Masque of the Black Tulip pc-2

by Lauren Willig

  That was all the warning Miles had before reflected silver flashed in the window. Acting on instinct, Miles dodged out of the way, and the serpent's fangs plunged through the glass instead of Miles's head, spewing shards with a hideous clatter. Miles's assailant raised the cane to strike again.

  Whirling, Miles grabbed the cane, and struck out with one booted foot. He heard something crack, and a high-pitched yelp of pain. His opponent abruptly released his grip on the cane, sending Miles sprawling back into Vaughn's armoire. By the time Miles had shaken his head clear and sprung back to his feet, his assailant had wrenched open the connecting door to the countess's chambers and disappeared into the darkness beyond.

  Miles cursed fluently. Grabbing up the abandoned cane, he started in pursuit, until a new noise made him still in his tracks.

  Make that lots of noises.

  The broken window had done its work; the household had been awakened, and were after the intruder in full cry. Miles could hear masculine shouts of alarm, the shrill squeals of housemaids, and, far more ominous, the pounding of feet thudding down the hall to the earl's chambers.

  Miles whirled grimly from the connecting door to the countess's chambers, through which his assailant had disappeared, to the doorknob of Vaughn's bedchamber, which was already beginning to rattle. The lock would only hold his unwitting pursuers for so long. There was, unfortunately, only one path to take.

  Praying that his old skills had not entirely deserted him, Miles put one hand on the sill and vaulted out of the window — into a decidedly prickly hedge.

  Some things never changed.

  Assaulted by a hundred tiny stings, Miles crawled through the underbrush, yanking off mask and bandana as he went. A few more yards and he would emerge from the shrubbery into the square, brush himself off, and stroll calmly out again in his guise of inebriated man about town. The servants would be looking for a footpad, not a bon vivant. Miles was just bracing himself to spring forth from the shrubbery, when, with all the perversity of memory, the answer hit him.

  He knew where he had heard that name before.

  Despite a bruised knee, a twisted wrist, and scratches on parts of his anatomy he didn't even want to think of, a cocky grin spread across Miles's unmasked face.

  Tomorrow, he was going to the opera.

  Chapter Thirteen

  "It's locked," said Colin.

  Feeling like a heroine from a gothic novel caught out in some mischief, I pulled away from the padlock I had been examining. The padlock was attached to a very thick oak door, which in its turn was attached to a large stone tower.

  After a morning spent in the library poring over the Selwick archives, even my dedication had begun momentarily to flag. Henrietta's handwriting was perfectly legible, and Jane's a historian's dream, but Miles's was all but indecipherable. Besides, outside the library window, the sun was shining, the birds were chirping, and the larks were on the thorn.

  Or was it the snails who were supposed to be on the thorn while the larks were on the wing? Either way, it didn't much matter. I wanted to be out there with them. Good weather in England in November is too rare not to take advantage of it.

  Packing everything neady away into their little acid-proof cases, I'd returned to my room to don my multipurpose Barbour jacket and the most sensible of my shoes. Unfortunately, given the nature of my shoe collection, they weren't terribly sensible, a pair of Coach stacked loafers with improbably narrow heels. They worked very well on the streets of London, and looked excellent extending under the hem of a pair of pants, which had been my primary consideration to date. I didn't think they'd fare all that well in crossing a patch of lawn.

  I looked longingly at the spare pairs of Wellies lying about next to the kitchen door as I let myself out — there were some that didn't look too far from my size — but having already invaded Colin's home, it seemed like pushing it a bit too far to appropriate his sister's boots. At least, I assumed they were his sister's boots. Goodness only knew how many women flitted in and out of Colin's kitchen. I'd only been there three hours when the first one appeared. That could explain the large number of boots in the entry way.

  Scolding myself for being silly, I made my way out of the kitchen and along a little stone path that someone had conveniently laid out once upon a time. The irregular stones were separated by broad swathes of creeping thyme and other greenery I couldn't recognize; the effect was too charmingly natural not to be deliberate. I picked my way from stone to stone, my heels and I giving sincere thanks to whomever had had the bright idea of putting something between their feet and the turf.

