Masque of the Black Tulip pc-2

by Lauren Willig

  Ireland. An exceedingly popular place all of a sudden. I didn't think it could possibly be a coincidence that both the Pink Carnation and the Black Tulip were converging upon the same place. The Black Tulip might, perhaps, as she vamped her way through the staff of the War Office, have gotten wind of the presence of the Pink Carnation in Ireland (though I had my doubts), but why was Wickham sending Jane there in the first place? Why not leave her in France, where she was well entrenched in Bonaparte's court, well placed to receive information and commit cunning acts of sabotage? A logical cause might be to remove her from suspicion — but, as far as I had read, no one suspected Edouard Balcourt's cousin of anything other than, perhaps, the odd amour. Being French, they weren't about to condemn that.

  Besides, there were other reasons that excuse didn't wash. One other reason, to be precise. Geoffrey Pinchingdale-Snipe. If it were a matter of removing Jane from France, why send Pinchingdale to meet her in

  Ireland? Because that, according to Henrietta's last letter, was just what William Wickham had ordered. Pinchingdale had been detailed to meet Jane in Ireland, assignment to be relayed en route.

  But why Ireland?

  It's a complaint among British historians that, the way the field is parceled out, people who call themselves British historians seldom do more than study England. From time to time, someone will call for a new "British" history, and there'll be a spate of papers, perhaps a conference or two, emphasizing the interrelations between the three kingdoms, itemizing the numbers of Scots and Irish in the British army, or assessing the impact of Ireland upon Britain's colonial enterprises, but then most of us merrily subside into just doing England again. The word "insular" applies in more ways than one.

  I bore out the stereotype beautifully. I didn't for the life of me know what was going on in Ireland in 1803.1 did know — this comes among those basic dates of which no self-respecting English historian can remain in ignorance, or risk extreme embarrassment in the tea room of the Institute of Historical Research — that Ireland's government had officially been merged with that of Britain with the Act of Union in 1801, its Parliament dissolved and its legislative independence ended. Scotland had gone that way in 1707.1 realized that fact had nothing to do with the state of Ireland in 1803, but it did reassure me that all that studying I had done for my General Exams had not been in vain.

  I also knew, and far more usefully, that William Wickham had been, at some point, Chief Secretary to the Lord Lieutenant in Ireland. Or, rather, it would be useful if I could remember exactly when Wickham had been in Ireland. If it had been 1803… Was that too much to hope for?

  Probably. But it certainly didn't hurt to check. After a long nap, followed by a shower, a snack, and a Grande Toffee Nut Latte, I hastily specified to myself.

  And there were also Jane, Geoff, and the marquise to follow up on. If only it weren't a Sunday! The British Library would be closed, as would the Institute of Historical Research. Somehow, I doubted that much would appear if I plugged any of their names into the British Library database, but it was certainly worth a try. I wondered if Colin knew where the Pinchingdale family papers were kept — if there were any Pinchingdale family papers. Even if there weren't, it would make a good pretense for calling Colin…

  Or would have, if I had had his number.

  With that lowering thought came another, even more distressing one. I shot up in my seat so precipitately that my forehead grazed the seat in front of me.

  Forget having his number, I had never given him mine. Any of my numbers. He didn't even have my e-mail address. Which meant that his confident "I'll call you" was worth just about as much as the currency of a small former Soviet Republic.

  It could be just an oversight on his part.

  It could be. And I heard there were some shares in the Brooklyn Bridge going cheap.

  I should have remembered that We should do drinks sometime is bloke-speak for Have a nice life. I couldn't believe what an idiot I had been.

  Or, rather, I could believe it; I just didn't like it.

  Whoa. I yanked my rampaging imagination to a halt before I could plunge into full-blown woman-scorned mode, like a team of spooked horses careening towards a cliff. Just because the last man I'd dated had been a cheating slime, didn't mean the whole lot of them were accomplished deceivers who would as soon lie to a girl as have a drink with her. After all, Colin had clearly been distracted by something. Whatever that something might be.

  Feigning distress, whispered my inner demon (who was clearly a friend of Colin's hobgoblins), could be a good way of getting rid of an unwanted houseguest who has begun evincing signs of crush. But he had seemed genuinely miserable, my better self argued back. Those circles under his eyes hadn't been makeup. And why suggest drinks if he didn't mean it?

  That latter, I was forced to concede to myself, lacked force as an argument. If I had a dime for every time one of my friends complained a guy had promised to call and didn't…well, I could finance that research trip to Ireland. I was guilty of it myself, casually tossing off, "We should do coffee," to acquaintances at the Institute of Historical Research, well knowing that I was no more likely to follow up on it than they were to contact me.

  The lack of my phone number wasn't fatal. If he were serious about meeting up for drinks, there were half a dozen ways he could acquire my number. Well, maybe not half a dozen, but I could think of at least two. His aunt Arabella, who had foisted me off on him this weekend in the first place, or his sister, Serena, who could, in a pinch, wrest the information from Pammy. If I could think of it, so could he.

