The Mark of the Midnight Manzanilla

by Lauren Willig

  “Don’t you start,” warned Sally.

  A rapping on the paneling behind her back made her jump.

  “Sally?” It was Lucien’s voice, distorted by the wooden barrier between them. It sounded oddly hollow and echo-y.

  Sally whirled around, making frantic attempts to tidy her hair. “Yes?”

  Naturally, she would be dignified and distant. . . . Well, maybe not too dignified and distant. Just dignified and distant enough. She caught sight of herself in the mirror across the room. Was her hair really that much of a mess? No time to brush it now.

  “It’s Lucien,” said Lucien, from the other side of the door.

  “I know that.” Sally snatched open the secret door.

  Lucien stood on the other side, looking unfairly rakish with his dressing gown open over his loose linen shirt, his dark curls tousled. She knew what those curls felt like now beneath her fingers, the weight and texture of them, the short hairs at the back of his neck, the prickle of his chin against her palm.

  “What?” Sally snapped. “What is it?”

  She wasn’t meant to be thinking of the feel of his skin or the way his fingers felt as they brushed her cheek, so carefully, so delicately. And she would tell him so if he asked. This was a false betrothal—that was all it was. Good Samaritan, she reminded herself. Compassion. Her halo was so shiny she could practically see her face in it.

  “You forgot this.” Lucien was holding something out to her, something mahogany, chased in silver. Sally stared at it, trying to make her scrambled brain do its work.

  “A pistol,” she said blankly. “You brought me a pistol?”

  A faint smile crossed Lucien’s lips. “I know they aren’t much use against ghosts and ghouls,” he said, and something about the way he said it made Sally cross her arms more firmly across her chest, because otherwise she might be tempted to fling her arms around him. “But just in case.”

  “Thank you,” said Sally. She made no move to take the pistol. “But I have Lady Florence with me.”

  “The famed stoat defense?” Lucien set the pistol down on a low table, a good yard away from Sally. He made no move to come any closer. “I’ll leave this with you all the same.”

  “Thank you,” said Sally politely. And then, since something more seemed to be required: “Good night.”

  It seemed like an absurd conversation to be having with someone against whom she had been pressed intimately only five minutes before. Not that she was sure what sort of conversation one was meant to be having with someone against whom one had been pressed intimately.

  “Good night,” said the duke, just as correctly, and with a little bow for good measure. The formality of the gesture contrasted oddly with his dressing gown and the open neck of the shirt beneath. And then, without further ado, he pressed the mechanism that opened the door in the paneling.

  He was, Sally realized incredulously, leaving. Just like that.

  Lucien paused, one hand on the open panel. “Sally?”

  “Yes?” Sally tried not to sound too eager.

  Lucien nodded in the direction of the other entrance. “Lock your door. Both of them.”

  And with that, the panel clicked shut behind him.

  “I was planning to,” she protested, but Lucien wasn’t there to hear. She was left talking to the empty air and one unappreciative stoat.

  Sally hugged the velvet folds of her dressing gown to her. That was it? That was all? No undying avowals of love? No attempted ravishment? She had a dozen cutting set-downs all prepared. She bit her lip, as her conscience uttered derisive noises that sounded a good deal like Miss Gwen. She would have used them, she told herself. Eventually.

  But, no. Lucien, Sally realized with a growing sense of indignation, had evidently meant what he said.

  It was a mistake. It won’t happen again.

  Of course, it wouldn’t happen again. It shouldn’t have happened even once, but for the fact that she was so warmhearted and compassionate and charitable and all that sort of thing.

  Sally locked the door and put a chair beneath it for good measure. Not that she thought she would need it, but just because.

  Did he think she wanted him to kiss her again? Had she somehow given that impression? If so, she thought indignantly, kicking the hem of her robe out of the way, she would soon put the matter straight. It wasn’t as though she had invited his attentions. Her eyelashes hadn’t been fluttering, not in the least.

  It was very hard for one’s eyelashes to flutter when one’s eyes were closed.

