The Seduction of the Crimson Rose pc-4 Read online

  Vaughn had disappeared.

  Chapter Fourteen

  O where

  else Shall I inform my unacquainted feet

  In the blind mazes of this tangled wood?

  …O thievish Night,

  Why shouldst thou, but for some felonious end,

  In thy dark lantern thus close up the stars…"

  — John Milton, Comus

  Who dares not stir by day must walk by night.

  — William Shakespeare, King John, I, i

  Mary stared uncomprehendingly at the spot where Vaughn had been standing. He couldn't just go off and leave her. Except that he had. Vaughn was quite thoroughly and completely gone, leaving her with the task of keeping the assignation with the Black Tulip. Mary bit down hard on her lower lip, trying to tell herself that it didn't matter, just as if she hadn't spent the whole day anticipating the moment when she took to the shadowy paths with Vaughn, arm in arm, alone in a place legendary for illicit assignations.

  Well, she was alone, all right. Alone with a task to accomplish.

  Mary put her mask more firmly to her face and set about her own disappearance, determined to be well out of the way before her sister realized she was gone and, as she inevitably would, came after her, husband (and probably Turnip) in tow. Burrowing into the midst of a motley party, country cousins come to town judging by the antiquated cut of their clothes and the women's cries of pleasure at the brightly lit oil lanterns, the music floating from the Rotunda, and the cunning follies that lined the paths, Mary listed all the perfectly logical reasons why Vaughn might have disappeared. It had probably been silly of her to assume that he would accompany her in the first place, a notion born more out of daydream than logic. The spy might not show himself with Vaughn present — especially if the spy was Vaughn.

  Mary lingered on that last prospect. If the Black Tulip were, in fact, Vaughn, then he would be waiting for her somewhere in the dark walks. That would explain Vaughn's distraction, his sudden disappearance while her attention was elsewhere. It was harder to explain why Vaughn would engage in that sort of subterfuge. But then, Vaughn seldom needed a reason for subterfuge. It came to him as naturally as breathing. Perhaps he wanted to test her loyalty, to see how far she could be trusted. Perhaps he simply enjoyed the drama of it, the masked meeting in a dark grove under an assumed identity. Stranger plots had been laid, by minds less convoluted than Vaughn's. He was a man who never took a straight route when a circular one was to be had. Look at his chosen emblem, the snake's tail twisted and twined in a mastery of controlled misdirection.

  If Vaughn weren't the Black Tulip…Mary suppressed a shiver that had little to do with the bite of the October breeze that sent the dead leaves eddying along the edges of the walk. Not that there was any real danger, she told herself hastily. She was going to parlay, nothing more. She was only of use to the Black Tulip alive — and if the Black Tulip hadn't wanted anything to do with her, he need not have summoned her. Even so, there was something reassuring about the notion of Vaughn hiding himself in the crowds, following along behind her to her rendezvous with the French spy.

  Mary shifted to the side, trying to keep in the shadow of the great sycamore trees that lined the sides of the Grand Walk. The Grand Walk was far too bright for her taste, hung with the hundreds of oil lamps that had made Vauxhall such a wonder to those of her grandparents' generation. With the colder weather drawing in, the crowds, even on this most popular of Vauxhall's walkways, were sparse. Those who had ventured out preferred to cluster in the relative warmth of the Rotunda. Another week, and Vauxhall would be deserted entirely, closed for the winter.

  The golden statue of Aurora, one of the wonders of the gardens, glinted at the far end of the three-hundred-yard stretch. The light from the oil lamps reflected off the gold, turning the cul-de-sac nearly bright as day. That wouldn't do at all.

