Free The Mark of the Midnight Manzanilla A Pink Carnation Novel by Lauren Willig Page A

believe it?” he asked softly. It seemed macabre that all around them the musicians were still playing and people were still dancing and laughing, while old corpses were being exhumed, brutally and painfully. “Yes, I know that was what people said, but . . .”
    They claimed she had killed him, that his mother had taken a tincture made from the fruit of the manzanilla plant and fed it to his father in his tea. Fatal for him and for her as well, when she drank from the same pot.
    It had been politely papered over, of course. One didn’t openly accuse a duchess of murder. Not even a dead duchess of questionable extraction. “Accident” was the official verdict. But society knew and society judged and society found the duchess guilty.
    Marie-Clarice had been younger than he when their parents had died, her memories fewer, but surely there must be some lingering trace of affection, some loyalty.
    There was no trace of warmth in his sister’s eyes. “What reason have I to believe otherwise?” Flippantly, she added, “We are a cursed race. We have the seeds of evil within us. Haven’t you heard?”
    “That’s nonsense. Who told you that?” Lucien didn’t need to wait for the answer. “Aunt Winifred? I suppose she told you some faradiddle about dark arts and foreign charms.”
    Clarissa turned her head away. “I don’t want to talk about it.” The figures of the dance separated them and brought them together again. “Aunt Winifred never said a word.”
    No, she didn’t need to. Not directly. She might not have said a hard word, but she had never said a kind one either.
    “I won’t leave it at this,” Lucien said conversationally. If his sister could play at that game, so could he. He smiled, lazily, baring his teeth for the delectation of the watching crowd. Let them see how pointy they could be. “I intend to prove her innocence.”
    “Oh?” Clarissa made no effort to hide her disbelief. “How?”
    Hands joined, they stepped towards each other, then away again.
    “That’s my affair,” Lucien prevaricated.
    The truth of the matter was that after a fortnight of searching, he hadn’t stumbled upon anything worth reporting. Just the artifacts of a life ended too soon. Poignant, but not probative.
    “I am already on the trail of the real killer,” Lucien said glibly. It was just a little lie, after all. He was on the trail. He just didn’t quite know where that trail led.
    “You would do better to leave.” The musicians played the final chord, and his sister sank neatly into a curtsy. She looked up at him with shadowed eyes. “While you still can.”
    Whatever else Aunt Winifred had done, she clearly hadn’t censored his sister’s reading material. Clarissa had been reading far too many horrid novels.
    “While I still can?” echoed Lucien, with a faint edge of exasperation in his voice. “What is that supposed to mean?”
    This wasn’t that blasted book everyone was talking about; this was their parents. And it was all very real. There was no need for dramatic flourishes and enigmatic utterances.
    His sister ignored him. She held out a hand to the man to Lucien’s right. “Ah, Mr. Tholmondelay,” she said. “I believe I owe you this dance.”
    She smiled sweetly at the newcomer, as if she hadn’t just been croaking warnings like a wizened crone two minutes past. The next set was a lively country dance. Lucien left his sister skipping and hopping with the enthusiastic Mr. Tholmondelay. Short of dragging her out of the line and demanding answers, there was nothing else he could do.
    He suspected she didn’t have any. Answers, that was. Just more nonsense straight out of the pages of The Convent of Whatever It Was . Vampires, enigmatic warnings . . . Had everyone in London gone mad in the years he’d been away?
    He had been amused when Patrice told him of the rumors generated by his reclusiveness, amused and slightly scornful. People would believe anything. Now, in the light of