Лорен Уиллиг - The Seduction of the Crimson Rose

The emphasis on the last word was wasted on no one in the ill-matched party, least of all Vaughn.

With a sardonic smile playing about his lips, Vaughn's eyes skated from Geoff to Letty and back to Mary.

"Such a charming family grouping," he murmured, and might have said more, had his attention not been caught by something just beyond Mary's left shoulder. Beneath Mary's fingers, his arm went stiff. Surprise and alarm chased across his normally polished countenance.

Following his gaze, Mary saw nothing to excite that sort of reaction. There was no one there but a couple in conversation. The man wore a full costume, in the fashion of the Venetians, an all-enveloping black cloak and pointed bird's beak of a mask. The woman was more conventionally garbed, a black mask tied across her eyes obscuring her features, blond curls peeking out from under a black hood.

As the pair walked slowly past, Mary could make out the interior of the supper box behind them, tenanted by a familiar set of gargoyle features, bracketed by a thicket of coarse gray hair, randomly studded with ruby-tipped combs that managed to look more like weapons than ornament. It was the woman who had accosted them in the coach the day before. And she was staring straight at Mary, with an expression of unmistakable venom on her face.

Mary was tempted to wave gaily back, but any such impulses were stilled by the abrupt interpolation of another person in their midst.

"Pinchingdale? Pinchingdale, old chap!" exclaimed Turnip Fitzhugh, slapping his old school chum on the back so hard that Geoffrey staggered.

Turnip's mother had optimistically christened him Reginald, but there was nothing the least bit regal about him. No one was quite sure how he had acquired his distinctive nickname, but even his friends had to admit that it was an accurate reflection of his mental powers. He was, everyone agreed, quite definitely a Turnip.

He also, thought Mary irritably, had the world's most inconvenient timing. By the time his uncoordinated form had surged past, Lady Hester's box was empty. Mary glanced uncertainly up at Lord Vaughn, but his face bore an abstracted expression that blunted all hope of private communication.

"Pinchingdale, old bean! Is that really you?" demanded Turnip.

"The last time I checked," replied Geoff pleasantly.

"I can vouch for that," agreed Letty, bumping her head affectionately against his arm. "He's definitely Pinchingdale."

Unconvinced, Turnip peered uncertainly at his old school chum. "I say, Pinchingdale, aren't you off rusticating?"

"If he were," pointed out Mrs. Fustian acidly, "would he be here?"

A furrow formed across Turnip's broad forehead as he pondered that problem. He opened his mouth, thought about it, and then closed it again.

Being of a generous disposition, Geoffrey put him out of his misery by explaining, "We were. We came back."

"Ah," Turnip's brow cleared as he mulled that over to his satisfaction. "Devilish dangerous place, the country. Don't like to stay out there long m'self. Cows, you know," he explained to Letty.

"Cows?" demanded Mrs. Fustian, taking a grip on her parasol that would have cast terror into the heart of a more perceptive man.

Caught up in unpleasant recollections of his own, Turnip shook his head, looking as grim as a man in a carnation pink waistcoat could contrive to look. "Deuced tetchy beasts, cows. Who knew?"

"Trust me," intervened Geoff, before the gleam in Mrs. Fustian's beady eyes could translate into words. "You don't want to know."

"Speak for yourself, Pinchingdale," sniffed Mrs. Fustian. "Unlike some, I have an inquiring mind."

"And I suppose inquiring minds want to know," concluded Geoff in tones of deep resignation. "Don't say I didn't warn you."

Turnip wagged his head earnestly up and down. "Everyone ought to be warned about cows."

It was only a matter of time before they descended to sheep. Mary edged carefully away from the group around Turnip. One could generally count on Turnip to natter on about nothing for an extended period of time, and while he did, she could slip away from the watchful eye of her sister and brother-in-law. Midnight, the Black Tulip had said, and it had to be nearly that now.

Poised to slip her arm through Vaughn's and stroll off together along the dark paths — with the Black Tulip as their object, of course — Mary found herself reaching for an arm that wasn't there.

Vaughn had disappeared.

