night. Hence the term, wedding night, which combined the concepts of both wedding and night.

Henrietta bit down hard on her lip, making a concerted effort to rein in her wayward mind before she launched into a long and tangled analysis of wedding customs from the Anglo-Saxons to the present, and what exactly the etymology of the word "night" might be.

The origin of the word "evasion," she thought, glowering at a cow grazing on the Common, would be more to the point.

There were so many thoughts to evade that Henrietta didn't even know where to begin. Did Miles's mention of the wedding night mean that he intended to go through with the marriage? Or was he bringing up the topic in the hopes that she would broach the ridiculousness of their remaining married? His face had been as inscrutable as it was possible for Miles's face to be. He hadn't looked particularly put out at the notion of consummating their marriage — he hadn't sounded bitter or resigned or angry, or any of the other sentiments one might expect of a reluctant bridegroom — but he hadn't seemed particularly enthused, either. Bleargh.

Miles reined in slightly to allow a farmer's cart to pass. The carriage behind them reined in, too. Henrietta frowned.

"Miles?" Henrietta asked uneasily. "Am I imagining things, or has that carriage been behind us for a very long time?"

Miles shrugged, unconcerned. "It might have been. It wouldn't be surprising if it were. Now, about Vaughn…"

Henrietta twisted in her seat to stare back at the carriage. "But don't you find it the least bit odd that they rein in every time you do?"

"What?" Miles twisted sharply in his seat, inadvertently giving a sharp tug on the reins. His horses checked abruptly.

So did the horses of the carriage behind him.

"What the devil!" exclaimed Miles, subsiding back into his seat.

"Exactly." Henrietta drew in a sharp breath between her teeth. "I don't like this."

"Neither do I," said Miles.

He shoved the ribbons into her gloved hands.

"Here, take the reins for a moment. I want to take another look."

Taken aback, Henrietta grappled with the four sets of ribbons Miles had handed her, trying to figure out which was which, as Miles clambered over the back of the seat. Sensing an inexperienced hand on the reins, the horses lurched alarmingly. Miles paused, balanced on the top of the seat, facing backwards.

"Just hold them steady, Hen," he directed, leaping nimbly onto the perch usually reserved for a groom. The curricle rocked dangerously.

"Just hold them steady?!" repeated Henrietta incredulously, struggling to keep the right leader in line. He showed a distressing tendency to try to veer off to the side. It had been a long time since Henrietta had driven anything but Miles's phaeton, and that at the sedate pace mandated by the congestion of the park. She tugged fruitlessly at the rein as the carriage swayed to the right. "Miles! Please try not to overturn us!"

"Damn."

"What?" Every muscle in Henrietta's body tensed, but she didn't dare take her attention from the road. "What is it?"

Miles vaulted back into his seat, taking the reins from her with a practiced hand. "You're not going to like this," he said, urging the team forward and drawing the recalcitrant leader effortlessly back into line.

"What?" Henrietta demanded.

"They," Miles said, cracking the whip with ruthless efficiency, just as a crack of another kind entirely sounded behind them, "have a gun."

Another bullet whizzed past, this time driving a long furrow into the polished exterior of the vehicle.

"My curricle!" exclaimed Miles indignantly. "I just had it polished!"

Doubled over at the waist, Henrietta rather thought that was the least of their problems, but she wasn't going to argue about it. She didn't have the breath to argue about it.

"Right." Miles hunched low over the reins, his face a model of steely determination. "That's it. I'm going to give that bounder the ride of his life."

"You mean you weren't already?" gasped Henrietta, clinging to her bonnet with one hand and the seat with the other.

"That was just a little jog!" Miles cracked the reins, a look of unholy glee transforming his face. "Come on, my beauties! You can do it!"

As if seized of the same spirit, the four horses broke into a full-out gallop. Henrietta abandoned her bonnet to devote both hands to clutching the seat. The rebellious piece of haberdashery instantly blew back off her head with a force that betokened imminent strangulation.

