The Mark of the Midnight Manzanilla A Pink Carnation Novel (24 page)

“Puddings?” Lucien wondered if he had misheard.

“I’ll explain later,” said Miss Fitzhugh to Lucien. Her expression became serious as she turned back to her family. “It wasn’t anything so benign as pudding, I’m afraid. Do you remember that woman on the balcony last night?”

Arabella Fitzhugh reached out to touch her daughter’s soft cheek. “It isn’t the sort of thing one easily forgets.”

“They say she had fang marks on her neck.” That was from the taller girl, Miss Wooliston.

“She had.” Miss Fitzhugh took a deep breath. “We think that the woman last night was killed in an attempt to prevent the duke from unmasking his mother’s killer, who may or may not be the spy to whom his mother was sending information back in the 1790s. The murdered woman was dressed up in a black wig to look like the duchess. And,” she added triumphantly, “she was adorned with
flowers
.”

Lucien wasn’t quite sure how the others in the room had followed that. He was having trouble making sense of it, and he had been there.

The woman in the purple turban looked sharply at Miss Fitzhugh. “A black wig, you say?”

“I realize it all sounds a little strange,” Lucien began, feeling a bit as though he were sinking slowly but inexorably into marshy ground.

The woman in purple wafted that aside. “You did right to summon me,” she said grandly.

Lucien looked at her in confusion. “But we didn’t summon you.”

“Well, then, you ought to have,” retorted the woman in purple. “Fortunately, Fate remedied your oversight for you.”

Miss Fitzhugh stepped in before Lucien’s head could start spinning. “This is Mrs. Reid,” she explained. “The author of
The Convent of Orsino
.”

Lucien regarded the purple-garbed woman with a distinct lack of enthusiasm. “You—you wrote that book?”

Mrs. Reid looked down her nose at him. “This is no time for autographs, young man.”

An autograph? Lucien wanted an apology.

“If—” Lucien was having trouble finding his voice. “If—”

Mrs. Reid’s skirts whipped like a lash as she stalked in an arcane pattern around the room. “Hush. I’m thinking.” She rounded on Miss Fitzhugh. “What else?”

Miss Fitzhugh looked to Lucien for corroboration. “Well, there was a masked man who followed us in the mist and decided to deck the duke’s carriage with a tasteful arrangement of flowers and leaves. Poisonous leaves,” she added, for Lucien’s benefit.

“I really don’t like the sound of this,” said Arabella Fitzhugh.

Lucien regarded her with gratitude. It was good to know that there was at least one person in the room who didn’t view stalking spies as an invigorating alternative to hunting foxes.

“I’ll go to Sir Matthew Egerton in the morning and tell him the whole,” Lucien said rapidly. “In the meantime, if Miss Fitzhugh were to retire to the country for a week . . . ?”

“Sir Matthew? The man is worse than useless.” The purple feathers adorning the neck of Mrs. Reid’s gown quivered ominously. “Besides, even if he weren’t, he wouldn’t be able to help you against the Black Tulip.”

The name seemed to echo through the far reaches of the room.

Turnip Fitzhugh looked hastily over his shoulder; Lizzy Reid’s eyes opened wide with surprise; Agnes Wooliston gasped.

Parsnip yawned.

“The who?” inquired Lucien.

Mrs. Reid’s nostrils flared at this display of ignorance. “The Black Tulip is only the most deadly spy ever unleashed by the French.”

Turnip Fitzhugh turned to his wife. “I had a spot of bother with one of his agents once.” His brow furrowed in reminiscence. “Seemed like an awfully decent sort of woman until she started taking knives out of her hair.”

“Lovely,” said Lucien. That was all this situation needed. Medusa with cutlery. “Are you sure we’re dealing with this . . .”

“Black Tulip,” provided Miss Fitzhugh helpfully. She stepped closer to Lucien, a one-woman private guard. She regarded him with a mixture of amusement and admiration. “When you embroil yourself with spies, you don’t do it by halves, do you?”

