If it weren’t for the ring on her finger, Henrietta would have been quite convinced that none of it had happened at all.
After the ceremony, she and Miles fled to his curricle, leaving the Tholmondelays to do justice to the hastily prepared wedding breakfast. ‘Lobster patties, Fred!’ she could hear Ned exclaim enthusiastically to his brother, as Miles handed her up into the carriage. At least someone was enjoying it, thought Henrietta philosophically. Richard looked as though he would rather chew his way through a plate of nettles.
As for Miles… It was very hard to tell what Miles was thinking. Henrietta snuck a glance at Miles, who was tooling the ribbons as if he had no other concern in the world but to negotiate his horses around a large rut in the middle of the road. Ever since they had departed from Selwick Hall, Miles had been treating her with unfailing courtesy. He had spread a lap rug over her legs, apologised for the necessity of conveying her to London in an open vehicle, offered to stop for refreshment, and even gone so far as to comment on the weather.
Miles was being polite. Too polite. It made Henrietta nervous.
She darted another lightning look at Miles, only to see his eyes hastily scoot back to the road. Henrietta looked away, but couldn’t keep her eyes from slowly sliding back in his direction from under the rim of her bonnet. Miles’s scooted the other way, like two characters creeping around walls trying to avoid each other in a Mozartian farce.
If only they had been given time to speak before the wedding! Henrietta wasn’t entirely sure what she would have said. Was there ever a delicate way to phrase, ‘You don’t have to marry me if you don’t want to’? Of course, even if she had found a way to say it, she knew as well as he that it was pure nonsense. He did have to marry her. She was compromised, ruined, fallen, sullied, soiled. Henrietta was running out of adjectives, but any one of them would have served the purpose.
There was an alternative. Henrietta probed the option delicately, like a sufferer of toothache exploring around the rotting tooth. She would only be ruined if the story escaped the confines of Selwick Hall. Richard and Amy surely wouldn’t repeat it to anyone, and Mrs Cathcart could be counted upon to remain discreet, if not for Henrietta’s sake, then for her mother’s. As for Miss Grey, she never spoke when she could remain silent. The only danger remaining was the Tholmondelays, and while they didn’t possess a brain between them, Henrietta had no doubt either Miles or Richard could instil through fear what might be lacking in intelligence.
Annulment. There, she had said it. They could procure an annulment and then Miles would be free, and no one would ever know what had happened except the parties concerned. Miles could drive in the park with dark beauties, flirt with mysterious marchionesses, and acquire opera singers without the unwanted encumbrance of a wife.
Henrietta made a wry face to herself. She had lived in society long enough to know there was no possible way to keep scandal a secret; it travelled mysteriously through the air, like bubonic plague. Besides, Henrietta wasn’t quite sure exactly how one went about obtaining an annulment, but she had no doubt that the process would be lengthy, and involve lots of paper, which would invariably come to the notice of someone who would inevitably tell someone else, and before she knew it, respectable women would be sweeping their skirts away from her in the streets.
There was always the nunnery. They were supposed to specialise in fallen women, weren’t they?
By the time they stopped in Croydon to change horses, Henrietta was in such a state of miserable tension that she welcomed the diversion. The courtyard of the Greyhound was already teeming with a variety of equipages, from a crested carriage to a green-and-gold accommodation coach, and the Swan was scarcely less busy.
Assessing the mob with an experienced eye, Miles shook his head, and eased his horses along the High Street.
‘We’ll try the Potted Hare,’ he announced. ‘They might be less crowded.’
Henrietta couldn’t decide whether he was talking to himself or to her, but she decided that some response was probably a good thing.
‘That would be nice.’
Under the brim of her bonnet, Henrietta grimaced at the stilted words. How, after eighteen years of fluid bantering and bickering with Miles, had she been reduced to this? She had enjoyed more scintillating exchanges with Turnip Fitzhugh – and Turnip, like the vegetable for which he was named, was not chiefly known for his conversational talents.
Miles, noticing the grimace, drew another conclusion entirely, and drew the horses up with unnecessary force as he drove into the courtyard of the Potted Hare. Flinging the reins to an ostler, Miles jumped down to hand Henrietta out of the carriage.
