The Mark of the Midnight Manzanilla

by Lauren Willig

  Or would a silver bullet suffice?

  Either way, no one would ask too many questions about the death of the vampire duke. No one would look too hard for his killer. Lord Henry would quietly assume his title and dignities.

  “Pardon me,” said Sally, and barged past the startled magistrate. “I need to stop a killer.”

  If she could find him.

  The ballroom bustled with people. Too many people. All masked, all disguised, all taking advantage of the chance to be someone else for an evening, to behave just a little bit too scandalously, to laugh just a little too loudly. Sally dodged an inebriated Roman centurion who appeared to be chasing a water nymph. Or she might simply have been a nymph who had spilled water over herself.

  Sally searched desperately for a glimpse of a red velvet tunic embroidered with gold, brushing away the well wishes of some and the thinly veiled sneers of others.

  There was no sign of Lucien, or of Lord Henry. Sally spotted Lady Winifred presiding over a table in the card room, but her husband wasn’t by her side.

  Sally had always heard that dread was cold. It wasn’t. Her hands and cheeks burned, her breath rasped in her chest, her stomach jittered with anxiety. She was everywhere at once, but nowhere that she needed to be. She was like a child’s top spinning in circles, around and around and around.

  Think, she told herself. Think. If she were Lord Henry, where would she stage her scene? The last one had been on the balcony. Would he do the same here?

  Sally made a run for the balcony, bursting through the long glass doors, but there was no one on the other side but Clarissa Caldicott, whose hands were being clasped by a young red-haired man in a considerable state of agitation.

  “—but I would never have said such a thing! They told me that you broke it off with me. They said you could look higher than a mere squire.”

  There was color in Lady Clarissa’s pale cheeks. “I never wanted to look higher. All I wanted was—”

  “Excuse me,” chirped Sally. Both twisted to stare at her with identical expressions of indignation. “So sorry! I really wouldn’t have interrupted if it weren’t entirely necessary. Have you seen your brother?”

  Lady Clarissa regarded her with equal parts confusion and hostility.

  Sally tried again. “Your uncle?”

  Lady Clarissa looked at her blankly.

  Sally waved an impatient hand. “Oh, never mind. I’ll find them myself. You can go back to telling him that you love him.”

  Lady Clarissa made a stuttering sound in the back of her throat that would have probably been unprintable if she could have found the words.

  “Miss Fitzhugh?” The redheaded man managed to shake himself out of love’s young dream long enough to glance up at Sally. “I’m not sure where the duke is, but I did see Lord Henry leave the ballroom some time ago.”

  “Some time? Some time a little time or some time a lot of time?”

  The red-haired man looked at her apologetically. “Before the dancing began.” He looked at Lady Clarissa with warm eyes. “I didn’t have my eye on the clock.”

  Before the dancing. An hour, at least.

  “Thank you.” Sally was halfway through the door before she stopped and turned around again. “You should really keep this one,” she informed a startled Lady Clarissa. “Run off with him if you have to. It will do wonders for your disposition.”

  And with that, she was back in the overheated ballroom, her nails digging into her palms, her teeth sinking into her lower lip. No Lucien. No Lord Henry.

  Sally spotted Elizabeth I holding court to a motley group of courtiers in between two potted plants.

  “Excuse me. Pardon me.” Sally elbowed her way between an offended cavalier and a tipsy Harlequin. Breathlessly, she demanded, “Have you seen Lucien? I mean, the duke?”

  “Am I your duke’s keeper?” demanded Lizzy. “I thought he was with you. Don’t tell me you’ve lost him already.”

  “He isn’t a pair of gloves,” said Sally with some asperity.

  “Oh, hullo, Sal.” Her brother ambled over. “If you’re meant to be Saint Francis, I’d think you’d need a few more animals.”

  “I’m not Saint Francis; I’m Diana the Huntress. You haven’t seen Lucien, have you?” Sally was in the last stages of desperation.

  To her amazement, Turnip nodded, petals wagging. “Not ten minutes ago. Come to think of it, he was looking for you.”

  Every nerve in Sally’s body went on alert. She clutched her brother’s arm. “Where did he go?”