  That wasn’t the point. The point was . . . What was the point? Oh, right. She remembered now. It wasn’t as though she was the one who had initiated the embrace. She had been innocently minding her own business, tendering the benefit of her good advice, when, suddenly, out of the middle of nowhere, he had just swooped. She certainly hadn’t asked him to sweep her up in his arms and kiss her dizzy.

  Yes, yes, she knew she shouldn’t have been in Lucien’s room in her dressing gown, but, really, it wasn’t as though she had intended to be in Lucien’s room in her dressing gown. Much like everything else, it had just happened. Her dressing gown covered quite as much of her as any of her morning gowns or walking dresses and certainly more of her than most of her evening gowns.

  Really, it was all quite respectable, or as respectable as it could be under the circumstances. It wasn’t as though she had known that that stair led to his room. If she had—

  Sally paused at this point in her musings, then shook her head. No. However much curiosity might have tempted her, she most certainly wouldn’t have visited Lucien’s room in the dead of night. At least, not while he was there. Even she knew that such behavior was beyond the pale.

  But once there . . . Well, it really wouldn’t have been polite just to barge out again, would it? It wasn’t as though she had flung herself into his arms and begged to be ravished.

  If she went downstairs and told him that, would it be construed as an invitation to ravish her again?

  Sally squelched that thought before it could proceed further. She wasn’t supposed to want to be ravished. She made a wrathful face at her own reflection in the windowpane. Maybe Lucien really was a vampire. That would explain how he’d sucked the sense out of her and turned her into one of those hideous simpering creatures who clogged the mirrors in the ladies’ retiring room, sighing over this viscount and that baronet and who had attempted to kiss whom.

  Sally drew herself up proudly. It wasn’t as though no one had ever attempted to take liberties before; she wasn’t such an antidote as that. She had learned how to deal patiently, scornfully, or crushingly with would-be Lotharios, depending on the extent of their daring and the degree of their offense.

  But none of them had ever made her cheeks grow hot and her hands grow cold and her breath catch in her chest and—and—

  “Don’t say it!” she snapped at Lady Florence, who, being a stoat, hadn’t said anything at all.

  As soon as it was decently light, a sleepy and cranky Sally stalked down the corridors of Hullingden in search of Miss Gwen. Miss Gwen had got them into this—Sally conveniently papered over her own part prior to Miss Gwen’s involvement—and it was up to her to find the murderer so that Lucien’s name could be cleared and they could all go home.

  The end.

  Sally spent a moment basking in the image of Lucien, reinstated to all the honors of which he hadn’t yet been stripped, going down on one knee and vowing that he owed it all to her, while she very graciously acknowledged his acknowledgments and then freed him from their betrothal.

  This highly satisfying image was, unfortunately, superseded by that of Lucien in his dressing gown, looking down at her with regret in his dark eyes, saying, “We mustn’t be too convincing.”

  Sally tackled her task with renewed purpose. Charity and compassion went only so far.
r />   She couldn’t have the duke thinking she wanted to stay longer at Hullingden.

  Even if she did.

  It took her several false starts, one wrong turn down a service stair, and the help of a friendly under-housemaid (who, it turned out, also had an excellent recipe for freckle cream), but Sally eventually found her way to Miss Gwen’s room, only an hour after she had left her own.

  Really, guests should be given maps, she thought grumpily. She added that to her list of grievances as she knocked peremptorily at the door of Miss Gwen’s room.

  Miss Gwen’s familiar dulcet tones issued forth from behind the closed door. “Go away.”

  Sally went in anyway.

  The door to the dressing room clicked shut as Miss Gwen’s maid whisked out of the way, carrying a pile of garments over one arm, her cap pulled down low over her brow.

  “Did you know that Fanny Logan was Hal Caldicott’s mistress?” Sally said without preamble.

  “Now I do.” Miss Gwen’s room, unlike Sally’s, was in the new wing. Instead of dark paneling, everything was light and airy, from the white woodwork to the cheerful birds and flowers embroidered on the counterpane. Miss Gwen was comfortably ensconced in a bed that looked as though it had been purchased within the past century, propped against a number of pillows, a tray on her lap. Her pince-nez were perched upon her nose and there was a pile of papers on the bed beside her.

