Through her pine prison, Henrietta could hear the door of the sitting room opening, the murmur of a servant’s voice, too soft to catch a name, and then the entrance of a pair of booted feet.
With resigned fatalism, Henrietta reapplied her eye to the knothole. It was, unfortunately, only about four feet off the ground, providing her with an excellent view of the marquise, as she elegantly unfolded herself from the couch, slowly stretching yards of leg in a way designed to show them off to their best effect. It was, thought Henrietta, spine as stiff as the Dowager Duchess of Dovedale’s, positively indecent. And why couldn’t she look like that?
The marquise held out a jewel-laden hand to the possessor of the heavy footsteps in a gesture so effortlessly graceful that Henrietta nearly applauded at the sheer virtuosity of it.
Her gentleman caller, no doubt equally enthralled, came forward to bow over the hand, moving directly across Henrietta’s knothole. Back to Henrietta, he bowed over the marquise’s hand. It was a broad enough back, encased in a skin-tight coat, as the fashion demanded. But it wasn’t Miles’s back.
Henrietta sagged against the side of the cupboard, overcome with such blinding, overwhelming relief, that for a moment it seemed entirely immaterial that she was crouched in someone else’s empty furniture. It wasn’t Miles. Of course it wasn’t Miles. How could she ever have doubted him?
But if it wasn’t Miles, who was it? And why would the marquise have assumed that the mystery caller was of any particular significance to Henrietta? If Henrietta remembered correctly, ‘little friend’ took on an altogether more suggestive meaning in French than it did in English.
The gentleman was still standing, leaving Henrietta with only a swath of torso visible through her knothole. But he had been considerate enough to turn slightly, displaying an expanse of embroidered waistcoat, a waistcoat adorned with a veritable garden of tiny pink carnations. Only one man in London – or, at any rate, only one man in London of Henrietta’s acquaintance – would wear such an execrably ugly waistcoat, and compound the sartorial solecism by combining it with a carnation pink jacket.
What on earth had Turnip Fitzhugh to do with the marquise?
‘I cannot say how delighted I am to see you again, Mr Fitzhugh.’ The purr was back in the marquise’s voice.
Again?
‘Delight’s all mine,’ Turnip reassured her, brandishing a large bouquet. ‘Lots and lots of delight.’
A dozen types of wild surmise began to skitter about Henrietta’s head.
Turnip and the marquise had both been at the inn; the unknown gallant (otherwise known as the marquise) had hovered by their table, had cast several long glances in their direction. Could Turnip and the marquise be lovers? It was difficult to imagine the fastidious marquise in the arms of Turnip, who combined one of the best natures in the world with an utter lack of sense or taste. Henrietta doubted that the marquise would have any appreciation for the former. On the other hand, Turnip also possessed a veritable pirate’s trove of golden guineas; the Fitzhugh fortune was managed by very responsible bankers in the City, and not all of Turnip’s waistcoat purchases had so much as dimpled the principal. The marquise might not prize an earnest heart, but she would no doubt cherish, honour, and obey fifty thousand pounds a year, a townhouse in Mayfair, and three country estates, one with a rather nice collection of Raphael’s lesser-known Madonnas.
It did make a certain amount of sense. Even the ‘little friend’ comment fell neatly into the pattern. As an old schoolmate of Richard’s, Turnip frequently did his duty to the demands of long acquaintance by leading Henrietta out for the odd quadrille, or fetching lemonade on those occasions when Miles was not to be found. Having seen them together at the inn, the marquise must have marked Henrietta out as a rival for access to the Fitzhugh coffers. It was an explanation that fitted very well with the dowager’s description of the marquise’s character, and entirely removed any possibility of branding her a dangerous French spy. Henrietta couldn’t help but feel some slight disappointment at the latter.
The marquise motioned to someone outside of Henrietta’s very limited line of vision. ‘Jean-Luc, would you be so kind as to fetch the coffee?’
In the marquise’s throaty voice, even a prosaic term like ‘coffee’ managed to smoulder with significance.
‘I can’t say I’m much one for coffee myself,’ confided Turnip, disposing himself on the settee, and comfortably stretching his long legs out in front of him.
