Lauren Willig - Masque of the Black Tulip

"Eloise," I provided helpfully.

" — your guest, if you like," she finished, in the tones of one making a great concession. Turning to me, she said hospitably, "Naturally, it won't be terribly amusing for you, not knowing anyone. I suppose you could talk to the vicar. He does enjoy going on about old things.

Churches, and all that." I had been properly relegated to my place, doddering in the corner with the clergy.

After such a gracious invitation, how could I refuse?

"Thank you."

"Of course, if you're too busy in the library…"

I bared my teeth, which weren't nearly as large or white as hers. "I wouldn't miss it."

A muffled snicker emerged from the head of the table.

I looked pointedly at Colin.

"So sorry," he said blandly. "Bean in my throat."

Indeed.

His ill-advised humor had had the well-deserved side effect of refo-cusing Joan's attention on him. "We'll see you tomorrow then, yes? Don't forget, tomorrow night at half-seven."

The kitchen door slapped soundly shut behind her.

I stood, plunking my fork and knife onto my empty plate with a clatter. I had the feeling there was past history there. Colin shifted in his chair behind me.

"No more beans, I take it?"

"No. Thanks." I lifted my plate and carried it to the sink, hearing the thud of hooves fade into the distance. I didn't think the phantom monk of Donwell Abbey would care to mess with her, not in that sort of mood. Outside the kitchen window, true dark had fallen, as it only does in the country. I could see my own reflection against the window, lips thinned in annoyance.

It wasn't any of my business, really.

In the window, I saw Colin approaching, plate in hand. Oh, the hell with that. If he was going to drag me into his amorous misadventures, it was my business. Especially since I was the one running the risk' of being hunted down by an angry Sloane on horseback. I'd rather take the phantom monk. At least the latter would make a better story when I got home.

Plunking plate and cutlery into the sink, I turned so rapidly that Colin nearly ran into me plate first. Objects in the window may be closer than they appear.

Leaning back against the sink to avoid a punctured midriff, I curled my fingers around the metal edge of the basin and said, "Look, I don't mind acting as a human shield, but, next time, a little advance warning would be appreciated."

Or, at least, that's what I meant to say.

What came out was, "I'll do the dishes. Since you cooked."

Damn.

Colin took a step back and made an elaborate sweeping gesture. Having managed to put me on the spot instead of himself, he was in an infuriatingly good humor. "Go along. I'll wash up."

"Are you sure?"

"I don't mind. Go on." He gave me a light shove. "I know you must be eager to get back to the library."

"Well…" There was no disputing that statement.

Colin was already turning the faucets on. "You can cook tomorrow."

"Oh, but you're forgetting." I paused in the doorway. "Tomorrow, you're having drinks with Miss Plowden-Plugge. Good night!"

I swept out of the kitchen into the darkened hallway beyond, hoping I'd be able to find my way to the library. It would entirely spoil my exit if I had to turn around and ask for directions. As long as I could make it to the front hall, I could find my way from there.

It really did get dark in the country, without streetlamps and car headlights and lit storefronts all casting their friendly glow. I felt my way along the hall, one hand on the ribbed wallpaper, the other held warily in front of me, as though to ward off… well, not phantom monks. More small tables and that sort of thing, which have a habit of leaping out at one's shins in unfamiliar hallways. If I did start uncomfortably at a few shadows, and peer a little more closely than necessary through the odd doorway, let's just say I was glad that Colin wasn't there to see.

To take my mind off silly ghost stories, I directed it instead towards the Black Tulip. It was a name straight out of an old Rafael Sabatini novel, like Captain Blood, or the Sea-Hawk. Whoever chose it must have had a strong sense of the dramatic and, unlike Gaston Delaroche, a finely tuned sense of humor, to ape his rivals' noms de guerre so closely. There was no doubt in my mind that the Black Tulip's very name was a mocking riposte to the Scarlet Pimpernel and the Purple Gentian. It was a more grown-up, more clever version of the universal playground chant of "ha, ha, can't catch me."

