The five-minute drive to Uppington House had never felt longer.
"Ungh," Miles responded, which Henrietta, from her experience with the vagaries of male communication, took as "No, I'm in a vile mood, but I can't admit it, so leave me alone."
Henrietta had the unhappy feeling she knew the cause of his ill humor. And it wasn't the horses, the reins, or the state of the war with France. It was an unwanted presence in the middle of his curricle, separating him from the seductive marquise and her roving hands.
Henrietta would have complied, and left him alone — if there was any way she could have fled the curricle entirely that wouldn't have involved a suicidal leap and a painful death being crushed by carriage wheels, she would have done so — but just then she felt something slip from her squished fingers and fall with a dull thud on the footrest.
Oh, blast, that was her reticule.
There was no way she could unobtrusively lean down and scoop it up. Even if her right hand wasn't trapped between her and Miles, it would be uncouth to bend over like that in an open carriage in the middle of a well-traveled street. On the other hand, she didn't want to just leave it lying there. What if the carriage swerved abruptly, and it fell out? Her mother would never let her hear the end of it. Maybe if she just managed to slide her foot through the loop, and then she could ever so subtly lift her foot until it was at a level where she could quietly pluck it up with no one the wiser.
Henrietta started feeling around the baseboard with one booted foot. It would be much easier if she could look down, but between her skirts and the marquise's, she couldn't see anything, anyway.
The marquise was commenting on the beauties of the spring, and Henrietta, exploring a likely shaped lump with her toe, made an equally banal response. For all of her beauty, the marquise was really an incredibly boring woman. Maybe, Henrietta thought absently, feeling around the lump, it was all because she was beautiful; she'd never had to try to be interesting. If only she could impress the fact of the marquise's dullness upon Miles in a way that didn't come out sounding hopelessly spiteful. That would be a conundrum for later; for now, she was fairly sure she'd found her reticule, and just needed to try to jolt it around so that she could get her foot through the loop. But it wasn't moving.
Maybe it was stuck against something.
Blast it all, the loop had to be somewhere. Henrietta started feeling for the top of the little bag.
Miles leaped halfway out of his seat.
Ooops. Maybe that hadn't been the reticule.
"What in the name of Hades do you think you're doing?" Miles roared. A nearby horse reared. Heads turned in passing carriages. Curtains twitched.
The marquise looked like she wished she were in anybody else's carriage.
"I dropped my reticule," Henrietta said, somewhat breathlessly. Miles had landed on her. "I was trying to pick it up."
"With your foot?" Miles slid off Henrietta's lap and shoved himself as far against the opposite side of the carriage as he could go.
"My hand was stuck," explained Henrietta reasonably, wiggling the erring appendage.
"Ungh," said Miles.
Henrietta wasn't quite sure how to interpret that grunt.
"I think," said the marquise darkly, "I should like to go home now."
"Don't worry, you're next," Miles said shortly. His curt tone would have done much to raise Henrietta's spirits if it hadn't been the exact same tone he'd been using with her.
Miles yanked the horses to a stop in front of Uppington House and leaped out of the phaeton with all the alacrity of an early Christian martyr dodging a lion. He grabbed Henrietta around the waist and swung her down from the carriage, setting her down in front of her house with a jarring thud. Leaning back into the carriage, he snatched up the offending reticule.
Henrietta took the reticule from him, saying very carefully, "Thank you for the ride home."
Miles unbent enough to give her a sheepish half-smile. Henrietta's heart stirred and ached with thwarted affection.
" 'S'all right," he said. "I'll see you tonight. Aren't you late?"
Oh, blast, she kept forgetting about her music lesson. Calling a quick good-bye over her shoulder, Henrietta scurried up the steps of Uppington House. As Winthrop opened the door for her, she heard the sound of Miles's horses resuming their journey. Hopefully straight to drop the marquise off home.
Henrietta didn't let herself dwell on the thought. She dropped her reticule on a table in the hall, and rushed into the music room. The harp loomed uncovered and unused; the pianoforte, with its intricately painted lid and golden legs, sat mute. There was no sign of Signor Marconi.
Henrietta glanced at the gilded clock on the mantle. Both hands were pointing delicately at the six. She was half an hour late. He'd probably given up and left. Blast! Just over from the Continent, Marconi was in great demand, and she'd counted herself lucky to secure lessons with him. Now, with her romantic folly, she had probably just convinced Miles she was mad and lost her voice teacher all in one fell swoop. Urgh.
Making annoyed noises at herself, Henrietta scurried back out into the hall.
"Signor Marconi?" she called, just in case he might have been shown into one of the drawing rooms to wait.
There was a rustle of sound from the morning room. Expelling her breath in a long sigh of relief, Henrietta raced down the hall, and careened around the doorframe, babbling breathlessly, "Signor Marconi? I'm so dreadfully sorry to be so late! I was delayed in — "
She broke off abruptly. Henrietta's surge of relief was replaced by confusion as the source of the rustling noise became clear.
The black-garbed figure of Signor Marconi was bent over her opened escritoire, papers in each hand.
Chapter Sixteen
Flattered: under suspicion by the Ministry of Police; subject to intense scrutiny, and possibly attack. See also under Signal Honor.
Henrietta stumbled to a halt, physically and verbally. Marconi hastily shoved the papers back into the cavity of the desk. Straightening, he flung both arms wide.
"I look-a for dee, how you say? Dee paper. I look-a for dee paper to write you dee note to tell you I no wait longer. But now" — Marconi shrugged, as though that solved everything — "you are here. So I no need dee paper."
"I'm so sorry to be late," Henrietta repeated, gathering hold of her scattered wits.
Moving past him, she shut the lid of the escritoire, and turned the key. It wasn't as though there were anything terribly secret in there — all of her letters from Jane and the little codebook she kept upstairs in her room, hidden, with her diary, in an empty chamber pot under her bed — but it was her private space, and she preferred her private space to remain private. Hence, the lock.
But Signor Marconi didn't know that, so Henrietta simply said, "Next time, if you need writing implements, just ask Winthrop, and he'll bring them to you."
"About dee lesson" — Signor Marconi tugged at his little black mustache — "I have-a dee udder engagement."
"Dee… ?" Henrietta shook her head to block out visions of cows. Nothing made any sense today. Wildlife, herbiage… It was all a distressing blur. She needed a cup of tea.
"Dee udder engagement," repeated Signor Marconi patiently. "Oh, another engagement! Of course." Henrietta wasn't feeling terribly swift at the moment. From the look on Signor Marconi's face, he shared that opinion. She added anxiously, "You will come back next week, though, won't you?"