The marquise joined him in a filmy swirl of draperies. ‘Why, Mr Fitzhugh, I intend to make you a coffee you cannot refuse.’
‘Devilish good coffee, then?’ enquired Turnip.
‘The very strongest,’ assured the marquise, laying a manicured hand lightly on his thigh.
Henrietta rolled her eyes at the inside of the cupboard door. This was getting ridiculous! She had plunged from the heights of espionage into the depths of French farce. It was time to go home and confess all to Miles – or maybe not all. Henrietta’s shoulders would have sagged had there been room for them to do so. It would be very hard to explain away wild fits of jealousy without revealing the existence of an emotion that would undoubtedly send Miles fleeing to the nearest opera house. There had been no allowance in their bargain for anything stronger than fondness, and certainly not for those three dangerous little words. Suddenly, remaining in the marquise’s cupboard indefinitely began to seem like a very attractive way to spend the rest of the afternoon.
There was nothing, reflected Henrietta, shifting uncomfortably on numb legs, like crouching in servant’s clothing in someone else’s closet to make one realise how low one had sunk. She used to have an orderly life, a sensible life. Her friends came to her for advice. Everyone liked her. And where was she now? Contemplating becoming a closet gnome.
Henrietta experimentally rattled the cupboard door. The latch held, but, like everything else in the house, it didn’t feel terribly sturdy. Henrietta tried again.
‘I say,’ said Turnip, looking quizzically at the suddenly shaking piece of furniture. ‘I do believe your armoire is trying to move.’
For a moment, the marquise’s seductive mask dropped, to be replaced by an expression of pure annoyance. Henrietta gathered that when the marquise put people places, she expected them to stay put. That thought was enough to make Henrietta rattle the latch again.
‘It’s nothing but a draft,’ explained the marquise through clenched teeth. ‘Old houses like this are full of drafts. They whistle through the walls like rumour. And we all know how rumour can spread, don’t we, Mr Fitzhugh?’
‘Soul of discretion, myself,’ Turnip strove to reassure her. ‘Mummer than the tomb. Quieter than a corpse. Closer-lipped than a—’
‘But who knows,’ the marquise broke into Turnip’s spate of similes, ‘what a mere moment’s indiscretion may do?’
Henrietta knew, but declined to volunteer her expertise. The marquise’s question had sounded more rhetorical than otherwise.
‘One must be so careful in these trying, trying days. One little word, one little slip, can be someone’s undoing. Ah, thank you, Jean-Luc.’
A heavy silver tray was set down in front of the marquise, its baroque opulence at odds with the faded and snagged upholstery of the settee. Henrietta wondered if she had smuggled it out of France with her; it wasn’t the sort of item one could sew discreetly into the hem of one’s cloak.
‘Coffee, Mr Fitzhugh?’ The marquise gestured towards the tray with a graceful hand. Her voice hardened, stiffer than the heavy silver handle of the coffeepot. ‘Or should I call you by your real name?’
‘The mater and pater call me Reginald,’ supplied Turnip doubtfully. His voice changed. ‘I say, what was that doing in the coffeepot?’
‘I promised you a coffee you wouldn’t be able to refuse,’ replied the marquise. Her voice was no longer seductive, but so flatly matter-of-fact as to be almost entirely devoid of inflection. Henrietta, who had been massaging the feeling back into a leg gone
numb, reapplied herself to the knothole.
In one fine-boned hand, the marquise held a thin pistol with a mother-of-pearl handle. She levelled the pistol at Turnip. ‘And I always keep my promises.’
Henrietta closed her gaping mouth before she could get a splinter on her tongue. She had heard of weddings at gunpoint, but never at the hand of the prospective bride. Potential explanations flashed through Henrietta’s mind. A woman scorned? Perhaps the marquise, mad with wounded pride at seeing Henrietta and Turnip together, had decided to emulate Medea and exact her revenge? Turnip had been abroad, and fairly recently, too. He might have conducted a passionate romance with the marquise prior to her return to England and then flung her aside. Turnip, however, wasn’t really the flinging type. He was far more likely to be flung.
Far less alarmed than Henrietta, Turnip examined the pistol with a professional eye. ‘That’s a deuced fine piece, but not at all the thing to go waving about. Could go off, you know.’