  With a reproachful look, Turnip smoothed out the wrinkle in his sleeve. “Someone brought him a note. He muttered something about folly and bolted off into the night.” He peered closely at his sister. “I say, Sal, are you quite the thing? You look a bit flushed in the cheeks.”

  Sally ignored Turnip’s editorial additions. “Folly—the folly?”

  Why hadn’t she thought of it before? Where better to kill this duke than in the place where his father had perished before him. Sally hadn’t thought blood could run cold, but hers was feeling distinctly icy just about now.

  “Seemed pretty foolish to me,” agreed Turnip, “but one doesn’t like to judge and all that. Many a man’s been made a fool by love.”

  “Not this one,” said Sally grimly. To Lizzy she said rapidly, “Find Miss Gwen. Tell her to gather her forces and meet me in the folly.”

  Lizzy perked up. “Where are you going?”

  Ten minutes, Turnip had said. There was no counting on the cavalry arriving in time.

  Sally strung her golden bow over her shoulder. “I am going to rescue my duke.”

  There were lights blazing in the folly.

  Fear quickened Lucien’s pace. Mist rose from the ground, creating an odd reddish haze. Ahead of him, the folly loomed, curiously insubstantial in the mist. It flickered in front of him, the lights playing tricks, showing it to him as it once had been, in summer rather than fall, by day rather than night. Fallen teacups and crumpled linen and his father’s wig lying abandoned on the floor.

  Lucien wrenched himself back to the present. He might not have been able to save his parents, but he’d be damned if he’d let anything happen to Sally.

  Fang marks on her neck. White skirts floating around her.

  Lucien slid around the side of the building, listening with every fiber of his being for any sound of life within.

  There was nothing. Nothing but the dry scratch of the bare tree branches, the creak of rusted metal as the lanterns swung on their hooks.

  This spy, this Black Tulip—he didn’t want Sally. She was just the bait. Lucien clung to that thought as he moved cautiously beneath the pillared portico, towards the arch that led to the interior of the folly. There was no point in killing her until she had served her purpose.

  Lucien ignored the thought that a dead Sally would serve the Black Tulip’s purpose just as well as a live one.

  A heavy brocade curtain, now in faded tatters, hung from the arch. The long strips of decaying fabric floated eerily in the breeze, creating the illusion of movement, playing tricks with Lucien’s eyes. The floating fabric reached out to him, stretching towards him, like a pair of pleading arms.

  His Sally wouldn’t go meekly. She was indomitable. She was—

  Lucien barreled through the curtain, stopping short as the light of a dozen candelabras assaulted his eyes.

  Not there.

  The only sound in the room was his own hurried breathing, painfully loud. The silence was so complete that it hurt Lucien’s ears. He could feel the coiled tension in that silence, like a bubble about to pop.

  Someone had refilled the pool. The candlelight danced off the clear water, making the little room bright as day, creating an illusion of summer but for the chill wind that made the candle flames dance on their wax tapers.

  The f
urniture had been replaced, replaced with exact copies of the red-and-cream-striped settee and chairs that had been here twelve years before.

  There was no sign of Sally.

  Not on the settee, not on the chairs, not between the arches where marble nymphs posed gracefully on their assigned pedestals.

  But someone had been here. There was a sumptuous repast set out on a low table between two nymphs. Green grapes glistened in perfect clusters on silver platters. Peaches of marzipan, cunningly colored to replicate the bloom of ripe fruit, mingled with equally false apricots and pears, all spilling from a cornucopia in an illusion of the harvest’s bounty. There were pastries laden with smooth-whipped custards and berries fresh from the hothouse, and, in the center of it all, an apple, cut into quarters, on a delicate porcelain plate, a paring knife beside it, the mother-of-pearl handle glimmering in the candlelight.

  Something about that apple sent a chill down Lucien’s spine.

  The death apple. That was what they called the fruit of the manzanilla tree. One bite. That was all it took. One bite, and then a horrible, lingering death.

  Despite himself, Lucien let himself entertain a furtive, fugitive trickle of hope. The apple was still whole. The apple might be just an apple. What if he had arrived in time? What if the scene had been set, but the principal actress had never arrived?

