The Secret History of the Pink Carnation pc-1

by Lauren Willig

  “Before you reserve the chapel,” Richard drawled, in his most obnoxious London man-about-town voice, “there are a few things that ought to be made clear.”

  “Darling, you aren’t afraid we’ll embarrass you, are you? I promise, we’ll be on our best behavior, even your father.” The marchioness wrinkled her nose playfully at the marquess.

  “Mother, would you stop flirting with Father for a moment and listen?”

  “I never stop flirting with your father,” said Lady Uppington complacently. “That’s why we have such a happy marriage. And I hope that all of you find spouses with whom you can happily flirt for the rest of your lives.” She and Lord Uppington exchanged a look that Richard could only label gooey.

  “It’s a wonder that we’ve turned out as normal as we have, isn’t it?” whispered Henrietta, coming up behind Richard’s chair.

  “I still haven’t forgiven you yet,” Richard cautioned her.

  “Oh, but you will,” Henrietta said blithely, leaning over to kiss his cheek. “I’m your favorite sister, remember? Besides,” she added, casting a glance around the room, “you know you’ll need my help keeping them in line tonight.”

  “That assumes we’re going somewhere.”

  Henrietta gave Richard a pitying look that said, louder than words, You can delude yourself if you like.

  Henrietta knew too damn much for a nineteen-year-old.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  “Where is she? Where is the little witch?” An extremely irate Georges Marston burst lopsidedly through the door of the dining room where the Balcourts were partaking of supper. His angry blue eyes lit on Amy. “You!” he bellowed, limping down the length of the table.

  “Sir!” Miss Gwen’s voice stopped Marston dead in his tracks. “What is the meaning of this intrusion?”

  “Her.” Marston pointed at Amy, all but frothing at the mouth. “Her!”

  “She,” Miss Gwen corrected primly.

  “Yes, her!” Marston’s lip curled in a manner that made Amy wish to find some pressing reason to adjourn to another room. Preferably with the door locked behind her. Her arms ached with the memory of Marston’s painful grip. She wouldn’t let him touch her again. She’d break her wineglass over his head and ward him off with the fragments. She’d break his other toe—no, that would require an unpleasant proximity.

  Miss Gwen sighed. “No, Mr. Marston. Not her, she. Did your father’s family teach you no English grammar? Or has life in the army whittled away at your verbal skills until you are capable of nothing save the occasional incorrect monosyllable? Following the implied verb ‘to be,’ the noun must always be in the nominative, rather than the accusative.”

  “Accusative,” repeated Marston, with a nasty look in his eye that Amy feared had little to do with grammar. “I’ll show you accusative! I accuse her!” One beefy finger pointed straight at Amy.

  Amy shot up in her place. “And I accuse you of behavior unbecoming to a gentleman, and I demand you leave my house at once!”

  “I think I’ll leave,” murmured Edouard, heaving his bulk out of his chair.

  “Sit!” Miss Gwen commanded. Edouard sat. So, unexpectedly, did Georges Marston.

  “I’ve always been very good at dealing with dogs,” commented Miss Gwen.

  Georges Marston promptly stood back up.

  Miss Gwen lifted an eyebrow. “Some need more training than others.”

  Marston ignored her, and started again towards Amy. “What do you mean, your house? It’s his house, and he’ll do as I say, or suffer the consequences, right, Balcourt?”

  “Um . . .” Edouard, having been forbidden to leave the table, seemed to be attempting to cram himself under it.

  “Why don’t you take a seat, Mr. Marston, and I’m sure we can get this all sorted out,” suggested Jane.

  Intent on his prey, Marston paid Jane no more mind than the candlesticks at the table, or the silent footmen by the sideboard. If Marston were to attack her, Amy wondered, would any of those white-wigged men come to her defense?

  “I’m so glad you stopped by, Mr. Marston,” Jane put in, her voice pitched to carry. What on earth was Jane talking about? Amy certainly didn’t share the sentiment. “I’ve been wanting to ask you about the tea and the India muslin.”

  Marston stopped dead two chairs away from Amy, his eyes and tongue bulging like those of a dog whose owner had yanked too abruptly on the leash.

  “Tea,” he croaked, not turning.