‘That,’ said the marquise dryly, ‘is generally the idea.’
Turnip looked perplexed.
‘No more games, Mr Fitzhugh.’ The marquise looked Turnip straight in the eye. ‘I know who you are.’
‘Deuced odd if you didn’t,’ replied Turnip cheerfully, peering into the coffeepot to see if there might be any liquid in there now that the pistol was gone, ‘considering you invited me.’
There was one last possibility. One incredibly attractive possibility. But why would the Black Tulip waste her time on Turnip Fitzhugh?
Jean-Luc had moved to stand behind Turnip. At least, Henrietta assumed it must be Jean-Luc. All she could see of him was livery heavy with silver buttons and a pair of viciously flexing hands. The marquise forestalled Jean-Luc with an infinitesimal flick of her wrist. Henrietta slid her hand along the crack of the doors, digging her fingernails into the wood, trying to find a way to lift the latch. She wasn’t sure just how much use she would be against a burly man and a primed pistol, but if she could divert their attention, even for a moment…
Leaning back against the arm of the settee, the marquise raised an admiring eyebrow. ‘You are bold, Mr Fitzhugh. Very bold.’
‘Faint heart never won fair lady, and all that.’ Turnip beamed, lifting his chin and doing his best to look bold. ‘Pride myself on that je ne sais…er…’
‘Quoi?’ demanded Jean-Luc.
Turnip looked appreciatively back over his shoulder. ‘Righty-ho! That’s the word! Don’t know how it came to slip my mind.’
‘Your mind, Mr Fitzhugh,’ gritted out the marquise, rapidly losing patience, ‘is not all that is going to slip if you persist in this folly.’
‘Don’t know if I’d call it folly,’ cogitated Turnip. ‘Foolishness, maybe.’
‘Jean-Luc,’ snapped the marquise, out of patience, ‘bring the chains to bind our stubborn friend.’
‘But I am in chains, dear lady! Chains of love! Not real chains, of course,’ Turnip clarified confidingly, ‘but it’s what you’d call a…’
‘Argh!’
A hearty masculine yelp echoed through the room. It had not come from Turnip, but from the street outside.
Inside the cupboard, Henrietta went cold with alarm.
‘No, not that,’ said Turnip. ‘Believe it begins with M. Matador?’
It was the right initial, even if the wrong name. Henrietta knew that yelp, a hearty bellow compounded of annoyance and indignation. Henrietta whammed her shoulder against the doors. Through the wooden walls of her prison, she could hear the sounds of a struggle. Something shattered a long way off. A series of curses and crashes followed, most of the former in French, attesting to the fact that Miles was more than holding his own. Closer by, the marquise had risen to her feet, face rigid with alarm and displeasure. Turnip, too, stood up, his broad brow wrinkled with confusion.
‘I say,’ he began, ‘that sounds like—’
An explosion sounded somewhere in the distance, followed by a loud curse and a heavy thud.
‘Dorrington,’ finished Turnip, in the sudden silence.
Henrietta flung herself desperately against the doors of the cupboard. The beleaguered latch at long last gave way. The doors burst open, sending Henrietta sprawling untidily onto the sitting room carpet.
‘Miles!’ screamed Henrietta.
‘Lady Henrietta?’ exclaimed Turnip.
‘Guards!’ called the marquise.
Stunned by her fall, Henrietta twisted sharply towards the door. In the hallway outside, she heard a familiar voice saying something exceedingly impolite; deep inside her chest, her heart resumed its proper business. Miles was alive. And – glass shattered against plaster – still fighting. Whoever had fallen, it hadn’t been he.
But what on earth was he doing here?
‘Didn’t know you were here, Lady Hen,’ commented Turnip affably. ‘Have some coffee.’
‘Yes,’ said the marquise, levelling the pistol at Henrietta. ‘Do.’
‘I say’ – Turnip tapped the marquise on the arm – ‘don’t know what the custom is in France, but not at all the done thing to point firearms at guests.’
The marquise ignored him, continuing to point the mother-of-pearl pistol at Henrietta.
‘Kindly hand me the pistol in your belt and the knife strapped to your calf,’ instructed the marquise.
Henrietta looked at her quizzically. ‘What makes you think I have either of those things?’
