The marquise had certainly made no secret of her interest in Miles; she had dogged his footsteps — or something else — at every opportunity.
Of course, there was the slight problem that the marquise had everything to lose and nothing to gain from the Revolution. She had itemized it all in the phaeton. The houses, the paintings, the clothes… and her husband. The marquise still wore the dark hues of mourning for her husband, but Henrietta harbored the ignoble suspicion that her wardrobe choices arose less from affection than because she knew the colors suited her better than pastels. Love wouldn't win the marquise's loyalty, but a chateau in the Loire Valley, a wall full of Van Dykes, and a treasure trove of family jewels certainly could.
Blast. Henrietta would have so dearly loved for the marquise to be engaged in something underhanded.
Unless… Henrietta brightened. Unless the marquise had come to an agreement with the French government, whereby she got to keep her jewels and her chateaux in exchange for a wee bit of treason in her native land. As a theory, it didn't have much to recommend it, but it was the best Henrietta could come up with. She would have to keep an eye on the marquise. For the good of England, of course.
Just before she left the house that evening, Henrietta had penned a quick note to Jane, asking her to look into the background of the marquise. She did feel more than a little bit foolish about using the resources of the Pink Carnation on what was most likely a personal grudge, but… just in case.
But, aside from the potential sighting with Turnip, she had only caught one glimpse of the marquise that evening, engaged in entirely unsuspicious behavior. The marquise had been dressed as Isabella of Spain, swathed in an elaborate Spanish mantilla, but through the swirls of lace, Henrietta had seen the glint of blue-black hair that proclaimed its owner as unmistakably as the conscious grace of her movements. She had been deep in conversation with Lord Peter Innes, a scapegrace second son who had installed himself as an intimate of the Prince of Wales by dint of excessive drinking, gaming, and (although Henrietta wasn't supposed to know about such things) wenching. Try as she might, Henrietta couldn't find anything the least bit sinister in their conference. Ill-advised, if the marquise's purpose was to replenish her coffers through an advantageous marriage — the prince's intimates were not the marrying kind, and the state of their coffers didn't bear commenting upon — but not treasonous.
All the same, Henrietta kept her eye out for a black lace mantilla, just in case.
Nor had Henrietta yet encountered her host. Henrietta added Lord Vaughn to her little list of suspects. His attentions to her had been as sudden as they had been assiduous. He had fetched her champagne at the Middlethorpes' ball last night — and Lord Vaughn struck Henrietta as the sort of man who seldom fetched anything for anyone without good reason. Henrietta just didn't know whether his reasons were amorous or otherwise. She didn't delude herself that she was the sort of woman who drove men wild with uncontrolled passion, but Lord Vaughn was of an age when he might well be seeking a second wife and an heir rather than letting the estate and title devolve to some vile fifth cousin twice removed (distant cousins who stood to inherit were invariably vile). Henrietta made excellent heir-bearing material. She was the daughter of a marquis, and possessed of a ready wit, pleasant features, and no history of insanity in the family.
On the other hand, he had only settled his quizzing glass upon her after the topic of Richard's escapades had arisen.
"Lady Henrietta! You honor me with your presence."
There had to be something to the old adage about summoning the devil by thinking of him; Henrietta nearly tripped over her hem as the object of her speculations appeared before her.
She plunged into a curtsy to cover her confusion, her wide skirts collapsing around her, only just managing the combination of unfamiliar hoops and tottery heels. "Good evening, Lord Vaughn."
"For shame, Lady Henrietta," Vaughn chided smoothly. "At a masquerade one is never oneself."
"Should I have said Signor Machiavelli, then?"
In a doublet of rich black satin, Vaughn was dressed as a Renaissance grandee. The sleeves were slashed with silver tissue, and a school of writhing sea serpents wound its way around hem and neck, looking for all the world as though they were searching for a ship to sink. A heavy golden chain of office, like those worn by important officials in Elizabethan portraits, hung around his neck. The pendant was not a seal, but a falcon, with ruby eyes.
Lord Vaughn laughed, the ruby eyes of the falcon glinting with the movement of his chest. "Do you praise my acumen or insult my morals?"
That came a little too close for comfort. "Neither. I was simply guessing based on the time period."
"And Machiavelli's was the first name that came to mind?" Vaughn arched an eyebrow. "You have a devious turn of thought, Lady Henrietta."
Was he flirting with her, or baiting her?
"Though not nearly so keen an eye as you have," Henrietta prevaricated hastily. "I'm quite impressed that you recognized me through the mask on so slight an acquaintance."
Lord Vaughn made a courtly leg. "Can beauty mask itself? "
"A mask," replied Henrietta matter-of-factly, lowering hers, "often provides the best illusion of beauty where there is none."
"Only for those who need such subterfuge." Lord Vaughn proffered a crooked arm, leaving Henrietta, trapped within a web of manners, no choice but to take it. "I believe I promised you mythical beasts."
"Dragons, in fact," agreed Henrietta, rapidly reassessing her situation. Her proximity to Lord Vaughn, while unsought, might yet prove useful. If she could ask him suitably leading questions — suitably subtle leading questions — she might eke out of him enough to determine whether or not he had turned traitor in his years abroad. A careless comment about having been frequently in France, perhaps, or an excessive familiarity with the workings of Bonaparte's court.
With Henrietta on his arm, Vaughn moved at a measured pace through his masquerade, bowing to acquaintances as they passed. For the first time, Henrietta blessed the wide skirts she had been tripping over, jamming into door frames, and mentally consigning to perdition all evening. The skirts might be a blasted nuisance, but they kept Lord Vaughn a safe distance away, as they walked with their arms raised in courtly fashion over the gap, her fingers resting lightly on his outstretched hand.
"Your home is lovely, my lord," Henrietta ventured, by way of starting a conversation. "How could you bear to stay away from it for so long?"
Underneath her fingers, Vaughn's hand stiffened, but his voice contained nothing more telling than urbane indifference as he answered, "The Continent has its own pleasures, Lady Henrietta."
"Yes, I know," Henrietta said enthusiastically; "I was in France with my family just before the end of the peace" — that much, after all, was public knowledge, so it would do no harm to tell him what he already knew — "and was amazed by the beauty of the architecture, the excellence of the food, and the quality of the theatre. Despite recent events, it is really a most charming city. Do you find it so, my lord?"
"It has been many years since I have found Paris anything or anything in Paris," said Vaughn dismissively, turning to bow to a passing acquaintance.
Henrietta's pulse picked up beneath the despised stomacher. "You mean," she asked, in tones of exaggerated innocence, "that you find Paris dull these days?"
"I haven't heen to Paris for some time. War does tend to impede one's freedom of movement." Vaughn's face was bland, his voice equally so.
Henrietta didn't believe a word of it.
"How very inconvenient," she murmured, just to have something to say.
"One must sometimes put up with a spot of personal inconvenience for the sake of world affairs, Lady Henrietta," Vaughn replied drily. "Or have your brother's exploits not yet taught you that lesson?"