"I beg your pardon," said Miss Gwen, in a way that suggested that Letty ought to be begging hers.

"The flower, I mean." Letty had pegged down the elusive scrap of memory that had eluded her before. Triumphantly, she looked around the table. "There is no such flower as a black tulip."

"You are mistaken," declared Miss Gwen. "I'm sure I've seen one."

Letty shook her head. "They don't exist. The only reason I know is that M—my sister"—she couldn't quite bring herself to voice Mary's name in Geoff's presence—"tried to acquire some to set off a white dress."

It was their father who had pointed out that the flower didn't exist—although, in his usual way, he had let them endure several footsore days of searching every flower shop in London before he brought out Jean Paul de Rome d'Ardene's authoritative botanical treatise. They had gone through all fifty listed varieties of tulip before Mary had been ready to admit defeat.

"What if," asked Letty, "they chose a flower that doesn't exist for an agent who doesn't exist? No stem, only petals."

"Wouldn't that make a grand joke on us," mused Geoff. "Fool the English into wasting time and resources hunting down an agent who doesn't exist."

"We don't know that," said Miss Gwen forbiddingly. "Where there are subordinates, there must be a leader to coordinate their actions. Otherwise, all is chaos."

"If they answered directly to the Ministry of Police…" Geoff suggested.

"Fouche's mind doesn't run along those lines. It's a clever idea, though," Jane said regretfully. "I wish I had thought of it."

"A bit late for that," pointed out Miss Gwen.

"Thank you, Auntie Ernie. You are, as ever, a source of comfort to me."

"Bonaparte?" suggested Letty. "As the mastermind?"

Geoff shook his head. "Too straightforward. He prefers artillery to horticulture."

"His wife is a great gardener, according to the papers," argued Letty.

"But not anyone's definition of a mastermind," said Geoff, who had met Josephine Bonaparte several times in the course of his duties for the League of the Purple Gentian. "Talleyrand might pull a scheme like this off—he's clever enough, and tricky enough—but I've never been sure how firmly he sits in Bonaparte's camp."

"No," Jane said. "I don't think we are dealing with a practical joke on a grand scale. These lieutenants may act in his name, but, somewhere, there is a Black Tulip. And it's not Talleyrand. Or Bonaparte."

"How can you be so sure?" asked Geoff.

"I've spent a good deal of time studying the Black Tulip's past movements. There is a certain similarity to them that bears the stamp of one driving intelligence."

"Or a very good mimic," countered Geoff.

"As long as it's not a mime," muttered Letty.

"Mimes are very distressing," Geoff agreed.

They grinned at each other in a moment of mutual silliness.

Miss Gwen bridled in preparation for a crushing put-down, but Jane spoke first, in a voice devoid of either amusement or scorn.

"Not as distressing as this."

Jane held up the little scrap of paper, covered with a series of numbers and letters. It made no sense to Letty, but it obviously did to Jane. And whatever it was, Jane didn't like it.

"The French are coming."

"That's not news," said Geoff, relaxing against his chair.

"But the timing is. Bonaparte has promised troops for the first of August." Jane looked away, her usually serene face twisted with frustration. "I thought I had put them off."

"How many?"

"There are six French warships already stationed in Brest, with the promise of more to come."

"And our garrison," said Geoff, "is down to just over thirty thousand."

Jane regarded the coded report with extreme disfavor. "They should not have warships ready to put to sea. For the past two weeks, I've been replacing the marquise's dispatches with false reports, minimizing the extent of local preparations and discouraging any immediate action."

"'Local rebellion not ready yet; don't send troops till further word'?" Geoff supplied.

"It seemed to be working. The Ministry of War naturally discounted more optimistic reports that Emmet sent to his brother in Paris and believed those of their agent. Unfortunately, someone—someone senior to the marquise—appears to have gotten the correct information through."

"The Black Tulip," groaned Letty, who was beginning to loathe the very name.

"What matters now," said Geoff, "is not so much who summoned the troops as how we stop them."

"If," said Jane grimly, "we could ferret out our flowery foe, we might be able to reverse what he set in motion."

The expression on Jane's face did not bode well for the Black Tulip. She looked like the illustration of Athena in one of Letty's childhood books, just before the goddess turned an impertinent mortal into a spider. Letty had the impression that Jane was no more accustomed to being thwarted than Athena had been.

