Лорен Уиллиг - The Seduction of the Crimson Rose

The problem was keeping him alive long enough to find out.

"There he is," said the Black Tulip, in a voice rich with satisfaction. "Looking for you."

"Looking for his wife, you mean," Mary said acidly, in an attempt to play for time.

The Black Tulip refused to be diverted. Mary found the stock of the pistol pressed into her palm. When she would have taken it from him, the Black Tulip's hand closed around hers.

"Put your hand here, on the stock. Yes, just so." The movements of his fingers mirrored hers, keeping her hand carefully in place. "It fits itself nicely to your hand, doesn't it?"

"Oh, beautifully," Mary simpered, wondering when he would take his hand away from hers. One step, one pivot, that was all it would take, if only he would let go.

But the Black Tulip showed no sign of relinquishing his position. It was his hand that raised the pistol, his other arm that came around her to brace it, holding her pinned in the pincers of his arms.

"You have baited your trap very nicely, Miss Alsworthy," he murmured approvingly. "Now it is time for the kill. All you need to do is point the pistol and shoot."

Pressing against the force of his arm, Mary forced the barrel of the pistol downwards, away from Vaughn. "As gratifying as it would be to slaughter the conniving cad right now, it does occur to me that poison would be a better choice. With all the claret Lord Vaughn drinks, it would be the work of a moment to drop something into his glass. I could do it tonight. Think of the fine pedigree of poisoning. So much more tasteful than guns. Guns are so…crude, don't you agree?"

The tip of the pistol slowly rose again, pointing at the unsuspecting figure of Lord Vaughn. "You wanted to prove yourself to me, Miss Alsworthy. All you need to do is level and shoot. It's as easy as that."

Mary struggled to angle the barrel back down. "A pistol shot is so loud, mon seigneur. You wouldn't want to draw attention to yourself like that, would you? After all, you have so much of your great work still to accomplish. Bonaparte wouldn't know what to do with himself without you."

"If you won't do it — " The Black Tulip's hand tightened over hers, gluing her fingers to the stock of the pistol.

"It's not that I won't," Mary amended hastily, wrestling him for control of the pistol. "But shouldn't we just strategize a bit first? Methods and all that? You know what they say. Shoot in haste, repent at leisure…."

" — then I shall just have to do it myself."

Without any further ado, the Black Tulip wrenched their joined hands into position, leveling the pistol at Lord Vaughn's unprotected back with the casual aim of a master marksman.

"Adieu, Lord Vaughn. Or should I say the Pink Carnation?"

In a single, brutal movement, the Black Tulip pressed her finger down against the trigger. Mary's elbow jerked ineffectually back, but the Tulip's grip was too strong to dislodge.

The force of the recoil kicked Mary straight in the shoulder, knocking her back against the Black Tulip. The arms holding her abruptly disengaged, and Mary went stumbling sideways, tripping over a long hem.

Mary didn't pause to pursue the Black Tulip; her one concern was Vaughn. Coughing, eyes watering from the acrid black smoke, Mary fought her way free of the bunting, just in time to see Vaughn fall heavily from his knees to his elbows and from there to the ground.

Next to him, Vaughn's cane rolled once, then twice before sliding to a rest in the trampled brown grass.

"Vaughn?" Mary skidded across the muddy field. "Vaughn?"

Vaughn's hands were splayed on the ground on either side of him. His only response was a low groan. He made an effort to move, his shoulder muscles bunching beneath the fabric of his jacket. Squirming sideways, he attempted to lever himself up, moving only inches before his arms gave way again. A wet trail marked his path, glistening burgundy against the faded grass.

Dropping to her knees on the ground next to him, Mary stripped off her gloves. Wadding up the leather, she pressed it hard against the hole in his back. The makeshift bandage did little good. Despite the tear in the back of his coat, the blood seemed to be seeping from beneath him, wetting her knees through her dress as she knelt beside him.

Seeing her, Vaughn tried again to hoist himself up onto one arm.

"Don't," Mary said harshly, grappling to keep her grip on the wad of leather, slimy with blood. "You'll only hurt yourself more."