Lucien looked at Mrs. Reid. “What makes you think it’s this Tulip character?”

He couldn’t quite bring himself to say the whole name. It sounded too much like something out of the pages of Mrs. Reid’s novel.

“The Black Tulip was in operation in the nineties. He had a habit of leaving calling cards behind.”

“Flowers?” inquired Lucien.

Mrs. Reid gave him a quelling look. She wasn’t accustomed to being interrupted right in the middle of a dramatic pause. “There were flowers. . . . And there were the flowers the Tulip carved into the flesh of his victims.”

“Charming,” said Miss Fitzhugh.

“No,” said Mrs. Reid. “It wasn’t.”

“Our flowers,” said Lucien hastily, “were quite real.” Quite real and quite deadly. “And our note was written on paper.” Not carved into flesh.

Although, was that really so different from the fang marks painted on the actress’s neck?

“He didn’t always carve his sign,” said Mrs. Reid, looking rather put out. “And he always chose black-haired confederates.
Female
black-haired confederates. They were his Petals of the Tulip.”

Mrs. Reid uttered the name in thrilling tones.

Lucien decided not to share his opinion that “petals of the tulip” sounded more like a sultan’s collection of concubines than a dangerous gang of assassins.

Turnip Fitzhugh raised a hand. “Er . . . ah . . . don’t like to put the fly in the ointment and all that, don’t you know . . . but isn’t the Tulip dead?”

That struck Lucien as a highly legitimate objection.

“Unless his ghost has returned from an unquiet grave, seeking revenge on those mortals who have disturbed his rest,” offered Miss Fitzhugh blandly. When the others turned to look at her, she held up her hands, palms out. “We have vampires. Why not ghosts?”

Despite himself, Lucien found himself swallowing a smile. “It is all rather . . . fantastical.”

Until one remembered that a woman had been killed the night before.

Mrs. Reid glared impartially at Miss Fitzhugh and Lucien. “The Black Tulip is no laughing matter, young man.” She began pacing rapidly across the marble floor. “I have always believed reports of the Tulip’s death to be highly overstated. You say the man you saw in the mist was masked?”

“The masked man in the mist,” murmured Turnip Fitzhugh. “Has a bit of a ring to it, what?”

“The Tulip,” said Mrs. Reid, thumping the floor with the point of her parasol, “was caught in an explosion of his own devising.”

“Hoist by his own petard, and all that,” said Turnip cheerfully. “Deuced dangerous things, petards.”

Mrs. Reid raised her voice to be heard over the extraneous commentary. “The Tulip would, if he survived, have been scarred. Hideously scarred.” She allowed that to sink in before adding, “I do not imagine that can have done much to improve his temperament. Yes?”

That last was to the butler, who had appeared through the green baize door and was hovering on the edge of the group, holding a package in front of him in a rather gingerly fashion. “Thith wath delivered for Mith Thally.”

The parcel was wrapped in brown paper with a series of holes making an abstract pattern along the top. It appeared to be vibrating.

“I say,” said Mr. Fitzhugh. “What’s making it go all thingummy?”

“Don’t touch that!” Lucien said, and threw himself between Miss Fitzhugh and the box, at the same time that Mrs. Reid struck at the box with her parasol, sending it tumbling to the ground. The string holding it shut burst.

Lucien thrust Miss Fitzhugh behind him and waited for the worst.

A small, brown object leapt out and streaked across the floor, releasing a strange, musky odor as it went. Mr. Fitzhugh lunged for the animal. Lizzy Reid coughed and held her nose. Agnes Wooliston clutched at her skirts. Parsnip clapped her hands in delight, laughing a joyful, gummy laugh.

Slowly, Lucien lowered his arms.

“What,” said Mrs. Reid, in tones of doom, “was that?”

Miss Fitzhugh’s face was buried in her hands, her shoulders shaking.

Lucien bent over her. She was doubled over, her entire body quivering. Lucien regarded her with concern.

“Miss Fitzhugh?” he said gently.