  The path led around the side of the house, into tne gardens. They were, for a modest gentleman's residence, fairly extensive gardens. I was lost within five minutes. Mind you, I have managed to get lost two blocks away from my own apartmept, so that isn't saying much. In my meager and not very convincing defense, the gardens were laid out, not in the formal French mode, where you can see for miles and even I have trouble losing my way, but in an English wilderness style, designed to lead the hapless wanderer down meandering paths into unexpected cul de sacs. Excellent for assignations among the shrubbery. I wondered idly if that was one of the reasons they had caught on in the eighteenth century. It was very hard to sneak out for a surreptitious smooch among flat parterres.

  There was no hermit's cave complete with hermit and tortoise, a la Arcadia, but I did stumble across a faux Roman ruin, featuring larger-than-life-sized heads of miscellaneous emperors, and artistically arranged fallen columns. At least, I assumed it was faux. Had the Romans ever made it to Sussex? They might have; they tended to pop up in the most unexpected places (to fall back on the standard academic disclaimer, it's not my field), but I rather doubted they'd traveled with their favorite statues. Besides, Marcus Aurelius had a decidedly French look about the nose. I abandoned the classical folly for a pretty summer house entwined with vines, whose glossy dark leaves suggested they might become roses at some more promising point in the year.

  I kept an eye out for a familiar blond head as I made my way along the pathways. I hadn't seen Colin at all since the previous evening, when I had left him doing the washing up. When I had gone down to the kitchen that morning, there had been a note propped against the sugar bowl, saying, "Out. Help yourself. C."

  One had to admire the economy of language. Hemingway would approve. Dr. Johnson wouldn't.

  Wherever "out" was, it wasn't in the gardens. The closest I came to a human form was a very smug Apollo playing his lyre above a fountain flanked by fawning naiads, like Elvis surrounded by swooning teeny-boppers. I had a nice little chat with Apollo, much to the distress of the naiads, and clambered up on the rim of his fountain to try to get a better vantage point. These ramblings were all very amusing, but I did have a goal, of sorts, and if I was going to get there before the weather changed its mind about not raining, I needed to start being a bit more purposeful about it.

  Ever since the car had pulled up the drive last night, I had been hankering to explore that hunk of stone in the distance. The library window provided an exceptionally fine view; the eye was drawn over the gardens, and straight to the noble monument on the hill, with its jagged outline of crumbling stone. It might merely be another folly, like the charming faux Roman fountain — there had been an eighteenth-century vogue for Gothic ruins as well as classical ones — but it seemed a bit massive and unadorned to be a mere garden decoration. Whatever it was, I wanted to explore.

  An open expanse of field separated the gardens from the little tower mound. It was a longer walk than it looked, mostly uphill. I left a little trail of heel-shaped holes in my wake. More effective than bread crumbs for finding one's way home, I reassured myself.

  The tower stood at the top of its own little summit. It was larger than it appeared from the house, constructed of massive stones that gave me the same dwarfed feeling I had the first time I'd been taken to the Temple of Dendur in the Met as a small child. Slowly, I paced the circumference o
f the structure, running a hand along the rough stone

  Relieved. Definitely relieved.

  To hide my momentary confusion, I asked a question that had been idly floating about in my head. "If this isn't the principal seat of the Selwick family" — that was Uppington Hall in Kent, home to the current Marquis of Uppington, and favorite destination of tourist buses — "why is the original tower here?"

  "Shouldn't it be the other way around?" Colin asked, with an amused sideways glance.

  I threw him an exasperated look. "You know what I mean."

  "There's nothing mysterious about it," said Colin, walking easily, hands in his pockets, as I braced myself against the downwards slope of the hill. I was beginning to be a little sorry I had shaken off his steadying hand. "The family wasn't elevated to the peerage until 1485. We backed the right side on Bosworth Field, against old Crouchback — "

  "You mean when Henry Tudor stole the throne from poor, good King Richard? Richard had a much better claim to the throne than Henry." I sent him an arch glance that was only somewhat spoiled by my tripping over a malevolent rock. The rock was obviously a Tudor supporter.