Instead of moving aside to let her precede him, he stood, frowning down at her. A black travelling chaise scraped to a stop behind them, nearly clipping Miles in passing, and disgorging a dandy in the latest cut of coat, who paused to rearrange his already immaculate cravat. A busy coaching inn, Miles admitted to himself, wasn’t the best place to conduct a conversation of a private nature. But something had to be said, and soon, because all the uncharacteristic silence was destined to drive him straight to Bedlam. Pygmalion had contrived to turn a statue into a living, breathing female. He, thought Miles glumly, had somehow managed to turn a living, breathing female into a statue.
‘Hen—’ he began earnestly, taking her by the shoulders.
‘I say! Dorrington!’ Whatever Miles had been about to say was lost as a familiar voice hailed them. Without waiting for his coachman to bring his carriage to a full stop, Turnip Fitzhugh tumbled out of his chaise. ‘I say! This is a spot of luck, finding you here. Would have gone on to the Greyhound, but I saw your curricle in the yard, and thought, I’ll dine with Dorrington. Can’t abide to dine alone, you know.’
Clearly, the powers that be took very negative views of a man seducing his best friend’s sister, and had wasted no time in exacting punishment. Miles tried to catch Henrietta’s eye to share a glance of commiseration, but what little could be seen of her face beneath her bonnet was flung as deeply into shadow as though she had been wearing a veil.
‘Fitzhugh,’ groaned Miles, dropping his hands and turning to face his old schoolmate.
Turnip gave a start as he noticed Henrietta for the first time, a state of affairs not altogether surprising, as Miles’s large form had blocked her from his view.
‘Lady Henrietta?’ He glanced from Henrietta to Miles with a puzzled expression on his good-natured face. ‘Didn’t see you there! Devil of a fine day for a drive, ain’t it?’
Miles held out his arm to Hen, wishing the amiable Turnip to perdition. ‘Shall we see if we can secure a parlour?’ he asked resignedly.
‘Capital idea!’ enthused Turnip. He turned courteously towards Henrietta’s bonnet. ‘What brings you here, Lady Hen?’
‘We were just—’ began Miles.
‘—in Sussex. With Richard,’ Henrietta broke in, the tone of her voice forbidding further elaboration.
Miles looked sharply down at Henrietta, but received a poke in the eye from an impudent feather for his pains. He could learn to hate that bonnet.
‘What are you doing here?’ he asked Turnip with no good grace, as their small group progressed through the door of the inn. Behind them, a steady stream of vehicles, pausing on the journey from Brighton to London, continued to crowd into the yard of the coaching inn, in search of fresh horses and a respite from the rigors of the road.
Turnip beamed and waved his carnation-hemmed handkerchief. ‘Been in Brighton. With Prinny, you know. Devil of a crush at the Pavilion this weekend.’
‘When isn’t there?’ asked Miles, gesturing expansively at the innkeeper, in the hopes that the sooner Turnip was fed, the sooner Turnip would leave. Behind them, a queue of cranky travellers was beginning to form, headed by the slender man who had nearly run Miles down in the yard. Judging from the width of his lapels and height of his shirt collar, he was clearly another one of Prinny’s hangers-on, fresh from Brighton. That considerati
on added extra force to Miles’s voice as he grumbled, ‘I don’t know why you subject yourself to it.’
‘You’re joking, right, Dorrington? Can’t say I care much for the sea, but the prince’s entertainments are all up to the crack. Even had an opera singer perform this weekend! Accompanied by some Italian chap, name that sounded like a noodle. Deuced fine – er—’ Turnip glanced uneasily at Henrietta and broke off. ‘Er, singer,’ he finished with relief. ‘Deuced fine singer.’
Even Turnip looked relieved at the intrusion of the innkeeper.
Wiping his hands on the large white cloth tied about his waist, that worthy waxed exceedingly apologetic, explaining that his private parlour was already spoken for; as they could see, his inn was full to overflowing due to the prince’s entertainments that weekend in Brighton; if the lady and gentlemen did not object, there were still places in the coffee room…?