  Mary abandoned the well-lit Grand Walk, heading towards the Rural Downs, where an overgrown lead statue of Milton stared forever blind across the sycamores that lined the sides of the walk. If the Black Tulip were, indeed, Lord Vaughn, Mary doubted he would be able to resist the symbolism of Milton's statue. The memory of Vaughn's voice, quoting Paradise Lost, sent a reminiscent tingle down her spine, and made her set off towards her assignation with a much lighter foot. If it were Vaughn, waiting for her among the trees…

  Mary blundered through a stand of elms, towards a track still beaten enough to be a path but rustic enough to merit the name "rural," but there was no statue of Milton at the end of it to reward her labors, only a grotto whose dilapidated air appeared to be due more to neglect than design. Through the screen of trees, the Grand Walk seemed very far away, the occasional burst of laughter or snippet of conversation the disjointed outbursts of Shakespeare's sprites. The gravel was harsh beneath the thin soles of her slippers, the ground uneven here, where nature had begun to rebel against art, hard clumps of weeds poking through the path.

  If not the Rural Downs, perhaps this was the Druid's Walk? Mary began to wish she had taken the precaution of studying a plan of the gardens before they had left. In theory, in the close confines of Vaughn's luxurious Chinese chamber, losing herself among the paths at Vauxhall and waiting for the Black Tulip to come and find her had seemed quite simple. Lost on a rutted track amid a tangle of underbrush, Mary could think of several other words, also beginning with s. Silly was the mildest of them.

  It was so dark, that she could scarcely see to avoid the outcroppings of ill-clipped shrubbery. There were lanterns here, too, but some enterprising soul had smashed the glass bowls, leaving this part of the gardens in almost Stygian darkness. Ahead of her, a ghostly dome loomed among the trees, a folly meant to resemble a deserted pleasure palace. It was open on all sides, nothing more than a rounded roof supported by pillars, with a hard marble bench set in the middle, but Mary headed towards it gratefully. Among other things, a stubborn bit of gravel had worked its way into her left shoe.

  Disposing herself on the bench, she eased the offending slipper off her foot, relieving her feelings by slapping it against the bench somewhat more vigorously than the occasion required. It was ruined already. The decaying leaves on the path had left dark smears on the white satin and either twigs or gravel had raised snags and rents in the delicate fabric. She would, she thought wryly, giving it a final whack, just have to add the cost to Lord Vaughn's account. If she ever found her way back to the Grove. At this point, regaining civilization seemed like a far more pressing problem than the whereabouts of the putative Black Tulip.

  When the voice spoke behind her, she was caught like Cinderella, a shoe poised in one hand.

  "So you came," the voice rasped behind her.

  Mary instinctively started to rise, coming to an abrupt halt as her stockinged foot hit stone. She hastily dropped the hand holding the slipper, putting it behind her back in a motion as instinctive as it was counterproductive, considering that her visitor was standing behind her.

  Flushing, Mary would have turned, but a heavy hand on her shoulder forestalled her, forcing her back down onto the bench, the marble still warm from her body.

  "No, no. Do stay where you are. I believe we shall both be more…comfortable that way."

  The person behind her had spoken in French, perfectly accented despite the husky rasp that disguised what might have otherwise been a light tenor or even a deep alto voice. Mary's French was grammatical enough — most of the time — but her accent tended more to Hertfordshire than Paris.

  "Wouldn't you like to sit?" she asked in English, hastily fitting her shoe back on her foot. Offered, as they were, to a ruthless spy in the middle of a dark wood, the words felt ridiculously mundane.

  The Black Tulip must have felt the same way, because she could hear the current of amusement in his voice as he murmured, "I think not."

  The pressure on her shoulder shifted but didn't subside as the Black Tulip settled himself more comfortably behind her, just out of her range of vision. It was infuriating
to sense him behind her, to feel the warmth of a human body, to know he was there, but to have no image to put to it. Kneeling behind her, he robbed her of even an impression of height, and the hands heavy on her shoulders prevented any hope of surprising him with a quick turn.

  So far, she thought grimly, she wasn't making a very good showing. With one movement, the Black Tulip had blinded and immobilized her. Of course, she reminded herself, he had been at this a great deal longer than she had. She wouldn't fall for the same trick again.

  Staring straight ahead, Mary waited in tense expectation for the Black Tulip's next move.

  "So," said the Black Tulip at long last, "you wish to be of service to the cause."

  There was no need to explain what that cause might be.

  "Oh yes!" said Mary innocently. "Did Mr. Rathbone tell you? I so hoped he would."