Vaughn's clouded eyes shifted across her face. "Didn't mean — " he managed to force out between cracked lips. "Never wanted — "

"I know," Mary said quickly. "I do. Don't fret yourself."

Vaughn's eyes shifted downwards, taking in the dark stains, the steadily spreading puddle of blood. His lips peeled back from his teeth in a parody of his old smile. But before he could say anything sarcastic, his eyes rolled back in his head, and he went still.

Holding the wadded gloves hard against his back, Mary hunkered down beside him, bending her ear to his lips, listening anxiously for the sounds of life. His breath brushed her cheek, and she could have cried with relief. He was only unconscious, not — Mary's mind shied away from other possibilities.

But he was still losing blood, the precious fluid seeping into the ground at her knees. Without loosing her grip on the sodden gloves, Mary used her other hand to ease his left arm upwards, tilting him to the side. And there it was, a matching wound on the other side, just below the arm, tearing through shirt, waistcoat, coat. The fabric was so sodden, it was hard to tell exactly where the damage was.

Vaughn's cravat would make the best bandage, but the intricate knot defied deconstruction, especially with only one hand. Inspired by desperation, Mary emptied out the contents of her reticule, sending coins spinning dizzily in the dirt. Wadding up the soft fabric, she stuffed it beneath the wet patch on his chest, letting the weight of Vaughn's body do the rest.

It wasn't enough, though. She needed something to hold both pads in place. Mary let go for just a moment, and the sodden gloves on his back slid slowly sideways. Lurching forwards, Mary pressed them back into place. With her right hand occupied, she wriggled out of her spencer, wishing that fashion had called for slightly looser garments this season. One-handed, clumsy with haste and fear, she folded the back of the jacket over to make a thick pad. Holding the sodden wadding on his back in place with her elbow, she painfully scooted one arm of the spencer beneath him, leaning across him to yank it out the other side, the bloody gloves pressing against her breast. Edging back, she positioned the folded portion so that it would cover both sides of his wound, holding the already blood-soaked padding in place.

With the sleeves pulled tight, there was only just enough room to make a knot. The material, designed for fashion rather than function, slipped free as she tried to tie it off. Cursing beneath her breath as the material scooted away from her blood-slick fingers, Mary grasped the ends and pulled them fast, tugging them as tight as they would go.

Rocking back on her knees, she regarded Vaughn helplessly. Would he bleed less if she turned him onto his back? Or would the movement merely make him lose more blood? Letty would probably know, Letty who bandaged cuts and soothed banged knees and did whatever else one did with small children who had a habit of falling onto sharp farming implements. But Mary had never paid the slightest attention to any of that. Blood, after all, stained one's clothes.

"Do you need help, dearie?" Caught squatting ignominiously on her haunches, Mary glanced up to see crooked feathers towering over her head, like a great, black bird of prey.

The feathers were attached to a crooked bonnet, and the bonnet, in turn, to a raddled face from which wafted the strong scent of gin. It was the same woman she had seen before, the one who had been standing just in front of her in the crowd, watching the King ride up and down the ranks.

Remembering the brush of fabric against the back of her dress, Mary shied violently away. What better disguise than a raddled lady of the night? The broken bonnet cast her face into permanent shadow, and the reek of gin would keep away any but the most hardened sot. For a woman, her shoulders seemed unnaturally broad; they blocked the sun and sent a long shadow falling across Vaughn's helpless form.

"No," said Mary fiercely, shielding Vaughn with her body. "We're quite all right."

The woman — if it really was a woman — shrugged. "Suit yourself."

Hoisting her bottle to her lips, she wandered back towards the main crush of people. But Mary noticed that she stopped not far away. One hand held the bottle aloft, but the other was hidden by the tipsy fall of her shawl, long enough and thick enough to hide any manner of things, from a bottle…to a pistol.

It probably wasn't her, Mary belatedly concluded. There had been no gin smell around the Black Tulip, and goodness only knew that she had been pressed close enough to him — or her — to tell. But the Black Tulip might be anyone, dressed as anything.

Mary crouched protectively over Vaughn. No matter how dangerous moving him might be, she had to get him out of the park and back to the relative safety of Vaughn House. With all the crowds milling about, there were too many opportunities for the Black Tulip to finish the job.