  “And India muslin,” Jane reminded him softly. Amy could have sworn she saw a glint of amusement in her cousin’s eye, but Jane’s demeanor was as self-contained as ever and her voice devoid of any hint of mockery. “Tell me,” she asked, in a tone that contained only innocent inquiry, “do the authorities know of your import business?”

  Kaleidoscope images shifted in Amy’s head into a complete whole. The strange packages in the ballroom that Amy had hoped might contain supplies for the Purple Gentian, but hadn’t. The dirt-blackened doors and windows of the west wing. Now that Jane had put the pieces together, it was as patently obvious as Marston’s guilty fury. Edouard had never had anything to do with the Purple Gentian. Nor had Marston.

  Her brother and Marston were smugglers.

  Marston’s eyes darted from side to side, landing on Edouard. Turning an alarming shade of green, Edouard shook his head violently.

  “But . . . the wounded man?” Amy heard herself say.

  “A customs official named Pierre Laroc,” replied Jane, her gaze never wavering from Marston. “How much did you pay him to forget that little incident, Mr. Marston?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Marston growled, stomping across the room to loom over Jane.

  “Really? And I suppose my cousin doesn’t know anything either,” she added gently, glancing at Edouard, who was still shaking, not only his head, but the rest of his portly body as well. His cravat quivered with agitation. Jane sighed. “I suppose there is nothing for it but to ask the authorities to settle my curiosity over the tea and muslin in the ballroom. The British tea and muslin.”

  Marston’s broken nose turned bright red with rage. “You wouldn’t dare!”

  “You, Mr. Marston, are not in a position to make terms.”

  “You can’t prove anything.” Small flecks of saliva spattered the air as Marston blustered. “The ballroom’s empty. You don’t have any proof.”

  “I fear, Mr. Marston, that you are mistaken on that score. You see”—Jane smiled, a gentle curve of the lips that held the entire room silent—“I do have proof. I have your records and your correspondence. I found them secreted in a hollow globe in my cousin’s study. Your own pen tells against you.”

  Marston’s large hands flexed dangerously. Jane didn’t so much as flinch.

  “Touch Miss Balcourt again,” Jane warned, her voice as steely as her spine, “in anger, in lust, or even in greeting, and those papers go directly to the authorities.”

  The tense silence was broken by the dry sound of Miss Gwen clapping. And then the room dissolved into madness. With a roar, Marston flung himself at Edouard. Edouard pleaded and shrieked and babbled. Marston’s hands closed around his throat, turning his protests to gurgles. China crashed into fragments against the parquet floor. Amy ran and hugged Jane. The footmen wisely sneaked out the door while no one was looking. Miss Gwen whacked the back of Marston’s head with her soupspoon, calling him an insolent son of a rabid dog.

  And the butler cleared his throat.

  “Ahem!” He had to try several times before the room stilled, raising his voice to a level that would have rendered a man of lesser vocal capacities mute for a month. Miss Gwen paused with her spoon raised above Marston’s head. Marston stopped with his fingers digging into Edouard’s vocal cords. And Edouard stayed just as he was, his tongue hanging slightly out, pop-eyed with terror.

  The butler proffered a card on a silver tray to Edouard. Miss Gwen snatched it on his behalf.

  “Lord and
Lady Uppington would like to pay their respects,” the butler intoned, his gaze fixed somewhere above the bizarre tableau created by his master, Marston, and Miss Gwen.

  “Put them in the green salon,” instructed Miss Gwen, since Edouard seemed incapable of speech. To be fair to Edouard, Marston’s hands were still locked about his throat, so his incapacity might have been due to dearth of air rather than lack of wit. “And you!” She dealt Marston another smart whack with her now-rather-dented silver soupspoon. “Stop throttling Mr. Balcourt and take your leave at once! Shoo!”

  Marston shooed. With an eloquent sneer at Jane and Amy, who stood with their arms about each other’s waists for support, he sauntered out the door after the butler.

  “One can only hope he will not encounter the Uppingtons,” declared Miss Gwen, dropping her soupspoon into her bowl with a clatter.

  Uppington. The name sounded familiar, but Amy was too busy making sure Marston’s retreating back kept retreating to give it any thought. “When did you find out about the smuggling?” she whispered to Jane.

  “Last night,” Jane whispered back. “I was going to tell you this morning, but . . . Why are we whispering?”