It had, after all, been a very trying two days.

Miss Fitzhugh lifted her head, and Lucien saw that she was shaking with laughter. She lifted one hand unsteadily to her damp eyes, blotting tears of mirth.

“I believe,” Miss Fitzhugh said unevenly, “that that is a st-st—”

“A what?” demanded Mrs. Reid.

“A stoat!” Miss Fitzhugh finally gasped out, and collapsed into another spasm of uncontrollable mirth.

“Small, weasel-like creature, don’t you know,” said Mr. Fitzhugh sagely. He dealt his sister a resounding whack on the back. “Like to eat rodents and lop the heads off bunnies and all that.”

The stoat, meanwhile, had taken refuge behind a bust of Charles I, and was regarding them all suspiciously from just above the martyred king’s lace collar.

Lucien couldn’t help himself. His lips began to twitch. He could feel a laugh fighting to work its way out of the back of his throat.

Miss Fitzhugh’s voice trembled with laughter. Her eyes met Lucien’s. “I have been told that she’s a very well-behaved stoat.”

“I know I shouldn’t ask,” said Arabella Fitzhugh, “but why have you been sent a stoat?”

“Because she doesn’t like poultry?” Agnes Wooliston ventured.

Miss Fitzhugh sent a reproachful look at her friend. “Do
not
mention the chickens.”

“I believe stoats eat chickens,” said Lucien thoughtfully.

“Really?” Miss Fitzhugh looked at him with interest. “What excellent news. Come here, you charming creature.”

She held out her arms to the stoat, which went chirping and chittering its way across the polished floor. Miss Fitzhugh scooped it neatly up, holding it this way and that to admire its little face and sleek fur. The two regarded each other with mutual fascination.

“I had a monkey once,” announced Lizzy Reid.

“A monkey isn’t a stoat,” said Miss Fitzhugh, stroking her new pet’s sleek fur. “I rather think we’ll start a fashion, won’t we, Lady Florence? You shall go beautifully with my winter wardrobe.”

Like Mrs. Fitzhugh, Lucien knew he shouldn’t ask, but he couldn’t help himself. “Lady who?”

Miss Fitzhugh stopped admiring her stoat long enough to hand him a note that had been tied with a ribbon to the stoat’s neck.

Dear Miss Fitzhugh
, ran the text.
This is your stoat, Lady Florence Oblong. I do hope you get along. Yours truly, Archibald Fitzwarren. P.S. . . .

“‘She prefers bunnies but mice will do,’” Lucien read aloud.

Miss Fitzhugh looked at the butler with wide eyes. “You will see to it, won’t you, Quimby?”

Quimby looked deeply pained.

“
No
, Parsnip,” said Mrs. Fitzhugh firmly, and pulled her daughter’s hand away from the stoat’s dangling tail.

Lucien looked quizzically at Miss Fitzhugh. “Do your admirers often send you stoats?”

Miss Fitzhugh chucked Lady Florence under the chin. “Most of them confine themselves to flowers.”

The reference to flowers had a sobering effect on both of them.

“Poisonous ones,” said Lucien quietly.

Mrs. Reid poked Miss Fitzhugh with her parasol. “Stop mooning over that creature and use the wits God gave you. We have a spy to catch. And I,” she added smugly, “have a plan.”

Why did Lucien feel a deep sense of foreboding?

“Does this plan involve going to the proper authorities?” he inquired.

“Young man,” said Mrs. Reid, looking at him repressively, “
I
am the proper authorities.”

“I thought she was a novelist,” murmured Lucien, moving closer to Miss Fitzhugh.

“Mrs. Reid,” explained Miss Fitzhugh, looking up from her stoat, “used to be second-in-command to the Pink Carnation. The Pink Carnation is—”

“Yes, I’ve heard of the Carnation.” He hadn’t paid much attention, but he had heard of the Pink Carnation. Lucien looked at Mrs. Reid with new interest. He had always assumed that spies would be less . . . purple.