No one objected: Miles, because he didn’t care where they sat, so long as they eventually left; Turnip, because he was still talking; and Henrietta, because she wasn’t saying anything at all. Miles was very tempted to tap on the top of that confounded bonnet to enquire if anyone was home, but decided that in her present frame of mind, Henrietta was highly unlikely to respond favourably.
The coffee room was swarming with other travellers tucking into pork pie, brace of duck, and large platters of mutton and potatoes, but Turnip, by dint of some cheerful rearranging, secured them a small table in the corner of the room, and dusted off a seat for Henrietta with his handkerchief, all the while expounding volubly on the beauties of Brighton – female and architectural – the dashed fine singer who had entertained them on Friday night, and the wonders of the prince’s waistcoats.
‘– with real peacock feathers! Seat, Lady Henrietta?’ Turnip flourished the recently dusted chair in the direction of Henrietta.
‘Pity the peacock,’ muttered Miles in the direction of Henrietta, but she didn’t so much as chuckle.
Henrietta shook her bonnet in the direction of the proffered chair. ‘If you’ll excuse me for a moment, I need to repair the ravages of travel.’
At least, thought Miles, she hadn’t lost her vocabulary along with her voice. He just wished she’d use it to speak to him.
On a sudden impulse, Miles reached out a hand and grabbed her gloved wrist. Turnip was mercifully distracted, waving his arms in an attempt to attract the attention of a serving maid and acquire a flagon of porter.
‘Hen—’ he began.
‘Yes?’ Henrietta’s eyes flew to his, suddenly alert.
Miles sat there, mouth half-open, unable to think of a single thing to say. ‘You aren’t planning to climb out a window, are you?’ wasn’t really an option. ‘I hate that bonnet’ would be honest, but largely unhelpful. And ‘Why aren’t you speaking to me?’ wasn’t really something that could either be asked in the presence of Turnip, or that could be furnished with a satisfying answer.
‘Would you like me to order some lemonade for you?’ he finished lamely.
Henrietta’s bonnet brim dropped again. ‘No, thank you,’ she said politely.
Damn.
Miles subsided into his seat, cursing the vagaries of human communication, Henrietta’s milliner, and Turnip and all his descendants unto the end of time.
As Turnip bantered with the serving maid, Miles watched Henrietta edge her way around the man who had driven in behind them, a pink of the ton in tan pantaloons, a leviathan of a cravat, and collar points higher than the Tower of Babel. The dandy paused in the door to stare after Henrietta, the stiffened tails of his coat brushing against the wall. Miles scowled openly at the fellow in the doorway. What business did he have staring at Henrietta? She was taken, quite, quite taken, and if that foppish fellow didn’t stop ogling her soon (Miles had a fairly firm notion of what ‘soon’ entailed), Miles would have to make sure he knew it. For a moment, the fop looked like he might actually be about to follow Henrietta – Miles’s hand went instinctively to where his sword would have been, were he wearing it – but thought better of it, a decision that Miles silently applauded, and instead strolled over to the fire.
Relaxing his vigil, Miles turned back to Turnip, who was engaged in a merry monologue about the wonders of the Prince of Wales’s collection of chinoiserie, in which peacocks seemed to figure significantly. Miles wondered if this meant that Turnip was finally going to stop swathing himself in Pink Carnation paraphernalia, and decided that the image of Turnip as a giant peacock was too alarming a concept to contemplate.
‘Copied down the name of Prinny’s new tailor for you,’ Turnip said expansively, extracting a small piece of paper from his tightly fitted waistcoat. He beamed fondly at the little scrap. ‘You wouldn’t believe what that man can do with a waistcoat.’
Unfortunately, Miles could. Accepting the scrap of paper, he stuffed it absently away in a waistcoat pocket along with other crumpled bits of this and that, some small change, and a bit of string that was there in case it might ever come in useful.