  The fingers on her shoulders tightened, clamped down like a vise on wood, grinding straight to the bone. "Let us not play games, mademoiselle."

  "Games?" She would have bruises to show for this, Mary thought vaguely, resisting the urge to squirm under the bruising grip. There would be no off-the-shoulder gowns for at least a week.

  "Why do you wish to join our great enterprise?"

  Mary did not need the pressure of his fingers to tell her that she needed to make her response convincing. On the other hand, if he weren't the Black Tulip at all, if he were a counterspy or a government agent, she risked more than a handful of bruises. The penalties for traitors had a medieval vigor about them.

  Mary chose her words cautiously. "I have no love for the current regime."

  "That does not mean you have any great love for us."

  Mary pressed both her eyes shut. "Revenge is often a stronger motive than love, Monsieur."

  "True." The grip on her shoulders loosened. "True. On whom do you wish to exact revenge, my little Fury?"

  "That whole self-satisfied bouquet of flower spies." Mary's voice was as hard and cold as Lady Macbeth's decreeing Duncan's downfall. "They all laughed when Pinchingdale jilted me. Selwick, Dorrington, the lot of them. I'll see that they don't laugh again."

  "The Pink Carnation, too?"

  Mary shrugged, her shoulders rippling beneath his hands. "I don't know who he is, but they're all related somehow. That's why I've come to you. I want to tear them out, root and branch."

  "And what of Lord Vaughn?"

  The Black Tulip leaned so near that Mary could feel the brush of his breath across her cheek, fanning the fine strands of her hair. She could smell the rich leather of the glove that lay so heavily on her shoulder. A faint tang of cologne clung to his person, rich and familiar. She could even make out, ever so faintly, the impression of a ring pressing against her shoulder through the fine leather of the glove.

  "What of him?" Mary questioned, wondering if the shank of the ring might, in fact, lead to a large diamond on an elegant-fingered hand, the same she had felt around her own less than half an hour before. Half an hour was more than enough time to draw on a pair of gloves and a mask and follow her as she blundered about the unfamiliar walks.

  "Does he…share your aspirations?" His breath teased her ear.

  The hairs on the back of her neck prickled in the waiting silence. Holding herself very still, feeling as though her spine were made of glass, Mary replied carefully, "Lord Vaughn keeps his own counsel. He allows no one close to him."

  The Black Tulip's gloved hand traced a path from her shoulder to her neck. For a moment, Mary relaxed into the brush of warm leather against her skin, the movement caressing, even tender. But he didn't stop there. His hand was moving up, firmer now, pressing against her throat, tilting back her chin, with an insistent pressure that was no less relentless for its measured progress.

  Mary stiffened, but it was too late; with two fingers against her jaw, the Black Tulip tipped her head inexorably backwards, setting off the clean line of her throat and the perfection of her profile like a horse trader putting a beast through its paces. He tilted her chin until she thought her neck couldn't possibly bend any farther, and still the relentless pressure continued, pressing back, back, like a medieval inquisitor winding a rack until muscles and joints all split and cracked.

  "Not even," the Black Tulip murmured, "a woman of such beauty as yourself?"

  Mary's neck ached at the unnatural angle, and her throat felt tight. She was scared, more scared than she had ever been. With one careless movement, he could snap her neck back like a broken spring — and she sensed that he would do it, too, with no more regret than a small boy's tearing the wings off a fly.

  It was only through a sheer act of will that she managed to keep her voice cool and level. "You flatter me, Monsieur."

  With a deep chuckle, the Black Tulip released his bruising grip, letting her head sag forward.

  "Do you know," he said musingly, as Mary sucked air into her tortured lungs, "you just might do. But that name," he added, "will not. Your predecessor called me by another name. She called me mon seigneur."

  His voice divided the word into two, not the title of a lord of the church, but the old appellation for a sovereign or a liege lord.

  "Mon seigneur," Mary repeated softly, wondering why it felt like the opening formalities to a pact with the devil. There was something about the archaic ring of it that awakened superstitions she had never known she had.

  "It sounds well on your lips." Gloved fingers fleetingly brushed her lower lip.