  Pride flared deep in Lucien’s chest. The Black Tulip hadn’t reckoned with his Sally. He would wager that Sally had eluded whatever trap had been set for her. The Tulip might, even now, be trussed and bound with Sally sitting on his chest, giving him her firm opinion of his activities and morals.

  The thought made Lucien smile, just a little.

  “Sally?” Lucien called again, his voice echoing eerily off the domed ceiling of the pavilion.

  He never expected anyone to answer.

  “She’ll be along presently.” A man stepped through the arch, the tattered drapery catching on the shoulders of his toga and the laurel crown that circled his brow. Uncle Henry brushed the strips aside. “I really must remember to replace that curtain.”

  “Uncle Henry?” Relief warred with confusion. “What are you doing here?”

  Uncle Henry cocked his head, smiling his usual kindly smile. “I know, I know, I should have left you and your bride to enjoy your surprise, but I couldn’t resist coming along to see how you liked it.”

  “Our surprise.”

  “Your betrothal feast,” said Uncle Henry easily, regarding the platters of food complacently. “I know this homecoming hasn’t been without its difficulties. And your betrothal—I hope you won’t be offended if I say that it all happened rather quickly?”

  Lucien nodded numbly.

  There was a silver cooler on the far end of the table, adorned with two snarling lions, one on either side. Uncle Henry reached inside, retrieving a bottle of champagne. “I wanted the two of you to have some time away from the throng.” He wrestled the cork free from the bottle, pouring the bubbling liquid into one tall glass.

  “That’s very kind of you.” Lucien watched the liquid, transfixed, as it bubbled into the glass, like sunshine seen through a frosted window. “There was a note. . . .”

  “I hope you don’t mind the mystery,” said Uncle Henry jovially. “All part of the surprise.” He held out the champagne flute. “Have a glass of champagne.”

  Lucien reached automatically for the glass, fighting a sense of something terribly, jarringly wrong, something so wrong that he was afraid to even try to put it into words. “You sent that note?”

  “Well, yes.” Uncle Henry looked at him in surprise. “Your aunt thought it would be more dramatic if we had a liveried page lead the way, but a note seemed more subtle. Go on! Sit down. Drink up.”

  Lucien set the glass down on the edge of the table. “I’ll just wait for Sally.” There was an acid taste at the back of his mouth. “I wouldn’t want to spoil the . . . surprise.”

  “I’m sure she’ll be along.” Uncle Henry’s smile had acquired a fixed look, as false and waxen as the marzipan peaches on the platters. He nudged the glass towards Lucien. “You have your champagne. I’m sure Miss Fitzhugh won’t mind your starting without her.”

  Standing over the body of Fanny Logan, all those weeks ago, Sally had quoted Hamlet. Now another line from the play rose unbidden in Lucien’s mind.

  Give me the cup. . . . There’s yet some liquor left.

  That had been an uncle too. An uncle who had dropped poison in the king’s ear. An uncle who had usurped the kingdom.

  No. Every instinct in Lucien’s body warred with what his brain already knew, old affection pitted in a losing battle against cold logic. Not Uncle Henry. Not the man who had—tried to—raise him. Lucien would never have said that Uncle Henry loved him as his own, but he’d always believed that he cared for him, in his own casual way.

  But Uncle Henry had never cared for any human being as much as he did for Hullingden.

  The realization reverberated to the depths of Lucien’s soul. He felt like a crystal ball, about to shatter. Or like a hunted animal, pinned in its covert.

  “I’ve never much liked champagne,” said Lucien casually. “I’ve always preferred brandy. You have it, Uncle.”

  “Oh, no,” said Uncle Henry, and there was that fixed smile on his face as he held out the glass of champagne, smiling, smiling, pushing the glass forward. “This is yours.”

  “Don’t drink that!” A voice rang out behind them. “It’s poisoned.”

  Uncle Henry whirled, champagne sloshing over the rim of the glass, down the folds of his toga, onto the stone flags of the floor. “Miss Fitzhugh!”

