The Seduction of the Crimson Rose pc-4

by Лорен Уиллиг

  Tilting her head up at St. George, she firmly steered the conversation back to the present. "But the Gunpowder Plot was two hundred years ago. Surely, your Dr. Priestley can't be quite that old."

  "Well," continued St. George, visibly expanding under her attention, "in one of his political rants, old Priestley started thundering on about blowing up 'the old building of error and superstition.' Some chaps got the notion that Priestley was referring to a literal building. Like the Gunpowder Plot, do you see? The poor old duffer had no idea — he was just speaking metaphorically — but it got about, and the man was pretty much run out of the country. Before he could light the match, as it were."

  "Metaphorically or literally?"

  "I doubt the rioters stopped to inquire. It didn't help that he dabbled in natural philosophy. It was something to do with air and fire — the sorts of things that go bang in the laboratory. So he might have been coming up with infernal machines, for all his neighbors knew." St. George waggled his eyebrows. "It was a combustible combination."

  Mary cast him a chiding glance. "That was too bad of you, Mr. St. George."

  "You can't fault a chap for trying."

  "It's the results I object to," replied Mary, with an arch glance that took the sting out of the words. Before they could wander further off the topic, she donned her best expression of melting confusion, the one designed to make men feel big and strong and completely miss the fact that they were being led about by the nose. "But what of Mr. Rathbone? What does he have to do with this gunpowder fellow? I fear I've lost the thread of the story."

  Lord Vaughn would undeniably have said something cutting, but St. George hastened to explain, "Rathbone was one of Gunpowder Priestley's disciples back in the old days. Assisted in his laboratory, sharpened his quills, beat off the maddened hordes, that sort of thing. The old boy was quite cheesed off when Priestley had to scurry off to Pennsylvania just ahead of the authorities. It was quite some time ago, too," St. George added reflectively. "You'd think Rathbone would be over it by now."

  "How long ago was it?" asked Mary.

  "Thirty years, give or take." St. George laughed at Mary's horrified expression. "I know! The man is in want of a wife. Only not," he added hastily, "my sister, please God."

  "I couldn't imagine having to face that across the breakfast table every morning," commented Mary, salting away the information about Rathbone for future consideration. Philosophical convictions and chemical knowledge could, in her companion's flippant phrase, make for a combustible combination. Vaughn had mentioned something earlier in the week, about the Black Tulip's use of explosive materials in a recent rebellion in Ireland…. "I believe your sister ought to be safe."

  "I'm afraid old Agatha isn't as discriminating as you. You should have seen the first husband."

  "Not exactly the beau ideal?" she asked, although her focus was elsewhere. Where was Vaughn? Mary spotted Aunt Imogen holding forth to an entirely unappreciative audience about her latest theatrical production, but there was no sign of her escort.

  St. George leaned forward confidingly. "He looked just like a turtle!"

  "At least that explains the soup," teased Mary mechanically. Had Vaughn just gone off and left her in a room of fanatics with incendiary tendencies?

  Turning slightly to scan the room for her erstwhile escort, the strap of her reticule caught on something that abruptly gave. Mary caught the gleam of gold as it tumbled to the ground with a small, reproachful ping, spinning several times before toppling over onto one side.

  "Oh dear!" Mary hastily stooped to retrieve it, nearly bumping heads with Mr. St. George, who had dived forward at the same time. Straightening, Mary held out the golden disc in one palm.

  "I'm afraid I've broken off your watch fob," she said remorsefully. "I'm sorry."

  St. George waved away her apologies. "Don't even think of it. The chain wanted repairing."

  It wasn't a coin, but a medal, engraved on both sides, the glitter of the gold dulled with time and frequent handling. The surface of the disc was so worn that Mary could barely make out the picture that had been incised on the front. Beneath a film of grime, she could just distinguish the form of a man — at least, she thought it was a man, since it appeared to be wearing armor. A spear held jauntily in one hand jutted diagonally across the coin. One foot was slightly elevated, poised atop an oblong lump that might have been any number of things. Around the sides, capital letters spelled out an unfamiliar Latin phrase.