  Sally felt a surge of relief. Miss Gwen was on the case. They would find the real murderer, clear Lucien’s name, improve the castle kitchens, and then retire to London in a blaze of glory.

  Then everything could go back to just the way it was.

  Somehow, that wasn’t quite as satisfying a prospect as it ought to have been.

  “What did you find? Correspondence? A journal?” Sally plunked herself down on the bed, making the chocolate cup rock on its saucer. She snatched eagerly at the nearest page. “Sir Magnifico bent his knee. ‘It would be selfish in me to keep you by my side when such evil stalks the land.’ With one noble tear— You’re working on your book?”

  Miss Gwen snatched the page away. “Manuscripts don’t just write themselves.”

  Sally wiggled off the bed, waving her arms for emphasis. “Yes, and murders don’t just solve themselves either! There are lives at stake.”

  Not to mention her pride, which was currently sporting a duke-shaped dent.

  “You have lives to save; I have a deadline.” Miss Gwen permitted herself a small smirk. “Many people are waiting for the sequel to The Convent of Orsino.”

  Sally’s nails dug into her palms. “Is this the sequel in which a duke is unfairly charged with murder because someone spread ridiculous rumors about vampires?”

  “Who would want to read that?” Miss Gwen regarded her manuscript pages fondly. “Plumeria must leave her child with Sir Magnifico and go to battle the dread Goblin King, who has risen from the dead to menace the kingdom.”

  This was beginning to sound far less fictional. Miss Gwen had left her own infant daughter, Plumeria, at home with her husband, Colonel Reid. Colonel Reid, who had five previous offspring from various relationships, was something of an expert when it came to infant wrangling.

  Sally didn’t bother to keep the edge out of her voice. “Is there also an old castle in the countryside all covered in vines?”

  “Guarded by ten fearsome ghouls in two straight lines.” Assuming a soulful expression, Miss Gwen intoned, “In two straight lines they shook their spears, bared their teeth and pulled their ears.”

  They didn’t sound particularly fearsome to Sally. “Is there also an intrepid golden-haired heroine?”

  Miss Gwen looked at Sally over her spectacles. “No,” she said succinctly.

  Well, then. Sally paced restlessly alongside the bed. “Fiction is all very well and good, but we have a real murderer stalking the night. Are we going to wait until he kills again?”

  “Certainly not. Corpses are so untidy.” Miss Gwen squinted at her manuscript, crossed something out, thought better of it, and crossed out the cross-out. “There’s no need for these histrionics. I have it all in hand.”

  All she appeared to have in hand was her manuscript. “Not to sound critical, but . . .”

  “That’s the problem with your generation. None of you have a particle of patience.” With a martyred air, Miss Gwen set her manuscript aside. “I made good use of my time last night. While you were gadding about.”

  Gadding. That was one way to put it.

  Sally tried not to squirm under the scrutiny of those beady black eyes. Miss Gwen couldn’t possibly know. . . . No. Not even Miss Gwen was that omniscient.

  Sally hoped.

  She took refuge in a barrage of questions. “Did you contact the Pink Carnation? Is the Carnation on the case?”

  Or on the premises. Sally had her suspicions about her new maid.

  Miss Gwen regarded her with displeasure. “Don’t you think the Carnation has better things to do?”

  Better than tracking down a maimed and homicidal French spy?

  “Such as?” Sally challenged.

  “That,” said Miss Gwen pointedly, “is privileged information. All you need know is that the Carnation has been informed. In the meantime, I”—she stressed the pronoun—“made certain discoveries while you were carousing.”

  Dinner with Lucien’s Aunt Winifred hardly counted as a carouse. Sally wasn’t satisfied, but since Miss Gwen appeared determined to stay mum on the topic of the Carnation, she demanded instead, “What did you find? Are the duke’s and duchess’s papers still here? Was there anything in them about the Black Tulip?”

  “Only if you’re interested in rare plants.” Once she was sure that Sally was properly squelched, Miss Gwen folded her pince-nez and said, “In the weeks preceding the duke’s and duchess’s deaths, each made a number of unscheduled trips to London. The duchess for ‘meetings of a horticultural society.’”