  Colin grabbed my arm to steady me, and let go again as soon as it became clear I wasn't in imminent danger of tumbling down the hill. "I wouldn't go repeating that if I were you. We're quite fond of good King Henry. He gave Sir William Selwick an estate confiscated from one of Richard's supporters near a little town called Uppington."

  "Ah," I said. "Hence the title."

  "Hence the title," Colin agreed. "It was only a barony at the time, but after the Restoration, Charles II elevated the baron to earl."

  "For his loyal service to the Crown during the Civil Wars?" I guessed, conjuring up an image of a dashing cavalier in plumed hat.

  "That," Colin said, with a suggestive lift of his eyebrows, "was the official story. The earl also had an exceptionally beautiful daughter."

  "She didn't!" I exclaimed, easily caught up in the gossip of several hundred years ago. Charles II had been known for his roaming eye — and for his generosity in handing out titles to those who had warmed his bed.

  "We'll never know for sure," Colin said tantalizingly, "but Lady

  Panthea bore a very swarthy son just eight months after her father was invested as earl."

  "Lady Panthea was fair?" I guessed.

  "Precisely," said Colin.

  We nodded at each other in complete historical complicity. His hazel eyes caught mine. That look was an entire conversation in itself, one of those odd moments of unspoken communication when you know beyond a doubt that you're on the exact same page.

  My damnable fair skin turned red with a thought that had nothing whatsoever to do with Charles II.

  "What about the marquisate?" I asked awkwardly, pretending great interest in the flagstones beneath my feet. We had started up the little path to the kitchen door, and I made a show of stepping from stone to stone. "When did that come in?"

  Colin shrugged. "It's not nearly as engaging a story. The earl at the time had some success as a general in the Wars of the Spanish Succession. Queen Anne raised him to marquis."

  Colin stopped to open the kitchen door for me, waiting for me to precede him into the house. "I'd show you around the house, but I have some paperwork I need to get sorted before tonight."

  I shook my head, feeling my tousled hair shift around my face. "That's all right. I should be getting back to the library anyway. But, listen, about tonight… if it's going to be weird for you having me at that party, I don't mind staying here on my own. I won't feel left out or anything."

  Colin grinned. "Not looking forward to an evening with the vicar, are you?"

  I bristled at the imputation of faintheartedness. "No! It's not that! I just — thought I might be butting in," I finished lamely.

  "Trust me," said Colin drily, "I don't resent the intrusion."

  Now was the time to ask what the story was with Joan, and what the hell he thought he was doing using me as a human shield. "But Miss Plowden-Plugge might. I don't want to be nosy or anything, but — "

  "Reading other peoples' letters isn't?"

  "Not when they've been dead two hundred years," I retorted, before realizing that I'd just been cleverly rerouted. Damn, was I that easy to manipulate?

  "One wonders whether they would agree," mused Colin.

  I refused to be drawn in further. "About tonight — "

  "If you don't have anything to wear," cut in Colin smoothly, "you can take a rummage around Serena's wardrobe."

  How did he do that? Belligerently, I opened my mouth.

  "She won't mind," Colin reassured me. "It's all several years out of date, anyway."

  "Thanks," I muttered. "I think."

  "Splendid! I'll leave you to it, then, shall I?" He strolled out, whistling.

  Not surprising that he should whistle, I thought indignantly. He had just assured himself of a walking, talking buffer zone.

  It wasn't that I minded, I told myself, clomping out of the kitchen, and down the red-papered hall to the front stairs. It was just the being conscripted without being asked that bothered me. And maybe, just a little, the notion that he wanted me along for something other than my charming company.