  "Spes tamen est una?" Mary relinquished the medal into St. George's outstretched palm. "I'm afraid I have no Latin." Her father's scholarly inclinations hadn't extended to engaging a proper governess for his daughters.

  "'There is still one hope,'" translated St. George. He traced the letters that ran around the circumference of the disc. "A father's admonition to his son. He gave me the medal on my tenth birthday. The figure in the middle is a play on our name. St. George, you know," he explained unnecessarily.

  That explained the lump, at least: a recently slain dragon acting as footstool. Mary watched as St. George tucked the medal into his waistcoat pocket. "What does your father think of your sister's causes?"

  She knew the answer almost as soon as she had spoken, for a shadow darkened his face.

  "Oh," said Mary. "I'm so sorry. I didn't mean — "

  "No, no." Unconsciously, St. George's hand closed over the small lump in his waistcoat pocket. "Quite all right. It was some time ago."

  "You must have been very fond of him."

  "He was a king among men," St. George said simply.

  In the face of such uncompromising devotion, Mary's wiles and platitudes failed her. She quite simply did not know what to say.

  Nobility just didn't come into her own family. Her father needled her mother; her mother scolded her sister; her sister badgered her brother; and so on, all around the twisted circle of familial relations. She wondered what it must be like to feel that sort of uncomplicated affection, without stings and barbs and hidden meanings to complicate matters.

  Uncomfortable in the face of emotion, Mary retreated to commonplaces, "Do tell me about the rest of your family. Do you have only the one sister?"

  She had asked such questions a dozen times before, delicately probing into a gentleman's means and circumstances. With very little effort, she rapidly ascertained that Mr. St. George had a respectable estate in Wiltshire, an aging mother in Bath, and only the one sister.

  "For which I thank God on my knees fasting," he finished, with a feeling glance at the black-bonneted figure in conversation with Mr. Rathbone.

  For lack of a fan, Mary fluttered her lashes coyly instead. "Surely sisters can't be all that bad."

  "It wouldn't be if any of them were anything like you," averred Mr. St. George engagingly.

  "My little brother wouldn't agree with you."

  "How old is he?"

  It took Mary some time to remember. "Eight."

  "Too young to know a good thing when he sees it."

  "Or just old enough to be wise," drawled a new voice, just behind Mary's ear.

  Chapter Eight

  Exit, pursued by a bear.

  — William Shakespeare, The Winter's Tale, III, iii

  The hairs on Mary's neck prickled as she recognized the speaker, and the mingled rush of irritation and anticipation that inevitably attended his appearance.

  Turning, Mary dipped into an exaggerated curtsy. "My lord Vaughn," she intoned. "Might I have the great honor of presenting to you Mr. St. George?"

  Vaughn inspected and dismissed Mr. St. George with two quick sweeps of the quizzing glass before bending his glass on Mary. "I trust you are enjoying yourself," he said, in a voice like cut glass.

  Clearly, the only acceptable answer was an emphatic negative.

  Mary put her chin up. "Yes. Quite."

  "How very pleasant for you," clipped Vaughn. "Alas, I find myself in the unfortunate position of having to break up this happy colloquy. Your aunt wishes to depart.
"

  Across the room, Aunt Imogen had wrested the podium from Rathbone and was giving a spirited, if incomprehensible, rendition of the Prologue from A Rhyming Historie of Britain.

  "Does she?" asked Mary caustically.

  "She was quite emphatic about it," Vaughn drawled. "Insistent, even."

  "It runs in the family," returned Mary, a dangerous glint in her deep blue eyes. "Insistence, that is."

  "And here I thought you referred to her dramatic tendencies." Flipping open the lid of his snuffbox with a practiced gesture, Vaughn scattered a few grains on the side of his wrist. "A fascinating thing, heredity."

  Mary's eyes narrowed as Vaughn raised his wrist gracefully to his nose and essayed a delicate sniff. "Particularly inbreeding," she retorted.

  Before Lord Vaughn could reply, St. George intervened. Possessing himself of Mary's gloved hand, he said winningly, "I'm sure it wouldn't do to keep your aunt waiting. I have a few of those myself," he added with a smile, "and I know they mustn't be kept from their naps."

