Lauren Willig by The Seduction of the Crimson Rose Page A
Authors: The Seduction of the Crimson Rose
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coloring. They are”Vaughn paused for good effect before delivering the pičce de résistance”the petals of the Tulip.”
“How poetic. And how entirely absurd.”
“My dear girl, the whole lot of them are absurd, from the Purple Wonder in the other room to every fop in London who pins a carnation to his hat and tells his friends he’s turned hero. Nonetheless, they still manage to cause a good deal of bother.”
Torchlight slashed in a jagged angle across Vaughn’s face, slicing across his nose, leaving his eyes in shadow. In the orange light, the lines around his mouth seemed more deeply graven than usual.
“A very great deal of bother,” he repeated.
Despite herself, Mary’s attention was caught. The improbable tale of rosebuds and tulips might have been nothing more than a polished line of patter, designed to capitalize on the current craze for gentlemen spies. But a man didn’t feign that sort of bitterness. Not a man like Vaughn, at any rate. To acknowledge pain was to acknowledge that one was capable of sustaining a woundin short, that one was capable of deeper feeling. It wasn’t in Vaughn’s style. Or, for that matter, in hers.
“And so,” said Mary, “you introduce the bait.”
“The Tulip,” explained Vaughn, “is currently running rather short of petals. Unless his habits have changed, the Black Tulip will be in want of fresh recruits. Women of your coloring are rare in this part of the world. Hence my errand tonight.”
“I see.” Mary took a small turn about the corridor. The train of her dress whispered along the floor behind her, dragging with it a decade’s worth of dust, undoubtedly turning her hem as murky as her musings. “You do realize that this is all highly irregular.”
“To say the least,” Vaughn agreed calmly. “There’s no need to rush to a decision. Take some time to think about my proposition. Mull it over in the deepest depths of your maidenly bosom. I would, however, advise against unburdening yourself to your friends.”
Mary nearly smiled at that. Friends. Ha. Her “friends” had been the first to claw her reputation to shreds when word of Geoffrey’s defection exploded through the ton . That was one lesson one learned quickly on the bloody battlefield of Almack’s. Confidantes were a luxury a clever woman could ill afford. To confide in others was to invite betrayal.
Mary lifted her chin. “I keep my own counsel.”
“A wise choice. Should you accept, your duties will be minimal. There is, of course, the appeal of patria to be considered,” Vaughn added as an afterthought. “Rule Britannia and pass the mutton.”
Vaughn had obviously never tasted mutton. If he had, he wouldn’t joke about it. “How could one help but be swayed by such a rousing appeal?”
“Spoken like a true and loving daughter of our scepter’d isle.”
“I can do no better than to model myself on you.”
“Alas for England.” There was something oddly engaging about the way his mouth twisted up at one corner in self-mockery. “Sharper than serpent’s tooth There is something else, however, that might quicken your filial piety.”
“What could possibly move me more than mutton?”
Beneath their heavy lids, Vaughn’s pale eyes glinted with pleasurable anticipation, like an experienced cardplayer about to lay down a winning hand. “Something we haven’t yet discussed. The small matter of remuneration.”
Mary schooled her face to stillness, but she wasn’t quick enough. Whatever Vaughn was looking for, he found it. His tone was insufferably smug as he added, “You will be paid. Handsomely.”
Crossing his arms, he leaned back against a bust of the sixth Baron Pinchingdale and waited for her assent, the silver threads on his cuffs winking insolently in the torchlight.
He looked so vilely sure of
“How poetic. And how entirely absurd.”
“My dear girl, the whole lot of them are absurd, from the Purple Wonder in the other room to every fop in London who pins a carnation to his hat and tells his friends he’s turned hero. Nonetheless, they still manage to cause a good deal of bother.”
Torchlight slashed in a jagged angle across Vaughn’s face, slicing across his nose, leaving his eyes in shadow. In the orange light, the lines around his mouth seemed more deeply graven than usual.
“A very great deal of bother,” he repeated.
Despite herself, Mary’s attention was caught. The improbable tale of rosebuds and tulips might have been nothing more than a polished line of patter, designed to capitalize on the current craze for gentlemen spies. But a man didn’t feign that sort of bitterness. Not a man like Vaughn, at any rate. To acknowledge pain was to acknowledge that one was capable of sustaining a woundin short, that one was capable of deeper feeling. It wasn’t in Vaughn’s style. Or, for that matter, in hers.
“And so,” said Mary, “you introduce the bait.”
“The Tulip,” explained Vaughn, “is currently running rather short of petals. Unless his habits have changed, the Black Tulip will be in want of fresh recruits. Women of your coloring are rare in this part of the world. Hence my errand tonight.”
“I see.” Mary took a small turn about the corridor. The train of her dress whispered along the floor behind her, dragging with it a decade’s worth of dust, undoubtedly turning her hem as murky as her musings. “You do realize that this is all highly irregular.”
“To say the least,” Vaughn agreed calmly. “There’s no need to rush to a decision. Take some time to think about my proposition. Mull it over in the deepest depths of your maidenly bosom. I would, however, advise against unburdening yourself to your friends.”
Mary nearly smiled at that. Friends. Ha. Her “friends” had been the first to claw her reputation to shreds when word of Geoffrey’s defection exploded through the ton . That was one lesson one learned quickly on the bloody battlefield of Almack’s. Confidantes were a luxury a clever woman could ill afford. To confide in others was to invite betrayal.
Mary lifted her chin. “I keep my own counsel.”
“A wise choice. Should you accept, your duties will be minimal. There is, of course, the appeal of patria to be considered,” Vaughn added as an afterthought. “Rule Britannia and pass the mutton.”
Vaughn had obviously never tasted mutton. If he had, he wouldn’t joke about it. “How could one help but be swayed by such a rousing appeal?”
“Spoken like a true and loving daughter of our scepter’d isle.”
“I can do no better than to model myself on you.”
“Alas for England.” There was something oddly engaging about the way his mouth twisted up at one corner in self-mockery. “Sharper than serpent’s tooth There is something else, however, that might quicken your filial piety.”
“What could possibly move me more than mutton?”
Beneath their heavy lids, Vaughn’s pale eyes glinted with pleasurable anticipation, like an experienced cardplayer about to lay down a winning hand. “Something we haven’t yet discussed. The small matter of remuneration.”
Mary schooled her face to stillness, but she wasn’t quick enough. Whatever Vaughn was looking for, he found it. His tone was insufferably smug as he added, “You will be paid. Handsomely.”
Crossing his arms, he leaned back against a bust of the sixth Baron Pinchingdale and waited for her assent, the silver threads on his cuffs winking insolently in the torchlight.
He looked so vilely sure of
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