It did make a certain amount of sense. Even the "little friend" comment fell neatly into the pattern. As an old schoolmate of Richard's, Turnip frequently did his duty to the demands of long acquaintance by leading Henrietta out for the odd quadrille, or fetching lemonade on those occasions when Miles was not to be found. Having seen them together at the inn, the marquise must have marked Henrietta out as a rival for access to the Fitzhugh coffers. It was an explanation that fit very well with the dowager's description of the marquise's character, and entirely removed any possibility of branding her a dangerous French spy. Henrietta couldn't help but feel some slight disappointment at the latter. The marquise motioned to someone outside of Henrietta's very limited line of vision. "Jean-Luc, would you be so kind as to fetch the coffee?"

In the marquise's throaty voice, even a prosaic term like "coffee" managed to smolder with significance.

"I can't say I'm much one for coffee myself," confided Turnip, disposing himself on the settee, and comfortably stretching his long legs out in front of him.

The marquise joined him in a filmy swirl of draperies. "Why, Mr. Fitzhugh, I intend to make you a coffee you cannot refuse."

"Devilish good coffee, then?" enquired Turnip.

"The very strongest," assured the marquise, laying a manicured hand lightly on his thigh.

Henrietta rolled her eyes at the inside of the cupboard door. This was getting ridiculous! She had plunged from the heights of espionage into the depths of French farce. It was time to go home, and confess all to Miles — or maybe not all. Henrietta's shoulders would have sagged had there been room for them to do so. It would be very hard to explain away wild fits of jealousy without revealing the existence of an emotion that would undoubtedly send Miles fleeing to the nearest opera house. There had been no allowance in their bargain for anything stronger than fondness, and certainly not for those three dangerous little words. Suddenly, remaining in the marquise's cupboard indefinitely began to seem like a very attractive way to spend the rest of the afternoon.

There was nothing, reflected Henrietta, shifting uncomfortably on numb legs, like crouching in servant's clothing in someone else's closet to make one realize how low one had sunk. She used to have an orderly life, a sensible life. Her friends came to her for advice. Everyone liked her. And where was she now? Contemplating becoming a closet gnome.

Henrietta experimentally rattled the cupboard door. The latch held, but, like everything else in the house, it didn't feel terribly sturdy. Henrietta tried again.

"I say," said Turnip, looking quizzically at the suddenly shaking piece of furniture. "I do believe your armoire is trying to move."

For a moment, the marquise's seductive mask dropped, to be replaced by an expression of pure annoyance. Henrietta gathered that when the marquise put people places, she expected them to stay put. That thought was enough to make Henrietta rattle the latch again.

"It's nothing but a draught," explained the marquise through clenched teeth. "Old houses like this are full of draughts. They whistle through the walls like rumor. And we all know how rumor can spread, don't we, Mr. Fitzhugh?"

"Soul of discretion, myself," Turnip strove to reassure her. "Mummer than the tomb. Quieter than a corpse. Closer-lipped than a — "

"But who knows," the marquise broke into Turnip's spate of similes, "what a mere moment's indiscretion may do?"

Henrietta knew, but declined to volunteer her expertise. The marquise's question had sounded more rhetorical than otherwise.

"One must be so careful in these trying, trying days. One little word, one little slip, can be someone's undoing. Ah, thank you, Jean-Luc."

A heavy silver tray was set down in front of the marquise, its baroque opulence at odds with the faded and snagged upholstery of the settee. Henrietta wondered if she had smuggled it out of France with her; it wasn't the sort of item one could sew discreetly into the hem of one's cloak.

"Coffee, Mr. Fitzhugh?" The marquise gestured towards the tray with a graceful hand. Her voice hardened, stiffer than the heavy silver handle of the coffeepot. "Or should I call you by your real name?"

"The mater and pater call me Reginald," supplied Turnip doubtfully. His voice changed. "I say, what was that doing in the coffeepot?"

"I promised you a coffee you wouldn't be able to refuse," replied the marquise. Her voice was no longer seductive, but so flatly matter-of-fact as to be almost entirely devoid of inflection. Henrietta, who had been massaging the feeling back into a leg gone numb, reapplied herself to the knothole.

In one fine-boned hand, the marquise held a thin pistol with a mother-of-pearl handle. She leveled the pistol at Turnip. "And I always keep my promises."