  "You're very good," said Mary warmly.

  "Positively saintlike," murmured Lord Vaughn, snapping shut the lid of his snuffbox. "Pity there aren't any dragons in the vicinity."

  Mary silenced him with an elbow to the ribs. "Are you in London long, Mr. St. George?"

  "I have business concerns that will keep me in town at least till the opening of Parliament. And then, of course, there is my sister."

  "And her turtles," twinkled Mary, favoring him with a private smile designed to irritate Lord Vaughn. Its effect on Lord Vaughn was unclear, but it caused St. George to blink rapidly and forget whatever it was he had been about to say.

  "And you, Miss Alsworthy?" stammered St. George, recollecting himself with visible effort. "Will you be staying in town?"

  Mary kept her head tilted away from Lord Vaughn, an angle that gave him an excellent view of her profile. "Yes, at least for the present. With so few people in town this time of year, I'm sure our paths must cross again."

  St. George swallowed hard and squared his shoulders. "I shall make sure of it, Miss Alsworthy, and that you may be sure of."

  "Surely?" echoed Vaughn in saccharine falsetto.

  St. George flushed, a deep mauve creeping up beneath the browned skin of his cheeks. "I meant…that is to say…"

  He was saved from disgrace by Aunt Imogen, who swept grandly into their midst, her entrance only slightly marred by her hat flopping forwards. Pushing it back with one crooked hand, she smiled coquettishly up at St. George as Mary performed the necessary introductions.

  Aunt Imogen clutched at St. George's arm, uttering a series of sounds that resolved themselves into, "What did you say your name was, young man?"

  "St. George?" said St. George diffidently.

  "Yes!" cried Aunt Imogen, her hat tipping drunkenly. "You shall be my Saint George!"

  "That is my name," said Mr. St. George hesitantly, not wanting to give any offense.

  "What Aunt Imogen means," said Mary hastily, well aware of Vaughn's sardonic gaze, "is that she wants you to take part in Lady Euphemia McPhee's latest play. It is a history of Britain." Avoiding Vaughn's eye, she got out the worst of it. "In rhyme."

  Vaughn's lips quivered at the corners. "A rhyming history of Britain, in fact?"

  Mary couldn't quite control an answering smile. "Some have called it that."

  "Will you be taking part?" asked St. George earnestly.

  "I play a princess of ancient Britain," said Mary, smiling at him.

  "Preferably painted blue," drawled Lord Vaughn. "As princesses of ancient Britain were wont to do."

  "In that case," said St. George, oblivious to mockery or rhyme, "I shall most decidedly accept."

  "Lovely, lovely." Vaughn cut off further declarations by the simple expedient of shooing Aunt Imogen along in front of him. "I'm sure you'll rhyme brilliantly, St. George. Say your good-byes, Miss Alsworthy. There's a good girl."

  Acceding to the inevitable, St. George bowed over her hand. "Good day, Miss Alsworthy."

  "The company made it so." Mary lifted one hand in a little wave as Lord Vaughn propelled her towards the door. In an undertone intended for Vaughn's ears alone, she added, "Some company much more than others."

  "I shan't demand to know which is which." Vaughn ushered her after Aunt Imogen. "I doubt my amour propre could survive the experience."

  "I wouldn't be so sure of that," murmured Mary, waiting just that crucial moment before adding, "I would have thought your self-regard was too firmly rooted to be struck down by such an insignificant creature as myself."

  In a tone drier than kindling, Vaughn said, "You appear to have made an impression, even if not the one intended."

  Mary slid her arm out from Vaughn's grasp. "I was seen. Wasn't that the point?"

  "It would have been better had you been seen to take an interest — in something other than St. George and his dancing turtles."

  Mary glanced up at Vaughn from under her lashes. "Jealous?"

  Vaughn stifled a yawn with one jeweled hand. He made no move to reclaim her hand — in any sense of the word. "My dear, I've never had any aspirations to sainthood. Or hard-shelled amphibians."

  Mary matched his tone of brittle boredom. "I hear they make excellent soup."

