But this, he reminded himself selflessly, was supposed to be about Henrietta and what she would like, which also unfortunately ruled out boxing matches, trips to Tattersalls, and — Miles's personal favorite — the removal of clothing. From what he knew of females, they were generally more intrigued by the acquisition of clothing than the removal of it. Miles shook his head at the waste of time and fabric. Fig leaves. Now, there was a form of fashion he could support. Of course, some of those dresses of Henrietta's weren't half bad, the ones with the filmy skirts that outlined the length of her legs as she walked, and the scooped bodices that — ergh. Miles cast a guilty glance around the room and placed his hat on his lap with exaggerated nonchalance, wishing that current fashion didn't mandate breeches that were quite so damnably form-fitting.

Miles resolutely turned his mind to safer topics. He did vaguely remember hearing someone going on at a ball once about flowers speaking the language of love. Miles dubiously regarded the squished posy of primroses, already turning slightly brownish around the edges. They didn't say anything to him other than, "Water me!" He supposed there might be a metaphor in there somewhere — love needing nourishment, and all that sort of drivel, but from what he knew about gardening, nourishing flowers involved a great deal of compost, which even Miles was quite sure was about as far from romance as one could get. "Oh my love is like a dung heap" was far more likely to get a chamber pot flung at his head than cries of rapture.

Miles shook his head. He briefly considered nipping out of the War Office and running over to Hatchards for one of those romantic novels Henrietta seemed to find so engrossing, but rapidly rejected the idea. After all, even if he managed to find an appropriate book, how would he know where to look? He doubted they had an appropriate index, with entries like "Wives, for the wooing of," or convenient chapter headings, such as "How to Deliver a Declaration of Love in Ten Easy

Lessons." Miles cringed, imagining the derisive laughter sure to follow his possession of such a publication.

A dinner a deux, Miles decided. That was the ticket. There would be champagne, and oysters, and chocolate — not all at once, he concluded, after some consideration. Miles adjusted his mental image slightly and added some grapes, for the peeling of. He could feed them to Henrietta one by one, and if one, or two, or ten just happened to slip into her bodice and need retrieving, well, they were slippery things, peeled grapes. Those Romans certainly knew what they were doing, thought Miles happily. Peeled grapes… a couch big enough for two… maybe some custard…

Wickham's aide reappeared, loudly clearing his throat. Miles rose with a start, spilling an entire bucket of mental grapes, none of them, unfortunately, anywhere near Henrietta's bodice.

"He'll see you now," the aide said in harried tones, chivvying Miles towards the office. "But make it quick."

Miles nodded in acknowledgment and bounded through the door into Wickham's office. Someone had replaced the map on the wall since his last visit, evidently employing a stronger pin. The map quivered a bit as the door slammed shut behind him, but remained in its place.

Miles dragged his accustomed chair in front of Wickham's desk. "Good morning, sir!"

Wickham's shrewd eyes traveled from Miles's beaming countenance to the somewhat wilted primroses. "I can see that you think it is," he replied, adding, "For me, are they?"

Confused, Miles looked down at his hand, started, flushed, opened his mouth, closed it again, and looked as flustered as a strapping man of sporting tendencies can contrive to look.

"Er, no," he said, shifting the primroses hastily behind his back. "I've just been married!"

"Congratulations," said Wickham dryly. "I wish you both very happy. I take it you did not come to see me simply to inform me of your recent nuptials?"

"No." Miles's expression took on a more serious cast as he scooted his chair closer to Wickham's desk. "I have reason to believe the Black Tulip is Lord Vaughn."

The spymaster eyed him dispassionately. "Do you?"

Miles nodded grimly, and proceeded to start at the beginning. "Someone crept into Selwick Hall this weekend disguised as the Phantom Monk of Don well Abbey."

Wickham cast Miles a faintly quizzical glance.

Miles waved his hand dismissively, realized he was still holding the despised posy, and hastily stuck it under his chair. "A local tale. It doesn't signify, sir." He leaned forward in his chair. "At first, I thought our phantom was only after Selwick's papers — "

"A reasonable assumption," murmured Wickham.

"Thank you, sir. The evidence appeared to bear that out. We found the papers in Selwick's desk disarranged, but nothing else in the house had been disturbed, and there were no signs of activity anywhere in the grounds." Miles paused slightly, remembering exactly what sort of activities had been occurring in the grounds.

Wickham's keen eyes narrowed. "And in Selwick's desk?"

