"Couldn't… stop…"
"No one could have done more," Miles reassured him, his voice rough with remorse. "You just lie here, while I — "
"Couldn't… see…"
"Don't say another word. I'm going to get a surgeon. You just stay here."
Not giving his fallen valet time to object, Miles raced through his chaotic sitting room, vaulted over the table blocking the doorway, and took the stairs three at a time. Storming into the street, he collared a young boy he recognized as a page from the neighboring establishment. "Go to the nearest surgeon and tell him to come here at once — at once, do you hear?"
The boy shrunk away, eyeing Miles's bloodstained hands with pop-eyed alarm.
Miles dug in his waistcoat and yanked out a silver crown. "Here."
He slapped it into the boy's palm. "There'll be another for you if you're back here within the next ten minutes."
"Yes, sir! Yes, indeed, sir!" The boy set off running.
Within half an hour, Downey had been moved to the settee — a liberty he would have protested had he not been unconscious at the time — examined, and pronounced very lucky to be yet among the living.
"An inch lower," pronounced the surgeon grimly, "and your man would have been skewered straight through the heart."
Several hours and two glasses of brandy later (the brandy having been consumed mostly by Miles), Downey was propped up on pillows, partaking of hot broth, and being fussed over by Mrs. Migworth.
"Not but what if I'd known, I wouldn't have gone to market this day," said Mrs. Migworth for the tenth time, shaking her graying head. "It's that sorry I am, Mr. Downey."
"That makes two of us," muttered Miles, pacing the ruined carpet. "Downey, I can't tell you how sorry I am that this has happened."
Downey looked as gratified as a man swathed in bandages with a spoon stuck in his mouth can contrive to look.
"It's… no matter… sir." Downey suddenly started up in alarm, sending Mrs. Migworth into a whole new agony of fussing and pillow-fluffing. "Sir! Her ladyship…Lady Uppington… left a message."
"Calm yourself, Downey." Miles perched himself on an only slightly slashed chair. "It can't be that important."
"But her ladyship said… the masquerade…"
"Oh, no. I'm staying right here with you. I don't care if the Prince of Wales himself is throwing it, I — oh. Oh, no." Miles uttered a word that made Mrs. Migworth bristle with disapproval.
Miles didn't notice. Miles didn't care. Miles was staring off into space with a fixed look of horror in the manner of Hamlet being confronted with his father's ghost. Only this was far, far worse than any number of spirits from beyond the grave. The masquerade was being hosted by Lord Vaughn, held at Lord Vaughn's townhouse, entirely under Lord Vaughn's control and direction.
Hen was there. With Vaughn. In Vaughn's house.
Everyone would be masked, the more fantastical the costume the better. The ton, safely disguised behind feathery masks and elaborate wigs, would have seized the opportunity to indulge in a bit of licentious revel. Champagne would flow, sharpening voices and numbing wits. In the midst of them all would be Henrietta, meandering innocently along like a lamb among wolves. How hard would it be to yank her away, out of the throng of partygoers? Vaughn could slip a drug into her drink; he could back her into a dark corner; he could even sweep her up and toss her over his shoulder and anyone who saw would simply assume it was all part of the fun, a bit of playacting to enliven the evening.
And once Vaughn had isolated Henrietta from his guests… Miles's blood ran cold. The man had just stabbed Mües's valet with no more thought than Miles would give to crushing an ant.
"What time was I supposed to be there?" Miles demanded hoarsely.
"Ten o'clock," said Mrs. Migworth briskly, rubbing her hands on her apron. "Is aught wrong, sir?"
"Ten o'clock," Miles repeated. The tall cabinet clock in the corner was missing its glass fronting, but behind the jagged break, the hands still faithfully ticked off the minutes. It was nearly half past eleven.
Miles bolted for the door.
A faint whisper rose from the couch. "If sir would divest himself of bloodstains before leaving…" Downey managed, before his head dropped back onto the pillow.
It was too late. Miles was already halfway down the stairs, doing his damnedest not to think about all the things that might be happening to Henrietta at this very moment, and failing miserably.
Miles was late.