  If he did manage to acquire my number, it would at least prove that he had been serious about that drink. In old fairy tales, the heroes were frequently put to some sort of test. Toting the head of a dragon home to the princess; pinching the feathers off the tail of a mythical bird; defeating an ogre with a halitosis problem in hand-to-hand combat. I didn't delude myself that I was the stuff of which heroines were made. I didn't even have half a kingdom to offer as reward, unless half a kingdom meant half a very small rented flat in a basement in Bayswater. But if the prize was less, so was the task. Braving the dread telephone in exchange for a drink with yours truly. Compared with hacking down a thicket of thorns, acquiring a phone number seemed negligible.

  I would give him until… was Wednesday too soon? If there was a real crisis, I didn't want to rush out and buy a voodoo doll for no good reason. Thursday, I decided generously. If he hadn't called me by Thursday, I would know that I'll call you had simply been shorthand for not interested.

  In the meantime, I had a spy to track down.

  I couldn't follow the Black Tulip and the Pink Carnation to Ireland, but I could seek them out in the manuscript room of the British Library. If that failed… well, Mrs. Selwick-Alderly had told me to keep her abreast of developments in the dissertation. It would only be polite to give her a call.

  Leaning one cheek against the windowpane, I wondered who would resurface first. Colin? Or the Black Tulip?

  Historical Note

  Once again, the time has come to separate fact from fiction, and make my apologies to the altar of historical accuracy. The flower-themed spies do, in fact, have their place in the historical record. Although the Scarlet Pimpernel, the Purple Gentian, and the Pink Carnation are all fictitious, there were flower-named spies romping across the Channel. La Rose was the more prominent, but one agent did go under the pseudonym Le Mouron (the Pimpernel) — and they identified themselves by means of small cards marked with a scarlet flower. Nor is the notion of a female flower figure, like the Pink Carnation, pure invention. Mile Nymphe Roussel de Preville confounded the revolutionary government under the code name Prime-rose. Reputed to be stunningly beautiful, like Jane, La Prime-rose was a mistress of disguise, equally comfortable gracing a drawing room or masquerading as a man. The ring of spies posing as cravat merchants dispersed by Miles early in the book also have their historical counterparts in the French agents scattered through L
ondon posing as tailors, servants, merchants, and milliners.

  Back at headquarters in London, there was some shuffling of places and personnel for the purposes of the novel. During the Napoleonic Wars, espionage was largely conducted through a subdepartment of the Home Office called the Alien Office. To avoid confusion, and distressing images of extraterrestrials wandering around London, I followed the fictional tradition that ascribes stealthy deeds of daring to to the War Office. As a sop to the shades of those men who labored in the Alien Office, I borrowed their building and staff for the use of my fictitious War Office. Number Twenty, Crown Street, where Miles receives his instructions from William Wickham, had been the headquarters of the Alien Office since its inception in 1793.

  As for William Wickham… I have very poor luck with spymasters, who seem to have a habit of resigning just before I need them. In 1802, Wickham left the Alien Office and sailed for Dublin in his new capacity as Chief Secretary to the Lord Lieutenant of Ireland. However, Wickham is to the English secret service what Fouche* was to the French. Using the Alien Office as base, he built a network of spies — or, as Wickham himself euphemistically termed it, a "preventative police" — that spanned the Continent and terrified the enemies of England. Wickham's new title changed little; he continued to wield sway over England's efforts at espionage, first from the Irish Office and later from the Treasury. Despite his Irish appointment, Wickham was, in fact, physically present in London in early summer of 1803, and would have been on hand to give Miles his marching orders.

  My final mea culpa is for those avid students of the Regency era who will have noticed some importations from slightly later in the century. Almack's, "the Marriage Mart," where Miles hid from matchmaking mothers behind convenient outcroppings of masonry, had been in operation since 1765. The tepid lemonade, knee breeches for the gentlemen (the Duke of Wellington was once refused admittance for committing the unpardonable gaffe of appearing in trousers), and the firm closing of the door upon any unfortunates who desired entry after the magical hour of eleven would all have been familiar to Henrietta and Miles. They would have blinked in confusion, however, at the mention of the quadrille, which was not introduced into England until 1808, although it had already attained popularity across the Channel. Likewise, Sarah, Lady Jersey, was only seventeen in 1803, and would not marry the future Earl of Jersey for another year, nor become Lady Jersey until 1805 (not to be confused with the other Lady Jersey, her mother-in-law, chiefly famed for extra-conjugal cavorting with Prinny). Nonetheless, both the quadrille and Lady Jersey are such commonplaces of the period that the ballroom felt incomplete without them.

  As always, for the bulk of the details relating to espionage during the Napoleonic Wars, I am deeply indebted to Elizabeth Sparrow's minutely researched work on the subject, Secret Service: British Agents in France, 1792 — 1815. For pretty much everything else, heartfelt thanks go to Dee Hendrickson and her brilliant Regency Reference Book (aka Everything You Wanted to Know About the Regency but Were Afraid to Ask), and the ever-resourceful ladies of the Beau Monde and Writing Regency, whose encyclopedic knowledge of the early nineteenth century saved Henrietta — and her author — from any number of shocking gaffes.

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