Lord Vaughn’s face reverted to its habitual urbane detachment.
As one of Vaughn’s women, the cousin was an unlikely choice. Her hair was straight, with no hint of a curl, an indeterminate shade between blond and brown that might have been pretty had she taken any pains with it. Her dress was equally plain, a high-necked blue muslin that wouldn’t have looked amiss on a Quaker. The color was a pale blue so dreary as to be nearly gray, the sort of color that blended back into the wainscoting. Her only ornament was the locket she wore on a ribbon around her neck, a simple gold oval with a flower delicately worked in enamel on the front, a pretty enough trinket for a young girl, but nothing to draw the eye.
Mary made an effort to remember her name. It was something to do with sheep. Lambsdale, Oviston…
Whoever she was, she had placed a hand on Vaughn’s arm as though it had a right to be there. It was a very elegantly shaped hand, with long, tapering fingers, a most inappropriate hand for a country bumpkin.
“Will you pardon me if I borrow Lord Vaughn for a moment, Miss Alsworthy?” she asked in a pleasant alto voice, unmarred by any regional accent.
Mary smiled brittlely. “Borrow?’ She gave an affected little laugh. “My dear, you may have him for as long as you like.”
“Shouldn’t that be as long as I like?” countered Vaughn, looking like a self-satisfied pasha.
“I’m sure it will be,” said Mary sweetly. “It is, after all, as you like it.”
“‘As the ox hath his bow, the horse his curb, and the falcon her bells, so man hath his desires.’”
“If you can make any sense out of him, you have my commendations,” remarked Mary to the cousin.
The cousin smiled demurely, revealing a set of even, white teeth. “I’m afraid you do me too much credit, Miss Alsworthy. I am merely the messenger. I come on behalf of Lord Uppington, who wishes to see Lord Vaughn in his book room. About the impending parliamentary session, I believe?”
Mary didn’t believe it for a moment. It was difficult to imagine a more whiggish Whig than Lord Vaughn, whose ancestors had been among those responsible for the expulsion of the last Stuart king in 1688, while the Uppingtons were staunchly Tory. They were as firmly members of Pitt’s faction as Vaughn was of Charles James Fox’s.
It was, Mary supposed, not entirely inconceivable that Vaughn might wish to broker a deal with Uppington on an issue of interest to both factions. Given the weakness of Addington’s government, there might even be plans afoot for a coalition, although Mary was hard pressed to imagine the ministry that could combine both Pitt and Fox.
Mary smiled prettily at Vaughn. “I certainly wouldn’t want to keep you from your parliamentary duties. Good evening, Miss—er.”
And with that effective parting snub, she was gone, wending her way back along the hallway with all the deliberate provocation of a latter-day Cleopatra. It only lacked a few flute boys.
“Flute boys?” queried Jane.
Vaughn regarded her blandly. “A momentary lapse in concentration.”
“More than a moment, I would think,” replied Jane, arching both her brows in obvious amusement.
“You wished—pardon me. Lord Uppington wished to speak to me?”
Jane took the hint. Forbearing to quiz him further, she indicated one of the two corridors branching off the entryway. “Shall we?”
In the entryway, Mary was being helped into her wrap by her new brother-in-law and sometime suitor, her back very pointedly turned.
Looking away, Vaughn found Jane’s knowing eye on him. It was a distinctly irritating sensation. He was the one who was supposed to be doling out the sardonic looks, not the other way around. It was an unacceptable inversion of the established world order.
“After you, Miss Wooliston,” he drawled in tones of exaggerate ennui.
Jane cast him a shrewd look, but said nothing. Instead, she took up a candle from the collection on the table in the hall and led the way down the right hand corridor. Her silence was more damning than any knowing comment.
Jane led him to a small parlor, lined with books and furnished sparsely with furniture as heavy and dark as the weather outside the window.
“Well?” Jane inquired, with an arch of one light brow.
It was, Vaughn had to admit, an effective trick. By never identifying the question, one got all sorts of interesting answers.