Mary stared uncomprehendingly at the spot where Vaughn had been standing. He couldn't just go off and leave her. Except that he had. Vaughn was quite thoroughly and completely gone, leaving her with the task of keeping the assignation with the Black Tulip. Mary bit down hard on her lower lip, trying to tell herself that it didn't matter, just as if she hadn't spent the whole day anticipating the moment when she took to the shadowy paths with Vaughn, arm in arm, alone in a place legendary for illicit assignations.

Well, she was alone, all right. Alone with a task to accomplish.

Mary put her mask more firmly to her face and set about her own disappearance, determined to be well out of the way before her sister realized she was gone and, as she inevitably would, came after her, husband (and probably Turnip) in tow. Burrowing into the midst of a motley party, country cousins come to town judging by the antiquated cut of their clothes and the women's cries of pleasure at the brightly lit oil lanterns, the music floating from the Rotunda, and the cunning follies that lined the paths, Mary listed all the perfectly logical reasons why Vaughn might have disappeared. It had probably been silly of her to assume that he would accompany her in the first place, a notion born more out of daydream than logic. The spy might not show himself with Vaughn present — especially if the spy was Vaughn.

Mary lingered on that last prospect. If the Black Tulip were, in fact, Vaughn, then he would be waiting for her somewhere in the dark walks. That would explain Vaughn's distraction, his sudden disappearance while her attention was elsewhere. It was harder to explain why Vaughn would engage in that sort of subterfuge. But then, Vaughn seldom needed a reason for subterfuge. It came to him as naturally as breathing. Perhaps he wanted to test her loyalty, to see how far she could be trusted. Perhaps he simply enjoyed the drama of it, the masked meeting in a dark grove under an assumed identity. Stranger plots had been laid, by minds less convoluted than Vaughn's. He was a man who never took a straight route when a circular one was to be had. Look at his chosen emblem, the snake's tail twisted and twined in a mastery of controlled misdirection.

If Vaughn weren't the Black Tulip…Mary suppressed a shiver that had little to do with the bite of the October breeze that sent the dead leaves eddying along the edges of the walk. Not that there was any real danger, she told herself hastily. She was going to parlay, nothing more. She was only of use to the Black Tulip alive — and if the Black Tulip hadn't wanted anything to do with her, he need not have summoned her. Even so, there was something reassuring about the notion of Vaughn hiding himself in the crowds, following along behind her to her rendezvous with the French spy.

Mary shifted to the side, trying to keep in the shadow of the great sycamore trees that lined the sides of the Grand Walk. The Grand Walk was far too bright for her taste, hung with the hundreds of oil lamps that had made Vauxhall such a wonder to those of her grandparents' generation. With the colder weather drawing in, the crowds, even on this most popular of Vauxhall's walkways, were sparse. Those who had ventured out preferred to cluster in the relative warmth of the Rotunda. Another week, and Vauxhall would be deserted entirely, closed for the winter.

The golden statue of Aurora, one of the wonders of the gardens, glinted at the far end of the three-hundred-yard stretch. The light from the oil lamps reflected off the gold, turning the cul-de-sac nearly bright as day. That wouldn't do at all.

Mary abandoned the well-lit Grand Walk, heading towards the Rural Downs, where an overgrown lead statue of Milton stared forever blind across the sycamores that lined the sides of the walk. If the Black Tulip were, indeed, Lord Vaughn, Mary doubted he would be able to resist the symbolism of Milton's statue. The memory of Vaughn's voice, quoting Paradise Lost, sent a reminiscent tingle down her spine, and made her set off towards her assignation with a much lighter foot. If it were Vaughn, waiting for her among the trees…

Mary blundered through a stand of elms, towards a track still beaten enough to be a path but rustic enough to merit the name "rural," but there was no statue of Milton at the end of it to reward her labors, only a grotto whose dilapidated air appeared to be due more to neglect than design. Through the screen of trees, the Grand Walk seemed very far away, the occasional burst of laughter or snippet of conversation the disjointed outbursts of Shakespeare's sprites. The gravel was harsh beneath the thin soles of her slippers, the ground uneven here, where nature had begun to rebel against art, hard clumps of weeds poking through the path.