“The Carnation will need to be notified,” Mrs. Reid said briskly. She turned sharply to Lucien. “You say your mother worked with the Black Tulip in the nineties?”

“It is a possibility.” He felt honor-bound to add, “There might have been an intermediary.”

Her mysterious “contact.” Who might or might not have been Sherry.

Miss Fitzhugh looked at him sympathetically.

“Either way”—Mrs. Reid brooded beneath her turban—“if the Tulip feels the need to distinguish you with his attentions, there must be something he fears that you might find. Where are your mother’s effects?”

Lucien was beginning to be accustomed to Mrs. Reid’s abrupt form of communication. “Some are here in London. Most are up north. At Hullingden.”

The name fell off his tongue like something out of myth. Camelot. Lyonesse. Hullingden.

It felt nearly as far away and out of reach as the other two.

“Then,” said Mrs. Reid, as if it were the simplest thing in the world, “we shall have to go to Hullingden.”

“My uncle is in residence there now,” Lucien hedged. “I’ve been away for some time.”

Mrs. Reid smiled a smile that made Lucien think of crocodiles. “Then what could possibly be more natural than that you would bring your betrothed?”

She turned and looked straight at Miss Fitzhugh.

“I—” Miss Fitzhugh blinked as the stoat whisked its tail against her chin. “Betrothed?”

“What Miss Fitzhugh said,” said Lucien. “Are you implying—?”

Mrs. Reid looked down her nose at them both. “I never imply. It takes far too much time. Yes, yes, this shall work quite nicely. You bring your betrothed; your betrothed brings her chaperone—I will be her chaperone,” she added, for the sake of those who needed everything spelled out, “and you will give me full access to your mother’s papers. Nothing could be simpler.”

“Aside from the small matter of matrimony,” Lucien felt obliged to point out.

“I say,” said Turnip Fitzhugh. “You can’t just go marrying a chap off like that. Not without his consent.”

“But marrying me off is perfectly all right?” demanded Miss Fitzhugh with some aspersion.

“No one is marrying anyone,” said Arabella Fitzhugh soothingly, and then spoiled it by adding, “Yet.”

“Is a betrothal entirely necessary?” demanded Miss Fitzhugh shrilly.

Her sister-in-law regarded her with some sympathy. “It is if you want to dash off without a chaperone.”

Miss Fitzhugh’s eyes narrowed. “A simple
I told you so
would have sufficed.” She looked around the room and, finding no support, turned to Lucien. “This—this is absurd! We’ve known each other all of a week! We can’t possibly—”

Mrs. Reid looked at her reprovingly. “You act as though no one has ever entered into a betrothal of convenience before.”

For once, Miss Fitzhugh appeared to be beyond words. From her shoulder, her stoat let out a low growl of either sympathy or hunger.

In the resulting silence, Lucien finally found his voice. “It’s not a bad plan.”

Miss Fitzhugh stared at him. “Not a bad plan?”

It wasn’t a bad plan. It was an absolutely insane plan. But it had a certain reckless appeal. And there were unintended benefits.

“The village outside Hullingden is small.” It wasn’t even a village; it was more of a hamlet. “Any strangers will be easily identifiable. If anyone attempts to follow us, we have a better chance of spotting them than we would in London.”

“You seem to be forgetting the small matter of our nuptials,” Miss Fitzhugh said testily.

“Not nuptials, betrothal.” Her relations were right; she couldn’t dash around chasing spies without a chaperone. And Lucien found he very much wanted her company. He had been dreading the idea of returning to Hullingden, of seeing it, and himself, changed. With Miss Fitzhugh, however, whatever his homecoming was, it wouldn’t be dull. “And you can always cry off later. She can cry off, can’t she?”

“On grounds of vampirism?” suggested the irrepressible Lizzy.

“That isn’t funny,” snapped Miss Fitzhugh.

Lucien moved to stand in front of her, creating a small circle of privacy. If one didn’t count the stoat, that was. It was watching from Miss Fitzhugh’s shoulder with every indication of interest.