"We should have drinks some time."

"That would be lovely," I said, trying to hoist my bag up again and fervently hoping nothing else embarrassing was sticking out. All I needed was for him to get a good look at those poodle pajamas.

He nodded. "I'm not sure how long I'll be away, but… I'll call you when I get back to London."

"Great!" I exclaimed, but my show of enthusiasm was, mercifully, cut off, as Colin slammed the door shut. The car swung away, leaving me standing there, repeating "drinks… I'll call you…" over and over in my head, just to make sure they'd really been said, until the impact of my bag hitting my foot shook me out of my bemused reverie.

Fumbling with the buttons on my coat, I staggered towards the train station, hitching my bag up as it began to slip slyly down my shoulder. It promptly fell again. I didn't care. Drinks. I had assaulted the man, and yet he was still willing to have drinks with me. Who said true heroes were a thing of the past? Shoving some money through the window of the ticket booth and wishing the nonplussed ticket keeper an exceptionally good day, I shambled towards the platform, trying to filter pound coins into my change purse and shove the purse back into the depths of my bag, without dropping my ticket or tumbling onto the tracks like an absentminded Anna Karenina.

I had no desire to fling myself upon the train tracks of thwarted love. On the contrary, I joyously concluded that the offer of drinks must mean he hadn't been trying to get rid of me! Something must have genuinely come up, something urgent and dreadful. Hey nonny nonny and tra la la! Belatedly, I remembered that taking joy in someone else's misfortune was a Bad Thing, and clamped down on the caroling, even if my heart was secretly singing "tirra lirra" like Sir Lancelot in the poem. Visions of intimate dinners a deux danced through my head. I imagined a cozy little restaurant somewhere away from the bustle that surrounded my flat in Bayswater. South Kensington would fit the bill, or the less-traveled bits of Notting Hill. I pictured a little box of a place with brick walls and those tiny tables where you couldn't fit more than two, and that only with knees brushing. The music would be as low as the lights, and the waiters would be the sort who didn't barge by every two seconds asking if you were enjoying your meal. There would be no Sally, no Pammy, no Phantom Monk. Just two large-bowled glasses filled with dark red wine, me, and, of course, Colin.

And I would make double sure to turn off my damned cell phone.

While I was at it, why not just add some violins as well? I made a hideous face at myself, and then glanced guiltily around the platform to make sure no one had noticed. No one had, largely because there was no one else there. Thank goodness. I hate it when my inner monologue escapes into my face.

At seven-thirty on a Sunday morning, there were no commuters waiting to go into London. There was just me, alone on the open platform. It was so early that even the ubiquitous AMT coffee stand hadn't yet opened its doors — or whatever you call the opening in an outdoor kiosk. I would have killed for a cup of coffee, as much for the warmth as for the caffeine. The wind scraped at my cheeks, as sharp as memory, wearing down through skin all the way to the raw nerves beneath.

I shoved my bloodless hands into the sleeves of my jacket, and rubbed them against my forearms, but it was about as much use as trying to warm up next to an unplugged space heater. The cold came as much from within as without, that bone-deep chill that comes of lack of sleep and food, and can only be driven off by several dreamless hours under a pile of quilts, with the alarm conveniently turned to off.

For a wonder, the train was actually running on time. The seven thirty-two chugged its leisurely way into the station, as if preening itself on not having broken down along the way. It was the sort of train you never see in the States, door after door after door, each set of seats with its own personal portal. I suppose it does make for efficiency in getting in and out, but there was something slightly dizzying about that endless line of identical doors, one after the other. You know you're overtired when you start viewing commuter train construction as an allegory for Life. The train compartment less chosen?

With no one else at the station, it was impossible to discern which doors were less traveled. Picking a compartment at random, I opened the yellow door, and scrabbled across the seats, dumping my bag on one, and myself onto another. I settled gratefully into the battered seat, and leaned my head back against the headrest, trying not to think of the heads that might have rested there before. Outside, the countryside began moving slowly by, like the backdrop in an old movie, a checkered landscape of fallow winter fields, interspersed at intervals with clusters of grimy, brown semi-detached houses, huddling together close by the train tracks. Watching the muted scenery chug past, I let myself drift on a pleasant wave of fatigue and idle thought, mulling over what I had read in the library that night.

