Free The Masque of the Black Tulip by Lauren Willig Page B

interrupting. Hen, your lemonade.”
    “Thank you.” Henrietta greeted Miles with some relief and peered dubiously into her cup, which contained about half an inch of yellow liquid. The rest, judging from the stickiness under Henrietta’s fingers, had evidently sloshed over the sides during Miles’s enthusiastic progress from the refreshment table. “Lord Vaughn, do you know Mr. Dorrington?”
    “Vaughn, did you say?” Miles perked up inexplicably, then his face relaxed into a big grin. “Vaughn, old chap!” Miles pounded Lord Vaughn on the back. “Care for a hand of cards?”
    Henrietta hadn’t known that Miles was acquainted with Lord Vaughn. Clearly, neither had Lord Vaughn, who was regarding Miles as though he were a strange stick insect who had crawled out of his ratafia.
    “Cards,” he repeated delicately.
    “Excellent!” enthused Miles. “Nothing like a good game of cards, eh, Vaughn? Why don’t you tell me about your travels on the Continent…” Taking the earl by the arm, he propelled him in the direction of the card room, passing Lady Uppington on the way.
    “That was well done of Miles,” commented Lady Uppington with approval. “Your father would have done the same.”
    “Well done?” repeated Henrietta incredulously. “He all but kidnapped the man.”
    “He did just as he should. Lord Vaughn,” pronounced Lady Uppington, in her best “I-am-your-mama-and-therefore-know-everything” voice, “is a rake.”
    “Isn’t Miles?” countered Henrietta, retnembering several tales she wasn’t supposed to have heard.
    Lady Uppington smiled fondly at her daughter. “No, darling. Miles is a dear make-believe rake. Lord Vaughn,” she added disapprovingly, “is the real thing.”
    “He is an earl,” teased Henrietta.
    “Darling, if I ever turn into one of those sorts of mothers, you have my permission to elope with the first bounder who comes your way. Provided he’s a good-hearted sort of bounder,” Lady Uppington added as an afterthought. “Not that I wouldn’t mind your marrying an earl, but the most important thing is that you find—”
    “I know,” Henrietta broke in, in her best wearisome-youngest-child voice, “someone who loves me.”
    “Whoever said anything about love?” countered Lady Uppington, herself the rare possessor of one of the ton’s few love matches, a marriage so sickeningly happy that it had led to decades of raised eyebrows and envious stares. “No, darling, what you want to look for is a good leg.”
    “Mother!”
    “So easy to shock,” murmured Lady Uppington, before saying seriously, “Be on your guard around Vaughn. There are stories…” Lady Uppington stared in the direction of the card room, a distinct furrow appearing between her elegantly arched brows.
    “Stories?” prompted Henrietta.
    “They’re not appropriate for your ears.”
    “Oh, but assessing a gentleman’s legs is?” muttered Henrietta.
    Lady Uppington pursed her lips. “I don’t know what I did to deserve such impertinent children. You’re as bad as your brothers. Brother,” she corrected herself, since everyone knew Charles was a model of decorum. “But just this once, Henrietta Anne Selwick, I want you to listen to me without an argument.”
    “But, Mother—“
    “Miles won’t always be around to extricate you from awkward situations.”
    Henrietta opened her mouth to make a snide comment about that being Miles's one purpose in life. Lady Uppington cut her off with one raised hand.
    "Take your wise old mother's advice, and stay well away from Lord Vaughn. He is not a suitable suitor. Now, aren't you supposed to be dancing with someone?"
    "Bleargh," said Henrietta.
    * * *

Chapter Seven
    Cards, Game of: a battle of wits waged against an inscrutable agent of the Ministry of Police. See also under Hazard.
    —from the Personal Codebook of the Pink Carnation
    "What say you, Vaughn? Care for another hand?" Miles fanned the deck of cards out temptingly on the