"The time has come," said Jane, "to have a little chat with the Marquise de Montval."

Geoff pushed back his chair and paced to the window, staring unseeingly at their reflections in the glass.

"I have another idea. We don't try to delay, but precipitate. Think of it," he said, before Miss Gwen could muster her counterarguments. "In 'ninety-eight, the local rebellion went off prematurely. By the time the French got here, we had already mopped up the native insurgency."

"And were able to turn every resource to rounding up the French," Jane said thoughtfully. "I see. A species of 'divide and conquer.'"

Geoff prowled back toward the table, formulating his plan as he paced. "Emmet has caches of arms scattered all over the city, but his biggest depot is on Patrick Street."

"Gunpowder?" asked Jane, a comprehending gleam lighting her eye.

"Better. Emmet has been stockpiling rockets."

All three women looked blank.

With the boundless enthusiasm of the male for any sort of explosive device, Geoff went on, "They haven't made much headway with them here or on the Continent, but Wellesley's troops were nearly routed by rockets in India a few years back. Emmet found an old Indian hand to manufacture them for him. They're not terribly accurate in battle, but they make a big bang. Set those alight, and Emmet's storehouse will go up like fireworks on the king's birthday."

Geoff looked as though he rather enjoyed the prospect.

"That could be hard to explain to the neighbors," said Letty.

"And to the night watchmen, and to the guards quartered at the castle. It might even draw General Fox back from his trip to the West Country." Geoff's eyes met hers, burning like an entire rocket fusillade in his enthusiasm. "Emmet will have to act quickly to salvage his plans. He'll have to go it without the French."

"What if he doesn't?" asked Letty.

"He has too much invested in this not to. He has a choice. He can act at once or abandon five years' worth of preparations. He has weapons scattered throughout the city, a volunteer army who will get bored and drift away if doesn't employ them soon, and enough incriminating documents floating about to hang twelve of him. He will act."

"When you put it that way…," said Letty.

Geoff grinned at her. "Cry havoc and let slip the dogs of war!"

"I," said Miss Gwen grandly, "will blow up the depot."

"Ever since she fired on that boot manufactory in Calais, Miss Gwen has had difficulty controlling her incendiary impulses," commented Geoff, strolling round the table to rest his hand on the back of Letty's chair.

"That was you?" exclaimed Letty, very conscious of the hand resting next to her back. The back of her neck prickled with the knowledge that he was standing behind her, just out of her view. "I read about that in the papers! Weren't there pink petals scattered among the ashes?"

Miss Gwen looked pleased. "It is attention to detail that makes all the difference."

"No pink petals this time," said Geoff, from somewhere just above Letty's head. "Our best chance is to make it look like an accident. Otherwise they might go to ground, rather than bringing the rebellion forward."

"May I help?" asked Letty, tilting her head back and getting an excellent view of the underside of his chin. For a dark-haired man, he was quite well shaved; she couldn't find any spot he had missed.

Jane and Geoff exchanged a long look.

"I'll need you with me," said Jane. "You can entertain Lord Vaughn while I have a little chat with the marquise."

"I don't think Lord Vaughn finds me terribly entertaining."

"Well, do your best," said Miss Gwen dismissively. She looked pointedly at Geoff. "Wear a low bodice. Men are so easily diverted."

"Well," said Geoff, looking as innocent as a man who has just been caught staring down his wife's bodice can contrive to look. "That covers about everything, doesn't it? Given the lateness of the hour, I suggest we all seek our beds." He raised an eyebrow at Miss Gwen. "As the good Lord intended."

The clock on the mantel obligingly confirmed his observation by striking two.

Jane rose, her curls, which she had neglected to remove, bobbing coyly around her face. "You'll see Letty home, of course."

"Of course," replied Geoff, at his most bland.

"I'll call for the carriage," said Jane.

"And I," said Miss Gwen, sweeping out in Jane's wake, "shall seek my perch."

Alone once again in the little green parlor, Letty and Geoff exchanged a slightly sheepish look.

"She heard the bat comment, didn't she?" said Letty guiltily, rising to stand next to Geoff.