Lauren Willig - Masque of the Black Tulip

"They will be now," prophesied Miles. "So why don't you just go find yourself one, before everyone else starts contracting them, too."

Vaughn coughed discreetly. That eliciting no reaction, he coughed somewhat less discreetly.

"As charming as this is," he said in a tone that caused a flush to rise to Miles's cheeks, "I suggest you postpone your raptures until the Black Tulip is in the possession of the proper authorities. I assume you do know those proper authorities, Dorrington?"

Miles reluctantly relinquished his grasp on Henrietta's shoulders and turned to face Vaughn, keeping one hand protectively on her waist, just in case Vaughn still cherished any notions about harem girls.

"I do," he said, adding, with just a hint of malicious satisfaction, "They're the ones who set me on to you."

Vaughn sighed, brushing an imaginary speck of dust from the ruffles of his sleeve. "I don't understand. I lead such a quiet life."

"Like Covent Garden at sunset," muttered Miles. "Ow!"

"That's what shins are for," explained Henrietta benignly.

"If that's what you think, remind me to wear thicker pantaloons," said Miles, rubbing his aching appendage. "Potentially armored ones."

"I'll make them for you myself," said Henrietta.

"I'd rather you remove them yourself," Miles whispered in her ear.

The two exchanged a look of such smoldering intimacy that Vaughn found it necessary to cough again, and Turnip burst out with, "Discussing a gentleman's nether garments — not at all the thing in mixed company, you know!"

"We're married," chorused Henrietta and Miles.

"Sickening, isn't it?" commented Vaughn to no one in particular. "Remind me never to be a newlywed. It is an insufferable state."

A sarcastic voice rose from the floor. "Could you please get on with deciding my fate? This floor is exceedingly uncomfortable, and the conversation even worse."

Henrietta glanced down. "You don't seem unduly perturbed."

"Why should I be?" said the marquise, in tones that suggested she saw this as merely a temporary setback. "You have a most amateur organization."

"Who managed," pointed out Henrietta, "to catch you."

"A mere technicality," snapped the marquise.

"We'll have to take her to the War Office," Miles interrupted. "And then" — he exchanged another look with Henrietta that made her go pink to the tips of her ears — "we are going home."

Home. It was such a lovely word.

"I find myself again moved to gallantry," said Vaughn in tones of intense weariness. "If you wish, I will undertake to deliver our mutual friend to — the War Office, you said?"

Miles visibly hesitated.

"Or," said Vaughn smoothly, angling his head towards Turnip, "you could have him do it."

Miles handed Vaughn the ends of the rope. "You're a good chap, Vaughn. And if she escapes, I know where to look."

"You have a rare jewel, Dorrington. See that you take good care of her."

Miles had no difficulty whatsoever in promising to do so.

As dusk settled on the city, Miles and Henrietta wandered hand in hand through the tangled streets of London to Loring House. Strains of red and gold flared in the sky like heraldic banners signaling triumph. Henrietta and Miles didn't even notice. They meandered through the gloaming in their own rosy glow, eyes for no one but each other. The special providence that looks out for fools and lovers guarded their path. If refuse grimed the ground underfoot, neither noticed; if footpads plied their sinister trade, they did it elsewhere. And if, from time to time, the couple took advantage of the lengthening shadows to exchange something more than whispers, spying eyes and wagging tongues held no fear for them.

Given the profusion of long shadows and convenient cul-de-sacs, it was a very long walk home, indeed. It was full dark by the time Grosvenor Square came into view, and they had worked out to their satisfaction a program of events for the evening, which included a bath (a suggestion to which Miles acceded with an alarming alacrity that boded ill for the elderly bathtub), bed (Miles), supper (Henrietta), and bed (Miles).

"You already said that," protested Henrietta.

"Some things bear repeating," Miles said smugly. He leaned closer, his lips brushing her ear as they walked up the stairs to the front door, in the uneven light of the torchieres. "Again, and again, and again."

"Incorrigible," sighed Henrietta, with a look of mock despair.

"Indubitably," agreed Miles, just as the front door swung open in front of them.