Dropping into a red-cushioned chair, he rested his palms comfortably over the arms. “Miss Alsworthy and I have a further appointment with your friend. We meet in Hyde Park, the day after tomorrow.”
“His Majesty’s review of the first division of the London volunteers.”
“None other.” Vaughn watched the drops of rain splatter against the windowpanes. “Are we meant to be party to an assassination?”
“I don’t know.” The words cost her an obvious effort. Jane’s well-shaped lips pressed tightly together. “He managed to evade us at Vauxhall.”
“He?”
“I use the masculine pronoun for the sake of convenience. Nothing more.”
Vaughn crossed his legs at the ankle, admiring the sparkle of his silver and diamond buckles. “I trust you investigated Rathbone?”
“Naturally.” Jane circled the room, her muslin skirts whispering softly against her legs. “He possessed the usual revolutionary paraphernalia. Tattered tracts, treasonous correspondence with like-minded colleagues, a half-written treatise on political philosophy—none of it the least bit of use.”
“No telltale manuscript by the bed? No sampler over the hearth embroidered with charming pictures of black tulips?”
“Rathbone isn’t the embroidering kind,” returned Jane. “His laboratory, however…” She paused, as though calculating how far to confide in him. “I believe you have some experience with natural philosophy, my lord.”
Vaughn shook his head in demurral. “Only that of an amateur, a dabbler, a dilettante.”
“That,” commented Jane severely, “is far too many words to describe a nullity.”
Vaughn accepted the rebuke with a casual inclination of his head.
“We found something curious in Rathbone’s chambers,” said Jane, watching Vaughn closely.
“Natural philosophers are curious sorts,” provided Vaughn.
“We found vials of liquid mercury, several bowls of red crystals, lenses”—Jane ticked the items off on her fingers—“and a large canister, carefully stoppered, which, when we opened it, appeared to contain nothing at all. Yet someone went to the trouble of keeping it hermetically sealed with several layers of wax.”
“An empty container?” Memory shifted and fell into place, an explanation far from simple but laughably prosaic. “Rathbone’s experiments are beyond my humble powers, but I might be able to shed some little light on the discovery.”
“Please do,” invited Jane.
Vaughn ignored the light vein of sarcasm. “Have you ever heard of Priestley’s treatise on air?” Without waiting for Jane’s answer, he went on, “Apparently, like the rest of us, air is a deceiver. Rather than one element, it is several.”
“Rather like the petals of the Tulip,” mused Jane.
Vaughn acknowledged the point with a nod. “According to Priestley, by applying the right sorts of heat or chemicals, one could isolate the elements within the element, creating different sorts of gasses from the original air, all invisible to the naked eye. I can’t imagine why one would want to,” Vaughn added as an afterthought, “but there you have it.”
“And Rathbone,” concluded Jane, “was a student of Priestley.”
“Precisely.” Vaughn stretched out his legs before the fire. “Your empty container in fact was filled with a distilled element of some sort, which you unknowingly released back into the air whence it came. Tsk, tsk, Miss Wooliston. Weeks of scientific endeavor lost in the curiosity of a moment. Pandora’s legacy lives on.”
Jane frowned at him. “But what of the red powder? Miss Gwen believes it to be a new incendiary of some sort.”
Jane looked like a cat who had licked at a bowl of cream to find it gone sour. “There were scorch marks on several of the tables, and yet not of the sort left by a candle.”
“Your lenses,” explained Vaughn. “One heats the chemicals with a so-called burning lens, by refracting sunlight through the lens to create heat and even flame.”
Jane rested both hands on the windowsill. “In other words,” she said, to the raindrops slipping down the glass, “there is a perfectly innocent explanation for all of it.”
“I fear so,” said Vaughn pleasantly. “As much as I regret to disappoint a lady.”
“What a pity,” said Jane wryly. “I had hoped it was an infernal machine in the making, rather than merely…empty air.”
“I believe Priestley called it de-phlogisticated air,” put in Vaughn helpfully.
Ignoring him, Jane took a slow turn about the room, coming to rest with one hand on the head of a bust of Aristotle. Her index finger tapped lightly against the great philosopher’s carved cranium.