Especially that last letter. Blotted and blotched, as though Henrietta had leaned too heavily on her pen, she wasted no time in getting to the crux of the problem. The marquise had escaped.

My first thought was that Vaughn had turned traitor. According to Henrietta, however, Vaughn had discharged his duty and delivered the marquise safely into custody. Once there, she had persuaded the guard that there was clearly some mistake; she, after all, was a gently bred lady from a fine old English family and couldn't possibly have anything to do with international espionage. Her? A wilting flower of womanhood? A spy! The very idea — flutter, flutter, simper, simper — was absurd. Henrietta waxed exceedingly bitter and blotty over the effect of the marquise's wiles on the unenlightened. The tactic had worked. The guard informed Wickham (who told Miles, who told Henrietta) that the marquise had been most gracious in accepting his apologies. Henrietta had hit the dot on that i in "gracious" so hard that the nib of the pen had pierced the paper. A woman of the marquise's description had last been sighted taking ship for Ireland.

Ireland. An exceedingly popular place all of a sudden. I didn't think it could possibly be a coincidence that both the Pink Carnation and the Black Tulip were converging upon the same place. The Black Tulip might, perhaps, as she vamped her way through the staff of the War Office, have gotten wind of the presence of the Pink Carnation in Ireland (though I had my doubts), but why was Wickham sending Jane there in the first place? Why not leave her in France, where she was well entrenched in Bonaparte's court, well placed to receive information and commit cunning acts of sabotage? A logical cause might be to remove her from suspicion — but, as far as I had read, no one suspected Edouard Balcourt's cousin of anything other than, perhaps, the odd amour. Being French, they weren't about to condemn that.

Besides, there were other reasons that excuse didn't wash. One other reason, to be precise. Geoffrey Pinchingdale-Snipe. If it were a matter of removing Jane from France, why send Pinchingdale to meet her in

Ireland? Because that, according to Henrietta's last letter, was just what William Wickham had ordered. Pinchingdale had been detailed to meet Jane in Ireland, assignment to be relayed en route.

But why Ireland?

It's a complaint among British historians that, the way the field is parceled out, people who call themselves British historians seldom do more than study England. From time to time, someone will call for a new "British" history, and there'll be a spate of papers, perhaps a conference or two, emphasizing the interrelations between the three kingdoms, itemizing the numbers of Scots and Irish in the British army, or assessing the impact of Ireland upon Britain's colonial enterprises, but then most of us merrily subside into just doing England again. The word "insular" applies in more ways than one.

I bore out the stereotype beautifully. I didn't for the life of me know what was going on in Ireland in 1803.1 did know — this comes among those basic dates of which no self-respecting English historian can remain in ignorance, or risk extreme embarrassment in the tea room of the Institute of Historical Research — that Ireland's government had officially been merged with that of Britain with the Act of Union in 1801, its Parliament dissolved and its legislative independence ended. Scotland had gone that way in 1707.1 realized that fact had nothing to do with the state of Ireland in 1803, but it did reassure me that all that studying I had done for my General Exams had not been in vain.

I also knew, and far more usefully, that William Wickham had been, at some point, Chief Secretary to the Lord Lieutenant in Ireland. Or, rather, it would be useful if I could remember exactly when Wickham had been in Ireland. If it had been 1803… Was that too much to hope for?

Probably. But it certainly didn't hurt to check. After a long nap, followed by a shower, a snack, and a Grande Toffee Nut Latte, I hastily specified to myself.

And there were also Jane, Geoff, and the marquise to follow up on. If only it weren't a Sunday! The British Library would be closed, as would the Institute of Historical Research. Somehow, I doubted that much would appear if I plugged any of their names into the British Library database, but it was certainly worth a try. I wondered if Colin knew where the Pinchingdale family papers were kept — if there were any Pinchingdale family papers. Even if there weren't, it would make a good pretense for calling Colin…