The Mark of the Midnight Manzanilla A Pink Carnation Novel (33 page)

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.”

“How charming.” Sally sat down on the edge of the bed. “What do we do?”

“I,” said Miss Gwen, prodding at Sally with the blunt end of her teaspoon, “am going to finish my chapter. As for you, you can go do whatever you like. Go to the village and buy new ribbons. Annoy your hostess. Take your stoat for a walk.”

Lady Florence preferred to be carried. But that was beside the point. Sally slid off the side of the bed. “I meant something useful.”

And, more importantly, something that would keep her well out of Lucien’s way.

“You aren’t here to be useful. You are here to provide the experts with an entrée. Which you have done very nicely,” said Miss Gwen, in the tones of one making a great concession. She waved a hand at Sally. “Now run along and entertain yourself—there’s a good girl.”

“Entertain myself,” Sally repeated flatly. She wasn’t here to entertain herself. She was here to uncover a spy and cover herself with glory. Or something along those lines. “We only have three days. Shouldn’t I be—oh, I don’t know—questioning the servants? Looking for secret papers?”

“No,” said Miss Gwen.

“But—” Sally felt increasingly frantic. Surely, there had to be something she could do, something useful.

“No.” Miss Gwen snapped open her pince-nez and propped them back onto the bridge of her nose. “If you truly want to be useful—”

“Yes?”

“You can tell the maid to send up a fresh pot of chocolate.” Miss Gwen regarded her cup with displeasure. “This is undrinkable.”

“That didn’t stop you from drinking it,” said Sally, but only once the door was closed behind her.

Miss Gwen wasn’t quite as deadly with a teaspoon as she was with a parasol, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t bruise.

Sally stomped her way down to the inconveniently located dining room. If this were her house—but it wasn’t, and she didn’t have any business redesigning it. She didn’t have any business doing anything, apparently. She might as well just collect her stoat and go home. Never mind the fact that if it weren’t for her, Lucien would have gone off onto that balcony by himself and been found with the girl’s body and no one would have the least notion that the Black Tulip had risen from the dead, but, really, why let that weigh with anyone? She was just a pretty face—that was all. Buy herself new ribbons, indeed!

Although, to be fair, there had been some rather pretty primrose silk ribbons in that shop in the village that would go perfectly with her jonquil morning dress . . .

Sally spent an engrossing moment in sartorial calculations before remembering that she was meant to be above such shallow pursuits.

And the ribbons hadn’t been that pretty.

Dabney, who appeared to have a habit of omniscience as well as several useful tips on the care and feeding of stoats, opened the dining room door for her.

Sally nodded graciously to the butler as she passed through the doorway. “Thank you, Dab—”

She caught sight of Lucien at the sideboard, spearing a kipper, and her tongue froze.

“—ney,” she finished numbly.

Dabney closed the door behind her before she could bolt back towards the hall. She wasn’t entirely sure it was unintentional. For a split second, she contemplated escape. She needed a shawl—no, she had a shawl. A warmer shawl! Extra hairpins?

It was too late. Lucien had seen her. At least, Sally noticed with a certain grim satisfaction, there were dark circles under his eyes that matched the ones beneath hers.

Although that might be because he had spent the night on a cot while his cousin snored on his bed.

Lucien opened his mouth to say something. It might just have been “Good morning,” but Sally wasn’t taking any chances. It was best to set the tone early, before he could accuse her of attempting to ravish him.

“What have you done about your cousin?” Sally demanded, before he could say anything.

If he was at all affronted by her lack of a greeting, Lucien didn’t show it. “I left a basin by the side of the bed and a pitcher of water on the bedside table,” he said mildly. “Beyond that . . .”

It was entirely unfair that he should be so pleasant when Sally had spent the night trying very hard not to remember their kiss, which meant that she had remembered it every time she had tried not to remember it. “That’s not what I meant.”

Lucien lifted his plate, regarded a kipper with disfavor, and set it down again. “I’d forgotten how grisly these English breakfasts could be.” As Sally began to fidget with impatience, he added, in a conciliatory tone, “I intend to speak to my uncle about him.”

Sally looked at him sharply. “Not to Sir Matthew Egerton?”

Lucien busied himself in choosing a sausage, a matter which apparently required his full concentration. “Sir Matthew Egerton believes I’m all four horsemen of the apocalypse rolled into one. It would be a wasted interview.”

Sally boiled with frustration. “You mean you don’t want to expose your cousin to the full force of the law.”

“I didn’t say that.” Lucien carefully transferred a sausage onto his plate, but the extreme precision of his movements told Sally she had hit home. “If my uncle chooses to do so, he can go to Sir Matthew.”

It would have been better if he hadn’t sounded so entirely reasonable. When, in fact, nothing could have made less sense.

“In other words,” said Sally succinctly, “you’re not going to do anything at all.”

A flush rose in the duke’s cheeks. “I told you. I’m going to—”

“I know. Talk to your uncle. Your uncle isn’t the one being charged with murder.”

Lucien moved abruptly away from the sideboard. “No one has charged me with anything.”

“Yet.” Sally followed him, spoiling for a fight. “What happens when Sir Matthew Egerton shows up with his Bow Street Runners and a warrant for your arrest? Will you say anything then? Or will you just say ‘thank you very much’ as they clasp the manacles around your wrists?”

Lucien set his plate down with a clink. “That’s ridiculous.”

“Is it?” It was sunny outside, but the dining room was in gloom because Lady Henry didn’t like the curtains opened. It all made Sally want to stamp her feet with frustration. “You’re the duke. Act like one.”

Lucien straightened, looking Sally full in the face. “What,” he asked, with ominous calm, “is that supposed to mean?”

Chapter Twenty-one

Lucien gave Sally his most ducal glare, but Sally wasn’t the least bit daunted.

She set her hands on her hips. “All of this. You act like a guest in your own house. You sleep in a cot in your own room.”

“Was I meant to leave Hal on the floor?” Lucien’s words dripped with sarcasm.

“Yes! On the floor, on the cot, on the settee—”

The landscape conjured up by her words brought with it a host of illicit imaginings that did nothing to improve Lucien’s mood.

Sally waved her hands in the air. “It doesn’t matter where he slept. The point is that all this is yours. It’s your responsibility. And you behave as though you’re just passing through.”

“I have had other matters on my mind,” said Lucien, with dangerous civility. “I had my reasons for staying away.”

“Yes,” said Sally, throwing caution to the winds. “And it’s all quite dreadful, but you’ve been so busy brooding over the past—”

Lucien looked at her with smoldering eyes. “I do not brood!”

“What do you call that, then?” Sally’s voice rose with every word. “
As
I was saying, you’re so busy brooding over the past that you’ve entirely neglected the present! What did you plan to do when you solved your parents’ murders? Slink back off into the shadows? Do you know what I think?”

“No,” said Lucien in clipped tones. “But I am reasonably sure you intend to tell me.”

Sally glared at him, her blue eyes as bright and merciless as a cloudless summer sky. “I think that the real reason you stayed away so long had nothing to do with your parents at all. It was because you were afraid that if you came back, you might actually have to take responsibility for all this, and that—
this
—scares you silly.”