“Just because his scientific interests are legitimate doesn’t mean that Rathbone isn’t our man,” said Jane, thinking aloud. “Even mad fanatics have hobbies.”
“Stamp collecting, for example,” put in Vaughn. “Collecting novelty porcelain.”
Jane frowned at him. “Bedeviling one’s friends and associates.”
“I consider that less a hobby and more an avocation.” Vaughn smiled serenely at Jane. “Every man needs something to give his life purpose.”
“For now, I fear your purpose will have to be dogging Miss Alworthy’s heels to His Majesty’s review of the troops. I trust you shan’t find it too onerous a task.”
The gods planned their torments well: Sisyphus, doomed to roll the same rock eternally uphill; Tantalus, tempted with water, yet never allowed to drink; and he, poised as de facto bodyguard to the one women he wanted, but could never have.
It would, thought Vaughn grimly, be so much easier were she a member of the demimonde. Then he could simply make her his mistress, without regard to recurrent wives or the slings and arrows of the sharp-tongued harridans of the ton.
“I assume you will be there as well?”
“No,” said Jane shortly. “I leave London in the morning. There are matters abroad that demand immediate attention.”
Raising his quizzing glass to one eye, Vaughn regarded Jane in a silent demand for further information.
Jane regarded him right back. Her expression seemed to imply that she had no problem staring people out of countenance without artificial aids, and if he thought she was going to answer, he was quite mad.
“You’re leaving us to the Black Tulip’s tender mercies?” Vaughn drawled.
“Or the Black Tulip to yours,” replied Jane blandly.
“In other words,” suggested Vaughn, watching Jane closely, “you want me to keep the Black Tulip busy while you go about your business elsewhere.”
Watching Jane’s lips curve in a Sphinx-like smile, it occurred to Vaughn that Jane’s assignment might have as much to do with keeping him busy as the Black Tulip. Their alliance, such as it was, was an uneasy one at best, and he knew Jane’s associates continued to regard him with outright suspicion. The notion amused him. But he knew it would be useless to try to get Jane to say anything more on the topic.
Accepting defeat, Vaughn lowered his glass and leaned back in his chair. It was clearly well used, the cushions molded themselves obligingly to his body. “What do you believe the Black Tulip intends?” he asked.
“One.” Jane held up a finger in illustration. “The Black Tulip does exactly what he claimed. He uses this opportunity to pass further instructions along to Miss Alsworthy.”
“Unlikely,” interrupted Vaughn lazily. “If the Tulip wanted a têteà-tête, he wouldn’t have tolerated the presence of an escort.”
“He might, of course, stage a diversion to separate you from Miss Alsworthy. Or he might use more subtle means to communicate with her, such as a note tucked into her reticule, in which case your presence is immaterial.”
“But you don’t believe that is the case.”
“No,” said Jane heavily.
“Option two,” provided Vaughn, holding up two fingers on her behalf. “The review is merely a diversion. The Tulip lures us to Hyde Park while he conducts his dastardly business elsewhere.”
“By far the likeliest scenario,” conceded Jane. “However, that’s really option three. You missed one.”
Vaughn raised a quizzical brow.
“An attempt of some kind on the royal family,” prompted Jane, as though to a slow student. “Why your presence would be imperative for that, however, I can’t think. Nor can I imagine how Miss Alsworthy would be of any use, unless the Tulip intended to use her to distract the guards protecting Their Majesties.”
“But you find that improbable.”
“Only a fool would attempt an assassination or a kidnapping in so public a place. The Black Tulip has proved that he is anything but a fool. On the other hand,” she added thoughtfully, “killing off his operatives in Ireland was not a well-reasoned act.”
Not well-reasoned was one way to describe it.
Vaughn’s lips tightened as he remembered the sight that had greeted him in the drawing room of his cousin’s town house in Dublin. He had seen Teresa in many poses over the years: dazzling a salon full of French radicals; prancing about disguised as a wild-haired adolescent boy; dressed in widow’s weeds; naked in his bed. But nothing like that day in Dublin, with her head bent back as though her neck—that long, graceful neck of which she had been so proud—could no longer stand the weight.