Henrietta closed her gaping mouth before she could get a splinter on her tongue. She had heard of weddings at gunpoint, but never at the hand of the prospective bride. Potential explanations flashed through Henrietta's mind. A woman scorned? Perhaps the marquise, mad with wounded pride at seeing Henrietta and Turnip together, had decided to emulate Medea and exact her revenge? Turnip had been abroad, and fairly recently, too. He might have conducted a passionate romance with the marquise prior to her return to England and then flung her aside. Turnip, however, wasn't really the flinging type. He was far more likely to be flung.

Far less alarmed than Henrietta, Turnip examined the pistol with a professional eye. "That's a deuced fine piece, but not at all the thing to go waving it about. Could go off, you know."

"That," said the marquise drily, "is generally the idea."

Turnip looked perplexed.

"No more games, Mr. Fitzhugh." The marquise looked Turnip straight in the eye. "I know who you are."

"Deuced odd if you didn't," replied Turnip cheerfully, peering into the coffeepot to see if there might be any liquid in there now that the pistol was gone, "considering you invited me."

There was one last possibility. One incredibly attractive possibility. But why would the Black Tulip waste her time on Turnip Fitzhugh?

Jean-Luc had moved to stand behind Turnip. At least, Henrietta assumed it must be Jean-Luc. All she could see of him was livery heavy with silver buttons and a pair of viciously flexing hands. The marquise forestalled Jean-Luc with an infinitesimal flick of her wrist. Henrietta slid her hand along the crack of the doors, digging her fingernails into the wood, trying to find a way to lift the latch. She wasn't sure just how much use she would be against a burly man and a primed pistol, but if she could divert their attention, even for a moment…

Leaning back against the arm of the settee, the marquise raised an admiring eyebrow. "You are bold, Mr. Fitzhugh. Very bold."

"Faint heart never won fair lady, and all that," beamed Turnip, lifting his chin and doing his best to look bold. "Pride myself on that je ne sais… er…"

"Quoi?" demanded Jean-Luc.

Turnip looked appreciatively back over his shoulder. "Righty-ho! That's the word! Don't know how it came to slip my mind."

"Your mind, Mr. Fitzhugh," gritted out the marquise, rapidly losing patience, "is not all that is going to slip if you persist in this folly."

"Don't know if I'd call it folly," cogitated Turnip. "Foolishness, maybe."

"Jean-Luc," snapped the marquise, out of patience, "bring the chains to bind our stubborn friend."

"But I am in chains, dear lady! Chains of love! Not real chains, of course," Turnip clarified confidingly, "but it's what you'd call a…"

"Argh!"

A hearty masculine yelp echoed through the room. It had not come from Turnip, but from the street outside.

Inside the cupboard, Henrietta went cold with alarm.

"No, not that," said Turnip. "Believe it begins with M. Matador?"

It was the right initial, even if the wrong name. Henrietta knew that yelp, a hearty bellow compounded of annoyance and indignation. Henrietta whammed her shoulder against the doors. Through the wooden walls of her prison, she could hear the sounds of a struggle. Something shattered a long way off. A series of curses and crashes followed, most of the former in French, attesting to the fact that Miles was more than holding his own. Closer by, the marquise had risen to her feet, face rigid with alarm and displeasure. Turnip, too, stood up, his broad brow wrinkled with confusion.

"I say," he began, "that sounds like — "

An explosion sounded somewhere in the distance, followed by a loud curse and a heavy thud.

"Dorrington," finished Turnip, in the sudden silence.

Henrietta flung herself desperately against the doors of the cupboard. The beleaguered latch at long last gave way. The doors burst open, sending Henrietta sprawling untidily onto the sitting room carpet.

"Miles!" screamed Henrietta.

"Lady Henrietta?" exclaimed Turnip.

"Guards!" called the marquise.

Stunned by her fall, Henrietta twisted sharply towards the door. In the hallway outside, she heard a familiar voice saying something exceedingly impolite; deep inside her chest, her heart resumed its proper business. Miles was alive. And — glass shattered against plaster — still fighting. Whoever had fallen, it hadn't been he.

But what on earth was he doing here?

"Didn't know you were here, Lady Hen," commented Turnip affably. "Have some coffee."

"Yes," said the marquise, leveling the pistol at Henrietta. "Do."

"I say" — Turnip tapped the marquise on the arm — "don't know what the custom is in France, but not at all the done thing to point firearms at guests."