  “I don’t know.” Amy shrugged helplessly. “It just seemed the thing to do.”

  “Come along, girls.” Miss Gwen propelled them out of the dining room. “We don’t want to keep our guests waiting.”

  “I’m surprised you’re taking this so calmly,” Jane hissed to Amy as they approached the threshold of the green salon.

  “Well, I was a little worried, but you dealt with him splendidly.”

  Jane looked at her confusedly. “Oh, do you mean Marston? I was talking about”—the footman, walking before them with a candelabrum, flung open the doors of the green salon—“Lord Richard,” Jane finished weakly.

  Amy’s mouth opened but no sound emerged.

  Lord Richard Selwick leaned nonchalantly against the mummy case, his arms crossed over his chest. At Amy’s entrance, he uncrossed his arms and smiled with a depth of welcome that made Amy’s stomach do more flip-flops than an entire troupe of acrobats at a village fair.

  Those lips, curved into a devastating smile, were the ones that had so passionately claimed hers last night. That hand, so idly playing with his quizzing glass, was the one that had cupped her face and stroked her hair and caressed her . . . um, well. Amy’s cheeks flared with color.

  Uppington. Amy would have whacked her head with the heel of her hand if too many people hadn’t been looking on. That’s what she got for reading Latin and Greek when she should have been memorizing Debrett’s Peerage. As Miss Gwen had so helpfully pointed out that afternoon, the Selwick family bore the Uppington title.

  A petite woman in a green-and-blue gown was poking interestedly into a funeral urn, while the somewhat taller brunette beside her protested, “But Mama, do you really want to know what’s in there?”

  As Amy and Jane approached, Jane keeping a hand on Amy’s arm for moral support, both looked up. Dropping the lid of the urn, the woman in green swept forward with a warm smile distressingly like Richard’s. “I do hope we’re not intruding! I was all agog to meet our dear Richard’s traveling companions. You must be Miss Balcourt?”

  The brunette waved enthusiastically over her mother’s head. “Since we’re introducing ourselves, I’m Henrietta! You know, Henrietta? Hen? The little sister? Didn’t Richard tell you about me?”

  Next to Henrietta, a broad-shouldered man in a crumpled cravat rolled his eyes. “Surely he must have mentioned me, the best friend?” he simpered, in obvious imitation of Henrietta’s enthusiastic greeting. “You know, the best friend? Miles?”

  Amy saw murder written in the brunette’s hazel eyes.

  “You can be so juvenile sometimes, Miles!”

  “The next packet to Dover, Henrietta,” Richard warned in awful tones.

  Henrietta’s mouth snapped shut. She even refrained from responding in kind when Miles stuck out his tongue at her.

  “They were just fed,” Lady Uppington explained apologetically.

  Rap! Rap! Rap!

  “Young man!” snapped Miss Gwen, leaning on the parasol she had just pounded against the floor. “Kindly replace that object in your mouth!”

  Miles’s tongue disappeared behind his lips with the speed of an army retreating into a castle and yanking down the portcullis.

  “How splendid!” Lady Uppington bustled forward, laying a friendly hand on Miss Gwen’s bony arm. “You must tell me how you do it. And who you are,” she added as an afterthought.

  Miss Gwen, with an angle to her chin that amply portrayed her disapproval of the impropriety of the proceedings, even if the cause of the mayhem was a marchioness, made herself known to Lady Uppington, and presented Jane and Edouard, the latter still a bit purple about the throat and bulging in the eyes.

  Lady Uppington ignored the disapproval emanating from Miss Gwen and beamed directly at Amy. “I still haven’t introduced myself, have I? I am Lady Uppington, and this”—a wave of an emerald-laden hand at the silver-haired man looking on with amusement a few feet away—“is Uppington, and that’s—oh, well, you know, Henrietta.” Henrietta dimpled. “And the ill-behaved young man with the unkempt hair—”

  Miles’s hand went anxiously to his head. Henrietta smirked.

  “—is the Honorable Miles Dorrington. Let’s see, you all know Richard already. Have I forgotten anybody?”

  The brunette, otherwise known as “you know, Henrietta,” twined her arm through Lady Uppington’s. “You left out Geoff again.”

