If not the Rural Downs, perhaps this was the Druid's Walk? Mary began to wish she had taken the precaution of studying a plan of the gardens before they had left. In theory, in the close confines of Vaughn's luxurious Chinese chamber, losing herself among the paths at Vauxhall and waiting for the Black Tulip to come and find her had seemed quite simple. Lost on a rutted track amid a tangle of underbrush, Mary could think of several other words, also beginning with s. Silly was the mildest of them.

It was so dark, that she could scarcely see to avoid the outcroppings of ill-clipped shrubbery. There were lanterns here, too, but some enterprising soul had smashed the glass bowls, leaving this part of the gardens in almost Stygian darkness. Ahead of her, a ghostly dome loomed among the trees, a folly meant to resemble a deserted pleasure palace. It was open on all sides, nothing more than a rounded roof supported by pillars, with a hard marble bench set in the middle, but Mary headed towards it gratefully. Among other things, a stubborn bit of gravel had worked its way into her left shoe.

Disposing herself on the bench, she eased the offending slipper off her foot, relieving her feelings by slapping it against the bench somewhat more vigorously than the occasion required. It was ruined already. The decaying leaves on the path had left dark smears on the white satin and either twigs or gravel had raised snags and rents in the delicate fabric. She would, she thought wryly, giving it a final whack, just have to add the cost to Lord Vaughn's account. If she ever found her way back to the Grove. At this point, regaining civilization seemed like a far more pressing problem than the whereabouts of the putative Black Tulip.

When the voice spoke behind her, she was caught like Cinderella, a shoe poised in one hand.

"So you came," the voice rasped behind her.

Mary instinctively started to rise, coming to an abrupt halt as her stockinged foot hit stone. She hastily dropped the hand holding the slipper, putting it behind her back in a motion as instinctive as it was counterproductive, considering that her visitor was standing behind her.

Flushing, Mary would have turned, but a heavy hand on her shoulder forestalled her, forcing her back down onto the bench, the marble still warm from her body.

"No, no. Do stay where you are. I believe we shall both be more…comfortable that way."

The person behind her had spoken in French, perfectly accented despite the husky rasp that disguised what might have otherwise been a light tenor or even a deep alto voice. Mary's French was grammatical enough — most of the time — but her accent tended more to Hertfordshire than Paris.

"Wouldn't you like to sit?" she asked in English, hastily fitting her shoe back on her foot. Offered, as they were, to a ruthless spy in the middle of a dark wood, the words felt ridiculously mundane.

The Black Tulip must have felt the same way, because she could hear the current of amusement in his voice as he murmured, "I think not."

The pressure on her shoulder shifted but didn't subside as the Black Tulip settled himself more comfortably behind her, just out of her range of vision. It was infuriating to sense him behind her, to feel the warmth of a human body, to know he was there, but to have no image to put to it. Kneeling behind her, he robbed her of even an impression of height, and the hands heavy on her shoulders prevented any hope of surprising him with a quick turn.

So far, she thought grimly, she wasn't making a very good showing. With one movement, the Black Tulip had blinded and immobilized her. Of course, she reminded herself, he had been at this a great deal longer than she had. She wouldn't fall for the same trick again.

Staring straight ahead, Mary waited in tense expectation for the Black Tulip's next move.

"So," said the Black Tulip at long last, "you wish to be of service to the cause."

There was no need to explain what that cause might be.

"Oh yes!" said Mary innocently. "Did Mr. Rathbone tell you? I so hoped he would."

The fingers on her shoulders tightened, clamped down like a vise on wood, grinding straight to the bone. "Let us not play games, mademoiselle."

"Games?" She would have bruises to show for this, Mary thought vaguely, resisting the urge to squirm under the bruising grip. There would be no off-the-shoulder gowns for at least a week.

"Why do you wish to join our great enterprise?"

Mary did not need the pressure of his fingers to tell her that she needed to make her response convincing. On the other hand, if he weren't the Black Tulip at all, if he were a counterspy or a government agent, she risked more than a handful of bruises. The penalties for traitors had a medieval vigor about them.

Mary chose her words cautiously. "I have no love for the current regime."