Henrietta peered into the crowd of masked revelers overflowing the spacious reception chambers of Lord Vaughn's London mansion, searching for a familiar blond head. Given the number of powdered wigs, feathered hats, and shuttered medieval helmets in evidence, the task was proving less straightforward than usual. In front of her, a self-satisfied Marc Antony, resplendent in breastplate, tunic, and Roman helmet, strolled arm in arm with a very scantily clad Diana the Huntress, whose arrows lay abandoned in their quill as she simpered up at the Roman general. Definitely not Miles.
Henrietta heaved a sigh. The heaving was a mistake, since the sudden inhalation of air brought her ribs into contact with her tightly laced stomacher with a force that would have made her double over had she had the capacity to double over. Henrietta scowled in the direction of her stomach, and got a curl in her eye for her pains. Nasty, silly costume. Yet, so becoming, which was really the point of the whole exercise.
With only two days in which to plan for Lord Vaughn's masquerade, Henrietta's choice of costume had been limited. She had wanted something that would make her seem alluring, mysterious, irresistible, something that would bring Miles to his knees. "I don't think they have costumes for that," Charlotte had commented. Penelope had suggested that, if that was what she wanted, why not just be direct about it and come as Nell Gwynn, with her bodice open to her waist, and a basketful of oranges holding suggestive messages. Neither comment had been appreciated.
In the end, Henrietta had done some rummaging, and appropriated one of the dresses from her mother's own long-ago debut, a shimmering thing of greenish blue brocade, trimmed with gold lace around the low, square neck. The overdress laced tightly over a white silk stomacher embroidered with tiny sprays of flowers before opening out again over an underskirt embroidered in the same pattern. It had to be lengthened, of course, since Lady Uppington was a good five inches shorter than her daughter, but otherwise the old-fashioned style suited Henrietta perfectly, making the most of her small waist, and hiding a set of hips that were rather too lavishly curved for current fashion. She only hoped Miles appreciated it.
Where was the blasted boy?
Henrietta dropped her golden mask (her arm was beginning to hurt from holding it up) and turned to Charlotte, who was standing beside her. "Would you care to take a turn around the room with me?"
Taking a firmer hold on her crook, Charlotte shook her head miserably, setting the little bows on her cap waving. Charlotte had wanted to dress up as the Lady of the Lake, clad in a gown of flowing white samite, but her grandmother had dismissed the notion with a derisory snort as namby-pamby nonsense. Instead, she had squeezed Charlotte into a short, tightly laced shepherdess costume, complete with striped stockings, ribbon-bedizened crook, and even a stuffed sheep.
"I'd prefer to hide here, if you don't mind," sighed Charlotte, nudging her sheep gloomily. "Maybe Penelope would go with you?"
The two girls turned to look at Penelope.
Penelope had come dressed as Boadicea, draped in a length of blue plaid that had the dual benefit of flattering her complexion and annoying her mother into a rapid departure. Lady Deveraux had last been seen heading towards the balcony, bemoaning the hard lot of a mother cursed with a difficult daughter to a very sympathetic King Lear. The Dowager Duchess had very little use for Penelope's mother, and thought the costume was a brilliant idea; her only objection was that Penelope had neglected to include a war chariot. The dowager had rapidly appropriated Penelope's spear, and was amusing herself and Penelope by pok
ing unwitting fops in sensitive parts of their anatomy.
Henrietta and Charlotte exchanged a resigned glance.
"I don't think Penelope will want to join me. If your grandmother asks, will you tell her I went to the ladies' retiring room to, uh…"
"Fix your flounce?" suggested Charlotte, with the first hint of a smile she had shown all evening. "Give my regards to Mr. Dorrington when you find him."
Henrietta impulsively leaned over to hug her, her wide skirt whap-ping into Charlotte's panniers.
"If I find any amorous shepherds, I'll send them your way."
Charlotte flapped the stuffed sheep at her in farewell.
Henrietta maneuvered past a Henry VIII who looked like he needed very little extra padding for his doublet, and a morose Katherine of Aragon clutching a rosary. Henry made a perfunctory grab for Henrietta's waist as she twisted past him, and Katherine whacked him with her beads. Henrietta kept going.