  “Geoff, darling!” Lady Uppington let out a cry of distress and held out a hand to a quiet young man standing near Richard. “I didn’t mean to neglect you.”

  “He’s used to it by now,” Henrietta explained in an aside to Amy.

  “That”—Lady Uppington leveled a quelling glance at her daughter—“was unkind. Geoff is just so much better behaved than the rest of you that it’s easy to forget he’s there.”

  “Was that a compliment?” Miles inquired of Geoff.

  “Do you see what I mean?” sighed Lady Uppington to Amy.

  Amy, utterly bewildered by the entire Uppington invasion, did the only thing she could do. She smiled. She was rather thankful for Lady Uppington’s cheerful volubility. It saved her from having to speak to Lord Richard. By dint of keeping her eyes fixed on Lady Uppington and Henrietta, she could almost pretend he wasn’t there. Almost. The more she told herself not to look, the more her eyes strayed towards him.

  How should she behave towards him? Amy wondered, as the Uppingtons and their entourage continued to bicker among themselves. She couldn’t scream or throw things; that would certainly alert Lord Richard to her newfound knowledge of his double life. Tormenting him had seemed like such a splendid idea in the carriage, but Lord Richard’s presence turned simple things complicated. Revenge, for example. Such a nice, simple idea. But whenever Lord Richard smiled at her over his mother’s head, Amy wanted to smile back.

  Maybe that wasn’t such a dreadful idea, Amy rationalized. After all, she did need to lull him into a false sense of security before she meted out her revenge. She would flirt with him, repudiate him, and then best him at espionage. It was all part of the plan.

  After much altercation, Lady Uppington finally got around to introducing Geoffrey, Second Viscount Pinchingdale, Eighth Baron Snipe.

  “So many titles, so little Geoff,” sighed Miles, stretching to emphasize his two-inch advantage over the Viscount.

  “So much brawn, so little brain,” countered Henrietta good-naturedly.

  “Who beat whom at draughts last week?”

  “Who underhandedly caused a diversion by bumping into the board?”

  Miles assumed an angelic expression. “I don’t know what you could possibly be referring to. I would never do anything so low as to knock over the board and rearrange the pieces.”

  “Richard never cheats at draughts,” Lady Uppington whispered to Amy.


  “No, only at croquet,” Miles put in sarcastically. “Or did that ball just move two wickets all by itself?”

  “You,” drawled Lord Richard, strolling forward to join the little group around Lady Uppington, “are merely sore because I sent your ball flying into the blackberry brambles.”

  “Thorns all over my favorite breeches,” mourned Miles.

  “Oh, that’s what became of those!” exclaimed Henrietta.

  “Did you think Miles had suddenly discovered good taste?” Richard grinned.

  “I don’t know why I put up with this family,” Miles muttered to Amy and Jane.

  “It’s because we feed you,” Henrietta explained.

  “Thanks, Hen.” Miles ruffled her hair. “I would never have figured that out on my own.”

  “He’s like one of those stray dogs that follows you home,” Henrietta continued, warming to her theme, “and once you’ve given him a meal, keeps scratching on the kitchen door, and looking up at you with big mournful eyes.”

  “All right, Hen,” said Miles.

  “Madness only runs in part of my family,” Richard said softly to Amy. “My brother Charles is quite sane, I assure you. And Miles isn’t related at all.”

  “Third cousin twice removed!” protested Miles.

  “By marriage,” corrected Richard, his eyes not leaving Amy’s. “I trust you had a pleasant afternoon?”

  Amy had spent the remainder of the afternoon on her stomach on her bed, contemplating the relative merits of boiling him in oil as opposed to hanging him by his feet and hitting him with a spiked stick.

  “Yes. Quite.” Amy belatedly remembered that she was supposed to be flirting with him, and added, “I especially enjoyed the antiquities.”

  “Ah, so you like antiquities!” Lady Uppington broke in, with a significant look at Richard. “How splendid! Do tell me more. . . .”

  Within ten minutes, Lady Uppington had deftly extracted the information that Amy had been born in France, raised in Shropshire, and didn’t much care for turnips. Richard listened, mute with horror, as Lady Uppington ferreted out Amy’s literary preferences, and political leanings. She seemed on the verge of inquiring about her shoe size, when Henrietta fortunately intervened.