‘All amateur spies have pistols in their belts and knives strapped to their calves,’ replied the marquise acidly. ‘It is a tedious commonplace of the profession.’
Both had been listed in Amy’s helpful pamphlet, So You Want to Be a Spy, but Miles’s duelling pistols were back in his old lodgings, and the staff of Loring House already thought she was crazy enough without her waltzing into the kitchen and asking to view their knife collection. There had been a dusty old pair of fencing foils propped above the mantelpiece in what might once have been Miles’s father’s study, but neither was the sort of piece a girl could inconspicuously pop down her bodice.
‘Ah,’ said Henrietta, in the hopes that the marquise might be distracted until Miles could subdue her henchmen in the hallway. ‘But I am not an amateur spy.’
She wasn’t, really, she assured herself. She was more of a liaison.
‘You begin to bore me, Lady Henrietta.’ In the sort of casual gesture with which she might have applied rouge or flipped through a program at the opera, the marquise flicked the lever that cocked the pistol.
‘I don’t think you want to do that,’ said Henrietta, slowly raising herself up on her elbows, and wishing she had had the forethought to bring a pistol of her own.
‘Why not?’ asked the marquise, sounding thoroughly bored.
‘Because,’ ventured Henrietta, cautiously pushing herself up onto her knees and trying to look mysterious, ‘I’m more use to you alive than dead.’
‘Whatever might have given you that idea?’ enquired the marquise, her voice as level as her gun.
Down the hall, assorted thuds and grunts suggested that Miles was still keeping the marquise’s guards busy. How long would he be able to hold them off if the marquise added her pistol to the fray? Henrietta made a desperate shooing motion at Turnip. Turnip, misinterpreting, started trying to fill one of the cups from the empty coffeepot.
Seeing no aid from that quarter, she made a desperate bid to hold both the marquise’s attention and her pistol point.
‘I,’ said Henrietta very slowly, ‘have information for which your government’ – she looked closely at the marquise, but the marquise’s face revealed nothing but thinly veiled boredom – ‘would pay dearly.’
‘Do you?’ The marquise’s smile was dry, uninterested.
‘Dead women tell no tales, you know.’ Henrietta warmed to her theme.
‘But you, Lady Henrietta,’ said the marquise, ‘have already revealed everything I needed to know.’
‘I have?’ Henrietta cast her mind anxiously ba
ck over the past few days. She couldn’t have led the marquise to Jane – could she?
‘Are you quite sure about that?’ she asked desperately. ‘I mean, you really wouldn’t want to go back to your superiors with possibly incomplete information. Think how angry they would be if you could have found out more. And what if you’re mistaken? Just think about that. Are you sure? Are you quite, quite sure?’
The marquise sighed in a manner indicating the extreme ennui of one who had heard prisoners pleading for their lives before, and found it a tedious, if necessary, corollary of her chosen profession.
‘Quite’ – the marquise’s finger tightened on the trigger – ‘sure.’
Chapter Thirty-Five
Coffee, the taking of: a situation of extreme peril, frequently requiring urgent assistance. See also under Milk, addition of
– from the Personal Codebook of the Pink Carnation
‘Hen!’
The marquise’s head swivelled to the left as Miles burst into the room, trailing four ruffians dressed as footmen. Two clung to his arms, one trailed from Miles’s legs, and the fourth was ineffectually trying to leap onto his back.
Miles disposed of the last with a hearty butt of his head, whacked the man hanging onto his right arm out of the way by dint of flinging up a stiff arm to knock him backwards into the wall, used his newly freed hand to punch the guard on his left in the stomach, and dispatched the one clinging to his legs with a single well-placed kick to the head.
Four groaning Frenchmen clutched various parts of their anatomy as Miles rushed precipitously towards Henrietta, eyes for no one but her. ‘Dammit, Hen, are you all right?’
The marquise recovered before her minions. In one fluid movement, she hauled Henrietta up off the floor, pulled the smaller woman back against her, and shoved the point of her pistol against Henrietta’s temple.
‘Not so fast, Mr Dorrington.’
Miles skidded to a stop, nearly overbalancing in his haste. He had, he realised, missed a minor detail. The gun that the marquise was in the process of pointing at Henrietta. Damn.