Amy herself was more cute than pretty, with her bouncing curls and her rosebud lips scrunched into a barely repressed grin. She looked like the sort of girl who would lead a midnight kitchen raid at a slumber party. Or burgle Napoleon’s study.
I settled Amy next to Richard in my lap. They looked quite pleased to be reunited; Amy’s eyes glinted mischievously over her oval frame at Richard, and Richard’s expression looked less supercilious, and more “I’ll see you later.”
I wondered if Amy had found life in England intolerably dull after her adventures in France. Did she, in the end, resent having to turn over the title of Pink Carnation to Jane? I hated to think of her becoming old and bitter, and resenting Richard for depriving her of the adventures she might have had.
“Were they . . . happy?” I asked.
“Did they live happily ever after, do you mean?” Mrs. Selwick-Alderly clarified.
A sound suspiciously like a snort emerged from the chair to my right.
“As much as any two persons of strong temperament could,” Mrs. Selwick-Alderly continued. “There is still a stain on the upholstery of one of the dining room chairs from a decanter of claret that Amy emptied over Richard’s head one night.”
“He complained that she hadn’t used a better vintage,” Colin put in through a mouthful of chocolate-covered biscuit.
“He should have thought of that before he provoked her,” I suggested.
“Maybe that was why he did it,” riposted Colin. “Get the bad wine out of the way.”
Something in that struck me as logically flawed, but I was too headachy to isolate it. “He could have just drunk it.”
“Like last night?” Colin murmured, with a smile that invited me to share in his amusement.
I pointedly turned my attention to my tea.
Resting both elbows on the armrest of his chair, Colin tilted towards me and asked, “Now that you’ve found what you’re looking for, will you be returning to the States?”
“Certainly not!” He could be a little less obvious about wanting to be rid of me, I thought indignantly. “I have hundreds of questions that still need to be answered—Jane Wooliston, for example. Did she remain the Pink Carnation?”
I fixed Colin with a sharp look; I hadn’t forgotten his aborted “You think the Pink Carnation is Amy?” He could have just told me that it was Jane who eventually became the Pink Carnation instead of letting me find out for myself this morning, as I slogged through the last of the manuscripts. But, no, that would have been too helpful.
I wasn’t taking any chances this time. “Is Jane the one who stops the Irish rebellion and helps Wellington in Portugal, or is it someone else using the same name?”
“Oh, it’s Jane all right,” Colin acknowledged affably.
“What else did you want to know, my dear?” asked Mrs. Selwick-Alderly.
There had been an intriguing tidbit in the last letter I had read, a letter from Amy to Jane (Jane was back in Paris by then) dated just after Amy’s wedding. Rather than letting their spying skills go to waste, Amy proposed opening a school for secret agents, based at Lord Richard’s estate in Sussex. But it had only been mentioned in passing, and might, like so many of Amy’s plans, never have come to fruition. Still, it didn’t hurt to inquire. . . .
“The spy school,” I asked eagerly, “did it actually happen?”
“Look,” Colin broke in, sitting up straight, “this is all very interesting, but—”
“The best description of the spy school was written by Henrietta,” contributed Mrs. Selwick-Alderly placidly.
“Lord Richard’s little sister?”
“The very same. Richard was furious with her, and insisted she leave it at Selwick Hall. They were doing their best to keep word of the spy school from getting around, you see.”
“Is it here?” After all, there were all those other papers in the trunk. The manuscripts that I had been given were a mere fraction of the folios and manuscript boxes I had glimpsed inside the trunk two days ago. They could just be nineteenth-century laundry lists, but . . .
“All of the papers relating to the spy school”—Mrs. Selwick-Alderly tilted her head towards Colin—“are still at Selwick Hall.”
“They’re in very poor condition,” Colin countered.
“I’ll follow proper library procedure,” I promised. “I’ll wear gloves and use weights and keep them away from sunlight.”
If he wanted, I would wear a full-body hazard suit, disinfect my eyelashes, and dance counterclockwise around a bonfire under the full moon. Anything to be allowed access to those manuscripts. I could deal with talking him into letting me publish the information later.
“Our archives”—Colin dropped his teaspoon onto his saucer with a definitive clatter—“have never been open to the public.”
I wrinkled my nose at him. “Haven’t we had this conversation before?”
Colin’s lips reluctantly quirked into a faint echo of a smile. “I believe it was a letter, actually. At any rate,” he added in a far more human tone, “you’ll find Selwick Hall an inconvenient trip from London. We’re miles from the nearest station, and cabs aren’t easy to come by.”
“You’ll just have to stay the night, then,” said Mrs. Selwick-Alderly as though it were a foregone conclusion.
Colin gave his aunt a hard look.
Mrs. Selwick-Alderly gazed innocently back.
I very carefully lowered my teacup into my saucer. “I wouldn’t want to impose.”
“In that case—”
“But if it wouldn’t be too much of a bother,” I rushed on, “I’d be very grateful for the opportunity to see those papers. You wouldn’t have to entertain me. You can just point me to the archives and you won’t even know I’m there.”
“Hmm,” expressed what Colin thought about that.
I couldn’t blame him. As someone who likes her own space, I wouldn’t much like to be saddled with a weekend houseguest either.
“I’ll even do my own dishes. Yours, too,” I threw in as an additional incentive.
“That won’t be necessary,” Colin replied dryly. “I’ll be there this weekend,” he continued, “but you must already have plans. Why don’t we meet for drinks sometime next week, and I can summarize—”
Trying to fob me off with drinks, was he? I put an end to that.
“No plans at all,” I countered cheerfully. Pammy would understand why I was ditching our Saturday shopping spree—at least, she would if I mentioned Serena’s surprisingly hot brother rather than nineteenth-century manuscript material. “Thank you so much for the invitation.”
It hadn’t really been an invitation. He knew it. I knew it. Undoubtedly, Mrs. Selwick-Alderly and the portrait miniatures in my lap knew it, too. But once the words were out of my mouth, there was little he could do to deny them without seeming rude. Thank heavens for social conventions.
Colin tried another tack. “I was planning to drive down this afternoon, but I imagine you’ll need—”
“I can be packed in an hour.”
“Right.” Colin’s lips tightened as he levered himself out of his chair. “I’ll just go and make the arrangements, then, shall I? Can you be ready to leave at four?”
The answer he was clearly hoping for was “no.”
“Absolutely,” I chirped.
I recited my address for him. Twice. Just so he couldn’t claim he had been waiting outside the wrong building, or something like that.
“Right,” he repeated. “I’ll be outside at four.”
“Till then!” I called after his retreating back. Amazing the way the prospect of a treasure trove of historical documents can cure a hangover. My head still hurt, but I no longer cared.
In the hallway, a door slammed.
That did not bode well for our weekend.
Rising, Mrs. Selwick-Alderly began to gather up the tea things. I leaped up to help her, but she waved me away.