There, to her left, was Turnip Fitzhugh, dressed as… good heavens, was he a giant carnation? The mind boggled. He was chatting with a woman draped mysteriously in black, who, at first glance, Henrietta thought might be the marquise. She started forward to take a closer look, but two Pierrots surged in front of her, clinging to each other for balance and breathing brandy with every breath. Henrietta yanked her wide skirts out of the path of the swaying men, scanning the crowd for Turnip's pink petals, or the black lace of the woman beside him, but they had disappeared into the masses of people milling through Lord Vaughn's reception rooms like so many drops of water into a pond.
Henrietta had her own reasons for wanting to locate the marquise.
It had occurred to her, as she wiled away the hours before the evening's entertainment, that if a spy was trailing along after her and Miles, it stood to reason that this individual would be someone who had recently begun paying a great deal of attention to them.
Henrietta entertained the fleeting thought that a truly talented spy would be quite careful not to pay marked attention to his prey, but she quickly dismissed the notion as unhelpful. Even if it were true, what use was it? Trying to sift through the number of people who hadn't singled her out recently was the sort of pointless task imposed upon heroines in fairy tales. They at least had fairy godmothers to help them sort through stacks of beans or spin straw into gold.
The marquise had certainly made no secret of her interest in Miles; she had dogged his footsteps — or something else — at every opportunity.
Of course, there was the slight problem that the marquise had everything to lose and nothing to gain from the Revolution. She had itemized it all in the phaeton. The houses, the paintings, the clothes… and her husband. The marquise still wore the dark hues of mourning for her husband, but Henrietta harbored the ignoble suspicion that her wardrobe choices arose less from affection than because she knew the colors suited her better than pastels. Love wouldn't win the marquise's loyalty, but a chateau in the Loire Valley, a wall full of Van Dykes, and a treasure trove of family jewels certainly could.
Blast. Henrietta would have so dearly loved for the marquise to be engaged in something underhanded.
Unless… Henrietta brightened. Unless the marquise had come to an agreement with the French government, whereby she got to keep her jewels and her chateaux in exchange for a wee bit of treason in her native land. As a theory, it didn't have much to recommend it, but it was the best Henrietta could come up with. She would have to keep an eye on the marquise. For the good of England, of course.
Just before she left the house that evening, Henrietta had penned a quick note to Jane, asking her to look into the background of the marquise. She did feel more than a little bit foolish about using the resources of the Pink Carnation on what was most likely a personal grudge, but… just in case.
But, aside from the potential sighting with Turnip, she had only caught one glimpse of the marquise that evening, engaged in entirely unsuspicious behavior. The marquise had been dressed as Isabella of Spain, swathed in an elaborate Spanish mantilla, but through the swirls of lace, Henrietta had seen the glint of blue-black hair that proclaimed its owner as unmistakably as the conscious grace of her movements. She had been deep in conversation with Lord Peter Innes, a scapegrace second son who had installed himself as an intimate of the Prince of Wales by dint of excessive drinking, gaming, and (although Henrietta wasn't supposed to know about such things) wenching. Try as she might, Henrietta couldn't find anything the least bit sinister in their conference. Ill-advised, if the marquise's purpose was to replenish her coffers through an advantageous marriage — the prince's intimates were not the marrying kind, and the state of their coffers didn't bear commenting upon — but not treasonous.
All the same, Henrietta kept her eye out for a black lace mantilla, just in case.
Nor had Henrietta yet encountered her host. Henrietta added Lord Vaughn to her little list of suspects. His attentions to her had been as sudden as they had been assiduous. He had fetched her champagne at the Middlethorpes' ball last night — and Lord Vaughn struck Henrietta as the sort of man who seldom fetched anything for anyone without good reason. Henrietta just didn't know whether his reasons were amorous or otherwise. She didn't delude herself that she was the sort of woman who drove men wild with uncontrolled passion, but Lord Vaughn was of an age when he might well be seeking a second wife and an heir rather than letting the estate and title devolve to some vile fifth cousin twice removed (distant cousins who stood to inherit were invariably vile). Henrietta made excellent heir-bearing material. She was the daughter of a marquis, and possessed of a ready wit, pleasant features, and no history of insanity in the family.
