Then there was his trip to the opera this morning. Miles whacked his head with the back of his hand. If Vaughn was in league with Mme. Fiorila…well, leaving his card with Mme. Fiorila had not been the brightest of ideas. Pity, that. It had seemed such a sensible course of action at the time.
Why did this sort of thing never happen to Richard? Of course, Richard had been captured by the French secret police, which did tend to even the score a bit. That thought made Miles feel better. Almost.
Heedless of escaping stuffing, Miles groaned and flopped down on his mutilated settee. He didn’t want to contemplate crazed French spies, he didn’t want to contemplate his own mistakes, and he certainly didn’t want to contemplate the amount of time it was going to take before his lodgings were liveable again. It had been a long, tiring, and – Miles’s unregenerate mind presented him with a tactile re-enactment of Henrietta’s foot inching up his leg – frustrating day, and all he wanted was to sprawl out on his sofa, imbibe a glass of claret, and vent to Downey. Miles glanced down at the claret-coloured stain on his carpet, glinting with the crystal fragments that had once been glasses. Not bloody likely.
Where in the hell was Downey, for that matter? Or Mrs Migworth, his housekeeper, cook, and maid of all work? True, Mrs Migworth was slightly deaf, and tended, once her morning rounds of cleaning and tidying were done, not to leave her domain in the kitchen, but one would think someone would have noticed the odd whirlwind flashing through the flat.
Miles heaved himself off the sofa, shedding little tufts of horsehair as he dragged himself upright. Grinding glass into the carpet as he went – the carpet was going to have to be thrown out, anyway, so he might as well get the satisfaction of making loud, crackling noises – Miles stomped off in search of his staff.
‘Downey!’ he shouted. ‘Where in the blazes are you?’
There was no answer.
Miles stalked off into the dining parlour, noting grimly the silver that had been upended on the sideboard, and the pictures that had been torn off the wall.
‘Downey!’ Miles roared. ‘Where are you, man?’
Of all the times for his valet to take an unauthorised afternoon off! Miles came to an abrupt halt in the middle of the room, scowling at the smashed pile of fragments that had once been his dinner service.
That was when he heard it. A low moan, little more than an exhalation of air. Miles whirled, seeking the source of the sound.
‘Hello?’ Miles said sharply. It might have been nothing more than a draft of air from an open window, or a mouse in the skirting board – though Miles didn’t think mice sighed. No, this sound had been human in origin. Miles’s eyes rifled across the room, darting past the table, over several chairs…and under the sideboard, which boasted, in addition to its own four legs, a black-shod foot protruding where no foot ought to be.
Miles flung himself to his knees on the parquet floor. There lay Downey, sprawled facedown beneath the sideboard, a dark stain marring the back of his coat.
‘Oh hell, oh hell, oh hell,’ muttered Miles. ‘Downey? Downey, can you hear me?’
Another faint moan emerged from the valet’s crumpled form.
‘It’s going to be all right,’ Miles said with more determination than he felt. Yanking the cravat from around his throat – Downey, after all, was in no state to protest – he fashioned a rough dressing over the hole in Downey’s back. From the way the blood was caked on Downey’s coat, the wound appeared to have mostly stopped bleeding, but moving him would undoubtedly open it again. He must have been lying there for some time.
Being as gentle as he could, Miles eased Downey out from under the sideboard, eliciting another wordless moan.
‘Sorry, old boy,’ Miles muttered. ‘It’ll just be a moment, I promise…’
‘Thieves,’ croaked Downey, in a barely audible whisper.
‘Shhh,’ said Miles, feeling like one of the world’s lowest sort of crawling creatures. ‘Don’t try to talk.’
‘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 recognised as a page from the neighbouring establishment.
‘Go to the nearest surgeon and tell him to come here at once – at once, do you hear?’
The boy shrank 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 greying 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 could 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 party goers? 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 Miles’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 cabin
et 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 revellers 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.
Since she had 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 poking 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 leant over to hug her, her wide skirt whapping 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 manoeuvred 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 whiled 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 itemised 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 harboured the ignoble suspicion that her wardrobe choices arose less from affection than because she knew the colours suited her better than pastels. Love wouldn’t win the marquise’s loyalty, but a château in the Loire Valley, a wall full of Van Dycks, 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 châteaux 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 pot
ential sighting with Turnip, she had only caught one glimpse of the marquise that evening, engaged in entirely unsuspicious behaviour. 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.