  Sally couldn’t keep the disappointment out of her voice. “Was that all?”

  Miss Gwen looked deeply affronted. “What did you expect? A pile of correspondence labeled ‘Secret Correspondence’?”

  Yes.

  “Of course not,” said Sally with great dignity. “But that’s hardly conclusive.”

  “Do you expect me to do all of your thinking for you?” Miss Gwen took a sip of her chocolate and made a hideous face. “Paugh! Stone-cold.”

  Sally frowned. “Wasn’t the duchess a botanist? Surely, a horticultural society wouldn’t be out of the way.”

  “The duchess wrote her husband that she was delayed in town due to new information about a rare species.” Miss Gwen fixed Sally with an unblinking charcoal stare. “The black tulip is a botanical impossibility.”

  One didn’t say such things to Miss Gwen, but it all sounded just a little far-fetched.

  On the other hand, one might have argued the same thing about the mysterious messages being left in Christmas puddings at Miss Climpson’s Select Seminary. And Miss Gwen was the expert.

  “And what about the old duke?” Sally plucked at the French knots on the counterpane. “Do you think he was following her?”

  “Possibly. The record is unclear.” Miss Gwen looked distinctly dissatisfied. “The last duke spent a great deal of time in London as a rule. On those weeks, however, he appeared to have a series of meetings with his solicitor. They met six times over the space of two weeks. The matter appears to have been one of some delicacy. The duke made no record of it in his papers, only the meetings themselves.”

  Sally wasn’t sure she liked the shape this was taking. The duke had been a member of the government; if he had discovered his wife was funneling information to the enemy . . .

  At what point did honor trump affection?

  Beneath her indignation, Sally felt a little flicker of unease. Lucien spoke of his
parents with such affection, such regret. She did not think that he would react well to discovering that his father had been planning to have his mother clapped in irons. Even if they were very well-padded irons in a very comfortable cell.

  “Do you think the duke was looking into bringing proceedings against his wife?”

  Miss Gwen settled back against her pillows. “That would certainly provide the Tulip with motive to kill.”

  “It’s all such a waste,” said Sally passionately. “Two lives lost, and for what?”

  “Three lives,” Miss Gwen corrected her. “Some would consider that a small cost.”

  Whoever those people were, they hadn’t seen the aftermath. Sally thought of Lucien, a stranger in the home that ought to have been his.

  “But what about Hal Caldicott? It can’t be a coincidence that the murdered woman was his—” Sally waved her hand.

  “Mistress? Paramour? Light of love?”

  “Yes,” said Sally hastily, before Miss Gwen could go on spouting synonyms.

  “Did it ever occur to you that someone might deliberately have put Miss Logan in Mr. Caldicott’s way?” With a long-suffering sigh, Miss Gwen lifted her cup of chocolate, contemplating the delicate spray of flowers interlaced with vines that adorned the sides. “The Tulip only employed female agents. He called them his petals.”

  “Yes. So you’ve said.” Sally tried to untangle Miss Gwen’s logic. “The Black Tulip hired Miss Logan to seduce Hal Caldicott, and then used that relationship to lure her to Clarissa Caldicott’s ball, where he knew Lucien would be present. Then he killed his own agent and sent Lucien that note, all to see Lucien convicted of murder.”

  “Precisely,” said Miss Gwen, and took a hefty swig of the despised chocolate.

  Sally frowned at Miss Gwen. “Don’t you think that sounds unnecessarily convoluted? If the Black Tulip wants Lucien—” She saw Miss Gwen’s expression, and caught herself. “I mean, the duke—out of the way, why not just shoot him and have done with it?”

  “That,” said Miss Gwen succinctly, “would be far too easy. You make the mistake of believing you are dealing with a rational mind. The Black Tulip is a creature of twisted cunning. He couldn’t take a straight path if someone measured it for him with a ruler. It would be just like him to go to the trouble of spreading elaborate rumors, just to catch your duke in a web of his own devising. Like a spider, the Black Tulip enjoys playing with his prey.”