There had been a blade protruding from her chest, but that he had only noticed later. It had been her face that held him. Her black eyes, flat, obsidian, filmed over in death, all the keen intelligence that had animated them gone. Her lips, pale and slack in her chalk white face, never more to debate or command or cajole. Not that Teresa had ever been much of a one for cajoling. Commanding had been more in her line.
There was nothing more she could say, nothing more that could be said. She was gone, as rapidly and perhaps with more justice than the men she herself had sent to the guillotine in the past. Her stiletto had pierced more than one man’s ribs. Even so, the vision of her, cold and quiet, brought with it a raw ache that gnawed at his bowels like cheap French wine.
“Ill-reasoned indeed,” said Vaughn dryly.
Lost in her own thoughts, Jane gazed off over Aristotle’s head. “The Black Tulip is growing reckless. It makes him unpredictable.”
“Reckless enough to fire at the King in the middle of Hyde Park?”
Jane flung up her hands in a gesture of controlled confusion. “Who can be sure? I had thought, when I saw the supplies in Rathbone’s laboratory, that I might have found the answer.”
“Ah,” said Vaughn, moving gratefully away from the image of Teresa, stiff as a waxwork against a blood-dappled sofa. “You believed that the Tulip intended to surprise His Majesty and the rest of his family by setting off an infernal machine.”
“It would make sense,” said Jane seriously. “It would be far too easy for a revolutionary faction to have slipped one of their own among the volunteers to be reviewed and have him fire at His Majesty as he rides down the rank. His Majesty’s guards will be prepared for that. But if there were to be a larger explosion of some kind, something akin to what we saw in Ireland…”
“Grenades,” Vaughn supplied. “And rockets.”
“Or some combination thereof,” Jane agreed. “Even if the King himself emerged unscathed from an explosion, in the confusion it would be very easy for a rifleman to fire.”
Vaughn regarded her approvingly. “Remind me to hire you the next time I need to assassinate
someone.”
Jane clasped her hands at her waist as demurely as a schoolgirl. “Only if he is French.”
Vaughn’s expression turned wry. “Pity.” The only person he wanted removed just now was an English she.
You wouldn’t, Anne had said. And she was right. He didn’t like blood on his hands. It was a messy substance, blood, and damnably hard to remove from one’s clothes and one’s conscience.
It was, he reflected, doubly ironic that it was Anne who had brought him into Jane’s toils.
Six months ago, the letters had begun arriving at the house in Belliston Square. Love letters, but not addressed to him. They had been written from Anne to her Fernando, or Francisco, or whatever the blasted music master’s name had been. They arrived along with a demand for money, and the threat of publication if he refused.
There were only two people who might have possession of those letters—both of whom he had supposed dead, killed when their coach went over a cliff one stormy night in Northumberland. The music master. Or Anne. Within a week, Vaughn had had his answer. The carriage crash had been a sham. Anne’s path led to Paris, to seedy inns and seedier taverns.
It was in France that he had first crossed paths with Jane. At the time, an alliance seemed the most reasonable means of progressing. Under Bonaparte’s new laws, it was illegal for an Englishman to visit Paris. As the cousin to one of Bonaparte’s most obsequious followers, Jane moved about the city unmolested. In exchange for Jane’s help in locating Anne, Vaughn had agreed to lend his assistance in infiltrating Teresa’s organization.
The arrangement had been expedient—and, perhaps, he admitted to himself, something more than that. It had been a chance for atonement. He had turned a blind eye to Teresa’s activities in Paris, until the deaths grew too gruesome to ignore. And then he had left, simply packed up his bags and gone. In one fell swoop, it seemed, he could amend the omissions of his past, by putting an end to his sometime mistress’s murderous activities and satisfying himself that his missing wife was gone beyond reclaiming. He would finally be free of both them.
Instead, Teresa was dead, killed under his roof, and Anne was back. So much, then, for redemption. And he was left with a mess of his own making. Once again, the gods laughed.
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