  I took the stairs very, very slowly, pondering that thought. If I was to be honest with myself — which is really a highly overrated thing to do — it did rankle, just a little, to know that it wasn't my sparkling eyes and effervescent wit that had spurred him to press the invitation. I understood quite well that I had only been asked along to fend off Joan Plowden-Plugge. I made an effort to look at the situation with detached amusement. After all, romantic peccadilloes are always quite entertaining when one isn't at the center of them, and I should have been happily snickering into my sleeve at the thought of Colin hiding behind me to escape a predatory blonde. There was plenty of prospect for good old-fashioned slapstick.

  Somehow, it wasn't quite as funny as it should have been. I stopped and glowered at one of Colin's ancestors, who stared superciliously at me from a heavily gilded frame on the second-floor landing. You, I scolded myself, are refining too much on a look and a smile. So, fine, a moment ago, walking back, there had seemed to be just the tiniest bit of a spark there. And, all right, maybe I had been the tiniest — just the tiniest bit — intrigued. After all, he was handsome, if one liked that clean-cut, fair-haired, Prince William sort of look. He was clever, and amusing, and engaging — when he wanted to be. Not to mention that there are very few men out there who can bandy about English monarchs in conversation. That, to me, was more lethal than any number of washboard abs.

  For goodness' sake! I was clearly letting Henrietta's mood infect my own. So far, in my limited acquaintance with Colin Selwick, he had been impossibly rude in a letter, followed it up by being even more insufferable in person, and only in the past day or so had thawed into normal human behavior.

  Besides, even if this warm, friendly, relaxed Colin was the real thing, it was a horrible idea to get involved with someone whose archives I was using, almost as bad as an office romance. What if we started something (I pulled my disobedient mind back before it could go into too-detailed contemplation of what that something might be, complete with dialogue), it ended rapidly, and I still had several thousand pages' worth of manuscript to read? At best, it would exceedingly awkward. At worst, it might mean the end of my access to his library. Men come and go, manuscripts remain constant. Or something like that.

  But there were those sideways glances…

  I clumped off down the hall in the direction of the library, as if by creating a clatter I could drown out the irritating hum of my own thoughts. On the verge of taking out the manuscripts, I paused. In this sort of mood, I could stare at the same page for half an hour without reading a word. And communing with Colin's ancestors was probably not the best way to take my mind off Colin.

  Instead, I fished in my pocket and dug out my mobile. What I needed were voices, nice, modern, human voices. Like my
little sister Jillian's. She would soon set me straight. But — I consulted my watch — it would only be nine-thirty in the morning back in the States, and Jilly wouldn't appreciate being woken up before noon on a Saturday. Nor, for that matter, would her roommates, who would all be sleeping off their Friday night revels. Last call for brunch in the dining hall wasn't till one o'clock, so why get up before 12:45? Ah, college.

  Oh well, I could always call Pammy. I scrolled through my list of contacts for her number. While she might not be any good at delicate emotional crises, Pammy was excellent at telling me I was behaving like a dimwit.

  Wandering over to the window, I pressed send. "Ellie!" squealed Pammy. The diminutives come of having known one another since we were five, along with a revolting wealth of embarrassing personal information. "How's Sussex!"

  "I'm being a dimwit," I said, one eye on the window.

  "What did you do?"

  "Nothing… yet." Was that a flash of green jacket over there at the edge of the garden? No. It was a plant of some sort. They have those in gardens, I reminded myself. "I caught myself considering snogging Colin. Silly, no?"

  "Why not?" yelled Pammy. "He's cute. You're single. Go for it!"

  "You're supposed to tell me that I'm being ridiculous!"

  "When was your last real date?" asked Pammy pointedly.

  I did some quick mental calculation. That blind date back in March didn't count, nor did that June dinner with a colleague that was supposed to be platonic until the guy tried to grope me in the cab on the way back. A whack on the offending hand convinced him of the error of his assumptions. The truth was, I just hadn't met anyone who seemed worth expending the time and effort of dating. As a place to meet eligible men, a university campus (unless you're an undergrad, in which case it's like having your own private buffet) ranks just slightly above convents and concerts of folk music. And since I'd moved to London… well, there's always an excuse, isn't there?