"Has Theresa" — the way Vaughn drawled the name, drawing out the central vowel, resonated with insult — "told you about her activities in Paris? Marat, Danton, Robespierre, all friends of our fair Theresa. Of course, that was many years ago, when it was still fashionable to court the extreme. But you didn't stop there, did you?"
"You knew them, too."
"It was an intellectual exercise for me. But not for you, was it?" Vaughn tapped a finger thoughtfully against the enameled lid of his snuffbox. "I must say, you have surprised me. I shouldn't have thought you would like your new masters any better than your old ones."
"You never understood," the marquise replied scornfully.
"Far better than you, I believe," countered Vaughn. "With your brave new Republic baptized in blood. Was it worth it, Theresa?"
"Can you ask?"
"Can you answer?"
"Can you save the Platonic dialogue for some other occasion?" demanded Miles, stomping over towards* the marquise. "As fascinating as I'm sure we all find this little window into your past, Vaughn, I, for one, will feel better when our flowery friend here is safely in the custody of the War Office."
"I second that," said Henrietta, rubbing her bruised arm. Little welts were already beginning to form where the marquise's fingernails had bitten into her skin, complementing the graze on Henrietta's forehead, the scratches on her knees, and more contusions than she cared to think about.
Vaughn's sword rang free of its scabbard.
Miles whirled into a defensive crouch, casting about for something with which to fight him. Catching sight of a large metal object on the floor, he grabbed for Henrietta's discarded shovel and raised it to the ready. Vaughn ignored him. Instead of turning his sword on Henrietta or Miles, Vaughn put the gleaming tip to the marquise's throat. In a movement so delicate that it didn't even raise a line on her pale skin, he drew out a gleaming silver chain.
"You might want to show this little bagatelle to your superiors when you deliver our charming Theresa to them," Vaughn said mildly.
Miles let the shovel drop, looking rather disappointed at being balked of the chance to bludgeon Vaughn.
Henrietta let out all her pent-up breath. She hadn't thought she was that terribly obvious, but Vaughn quirked a jaded eye in her direction. As Miles bent to examine the marquise's necklace, Vaughn sheathed his sword and took a step towards Henrietta.
"Did you really think I was going to use that on you?"
Henrietta made an apologetic face. "The evidence really was quite damning."
Vaughn's voice was rich with shared memory, smoky and evocative as incense. "So I remain doomed to be damned, Lady Henrietta?"
As always with Vaughn, Henrietta felt her way uncertainly through a verbal maze. This time, however, she was quite sure there were no dragons lurking in its depths.
"Not in that particular circle of inferno," she said firmly, tilting her head towards the marquise. Miles was examining the marquise's necklace, which happened to be resting just above a very impressive display of cleavage. Quashing that line of thought, Henrietta forcibly dragged her attention back to Vaughn. "Whether you linger in other nether regions is, as I told you before, entirely your own affair."
"Dante," commented Vaughn lightly, "had Beatrice to lead him from the depths."
Henrietta resisted the urge to crane her neck around to monitor Miles, and forced herself to smile pleasantly at Vaughn. It was always quite flattering to be compared to literary heroines, even of the more milk-and-water variety. And it was even more flattering to have attached a man of wit and cultivation, even if, like Shakespeare's Beatrice (not to be corn-pared with Dante's), Henrietta found him too costly for workaday use. It would, Henrietta imagined, grow irksome to be perpetually marching through a maze of someone else's devising, to be forever fencing and weighing meanings over the breakfast table and in the bedchamber.
There was nothing subde about Miles. Henrietta lost the battle with herself and peeked. Miles, gratifyingly, was paying very little attention to the marquise's more obvious attributes. Instead, his gaze was fixed upon Henrietta and Vaughn with a scowl that needed very little interpretation.
Henrietta turned back to Vaughn feeling immeasurably cheered.
"I think that you'd be rather bored by a Beatrice," she advised firmly. "What you need is a Boadicea."
"I'll bear that in mind the next time I come upon a band of marauding Britons," said Vaughn dryly. "I've always liked women in blue." Miles's scowl erupted into a loud growling noise. "If I might interrupt?" Henrietta hurried the few paces to his side and peered over his shoulder. "What did you find?"
From the central panel of the large diamond-studded cross that hung about the marquise's neck, Miles had extracted a thin roll of paper. The writing was small, and in French, bits of it reduced to numbers, but the import was still clear.
"My goodness," echoed Henrietta.
"She used to keep love letters in there," said Vaughn, coming up behind them.
"Yours?" asked Miles.
"Among others," said Vaughn. He shrugged. "I consider it a passing phase, like the measles — only sooner cured and with fewer lingering effects."
"The sides also open," Miles told Henrietta, ignoring Vaughn. He opened his fist to reveal a small silver seal. Henrietta plucked it from his palm, turning it over. Incised into the surface, dulled with years of wax, but still legible, was the rounded outline of a small but distinctive flower. A tulip.
"And this," said Miles grimly, opening his other palm to reveal a small vial, fashioned out of glass, and filled with a grainy substance that shifted with the movement of Miles's hand.
"What is it?" asked Henrietta.
"Enough poison to put half of London off their dinners — permanently," supplied Vaughn, assessing the white powder with a practiced eye.
"Enough to see her swing, that's for certain," said Miles, favoring Vaughn with a cprl of his lip that strongly suggested just which Londoner Miles would like to see put permanently off his dinner.
Vaughn turned to Henrietta and executed a practiced obeisance. "Leaving London," he said, face and voice perfectly bland, "free for the fair to reign unhindered."
Henrietta, face streaked with grime and hair in a snarl, rolled her eyes.
Miles reacted somewhat more strongly. He dropped the marquise's necklace and rounded on Vaughn.
"She's taken," gritted out Miles. "So you can just stop looking at her like that."
"Like what?" asked Vaughn, enjoying himself hugely.
"Like you want to take her home and add her to your harem!"
Vaughn considered, "Last I looked, I wasn't in possession of one, but you know, Dorrington, it really is an excellent idea. I shall have to see to it at once."
Henrietta, who had been watching the exchange with hands on hips and mounting incredulity, marched in between the two men.
"In case you forgot, I'm standing right here. Hello!" She executed a sarcastic little wave. "And I'm not," she said with a repressive glower at Vaughn, "being carted off to anyone's harem."
"I can see that," replied Vaughn, the laugh lines at the corners of his eyes deepening. "You would be dreadful for morale. Even if pleasing to the eye. No," he shook his head, "the Chief Eunuch would never agree."
"It's not the eunuch I'm worried about. He" — Miles jabbed a finger at Vaughn, looking fiercely at Henrietta as he did so — "is just a rake."
"Just?" murmured Vaughn. "I prefer to regard it as a way of life."
Miles ignored him. "He may be able to turn a clever phrase, and do that… thing with his cravat — "
"A design of my own devising," interjected Vaughn blandly. He subsided with a slight gurgling noise as Henrietta's foot descended heavily on his.