If I were the Black Tulip, where would I look for the Pink Carnation?

I successfully skirted around a small table, and noticed with some relief that I had made it back to the front hall. From there I should be able to find my way back to the library… I hoped. My lack of sense of direction is legendary among anyone who has ever tried to travel anywhere with me. With any luck I wouldn't wind up in the attics or cellar by accident.

If I knew that the Pink Carnation had been a guest at Richard and Amy's wedding, the first place I would go would be the guest list. And since the guests, with the exception of Amy's countrified relatives from Shropshire, all hailed from the first stair of London society, I would want to insert myself into that milieu.

Of course, I reminded myself, the Black Tulip didn't need to be a member of the ton. There were hundreds of people who floated about on the fringes of society, who could be reasonably assumed to have the same access — ladies' maids, valets, dancing masters, courtesans, bootmakers. Many a man's relationship with his tailor was more intimate than that with his wife; heaven only knew what he might reveal over the fitting of a new coat.

It was just so much less glamorous to think of the dreaded Black Tulip posing as a servant. Black Tulips weren't supposed to do things like bleach linen. They lurked in the corners of darkened hallways, swirling brandy snifters and twirling their mustaches. Or something like that.

Eeek! I staggered backwards as something moved in front of me, a misty form, shrouded in… oh. It was my own reflection in a darkened window. Ooops. A natural mistake, I assured myself.

If I didn't curb my imagination, I was going to be as ridiculous as that dim-witted heroine in Northanger Abbey, the one who pounced on a laundry list thinking it was going to be an account of ghostly goings-on. Colin would find me the following morning, hunched on the library floor in a gibbering ball of terror, moaning about clanking chains and eyes that burned out of the darkness where no eyes ought to be. Whatever had I been thinking to read all those ghost stories in my youth?

Taking my nerves firmly in hand, I continued onwards to the library with a firm gait and a defiant gaze. All the same, despite my resolution to not think about ghosties and ghoulies and things that go bump in the night, I couldn't help but wonder…

What had Colin meant by that comment about apparitions by my bed ?

At precisely five minutes to eleven, Miles sauntered through the hallowed portals of Almack's Assembly Rooms.

Ordinarily, Almack's was not high on the list of Miles's favorite places to pass an evening. Given a choice between Almack's and a French dungeon, Miles would usually choose the dungeon. As Miles had complained to his valet earlier that evening, the company in the dungeon would be more congenial, the entertainment more entertaining, and, devil take it, the food was probably better, too.

"I'm sure it is, sir," said Downey, who was busily trying to tie Miles's cravat into something resembling a current fashion. "And if sir would refrain from speaking for just a moment…"

"The deuce of it is," Miles expostulated, chin crushing the fold Downey had just ever so carefully arranged, "I gave my word. What's a man to do?"

"If sir does not permit me to tie his cravat," pointed out Downey acerbically, yanking away the ruined cravat with enough force to make Miles's eyes water, "sir will be sufficiently tardy that he will not be allowed into the assembly rooms."

Miles considered his valet thoughtfully. Hmm. The portals of Almack's closed at precisely eleven o'clock, by order of the Patronesses, and woe betide the unfortunate man who rushed up to the doors a moment too late. Wouldn't that be a shame if he wasn't able to get inside and was instead forced by cruel necessity to go to his club and drink a few bottles of excellent claret?

Miles shook his head, ruining a third square of starched linen in the process. "It's an excellent idea, Downey," he said, "But it just won't wash. I promised."

There was the rub. He had promised Richard, and a promise was a promise. A promise to one's best friend was a vow on the order of a blood-signed pact with Mephistopheles. You just didn't violate that sort of thing.

"You will keep an eye on Hen for me while I'm away, won't you?" Richard had asked as he clasped his best friend's hand in farewell, preparatory to leaving for Sussex and married bliss. "Scare away the young bucks, and all that?"

"Never fear!" Miles had promised blithely, giving his friend a reassuring whack on the back. "I'll keep her closer than a cloister."

The reference to nunneries had struck precisely the right note; Richard had gone away reassured.