"Or a very good mimic," countered Geoff.

"As long as it's not a mime," muttered Letty.

"Mimes are very distressing," Geoff agreed.

They grinned at each other in a moment of mutual silliness.

Miss Gwen bridled in preparation for a crushing put-down, but Jane spoke first, in a voice devoid of either amusement or scorn.

"Not as distressing as this."

Jane held up the little scrap of paper, covered with a series of numbers and letters. It made no sense to Letty, but it obviously did to Jane. And whatever it was, Jane didn't like it.

"The French are coming."

"That's not news," said Geoff, relaxing against his chair.

"But the timing is. Bonaparte has promised troops for the first of August." Jane looked away, her usually serene face twisted with frustration. "I thought I had put them off."

"How many?"

"There are six French warships already stationed in Brest, with the promise of more to come."

"And our garrison," said Geoff, "is down to just over thirty thousand."

Jane regarded the coded report with extreme disfavor. "They should not have warships ready to put to sea. For the past two weeks, I've been replacing the marquise's dispatches with false reports, minimizing the extent of local preparations and discouraging any immediate action."

"'Local rebellion not ready yet; don't send troops till further word'?" Geoff supplied.

"It seemed to be working. The Ministry of War naturally discounted more optimistic reports that Emmet sent to his brother in Paris and believed those of their agent. Unfortunately, someone—someone senior to the marquise—appears to have gotten the correct information through."

"The Black Tulip," groaned Letty, who was beginning to loathe the very name.

"What matters now," said Geoff, "is not so much who summoned the troops as how we stop them."

"If," said Jane grimly, "we could ferret out our flowery foe, we might be able to reverse what he set in motion."

The expression on Jane's face did not bode well for the Black Tulip. She looked like the illustration of Athena in one of Letty's childhood books, just before the goddess turned an impertinent mortal into a spider. Letty had the impression that Jane was no more accustomed to being thwarted than Athena had been.

"The time has come," said Jane, "to have a little chat with the Marquise de Montval."

Geoff pushed back his chair and paced to the window, staring unseeingly at their reflections in the glass.

"I have another idea. We don't try to delay, but precipitate. Think of it," he said, before Miss Gwen could muster her counterarguments. "In 'ninety-eight, the local rebellion went off prematurely. By the time the French got here, we had already mopped up the native insurgency."

"And were able to turn every resource to rounding up the French," Jane said thoughtfully. "I see. A species of 'divide and conquer.'"

Geoff prowled back toward the table, formulating his plan as he paced. "Emmet has caches of arms scattered all over the city, but his biggest depot is on Patrick Street."

"Gunpowder?" asked Jane, a comprehending gleam lighting her eye.

"Better. Emmet has been stockpiling rockets."

All three women looked blank.

With the boundless enthusiasm of the male for any sort of explosive device, Geoff went on, "They haven't made much headway with them here or on the Continent, but Wellesley's troops were nearly routed by rockets in India a few years back. Emmet found an old Indian hand to manufacture them for him. They're not terribly accurate in battle, but they make a big bang. Set those alight, and Emmet's storehouse will go up like fireworks on the king's birthday."

Geoff looked as though he rather enjoyed the prospect.

"That could be hard to explain to the neighbors," said Letty.

"And to the night watchmen, and to the guards quartered at the castle. It might even draw General Fox back from his trip to the West Country." Geoff's eyes met hers, burning like an entire rocket fusillade in his enthusiasm. "Emmet will have to act quickly to salvage his plans. He'll have to go it without the French."

"What if he doesn't?" asked Letty.

"He has too much invested in this not to. He has a choice. He can act at once or abandon five years' worth of preparations. He has weapons scattered throughout the city, a volunteer army who will get bored and drift away if doesn't employ them soon, and enough incriminating documents floating about to hang twelve of him. He will act."

"When you put it that way…," said Letty.

Geoff grinned at her. "Cry havoc and let slip the dogs of war!"

"I," said Miss Gwen grandly, "will blow up the depot."

"Ever since she fired on that boot manufactory in Calais, Miss Gwen has had difficulty controlling her incendiary impulses," commented Geoff, strolling round the table to rest his hand on the back of Letty's chair.

"That was you?" exclaimed Letty, very conscious of the hand resting next to her back. The back of her neck prickled with the knowledge that he was standing behind her, just out of her view. "I read about that in the papers! Weren't there pink petals scattered among the ashes?"

Miss Gwen looked pleased. "It is attention to detail that makes all the difference."

"No pink petals this time," said Geoff, from somewhere just above Letty's head. "Our best chance is to make it look like an accident. Otherwise they might go to ground, rather than bringing the rebellion forward."

"May I help?" asked Letty, tilting her head back and getting an excellent view of the underside of his chin. For a dark-haired man, he was quite well shaved; she couldn't find any spot he had missed.

Jane and Geoff exchanged a long look.

"I'll need you with me," said Jane. "You can entertain Lord Vaughn while I have a little chat with the marquise."

"I don't think Lord Vaughn finds me terribly entertaining."

"Well, do your best," said Miss Gwen dismissively. She looked pointedly at Geoff. "Wear a low bodice. Men are so easily diverted."

"Well," said Geoff, looking as innocent as a man who has just been caught staring down his wife's bodice can contrive to look. "That covers about everything, doesn't it? Given the lateness of the hour, I suggest we all seek our beds." He raised an eyebrow at Miss Gwen. "As the good Lord intended."