"That's the spirit!" Henrietta wasn't sure whether Miles was talking to her or his horses, but she supposed the latter, especially when he jerked his head briefly in her direction and shouted, "You all right, Hen?"

Henrietta mustered a slightly strangled noise of assent, just as the carriage hit a rut, sending the body of the curricle bounding merrily into the air, and landing with a thump that jarred through Henrietta's entire body.

Henrietta was distracted from her mere physical irritation by an ominous rattling noise. Beneath her, the right wheel of the two-wheeled vehicle was shaking in a way that boded no good to the continued stability of the whole. Henrietta's gloved hands went rigid on the side of the curricle as she peered, open mouthed with alarm, at the quivering wheel.

If she were a villain intent on wreaking doom and destruction — and the pistol shots did rather seem to point in that direction — wasn't tampering with the carriage too obvious a source of mayhem to neglect? They had been in the inn with Turnip for such a very long time. There had been so many carriages and people milling about in the courtyard of the inn that none of the harried grooms or ostlers would have paid the least bit of attention to someone paying undue attention to any one vehicle. And Miles's curricle was so distinctive amongst all the plain black carriages and grimy hired post chaises. Henrietta's knowledge of carriage construction was minimal in the extreme, but how hard could it be to loosen a wheel? It would be the work of a moment to kneel by the side of the carriage and slide back the pin. And at speeds like this…

The carriage hit another rut, sending Henrietta jouncing into the air, and the wheel shaking in a way that forebode imminent disaster.

"Miles!" Henrietta clutched Miles's arm. "The wheels!"

"Hunh?" Miles glanced rapidly over at her.

"The rattling noise," Henrietta gasped. "Someone must have loosened the wheels!"

"Oh, that!" Miles beamed at her in a way entirely inappropriate for someone courting violent death. "That's just the noise it makes when it's going fast," he explained happily.

They whizzed past the astonished toll keeper at Kennington Turnpike so fast that he had no time to do more than shake his fist at them as they barreled through. "I say! Hen!" shouted Miles over the din of the horses' hooves. "Could you check if he's still behind us?"

Clinging to her place through pure force of will, Henrietta turned an incredulous stare at her husband. Her bonnet whacked her in the face, but Henrietta didn't dare lift a hand to push it back. "If you think I'm letting go and turning around, you're crazy!"

"Don't worry!" yelled Miles. "I'll lose him as soon as we cross Westminster Bridge!"

"If we live that long!"

"What?"

"Nevermind!"

"Whaaaat?"

"I said — oh, never mind," Henrietta muttered. That was the problem with snide comments; they invariably lost all their punch on repetition. Besides, when facing impending death, what did the odd witticism matter?

Despite her words, Henrietta crammed her head around to look behind. Their adversary must have wasted no more time at the toll than they; he was still behind and gaining, black horses covering the ground in long strides.

Westminster Bridge had come into sight, a long arch across the span of the river, crowded with evening traffic. There were pedestrians walking along the balustrades in the twilight, farmers leading their wagons back from market, gentlemen on horseback riding out to nefarious pleasures in the suburbs of the city, and mules laden with yesterday's baking.

Miles and Henrietta barreled into the whole like a cat among pigeons. Henrietta felt the jarring thud beneath them as the carriage sprang from springy turf onto hard stone. Horses shied, bolting for cover. Merchants hurriedly yanked their carts off to the sides of the bridge. Pedestrians flung themselves as far as they could go against the stone railings. Around them, the air was thick with complaints and curses, and behind them, the determined clip of horses plowing straight towards them, thundering along the smooth length of the bridge after them. Henrietta closed her eyes and prayed.

Never entirely steady on its foundations, the bridge swayed alarmingly. Henrietta opened her eyes and wished she hadn't. Below them churned the dark waters of the Thames, dotted with rapidly moving boats like so many water bugs scurrying to and fro. If Miles lost control of the horses, even for a moment, the balustrades would do nothing to check their precipitate descent into the foaming currents.