Through her pine prison, Henrietta could hear the door of the sitting room opening, the murmur of a servant's voice, too soft to catch a name, and then the entrance of a pair of booted feet.
With resigned fatalism, Henrietta reapplied her eye to the knothole. It was, unfortunately, only about four feet off the ground, providing her with an excellent view of the marquise, as she elegantly unfolded herself from the couch, slowly stretching yards of leg in a way designed to show them off to their best effect. It was, thought Henrietta, spine as stiff as the Dowager Duchess of Dovedale's, positively indecent. And why couldn't she look like that?
The marquise held out a jewel-laden hand to the possessor of the heavy footsteps in a gesture so effortlessly graceful that Henrietta nearly applauded at the sheer virtuosity of it.
Her gentleman caller, no doubt equally enthralled, came forward to bow over the hand, moving directly across Henrietta's knothole. Back to Henrietta, he bowed over the marquise's hand. It was a broad enough back, encased in a skintight coat, as the fashion demanded. But it wasn't Miles's back.
Henrietta sagged against the side of the cupboard, overcome with such blinding, overwhelming relief, that for a moment it seemed entirely immaterial that she was crouched in someone else's empty furniture. It wasn't Miles. Of course it wasn't Miles. How could she ever have doubted him?
But if it wasn't Miles, who was it? And why would the marquise have assumed that the mystery caller was of any particular significance to Henrietta? If Henrietta remembered correctly, "little friend" took on an altogether more suggestive meaning in French than it did in English.
The gentleman was still standing, leaving Henrietta with only a swathe of torso visible through her knothole. But he had been considerate enough to turn slightly, displaying an expanse of embroidered waistcoat, a waistcoat adorned with a veritable garden of tiny pink carnations. Only one man in London — or, at any rate, only one man in London of Henrietta's acquaintance — would wear such an execrably ugly waistcoat, and compound the sartorial solecism by combining it with a carnation pink jacket.
What on earth had Turnip Fitzhugh to do with the marquise?
"I cannot say how delighted I am to see you again, Mr. Fitzhugh." The purr was back in the marquise's voice.
Again?
"Delight's all mine," Turnip reassured her, brandishing a large bouquet. "Lots and lots of delight."
A dozen types of wild surmise began to skitter about Henrietta's head.
Turnip and the marquise had both been at the inn; the unknown gallant (otherwise known as the marquise) had hovered by their table, had cast several long glances in their direction. Could Turnip and the marquise be lovers? It was difficult to imagine the fastidious marquise in the arms of Turnip, who combined one of the best natures in the world with an utter lack of sense or taste. Henrietta doubted that the marquise would have any appreciation for the former. On the other hand, Turnip also possessed a veritable pirate's trove of golden guineas; the Fitzhugh fortune was managed by very responsible bankers in the City, and not all of Turnip's waistcoat purchases had so much as dimpled the principal. The marquise might not prize an earnest heart, but she would no doubt cherish, honor, and obey fifty thousand pounds a year, a townhouse in Mayfair, and three country estates, one with a rather nice collection of Raphael's lesser-known Madonnas.
It did make a certain amount of sense. Even the "little friend" comment fell neatly into the pattern. As an old schoolmate of Richard's, Turnip frequently did his duty to the demands of long acquaintance by leading Henrietta out for the odd quadrille, or fetching lemonade on those occasions when Miles was not to be found. Having seen them together at the inn, the marquise must have marked Henrietta out as a rival for access to the Fitzhugh coffers. It was an explanation that fit very well with the dowager's description of the marquise's character, and entirely removed any possibility of branding her a dangerous French spy. Henrietta couldn't help but feel some slight disappointment at the latter. The marquise motioned to someone outside of Henrietta's very limited line of vision. "Jean-Luc, would you be so kind as to fetch the coffee?"
In the marquise's throaty voice, even a prosaic term like "coffee" managed to smolder with significance.
"I can't say I'm much one for coffee myself," confided Turnip, disposing himself on the settee, and comfortably stretching his long legs out in front of him.
The marquise joined him in a filmy swirl of draperies. "Why, Mr. Fitzhugh, I intend to make you a coffee you cannot refuse."
"Devilish good coffee, then?" enquired Turnip.
"The very strongest," assured the marquise, laying a manicured hand lightly on his thigh.
Henrietta rolled her eyes at the inside of the cupboard door. This was getting ridiculous! She had plunged from the heights of espionage into the depths of French farce. It was time to go home, and confess all to Miles — or maybe not all. Henrietta's shoulders would have sagged had there been room for them to do so. It would be very hard to explain away wild fits of jealousy without revealing the existence of an emotion that would undoubtedly send Miles fleeing to the nearest opera house. There had been no allowance in their bargain for anything stronger than fondness, and certainly not for those three dangerous little words. Suddenly, remaining in the marquise's cupboard indefinitely began to seem like a very attractive way to spend the rest of the afternoon.
There was nothing, reflected Henrietta, shifting uncomfortably on numb legs, like crouching in servant's clothing in someone else's closet to make one realize how low one had sunk. She used to have an orderly life, a sensible life. Her friends came to her for advice. Everyone liked her. And where was she now? Contemplating becoming a closet gnome.
Henrietta experimentally rattled the cupboard door. The latch held, but, like everything else in the house, it didn't feel terribly sturdy. Henrietta tried again.
"I say," said Turnip, looking quizzically at the suddenly shaking piece of furniture. "I do believe your armoire is trying to move."
For a moment, the marquise's seductive mask dropped, to be replaced by an expression of pure annoyance. Henrietta gathered that when the marquise put people places, she expected them to stay put. That thought was enough to make Henrietta rattle the latch again.
"It's nothing but a draught," explained the marquise through clenched teeth. "Old houses like this are full of draughts. They whistle through the walls like rumor. And we all know how rumor can spread, don't we, Mr. Fitzhugh?"
"Soul of discretion, myself," Turnip strove to reassure her. "Mummer than the tomb. Quieter than a corpse. Closer-lipped than a — "
"But who knows," the marquise broke into Turnip's spate of similes, "what a mere moment's indiscretion may do?"
Henrietta knew, but declined to volunteer her expertise. The marquise's question had sounded more rhetorical than otherwise.
"One must be so careful in these trying, trying days. One little word, one little slip, can be someone's undoing. Ah, thank you, Jean-Luc."
A heavy silver tray was set down in front of the marquise, its baroque opulence at odds with the faded and snagged upholstery of the settee. Henrietta wondered if she had smuggled it out of France with her; it wasn't the sort of item one could sew discreetly into the hem of one's cloak.