Another reference to Richard, noted Henrietta suspiciously. Those were dangerous waters, replete with sea serpents — rather like those portrayed on Vaughn's doublet. Hmph, she was supposed to be questioning Lord Vaughn, not the other way around. This incongruent interest in her brother's exploits could be an indication of Vaughn's involvement in Bonaparte's spy network. Or it could be no more than common curiosity. Over the past few weeks since her brother's unmasking, Henrietta had been pestered for information about her brother and his exploits by any number of people whom one could not possibly suspect of being French spies, Turnip Fitzhugh foremost among them.
"Richard was so seldom at home," Henrietta said vaguely, adding, by way of changing the subject, "Have we much farther to go before I meet your dragons?"
Having reached the end of the string of reception rooms, Lord Vaughn led her out of the throng along a sparsely populated corridor, ill lit after the thousands of candles that illuminated the reception rooms. Henrietta held her golden mask more closely to her face. Aside from a Harlequin and a medieval maiden locked in amorous embrace, the hallway was deserted. Henrietta had the feeling that this was the sort of thing her mother had meant when she had cautioned her against secluded alcoves. As Lord Vaughn placed his hand on the latch of a closed door, Henrietta wrestled with a craven desire to turn and flee back to the security provided by lights and companionship.
No. Henrietta made a wry face at herself behind Lord Vaughn's back. She wouldn't get very far in her plan to catch Jane's spy if she bolted back to safety at the first hint of danger! Richard, Henrietta was quite sure, would have gone forward. Richard, on the other hand, was not a medium-sized female in danger of being compromised. It did add a whole new level of complication to this spying business, considered Henrietta, but if Jane could manage, so could she.
It was too late to turn around even if she had wanted to. The handle turned, the door swung inward, and Lord Vaughn ushered her ahead of him through the portal.
"Welcome to my cabinet of treasures."
Henrietta turned in a slow circle. Candles placed on lacquered ledges illuminated a small, octagonal room. Each of the eight sides of the octagon was paneled in rosewood, edged with an intricate design worked in gold. Set at irregular intervals in seven of the eight panels were roundels containing pictures painted on Oriental porcelain, depicting men in little boats, ladies lounging before pagodas, and even the promised dragons. In the eighth panel, delicate vases and curious porcelain figurines posed on a red-veined marble mantelpiece. Little lacquered benches with odd Oriental lions at their feet were scattered at regular intervals along the walls, padded with silken cushions of crimson shot through with gold.
The pattern of the parquet floor drew the eye inward, toward a small table in the center of the room. On it, ranged around a silver carafe, someone had laid out a repast to make a glutton gloat: ripe clusters of grapes piled upon platters, custards whipped to melting smoothness, delicate madeleines, and drifts of dates glinting with sugar. There were peaches and apples carved into fanciful shapes, mountains of chocolate bonbons, and, in their own small silver dish, like garnets loosed from a necklace, a shimmering pile of pomegranate seeds.
Henrietta was quite sure she didn't like the idea of playing Persephone to Lord Vaughn's Hades.
On the other hand, she might have no choice. The door clicked shut behind Lord Vaughn, only, there was no door anymore, simply a rosewood panel edged in gold, identical to all the other rosewood panels. There was no sign of knob or lock or hinges. The small room was doorless, windowless, exitless. There was no way out.
Chapter Eighteen
Lair, Dragon's: the innermost interrogation chamber of the Ministry of Police (also commonly referred to as the Extra-Special Interrogation Chamber); a windowless cell equipped for torture
"What do you think?" asked Vaughn. He rested a casual arm against the mantel, but his eyes never left her face.
I think I'm in over my head, thought Henrietta, repressing the very strong urge to bang on the wall in search of an exit. Schooling her face to an expression of bright interest, she said instead, "It's very cunning, my lord. But don't you find the lack of windows somewhat oppressive?"
"Not at all. Sometimes, one needs to get away from the world, don't you think, Lady Henrietta?"
That phrase had a highly ominous ring to it, especially in light of the pile of pomegranate seeds. Henrietta devoutly hoped that when he spoke of getting away from the world, he didn't mean permanently.
As much for herself as Vaughn, Henrietta quoted lightly, "'The world is too much with us,' do you mean?"
"You read Wordsworth, Lady Henrietta?"
"Occasionally. A friend of mine recited that particular poem to me not long ago, and the phrase caught." Henrietta conjured Charlotte's familiar image, and found it helped to keep the nerves at bay.
"I prefer Milton, myself," replied Vaughn. Striking an attitude, he recited in resonant tones, " 'Which way I fly is Hell, myself am Hell.'"
It was a trick of the light, that was all. A trick of light, and tone, and costume. Against the marble bulk of the fireplace, his hands twisted behind him and his head flung back, with the sparse candlelight flicking along his archaic clothes, turning the gold chain about his neck into a living necklace of flame, Lord Vaughn made far too plausible a Satan, chained in agony to his own adamantine rock.
"I've always found that line a bit melodramatic," said Henrietta firmly. "It's pure self-indulgence on Satan's part. There is no reason at all for him to go on wallowing like that. All he had to do was acknowledge his error, beg God's pardon, and he could have returned to Heaven and his old glory. He chose to continue to rebel against God; it wasn't as though anyone pushed him to it."
Vaughn's heavy-lidded gaze fastened intently on her face.
"Would you lift him from the depths, Lady Henrietta?" he asked mockingly. "Would you make an angel of him again?"
Henrietta was quite positive they were no longer discussing Milton, theology, or anything to do with the Prince of Darkness. As to what they were discussing, she had no idea. Could it be that he was repenting of his treason, and wished to confess? Perhaps this was her cue to boldly step forward and promise expiation if he would only cut his ties with France and return to the fold. But she had no power to promise any such thing, and no proof that he was, indeed, a French spy. And his tone repelled overtures as much as it invited them. Henrietta felt as though she were picking her way from stepping stone to stepping stone across a dangerous swamp on a moonless night. Blindfolded.
"I believe," Henrietta stepped delicately out into the swamp, "that each man must make the choice to be lifted by himself. I certainly wouldn't presume to claim redemptive powers for myself!"
"Pity," said Vaughn lazily, stirring from his pose by the mantel. "But I apologize! You must think me a poor host, to offer you no refreshment." Vaughn crossed deliberately to the small table in the middle of the room. "Champagne?"
A denial rose to Henrietta's lips.
In the center of the room, Vaughn waited, one hand on the neck of the bottle. In the candlelight, his eyes gleamed as silver as the detail on his doublet.
"Yes," she said demurely. "Thank you."
If he were trying to drug her, better not to arouse his suspicions by refusing the wine. With a bit of cunning and a great deal of luck, perhaps she could feign drinking. It was not, she admitted to herself, going to be easy. Vaughn's eyes hadn't left her face. How much of a drug did one have to ingest before it began working?