Anonymity was, after all, the hallmark of espionage.
What could it be? Directions, perhaps, mused Miles. Instructions from the Ministry of Police to their trusted spy, conveyed via a recently arrived operative. The other man's accent had sounded as though it might be French.
Nudging the candle closer, Miles slowly unfolded the page and held it up to the uncertain light. His eye caught the word "burn" heavily underscored.
Good God, had he stumbled upon a plan to burn Parliament? It would be just like Guy Fawkes, only without King James I.
Miles moved the note nearer to the candle, so close that the flame lapped dangerously at the edge of the fragile paper. He squinted at the spiky writing, which had been inconsiderately rendered in a pale brown ink.
"I burn for your touch," read the phrase in its entirety.
Damn. That didn't sound like a plan to blow up the houses of Parliament.
Miles returned his attention to the letter. "Every night, I dream of your embrace; I yearn for your voice at the window, and your hands on my — "
No, definitely not a plot to immolate the members of Parliament. Fiery, yes. Treasonous, no.
Miles moved on to the next paragraph, which contained more of the same. It could, he rationalized desperately, be merely a ploy in case the missive fell into the wrong hands. Make it look like a love letter and then slip in the pertinent information somewhere in the middle.
With an expression of great determination, Miles read the letter through from start to end. By the last line, he could safely say that there were no troop movements hidden in there. It might be in code… but it would take one perverse mind to come up with a code that detailed, that convincing, that graphic. Some of the descriptions made Cleland's Fanny Hill, a favorite piece of contraband among Miles's set at Eton, look positively restrained, even prim. Delaroche's mind was certainly perverse, but it didn't move in those particular channels.
The signature was entirely illegible, a long squiggle that might have been anything from Augusta to Xenophon. As for the salutation… well, "Dearest Love" was seldom a proper name. Oh, hell. A look of grim disgust spread across his face as he came to an unfortunate but inescapable conclusion. Miles dropped the paper onto the table, resisting the urge to follow it with his head, preferably banged very hard, several times in a row. Of all the idiot things to do! Since smiting himself was out, Miles reached for the gin instead. He had stolen the wrong bloody note.
Chapter Eight
Fashion Papers: the private files of the former Assistant to the Minister of Police
Midnight shrouded Delaroche's study. Dark lay heavy as dust on desk, cabinet, and chair, on the rough flagstones of the floor, and on the unadorned surface of the walls. The former assistant to the Minister of Police had, himself, departed half an hour before, closing his cabinets and realigning his chair in the cavity of his desk with mathematical precision. All was still in the office of the tenth-most-feared man in France.
Except for a quiver of movement along the far wall.
Like a waterbug skimming the surface at the edge of an algae-ridden lake, so subtly that it barely disturbed the enshrouding darkness, a tiny point of metal inched along the central join of the room's one small window. The sliver of metal encountered the hook that latched the window closed, and paused. Another moment and the metal continued to rise, like mercury in a barometer, carrying the hook with it.
The metal disappeared. The windowpanes, which had not been opened since the early days of the reign of Louis XIII, slid outward with an ease that bespoke hinges newly oiled. The quiet surface of the room rippled as a shadow, darker than the rest, oozed over the win-dowsill and swung neatly into the room. The windowpanes were, once again, eased closed, and latched for security. A length of cloth made its way from the intruder's shoulders over the uncurtained window. This night's work needed light to proceed, and light might call unwanted attention. A similar, smaller piece of thick-woven black cloth covered the small grille in the door.
Preparations complete, the silent figure drew out a small, shuttered lantern, and gently coaxed the flame into life. There was no fizz, no smoke, no crackle from the wick, just darkness one moment, and a gentle light the next.
The black-clad figure nodded in approval, and followed the subdued light in the direction of Delaroche's desk.
The chair, so carefully arranged a mere half hour before, was lifted gently back, and placed, with equal care, a short distance away, leaving just enough space for the dark figure to kneel under the desk, feeling with long, black-gloved fingers along the back wall. A prick of wood, no larger than a splinter, and like Sleeping Beauty falling softly into slumber, a panel of wood slipped back, revealing a cache just large enough to hold one file.
In one fluid movement, the black-garbed intruder backed out from under the desk, rising seamlessly to place the file on Delaroche's pristine blotter. One gloved hand tilted the little lantern closer, providing a steady stream of light as the other hand flipped quickly but steadily through the contents of the file, committing them to memory.
With two pages left to go, the lantern trembled, sending wavy lines of light dancing about the walls. The Pink Carnation quickly steadied the lantern, but her eyes, narrowed in concern, never left the closely written page.
So it had come to this, had it?
In the file, looking as innocent as only a piece of paper can look, sat a draft of Delaroche's latest instructions to the Black Tulip. And there, in the middle of the page, blazed the name "Lady Henrietta Selweecke."
The misspelling, the Pink Carnation knew, provided no hope of misdirection; it was merely an indication of Delaroche's contempt for the English, expressed through a willful misuse of the alphabet. The Black Tulip was, directed Delaroche, to allocate particular attention to Lady Henrietta Selweecke and M. Miles Doreengton, associates both of the perfidious Purple Gentian. Either would be in a position to make use of the former Purple Gentian's resources, his League and his contacts, to bedevil the French Republic. Any methods were acceptable. "Any methods" was heavily underscored.
The Pink Carnation scanned the page, mind working rapidly as her eyes moved across the rat's nest of Delaroche's handwriting, as familiar to her by now as her own.
If she had been of a different temperament, the Pink Carnation might have slammed the file shut or cursed or clasped her hands together to stop them from shaking. Being as she was, Jane Wooliston's, pale complexion turned a shade paler, her spine a tad straighter, and her lips thinned.
This wouldn't do at all.
She had — if her messengers had survived the journey — already apprised both Henrietta and the War Office of the presence of the Black Tulip in London. They would have to be warned immediately of this new development. She would send off a letter in code tonight. There was no need to break off contact with Henrietta; Delaroche suspected Henrietta only through her relationship to Richard, not her unusual volume of correspondence with France.
Wasn't that, thought Jane primly, returning the file to its hiding place, just like Delaroche to suspect the right person for all the wrong reasons?
It would have to be stopped. She would not have Henrietta falling into danger. Jane chose not to dwell on that ominous phrase "any methods," or the even darker stories she had gleaned of the Black Tulip's former activities. That wouldn't be of the slightest use to Henrietta or Mr. Dorrington. Jane moved her mind, instead, into more useful channels.