On the other hand, he had only settled his quizzing glass upon her after the topic of Richard's escapades had arisen.
"Lady Henrietta! You honor me with your presence."
There had to be something to the old adage about summoning the devil by thinking of him; Henrietta nearly tripped over her hem as the object of her speculations appeared before her.
She plunged into a curtsy to cover her confusion, her wide skirts collapsing around her, only just managing the combination of unfamiliar hoops and tottery heels. "Good evening, Lord Vaughn."
"For shame, Lady Henrietta," Vaughn chided smoothly. "At a masquerade one is never oneself."
"Should I have said Signor Machiavelli, then?"
In a doublet of rich black satin, Vaughn was dressed as a Renaissance grandee. The sleeves were slashed with silver tissue, and a school of writhing sea serpents wound its way around hem and neck, looking for all the world as though they were searching for a ship to sink. A heavy golden chain of office, like those worn by important officials in Elizabethan portraits, hung around his neck. The pendant was not a seal, but a falcon, with ruby eyes.
Lord Vaughn laughed, the ruby eyes of the falcon glinting with the movement of his chest. "Do you praise my acumen or insult my morals?"
That came a little too close for comfort. "Neither. I was simply guessing based on the time period."
"And Machiavelli's was the first name that came to mind?" Vaughn arched an eyebrow. "You have a devious turn of thought, Lady Henrietta."
Was he flirting with her, or baiting her?
"Though not nearly so keen an eye as you have," Henrietta prevaricated hastily. "I'm quite impressed that you recognized me through the mask on so slight an acquaintance."
Lord Vaughn made a courtly leg. "Can beauty mask itself? "
"A mask," replied Henrietta matter-of-factly, lowering hers, "often provides the best illusion of beauty where there is none."
"Only for those who need such subterfuge." Lord Vaughn proffered a crooked arm, leaving Henrietta, trapped within a web of manners, no choice but to take it. "I believe I promised you mythical beasts."
"Dragons, in fact," agreed Henrietta, rapidly reassessing her situation. Her proximity to Lord Vaughn, while unsought, might yet prove useful. If she could ask him suitably leading questions — suitably subtle leading questions �
�� she might eke out of him enough to determine whether or not he had turned traitor in his years abroad. A careless comment about having been frequently in France, perhaps, or an excessive familiarity with the workings of Bonaparte's court.
With Henrietta on his arm, Vaughn moved at a measured pace through his masquerade, bowing to acquaintances as they passed. For the first time, Henrietta blessed the wide skirts she had been tripping over, jamming into door frames, and mentally consigning to perdition all evening. The skirts might be a blasted nuisance, but they kept Lord Vaughn a safe distance away, as they walked with their arms raised in courtly fashion over the gap, her fingers resting lightly on his outstretched hand.
"Your home is lovely, my lord," Henrietta ventured, by way of starting a conversation. "How could you bear to stay away from it for so long?"
Underneath her fingers, Vaughn's hand stiffened, but his voice contained nothing more telling than urbane indifference as he answered, "The Continent has its own pleasures, Lady Henrietta."
"Yes, I know," Henrietta said enthusiastically; "I was in France with my family just before the end of the peace" — that much, after all, was public knowledge, so it would do no harm to tell him what he already knew — "and was amazed by the beauty of the architecture, the excellence of the food, and the quality of the theatre. Despite recent events, it is really a most charming city. Do you find it so, my lord?"
"It has been many years since I have found Paris anything or anything in Paris," said Vaughn dismissively, turning to bow to a passing acquaintance.
Henrietta's pulse picked up beneath the despised stomacher. "You mean," she asked, in tones of exaggerated innocence, "that you find Paris dull these days?"
"I haven't heen to Paris for some time. War does tend to impede one's freedom of movement." Vaughn's face was bland, his voice equally so.
Henrietta didn't believe a word of it.
"How very inconvenient," she murmured, just to have something to say.
"One must sometimes put up with a spot of personal inconvenience for the sake of world affairs, Lady Henrietta," Vaughn replied drily. "Or have your brother's exploits not yet taught you that lesson?"
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