Miles opened his mouth to inform his butler that they would be not at home to callers. Not today, not tomorrow, preferably not even next week.

"Ah, Stwyth," began Miles, and stopped short, careening into Henrietta, who was doing her best to imitate a pillar of salt.

It wasn't Stwyth at the door. Nor was it the under housemaid from whom Henrietta had borrowed her current costume.

In the doorway of Loring House stood a petite woman dressed in rich traveling clothes. Lady Uppington's gloved hands were on her hips, and one booted foot beat an ominous tattoo against the marble floor. Behind her, Henrietta could see her father, also dressed in traveling attire, arms folded across his chest. Neither looked happy.

"Oh, dear," said Henrietta.

"In," said Lady Uppington in a tone that boded no good. "Both of you. Now."

Henrietta went with all the enthusiasm of an aristocrat mounting the steps to the guillotine. Miles followed meekly behind.

"Hello, Mama, Papa," said Henrietta in a slightly strangled voice. "Did you have a nice time in Kent?"

Her father raised a silvered eyebrow in a look that managed to convey incredulity, disappointment, and anger all at the same time. Quite impressive for one eyebrow. Henrietta clamped down on a surge of nervous giggles that she feared would do little to improve her position in the eyes of her parents.

Lady Uppington didn't rely on facial expressions to convey her feelings. Slamming the door with a vehemence that left no one in any doubt as to her emotions, she swirled to face her erring offspring.

"What were you thinking?" she demanded, pacing in furious circles around Henrietta and Miles. "Just answer me that! What were you thinking?"

"We caught a French spy," interjected Miles hopefully, distraction having worked upon Lady Uppington in the past.

It failed miserably.

"Don't even try to change the subject!" snapped Lady Uppington, looking, if anything, even angrier than before. "I can't go away for one weekend! One weekend! I am rendered speechless, speechless" — Lady Uppington flung both arms into the air — "by the sheer imprudence of your actions, by the complete lack of respect you have shown for your reputation, your family, and the solemn nature of matrimony."

"It was all my fault," interrupted Miles gallantly, placing a protective hand on Henrietta's shoulder.

Lady Uppington jabbed a ringer at him. "Don't worry, I'll get to you in a minute." She turned the admonishing appendage back on Henrietta. "Did I raise you to behave like this?"

"No, Mama," protested Henrietta. "But what happened was…"

"We know what happened," said her father grimly. "Richard sent to us."

"Bleargh," said Henrietta.

"Clearly, I have failed," announced Lady Uppington. "I have failed as a mother."

Henrietta cast a desperate glance at Miles over her shoulder, who looked about as ready as she was to dissolve into a guilty puddle of remorse on the dingy marble floor.

Lord Uppington stepped in, looking at them both with an expression of resigned irritation.

"It's not the match itself that we mind," Lord Uppington said mildly. "We're very happy to have you officially join the family, Miles. There is no one we would have preferred for Henrietta." Miles perked up slightly.

His face fell again as Lord Uppington went on in the same measured, wearied tones. "However, we cannot understand what would induce you to behave in so precipitate, and" — Lord Uppington looked hard at both his daughter and his son-in-law, pronouncing the next word with painful clarity — "unintelligent a fashion. I had thought you both had better sense than that. We are painfully disappointed in you both."

"Unless," cut in Lady Uppington, looking closely at her daughter, "there was a reason for your unseemly haste?"

Henrietta's head shot up again — in indignation. "Mother!"

Lady Uppington assessed her daughter's flushed cheeks with an expert maternal eye and arrived at her own conclusions. "Don't fly into a snit with me, young lady. What did you expect people would think?"

"Er," said Henrietta intelligently.

"And your brother!" Lady Uppington shook her head in a way that boded no good to Richard once she got her hands on him. "I don't know what he was thinking to let you rush into matrimony like that. I have raised a brood of children without an ounce of sense between them." She emitted one of her infamous harrumphs, the sound that had cast countesses out of countenance, and frightened royal dukes from the room.

Henrietta winced. "Sorry?" she ventured.