  Sally stood in the archway, her spangled silk tunic glittering in the candlelight. In her hands, she held a miniature gilt bow, one gilded arrow trained on Uncle Henry.

  Lucien felt a crazy smile spreading across his face. “Sally.”

  Sally acknowledged his presence with a sharp nod, all her attention focused on Uncle Henry. “Drop that glass and step away from my duke.”

  “Very amusing, Miss Fitzhugh,” said Uncle Henry with a forced smile. “That is quite a cunning little accessory to your costume. If you’re quite finished playing with it, why don’t you come in and join us?”

  Sally narrowed her eyes at Lucien’s uncle. “I’m a crack archer. I can hit a bonnet at fifty paces.”

  “Then,” said Uncle Henry, “it is fortunate that I’m not wearing one.” He winked at Lucien, in a conspiracy of men.

  Sally held the bow steady, but her eyes shifted desperately towards Lucien. “It was your uncle all along,” she said rapidly. “He spread those rumors. He killed Fanny Logan. He’s told everyone that you’re mad—dangerous. This is his final attempt to finish you off.”

  Uncle Henry made a choking noise. “My dear Miss Fitzhugh! I don’t know what to say.”

  “You’ve said enough already,” said Sally fiercely. “He told everyone that you were a vampire. He was the one who spread the rumor about your being kept in an attic. I shouldn’t be surprised if he was the one who killed your parents.”

  Uncle Henry’s smile slipped. “Really, Miss Fitzhugh. You have been spending far too much time with Mrs. Reid.”

  Sally’s teeth dug into her lower lip. She looked to Lucien, her expression imploring. “He wanted us off on a wild-goose chase, running after imaginary spies. But it was him all along.”

  “And you’ve come to rescue me.” Lucien didn’t know whether to laugh or weep or go down on one knee.

  “It’s absurd,” said Uncle Henry firmly, and part of Lucien wanted to believe him, to believe that Sally was mistaken, that the man who had raised him couldn’t contemplate his death.

  “Lucien?” said Sally, and he saw her arm start to quiver, just a little.

  “Lucien,” said Uncle Henry sharply. “Lucien. Who are you going to believe? Your own uncle or t
he sister of a known idiot?”

  Sally bristled. “Turnip is hardly an idiot.” She turned to Lucien. “He’s occasionally a little . . . literal. That’s all.”

  Uncle Henry raised a brow. “Do you see what I mean?”

  “Yes,” Lucien said slowly.

  Sally’s arm faltered.

  “What’s in the champagne, Uncle Henry?” Lucien demanded, his voice hard, and he saw relief blaze across Sally’s face, relief and an expression of joy so bright it made him dizzy. “Is it manzanilla extract? Or did you have the decency to at least choose something a little less painful?”

  “You’re as mad as she is!” Looking from one to the other, Uncle Henry gave a gusty laugh. “Lucien! Do you really think I would do anything to hurt you?”

  “Yes,” Sally answered for him.

  Lucien kept his eyes trained on his uncle, on the man who had put him on his first pony, the man who had taught him to use a gun.

  It would have been easier had Uncle Henry leered or jeered, had he twirled his cloak, or suddenly developed a squint; instead, he looked and sounded just as he always had—the same frank voice, the same fond smile.

  There was a pain in the pit of Lucien’s stomach, betrayal and confusion and a horrible fear he couldn’t quite name.

  “Did you kill my father?”

  Uncle Henry stood his ground. His hand slipped between the folds of his toga. “I loved your father.”

  “Did you kill my father?” Lucien’s voice rang off the dome of the folly, clashing against the crystal of the glasses, waking the echoes in the still depths of the pool beside which his parents had died.

  Uncle Henry looked away. There were lines that Lucien had never noticed before at the corners of his mouth. “Your father treated me like a lapdog,” he said shortly. Lucien must have made some movement, because Uncle Henry looked up quickly, his expression bitter. “You think I didn’t know that that was what he called me? He made no secret of it. But I didn’t mind,” he added hastily. “We had our arrangement.”

  Uncle Henry looked at Lucien, and behind his uncle’s eyes, Lucien saw a man he didn’t recognize. “Your father was never meant to marry.”