  Mary steeled herself not to clamp her lips shut. It was maddening being forced to sit still, maddening not being able to see his face, maddening knowing only a pair of hands and a warm, taunting presence in the dark.

  Mad. The word clicked into place with uncomfortable clarity. Whoever he was, there could be no doubt that the person behind her was more than a little bit mad. The slide of his fingers across her face seemed to leave a trail of ooze in their wake, something unnatural and unhealthy.

  The hand moved to her cheek, tilted her face first to one side, then the other. "I only knew one other who was your equal. But she proved false. Will you?"

  "How can one possibly answer that?" retorted Mary, shaken into honesty. "If I make protestations of fidelity, you have no reason to believe me. I wouldn't."

  "Well said, ma belle."

  She didn't want to be his beauty. His careless words — was anything the Black Tulip said careless? — about her predecessor danced back before her. He might have only meant her prior counterpart, but Mary knew better. Whoever her predecessor had been, the Black Tulip meant the word literally. Deceased. Dead.

  Like Bluebeard's wives, the Black Tulip's beauties had an uneasy time of it.

  How had Bluebeard's last wife escaped? Mary rooted about in her memory of half-remembered nursery tales. It was something to do with a tower. Sister Anne, Sister Anne…That was it. Her loyal sister had stood watch in the tower, waiting for their brothers to come charging to the rescue. The beleaguered wife had called out to her sister, again and again, until her rescuers reached the castle, just in the nick of time.

  Given that Mary had deliberately evaded her sister, she didn't think that was going to help her much. There was nothing for it but to try her luck with Bluebeard.

  "Does that mean — you will accept me?" She didn't have to feign the slight tremor in her voice.

  He enjoyed her fear, she could tell. Resting both hands again on her shoulders, his voice was rich with satisfaction as he mulled aloud, "I believe a trial is in order. A test of your loyalty."

  "What would you have me do?" No matter how she bent her eyes, she couldn't see more than the very tips of his fingers, the black of his gloves blending with the black of her cloak.

  The Black Tulip thought for a long moment, his palms pressing against Mary's shoulders. Mary sat very still, scarcely breathing beneath his weight. A trial — or a sacrifice? She had, after all, spoken of wanting revenge. What better way of testing her loyalty, that putting her to a test of her word.

  Mary's finge
rnails bit into her palms.

  "How may I serve, mon seigneur?" she asked softly, sounding as docile as she knew how.

  The Black Tulip's fingers tapped thoughtfully against her shoulders. "The King proposes to review volunteers in Hyde Park the week after next — the twenty-sixth of October."

  "Meet me in Hyde Park on the day for further instructions. You may," he added as an afterthought, "bring an escort. In fact, you should. The crowd will be rough."

  "How will I know you?" Mary asked. "Won't you at least give some identifying characteristic, some sign?"

  The Black Tulip laughed low in his throat, ruffling the back of Mary's hair. "Oh, don't worry. I'll make myself known."

  The last thing Mary heard, before the world went black, was the Black Tulip's voice, in a whisper as lingering as a kiss.

  "You won't be able to mistake me."

  Chapter Fifteen

  I pray you, do not fall in love with me,

  For I am falser than vows made in wine.

  — William Shakespeare, As You Like It, III, v

  Whoever the Black Tulip was, he wasn't Vaughn.

  It took Mary some time to extract herself from the black cloth the Tulip had taken the precaution of tossing over her head. It was a simple trick, but an effective one. In her panic at her sudden blindness, she had flailed out, expecting worse to come. Nothing did. Instead of a rope around her arms or a knife against her throat, Mary found herself striking at empty air.

  By the time she plucked the piece of cloth from her eyes, the Black Tulip was long gone. As a means of frustrating pursuit, it was crude but effective.

  She would be prepared for that trick next time, too.

  Mary dropped the piece of black cloth beside the bench with unconcealed distaste, scrubbing her palms against her skirt. Straightening slowly, Mary drew her cloak more tightly about her, wishing she could climb into a tub of boiling water and scrub. Her throat stung where the Black Tulip had favored her with his iron caress, and she could still feel the imprint of his hands upon her shoulders.