The clock on the mantel obligingly confirmed his observation by striking two.

Jane rose, her curls, which she had neglected to remove, bobbing coyly around her face. "You'll see Letty home, of course."

"Of course," replied Geoff, at his most bland.

"I'll call for the carriage," said Jane.

"And I," said Miss Gwen, sweeping out in Jane's wake, "shall seek my perch."

Alone once again in the little green parlor, Letty and Geoff exchanged a slightly sheepish look.

"She heard the bat comment, didn't she?" said Letty guiltily, rising to stand next to Geoff.

"She hears everything." Geoff's mind did not appear to be on Miss Gwen. "There is one thing we failed to address."

"Aside from Miss Gwen's sleeping habits?" said Letty, trying to keep her tone light and failing miserably.

Geoff frowned. "I didn't want to alarm you in front of the others, but it might be unwise for you to return to your own lodgings tonight."

"Emily's murderer," said Letty heavily, returning to earth with a thump. With all the talk of mimes and bats, it had been all too easy to forget how deadly the game they played actually was. "We don't know that he recognized me."

Geoff crossed his arms, looking about as malleable as a chunk of granite. "That is not a chance I want to take."

Feeling absurdly gratified, Letty suggested, "I could ask Jane and Miss Gwen if I could stay here, with them."

"With Miss Gwen stalking about in her nightcap? You might be scarred for life."

"Even Miss Gwen's nightcap must be preferable to the Black Tulip."

"I wouldn't wager on it." Clasping his hands behind his back, Geoff strolled to the dresser, examining a scene of Dublin Castle inexpertly painted on a lumpy piece of stoneware. "I have a better suggestion."

"What might that be?" Letty stayed where she was, rooted to the center of the room.

Geoff slowly turned from his contemplation of the domestic arts to face Letty.

"Come home," he said simply. "With me."

Chapter Twenty-three

Thursday night, wine bottle clutched in the crook of my arm, I trudged right back down Brompton Road.

I hadn't deliberately decided to revisit the site of Tuesday night's humiliation. It was pure ill luck in the form of geography. Pammy's mother lived in the Boltons. Directionally challenged as I am, the only way I knew to get there was via the South Kensington tube station, straight down Brompton Road. I suppose I could have taken a cab, but that smacked of cowardice—not to mention extravagance. A student budget doesn't run to much in the way of extras.

Passing the ill-fated Indian restaurant, I couldn't resist taking a tiny peek through the glass door. The bar area was crowded—it was just about that time of the evening—but there was no familiar tall blond braced against the bar. Not that I had expected there to be. Or that I cared. I had put that all behind me. All the flutters, all the euphoria, all the despair, all the ridiculous overanalyzing had been nothing more than a silly crush, undoubtedly brought on by boredom. As Pammy liked to keep pointing out to me, I'd been long overdue for a romantic peccadillo. Was it any surprise that my restless imagination had seized upon the first reasonably attractive man to come along?

Oh, well, I told myself soothingly. So I had behaved like an idiot. It was all over, and there was no harm done—except to my pride, and no one would ever see that but me, anyway.

Upon my return home from the Indian restaurant Tuesday night, I had plopped down at my little kitchen table in my little basement flat, and painstakingly dissected the entire course of my acquaintance with Colin. Not the bits that happened in my head, not the agonized phone staring or the gooey-eyed naming of our children, but all of the actual interactions, from our first meeting in his aunt's living room just about two weeks ago.

Had it really only been two weeks? It had. I counted, and then I counted again to make sure. Going through those two weeks, I came to the relieved conclusion that while I might know that I'd made an absolute idiot of myself over him, there was no reason for Colin to know. Aside from that slight puckering incident in the old medieval cloister, I had never said or done anything to indicate more than a friendly interest. And it had been very dark out there. He might not even have noticed. I was safe.

And I never, ever had to see him again.

I did intend to call Mrs. Selwick-Alderly. Eventually. But just because I was in contact with his aunt didn't necessarily mean bumping into Colin.

In the meantime, I was rather proud of everything I had accomplished over the past week without any Selwick intercession. True, it was their collection that had pointed me in the right direction, but the Alsworthy/Alsdale line of research was entirely my own, and it was paying off in spades.

It was nice to know something that Colin Selwick didn't.

The death of Emily Gilchrist opened all sorts of interesting possibilities. I wondered how many other raven-haired spies were roaming France and London, unremembered by commentators. And why would they? Who would read anything into—what had Geoff called it?—a chance quirk of physiognomy. That wasn't exactly the phrase (I had it in my notes, back in my little flat, backed up on three disks, just in case), but it was the same idea. I know historians aren't supposed to fall in love with their own theories, but I was head over heels about the notion of an entire band of female French agents, like a nineteenth-century Charlie's Angels. Only better.

It made the Pink Carnation's organization look positively humdrum.

Who, then, was the Black Tulip? Mr. Throtwottle was the obvious choice, but given all the women running about dressed as men, I wouldn't put it past Throtwottle to be yet another black-haired woman playing a trouser role. Noses like that didn't just grow naturally.

As for Lord Vaughn…Even bearing in mind the precedent of Monsieur d'Eon, there was little chance of his being a woman. But I didn't buy his complicity with Jane, any more than Geoff did. Whatever Lord Vaughn did, he did for himself, not for king or country or even the rare combination of a keen mind and pretty face.