  Holding the door open, Vaughn ushered her through into the main room of the tavern with an elaborate sweep of the arm. It was still early enough in the day that only one ale-sodden sot sprawled across the hard wooden benches. "I'm sure I can find hot water enough for you, if you so desire."

  Mary cast a glance back over her shoulder at the gaunt figure still orating in the next room. "Haven't you already?"

  "Ah, yes. I noticed your little tкte-а-tкte with Mr. Rathbone."

  Mary lowered her voice. "Apparently, he has some background with incendiary devices, as well as radical politics."

  "Did he have anything interesting to impart?" Beneath the well-tailored elegance of his clothes, Vaughn's lean frame was taut, alert, like a swordsman poised for an attack.

  "He might have done. We were interrupted."

  Vaughn's lip curled. "For which you can thank your estimable St. George. The man appears congenitally incapable of ignoring a maiden in distress."

  "Aren't the dragon jokes a bit too easy?" scoffed Mary, but her heart wasn't in it. She frowned down at the worn planking. "If we hadn't been interrupted, I might have learned whether he was our quarry."

  "St. George?" Lord Vaughn raised a sardonic brow.

  Vaughn knew very well what she meant. "Rathbone," replied Mary, with a quelling glance.

  "No." Vaughn dismissed the vice-chairman of the Common Sense Society with a brisk flick of his fingers. "He's all bluster. Not the sort to manage a delicate operation and keep it secret for a decade."

  Unlike someone else she knew. Mary favored Vaughn with a brief, sideways glance. "You seem remarkably sure of his character for such a short acquaintance."

  Vaughn placed a hand on her back to boost her into the carriage, his touch warm through layers of linen and twill. "One should never speak unless one intends to do so with conviction."

  "Even when there is nothing on which to base that conviction?"

  "The one has nothing to do with the other."

  Mary moved aside to make room for Aunt Imogen. Twitching out the folds of her skirt, she said irritably, "And what you say seldom has anything to do with what you mean."

  Lord Vaughn paused in the act of climbing into the carriage. With one hand on either side of the door frame, he stood silent for a long moment, his eyes fixed thoughtfully on Mary's face. "On the contrary, sometimes I say exactly what I mean."

  Despite her better judgment, Mary couldn't help but be drawn in. "Such as?"

  "Tomorrow. Five o'clock. We ride in the park." Vaughn swung himself into his seat, resting his cane between his knees. "Is that direct enough for you, Miss Alsworthy?"

  "Eminently." Mary squirmed to the side as Aunt Imogen's brim scraped across her c
heek. "Do you intend to tell me what we mean to do in the park, or must we play twenty questions for that, too?"

  "What does one always do in the park?"

  Mary had conducted a series of clandestine meetings, in the interest of arranging an elopement, but she decided not to bring that up. Lord Vaughn had already made quite clear his feelings on the subject of matrimony.

  "Whatever my esteemed employer wishes me to do — or isn't that the correct answer?"

  "A bit testy this afternoon, aren't we? Fear not, my dear, I'm sure your hero will sally forth eventually to rescue you from the big, bad dragon."

  "The park?" Mary asked pointedly.

  "We go to see and be seen. Just as everyone else does."

  By whom they went to be seen was another matter entirely. Mary had some notions of her own on that score. It was not beyond the realm of possibility that a sporting gentleman, missing his usual country pursuits, might take to the paths of the park on a sunny autumn afternoon for a brisk canter.

  Mary resolved to tell the maid to set out her most becoming habit. After all, as Mr. Rathbone had said, if the spirit was willing, the opportunity would present itself.

  Across the carriage, Vaughn was gazing idly out the window, hands resting loosely on the head of his cane. In profile, he resembled nothing so much as a portrait medallion of one of the Roman emperors, austere and slightly alien, accustomed to pomp and no stranger to intrigue. Plots and counterplots, alliances and betrayals had all left their mark on his form. They were written on the thin, flexible line of his lips, designed to laugh or sneer as the occasion required; the hooded lids that shielded his eyes from scrutiny more effectively than any number of hats; the lean swordsman's body disguised beneath an incongruous armor of lace and jewels. Vaughn, Mary thought, would have made an excellent Caesar, raw power clothed in deadly pomp.