"Only estate papers, sir. Selwick has always been quite careful not to leave sensitive documents lying about."

"I assume that isn't the extent of your tale." Wickham glanced at the clock on his desk, Atlas supporting not the world, but the time.

"Right." Miles took the hint and hurried rapidly through the rest. "We stopped at an inn, where my companion overheard Lord Vaughn in conversation with the opera singer, Mme Fiorila — at least, I'm fairly certain it was Mme Fiorila," Miles corrected himself. "Upon leaving the inn, we noticed we were being followed. Since the London-to-Brighton road is a popular one, I initially thought nothing of it, until their coachman drew a gun. We evaded pursuit, and returned to London. So you see" — Miles thumped enthusiastically on the desk, making Atlas jump — "it must have been Vaughn! Who else would have known to follow us from the inn?"

"One point requires clarification, Mr. Dorrington. Who is 'we' ?" enquired Wickham. "Were you with Selwick at the time?"

Miles flushed. "Er, no. At least, not with that Selwick. I was with his sister, Lady Henrietta."

Wickham responded to that extraneous detail with an attention he had failed to display to anything else Miles had said thus far. He sat bolt-upright in his chair, fixing Miles with the stare that had been known to make French agents leap out third-story windows and hardened English operatives slink beneath their capes.

"Lady Henrietta Selwick?" he repeated sharply.

"Ye-es," affirmed Miles, regarding his superior with some confusion. "You know, Selwick's younger sister?" It didn't seem quite the time to impart the news that she now bore another title; Wickham's expression was more funereal than bridal.

"That, Mr. Dorrington," said Wickham harshly, "is bad news. Very bad news, indeed."

"Bad news?" Miles was half out of his chair, grasping the edge of Wickham's desk.

Wickham had already levered himself out of his desk chair and was striding towards the door. "It means," he explained, reaching for the door handle, "that Lady Henrietta is in grave danger."


Something sharp was poking Henrietta in the arm.

Making sleepy noises of protest, Henrietta rolled over and buried her face into the fluffy depths of the feather pillow. She flung out an arm, and wiggled deeper into the sheets. But there was an odd, musty smell to the pillow, not like her own lavender-scented linen, and the sheets felt strange against her bare skin.

Henrietta's eyelids flew all the way open, and she sat abruptly up in the bed, clutching at the coverlet as it threatened to fall to her waist. Last night. Her wedding. Miles… It had all really happened, hadn't it? Yes, of course it had, she assured herself. Or else, why would she be unclothed in a strange bed? As to what had transpired in that strange bed… Henrietta turned redder than the opulent crimson counterpane.

The cause for her blush was absent, but in his place perched a hastily folded note. Reaching out, Henrietta unfolded the scrap of paper, and leaned groggily back against the pillows. In Miles's large, untidy handwriting, the note stated, "Went to War Office. Back by noon." It was signed with an exuberant squiggle that might have been an M, a D, or an amateur portrait of Queen Charlotte.

Not precisely an ode to her charm and beauty.

Henrietta shook her head and chuckled. How like Miles it was!

There was a postscript, however, that brought more of a sparkle to her eye than any of the effusions, verse and prose, of her past admirers. At the bottom of the page, Miles had scrawled just one word: "Magnificent."

Henrietta clutched the note to her chest, beaming besottedly. It really had been quite magnificent, hadn't it? Lifting the note, Henrietta read the word again. Magnificent. That did say magnificent, didn't it, not maleficent or malodorous or magnificat? Henrietta peeked again, just to make sure. Yes, it quite definitely said magnificent. Happily crinkling the edges of the paper, Henrietta read the postscript over four more times, until the letters began to unfold into little black squiggles and the word "magnificent" began to disintegrate on her tongue, and she had to remind herself of what it meant.

Resolutely refolding the note (after just one last peek to make sure the word was still there, and not just another iteration of "Miles" that had happened to sprawl over into extra letters), Henrietta settled back against the pillows, the little square of paper balanced on her chest, tucking her chin down along her collarbone to squint at it. It wasn't exactly a love letter, she reasoned, nobly resisting the urge to snatch it open again, but it was a token that Miles intended to go along with his end of the bargain, and do his best to make things work. Bargain. Henrietta struggled up onto her elbows, dislodging the piece of paper. That did take some of the glow out of it. She didn't much relish being a romantic charity case, tossed alms in the form of a spare word.