"That does not mean you have any great love for us."

Mary pressed both her eyes shut. "Revenge is often a stronger motive than love, Monsieur."

"True." The grip on her shoulders loosened. "True. On whom do you wish to exact revenge, my little Fury?"

"That whole self-satisfied bouquet of flower spies." Mary's voice was as hard and cold as Lady Macbeth's decreeing Duncan's downfall. "They all laughed when Pinchingdale jilted me. Selwick, Dorrington, the lot of them. I'll see that they don't laugh again."

"The Pink Carnation, too?"

Mary shrugged, her shoulders rippling beneath his hands. "I don't know who he is, but they're all related somehow. That's why I've come to you. I want to tear them out, root and branch."

"And what of Lord Vaughn?"

The Black Tulip leaned so near that Mary could feel the brush of his breath across her cheek, fanning the fine strands of her hair. She could smell the rich leather of the glove that lay so heavily on her shoulder. A faint tang of cologne clung to his person, rich and familiar. She could even make out, ever so faintly, the impression of a ring pressing against her shoulder through the fine leather of the glove.

"What of him?" Mary questioned, wondering if the shank of the ring might, in fact, lead to a large diamond on an elegant-fingered hand, the same she had felt around her own less than half an hour before. Half an hour was more than enough time to draw on a pair of gloves and a mask and follow her as she blundered about the unfamiliar walks.

"Does he…share your aspirations?" His breath teased her ear.

The hairs on the back of her neck prickled in the waiting silence. Holding herself very still, feeling as though her spine were made of glass, Mary replied carefully, "Lord Vaughn keeps his own counsel. He allows no one close to him."

The Black Tulip's gloved hand traced a path from her shoulder to her neck. For a moment, Mary relaxed into the brush of warm leather against her skin, the movement caressing, even tender. But he didn't stop there. His hand was moving up, firmer now, pressing against her throat, tilting back her chin, with an insistent pressure that was no less relentless for its measured progress.

Mary stiffened, but it was too late; with two fingers against her jaw, the Black Tulip tipped her head inexorably backwards, setting off the clean line of her throat and the perfection of her profile like a horse trader putting a beast through its paces. He tilted her chin until she thought her neck couldn't possibly bend any farther, and still the relentless pressure continued, pressing back, back, like a medieval inquisitor winding a rack until muscles and joints all split and cracked.

"Not even," the Black Tulip murmured, "a woman of such beauty as yourself?"

Mary's neck ached at the unnatural angle, and her throat felt tight. She was scared, more scared than she had ever been. With one careless movement, he could snap her neck back like a broken spring — and she sensed that he would do it, too, with no more regret than a small boy's tearing the wings off a fly.

It was only through a sheer act of will that she managed to keep her voice cool and level. "You flatter me, Monsieur."

With a deep chuckle, the Black Tulip released his bruising grip, letting her head sag forward.

"Do you know," he said musingly, as Mary sucked air into her tortured lungs, "you just might do. But that name," he added, "will not. Your predecessor called me by another name. She called me mon seigneur."

His voice divided the word into two, not the title of a lord of the church, but the old appellation for a sovereign or a liege lord.

"Mon seigneur," Mary repeated softly, wondering why it felt like the opening formalities to a pact with the devil. There was something about the archaic ring of it that awakened superstitions she had never known she had.

"It sounds well on your lips." Gloved fingers fleetingly brushed her lower lip.

Mary steeled herself not to clamp her lips shut. It was maddening being forced to sit still, maddening not being able to see his face, maddening knowing only a pair of hands and a warm, taunting presence in the dark.

Mad. The word clicked into place with uncomfortable clarity. Whoever he was, there could be no doubt that the person behind her was more than a little bit mad. The slide of his fingers across her face seemed to leave a trail of ooze in their wake, something unnatural and unhealthy.

The hand moved to her cheek, tilted her face first to one side, then the other. "I only knew one other who was your equal. But she proved false. Will you?"

"How can one possibly answer that?" retorted Mary, shaken into honesty. "If I make protestations of fidelity, you have no reason to believe me. I wouldn't."