‘There was one patterned with emerald green peacocks with real sapphires set into the tails,’ rhapsodised Turnip, a reminiscent gleam in his eye. ‘And another—’
‘Did you see Geoff there?’ asked Miles, in the hopes of getting Turnip off the topic of peacocks and his wardrobe. Over Turnip’s shoulder, the dandy in the complicated cravat edged closer to their table, clearly hoping that if he hovered long enough, they would yield their seats. Miles favoured him with his best ‘clear off’ glare, before returning his attention to Turnip.
Turnip shook his head. ‘Not really Pinchingdale’s métier, you know. Didn’t see Alsworthy there, either. Thought of stopping by Selwick Hall,’ added Turnip amiably, reaching for his glass of porter, ‘but a bit out of the way, you know.’
‘Not really,’ countered Miles, thanking whatever conjunction of the planets had kept Turnip from pursuing that course. A rampaging French spy running about the premises garbed as a Phantom Monk was bad enough; to have added Turnip to the mix would have been a sure disaster. Turnip would probably have invited the spy in, complimented him on the cut of his habit, asked him how he thought it would look in pink, and offered him a glass of claret.
‘It’s only an hour from—’ Miles broke off abruptly.
‘Not by coach, old chap.’ Mulling over the matter, Turnip didn’t seem to notice that Miles’s eyes were bulging and his mouth gaping like an unfortunate highwayman at the end of the hangman’s noose. ‘Took me well near two hours last time from Brighton to Selwick’s place.’
Miles surged across the table and grabbed his former classmate by the sleeve. ‘Was Lord Vaughn there?’
‘At Selwick’s? Can’t say that he was. Course, that was over a year ago, and—’
‘At Brighton’ interpolated Miles rather more forcefully than he had intended. ‘Not last year. This weekend.’
Damn, he was really no good at the whole subtle questioning game. More than once, Miles had seen Richard at work on a suspect, spinning information out of a suspect as smoothly as a silkworm his thread, spooling it out, question by question, until he knew everything there was to know.
Fortunately, Turnip, not being the brightest vegetable in the garden, didn’t seem to notice his gaffe.
‘Vaughn?’ Turnip tilted his head in contemplation. ‘Nice chap. Can’t say much for his taste in waistcoats – silver is dashed dull, don’t you think? – but he does have a nice way with his cravat. What does he call that style of his again? The Serpent in the Garden? A bit like an Oriental, but there’s something about that last twist—’
To the devil with subtlety. Miles had always ascribed more to the ‘thump them on the head’ school himself.
‘Brighton,’ Miles repeated. ‘Lord Vaughn. Was he there?’
Turnip pondered. ‘Y’know, believe I did see him at the Pavilion. Intimate of the prince, they say – used to go wenching together back in the eighties.’
Having no desire to hear any more about the intimacies of the pri
nce’s bedchamber, Miles cut Turnip off. ‘Do you recall which night it was? That you saw Vaughn, I mean?’ Miles hastily specified.
Turnip shrugged. ‘Might have been Friday…or Saturday. Pavilion looks much the same from one night to another, you know! I say, why all this interest in Vaughn? Not a friend of yours, is he?’
‘Vaughn has some horseflesh I’ve a mind to acquire,’ prevaricated Miles, quite proud of himself for having come up with a story Turnip would find completely credible. ‘I was hoping to look him up in London, but if he’s away…’
‘His greys?’ Turnip asked enthusiastically. ‘They’re bang up to the mark. Prime goers! Didn’t know Vaughn was looking to sell. May give you a bit of a run for them myself, old chap.’
‘You do that,’ said Miles absently.
Now that he knew Vaughn had been in Brighton… Turnip’s protests to the contrary, for a man with a swift team of horses and a light carriage, it was a mere hour’s run from the Marine Parade to Selwick Hall. In fact, Richard had frequently bemoaned his proximity to the Regent’s pleasure palace, citing the congestion of the roads and unexpected visits from the likes of Turnip as causes of complaint. Miles winced at the thought of his best friend – his former best friend – and forcibly bent his mind back to Vaughn. If that wasn’t proof of Vaughn’s guilt, Miles wasn’t sure what would be – aside from a large placard proclaiming THE BLACK TULIP SLEPT HERE. There would be no use to turning around and thundering off to Brighton; by now, Vaughn must have been well on his way back to London.