Vaughn winced. "A better name, I should think. No, no, don't bother. It will do for present. My friend seeks your assistance in the removal of a particular thorn. A thorn called the Black Tulip."
Mary took great pleasure in saying, "You are mixing your horticultural metaphors, my lord. Am I meant to know who this unusually thorny Tulip is?"
"If any of us knew who it actually was, there would be no need to enlist you." Having scored his retaliatory point, Vaughn went on: "The Black Tulip is the nom de guerre of a spy in the employ of the French government. He started off, in the usual way of such creatures, by leaving arch notes in inconvenient places. Along the way, however, he developed an irritating habit of skewering English agents. The, ahem, Rosebud would like to see him removed."
"And you want me to bring you his head on a platter?" Mary made no effort to hide her derision.
"Metaphorically speaking. I gather that the platter is optional these days." Vaughn paused to admire the effect of his rings before adding, "You have, shall we say, certain attributes that would be most advantageous to the goal in question."
Men had admired Mary's attributes before. This was, however, one of the more ingenious stories she had been presented with.
"You must think I am very green," she said gently.
"Oh, not so very green." Lord Vaughn's eyes danced silver. "Just a trifle chartreuse around the edges."
"Inebriating?"
"Unschooled."
That would teach her to fish for compliments from Lord Vaughn. "Not so unschooled as to believe that any spy would seek me out to serve as his personal assassin."
"Ah, that explains it." Lord Vaughn's understanding smile was a miracle of polite derision. "Your role would be merely a — how shall I put this? A decorative one. You do have some experience in that field, I believe. Your services are required not as assassin, but as bait."
Well, that certainly put her in her place. Mary raised a brow. "Weren't there any other convenient worms to hand?"
"None so well suited as you." Oh, bother, she had walked right into that one. Before Mary could come up with a suitably cutting rejoinder about snakes and their habits, Vaughn went on: "The Black Tulip has a curious conceit. He makes it a point to employ women with your particular coloring. They are" — Vaughn paused for good effect before delivering the pièce de résistance — "the petals of the Tulip."
"How poetic. And how entirely absurd."
"My dear girl, the whole lot of them are absurd, from the Purple Wonder in the other room to every fop in London who pins a carnation to his hat and tells his friends he's turned hero. Nonetheless, they still manage to cause a good deal of bother."
Torchlight slashed in a jagged angle across Vaughn's face, slicing across his nose, leaving his eyes in shadow. In the orange light, the lines around his mouth seemed more deeply graven than usual.
"A very great deal of bother," he repeated.
Despite herself, Mary's attention was caught. The improbable tale of rosebuds and tulips might have been nothing more than a polished line of patter, designed to capitalize on the current craze for gentlemen spies. But a man didn't feign that sort of bitterness. Not a man like Vaughn, at any rate. To acknowledge pain was to acknowledge that one was capable of sustaining a wound — in short, that one was capable of deeper feeling. It wasn't in Vaughn's style. Or, for that matter, in hers.
"And so," said Mary, "you introduce the bait."
"The Tulip," explained Vaughn, "is currently running rather short of petals. Unless his habits have changed, the Black Tulip will be in want of fresh recruits. Women of your coloring are rare in this part of the world. Hence my errand tonight."
"I see." Mary took a small turn about the corridor. The train of her dress whispered along the floor behind her, dragging with it a decade's worth of dust, undoubtedly turning her hem as murky as her musings. "You do realize that this is all highly irregular."
"To say the least," Vaughn agreed calmly. "There's no need to rush to a decision. Take some time to think about my proposition. Mull it over in the deepest depths of your maidenly bosom. I would, however, advise against unburdening yourself to your friends."
Mary nearly smiled at that. Friends. Ha. Her "friends" had been the first to claw her reputation to shreds when word of Geoffrey's defection exploded through the ton. That was one lesson one learned quickly on the bloody battlefield of Almack's. Confidantes were a luxury a clever woman could ill afford. To confide in others was to invite betrayal.
Mary lifted her chin. "I keep my own counsel."
"A wise choice. Should you accept, your duties will be minimal. There is, of course, the appeal of patria to be considered," Vaughn added as an afterthought. "Rule Britannia and pass the mutton."
Vaughn had obviously never tasted mutton. If he had, he wouldn't joke about it. "How could one help but be swayed by such a rousing appeal?"
"Spoken like a true and loving daughter of our scepter'd isle."
"I can do no better than to model myself on you."
"Alas for England." There was something oddly engaging about the way his mouth twisted up at one corner in self-mockery. "Sharper than serpent's tooth…There is something else, however, that might quicken your filial piety."
"What could possibly move me more than mutton?"
Beneath their heavy lids, Vaughn's pale eyes glinted with pleasurable anticipation, like an experienced cardplayer about to lay down a winning hand. "Something we haven't yet discussed. The small matter of remuneration."
Mary schooled her face to stillness, but she wasn't quick enough. Whatever Vaughn was looking for, he found it. His tone was insufferably smug as he added, "You will be paid. Handsomely."
Crossing his arms, he leaned back against a bust of the sixth Baron Pinchingdale and waited for her assent, the silver threads on his cuffs winking insolently in the torchlight.
He looked so vilely sure of himself — so vilely sure of her! So he thought that was all is would take to get her to say yes, did he? All he needed to do was dangle a few pieces of gold in front of the venal little creature and watch her jump.
Well, she wasn't going to jump for him. Not for an unspecified sum, at any rate. He'd have to do rather better than that.
Striking her most stately attitude, Mary raked her sapphire gaze across Vaughn's face with royal scorn.
"An amusing proposition, my lord, but I'm afraid you will simply have to ask elsewhere." Without waiting for his reaction, she turned on one heel, using the sweep of her long skirt to good effect. "I cannot imagine any recompense you might offer that would be of any interest to me."
Basking in self-satisfaction, Mary swished regally down the long corridor, giving Vaughn an excellent view of her elegant back and graceful carriage. Ha! There really was nothing quite like a good exit.
Except, perhaps, for a good last word. Vaughn's amused voice snaked after her as she sailed imperiously down the gallery.
"Can't you? I can…."
Chapter Three
Alack, when once our grace we have forgot,
Nothing goes right; we would and we would not.
Mary stubbed her toe.
Fortunately, she managed to turn her stumble into a flounce, using the momentum to propel herself forwards, away from the mocking echo of Vaughn's voice. Even the architecture appeared to be in league with him. The words bounced off the arched vault of the ceiling, following Mary clear down the length of the corridor.
He would have to get the last word, wouldn't he?
Mary had to admit to a certain grudging admiration for his technique. It had been beautifully done. He had waited until she was just far enough away that she would have had to stop, turn, and screech like a fishwife if she wanted to get a last word in. And what could one possibly reply to "I can"? The only response that came readily to mind was, "Well, I can't." Sophisticated stuff, that.