Geoff tried to conjure up Mary's image, but it was as one-dimensional as the scenery propped against the walls. When he tried to remember just what it was he had loved about her—did love about her—all he could come up with was the graceful tilt of her head, the serene beauty of her smile. Storybook images, all of them, like the maiden waiting in the tower at the end of a quest, never half so important as the adventure itself. He had plotted and schemed for her dances, spent hours gazing longingly at her across a multitude of unmemorable ballrooms, and scraped the limits of the lexicon for words to describe her beauty in verse—but he couldn't remember one memorable word she had uttered, or have said with any certainty whether her favorite color was green or blue.
Ballrooms and musicales were no way to get to know someone; a few words of conversation, and then the patterns of the dance pulled you apart again. With Mary, there had always been a dozen eager swains clamoring to drag her away again. It was nothing like the artificial intimacy of a mission, the long hours spent poring over a map or a code, the thrill of a shared adventure.
Except that there was nothing artificial about Letty. Geoff had never, in all his perambulations through high society and low, ever met anyone quite so entirely herself, so completely immune from pretense. She couldn't dissemble if she tried. And she had tried. Watching her attempt to bandy double meanings with Lord Vaughn would have been enough to make Geoff laugh, if he hadn't been so blazingly angry with her at the time. And tonight…Despite himself, Geoff grinned at the memory of Letty disclaiming any familiarity with the English language. She would never make a spy.
It wasn't that she didn't try. She did. But every single thought that crossed her mind blazoned itself on her face, like a medieval clock with all the workings out in the open. Her preferred method of solving a problem was not to tiptoe around the edges of it, but to barge right through. Effective, for the most part, but about as subtle as a rampaging bull. After a decade of dwelling among people who changed their aliases more frequently than they changed their linen, Geoff found it oddly refreshing.
But it made his original conclusions regarding her role in their elopement harder and harder to justify.
And if he had been wrong…that meant he had wronged her. Rather badly.
Voices—English voices—caught Geoff's attention. With reflexes honed by hundreds of midnight missions, he slid seamlessly up against the wall, a shadow against shadows. A few steps more and he would have gone too far, bypassing the half-open door of a darkened dressing room, no different from a dozen other unused dressing rooms. Except that this one, despite the lack of lamps, was currently in use.
It might have been an assignation, but the sounds involved were not those of pleasure.
As Geoff positioned himself to the side of the doorframe, he heard the first voice say, "She is becoming a distinct liability."
The speaker wasn't Vaughn.
It was a woman's voice, low-pitched, grating in its tonelessness. From his vantage point next to the doorframe, Geoff couldn't make out the speaker. The door opened in, not out, and she was somewhere to his left, behind that inconvenient slab of wood. But he could picture her features, their classical perfection at variance with the flat tones of her voice. High cheekbones, skin as white as any poet could desire, sultry black eyes, and a come-hither smile.
The Marquise de Montval. The Black Tulip herself.
Her companion detached himself from his seat at the vanity and strolled dangerously close to Geoff's hiding place. The cane swinging from his right hand was as unmistakable as the marquise's voice.
"A bit of an exaggeration, surely," replied Lord Vaughn, in tones of intense boredom. "My dear, you must control these tendencies toward hyperbole. They don't become you."
The marquise ignored him. "She never had the skill for it."
"Not everyone has your…talents."
"My talents have been hard-won."
"Believe me," said Lord Vaughn wearily, "no one knows that better than I."
"I don't know why I tolerate you, Sebastian."
"Because"—Lord Vaughn smiled sardonically over the head of his cane—"without me, you would still be rotting in London."
"I didn't need your help. I would have gotten out of that myself."
"Not nearly so expeditiously. Nor with so little trouble to yourself. Bribing the guards with your body isn't much in your line, my dear. Unless your fervor for the cause has changed you in more ways than one."
"It might have been more pleasant to have remained in prison. Certainly the company would have been more genteel."
"As you will. You always did have low tastes, Teresa. Robe-spierre, Danton, Marat…not a gentleman amongst them."
"If all gentlemen are of your ilk, I'll take the rabble."
"But only if they come clothed in silk. Much as it enlivens my existence to be insulted by you, did you have a purpose for this little tкte-а-tкte? Or could you merely not resist an opportunity to get me alone in the dark? For old times' sake, as it were."
"Don't flatter yourself, Sebastian."
"If I don't, who will?" Vaughn's tone changed, and from his vantage point behind the door, Geoff could see his posture change, the lazy line of his back go taut, as he asked, "Do you really mean to eliminate the girl?"
"Unless you can suggest another way."
"'If it were done when 'tis done, then it were well it were done quickly,'" quoted Vaughn meditatively. It was unclear whether the words were question or command.
"Tonight," said the Black Tulip softly.
The word reverberated through the quiet room.
Unfortunately, a reverberation of an entirely different kind filled the corridor. The quiet hallway rumbled under the weight of a large piece of scenery, being rolled by a full complement of burly stagehands.
"He would have to have an elephant," one of them grumbled, as Geoff flattened himself against the wall rather than be run down by a remarkably one-dimensional pachyderm on wheels.
His companion's answer was indecipherable over the clatter of the rough trolley.
Geoff used the confusion to slip sideways into the dressing room. It was too late. The birds had flown, leaving nothing behind but the smell of greasepaint and a dozen unanswered questions. Who, Geoff wondered grimly, were they planning to eliminate? The first name that came to mind was Jane's. Or, as they knew her, Miss Gilly Fairley. Wherever Jane and Miss Gwen had gone, he hoped they were watching their backs.
But the marquise had indicated that whoever the unnamed nuisance was didn't have much talent for the game. Which led, unerringly, to Letty.
Vaughn had recognized Letty from London, of that much Geoff was sure. Her clumsy charade as Mrs. Alsdale wouldn't fool a child—but it might spark the suspicions of a pair of paranoid French spies. The marquise's pride must be smarting at having been caught by an amateur like Henrietta; she wouldn't want it to happen again. To be caught once by an amateur might be accounted carelessness, but to do so twice meant a quick trip to the inner reaches of the Temple Prison.
Geoff started down the corridor at something close to a run. Although she didn't know it yet, Jasper was the least of Letty's worries.
"Put those curtains back at once!" Letty snapped at Jasper, sounding uncannily like Miss Gwen. Letty tugged on the heavy crimson drapes, but once down, the fabric showed no desire to be pushed back again.
"In a moment," Jasper said soothingly.
Letty didn't feel soothed. Jasper was advancing on her in a way that made Letty long for Miss Gwen's parasol, or any other object with a sharp point. Her reticule was too flimsy to do any damage.
Edging away from the curtains, which veiled a direct drop into the pit below, Letty moved carefully around the first row of seats, her back to the wall. She kept her voice calm and low. "I was just going to visit my friend, Miss Gilchrist. You can accompany me if you like."