‘These were painted shortly after their wedding,’ Mrs Selwick-Alderly informed me, as Colin dragged his chair closer. Planting an arm against the side of the sofa, he leant over my shoulder to look at the miniatures. I scooted closer to Mrs Selwick-Alderly. ‘This’ – she passed me the first painting, a man in a high collar and intricately tied cravat – ‘is Richard.’ I had expected him to look like Colin. He didn’t.
Lord Richard’s face was narrower, his cheekbones higher, and his nose longer. The colouring was similar, but even there Lord Richard’s hair was a shade lighter, and his eyes were, even in the tiny portrait, a distinct green. I suppose it shouldn’t be surprising after two hundred years for a family resemblance to have died out. It was Amy’s comments about blond hair and a supercilious expression that had led me astray. I considered the latter. Hmm, maybe the family resemblance hadn’t entirely died out after all.
‘And this’ – Mrs Selwick-Alderly handed me the second miniature, as I settled Lord Richard carefully in my lap – ‘is Amy.’
Amy’s dark hair was pulled into ringlets at either side of her face, like Lizzie’s in the BBC’s Pride and Prejudice, and she wore a plain, high-waisted, white muslin gown. In her hand, extended as though towards the occupant of the other miniature, she held a small flower, shaped like a bluebell, but of a deeper hue. Purple, in fact. Despite my lack of horticultural knowledge, I had a feeling I knew which species of flower Amy was holding. Cute. Very cute.
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 titbit 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 counter clockwise 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 summarise—’
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 leapt up to help her, but she waved me away.
‘You’ – she wagged a teaspoon at me – ‘should be packing.’
Over my protests, she herded me towards the door.
‘I look forward to hearing the results of your researches when you return,’ she said firmly.
I murmured the appropriate responses, and started towards the stairs.
‘And Eloise?’ I paused on the top step to look back. ‘Don’t mind Colin.’
‘I won’t,’ I assured her breezily, waved, and continued on my way.
Manuscripts, manuscripts, manuscripts, I sang to myself. But despite my cavalier words to Mrs Selwick-Alderly, I couldn’t help but wonder. A two-hour drive to Sussex – could we make polite conversation for that long? And then two nights under the same roof, two days in the same house.
It was going to be an interesting weekend.
Historical Note
At the end of any historical novel, I’m always plagued with wondering which bits really happened. Richard and Amy’s exploits, along with the whole host of flower-named spies, are, alas, purely fictional. Napoleon’s plans for an invasion of England were not. As early as 1797, he had his eye on the neighbouring coastline. ‘Our government must destroy the British monarchy… That done, Europe is at our feet,’ Napoleon schemed. Even during the short-lived Peace of Amiens (the truce that enabled Amy to join her brother in France), Napoleon continued to amass flat-bottomed boats to convey his troops to England. In April 1803, on the eve of the collapse of the peace, Napoleon sold Louisiana to the United States to raise money for the invasion – a more reliable method of fund-raising than bullying Swiss bankers.
As for the Bonapartes and their hangers-on, while caricatured a bit (something of which Amy’s beloved news sheets would no doubt approve), they have been drawn largely from life; Napoleon’s court boasts a rich collection of contemporary memoirs and a mind-boggling assortment of modern biographies. Josephine’s extravagances, Napoleon’s abrupt entrances to his wife’s salons, Pauline’s incessant affairs – all were commonplaces of Napoleonic Paris. Georges Marston’s drinking buddy, Joachim Murat, suffered a tumultuous marriage to Napoleon’s sister Caroline; Josephine’s daughter Hortense took English lessons at the Tuilleries until her tutor was dismissed on suspicion of being an English spy; and Beau Brummel really was that interested in fashion.
In the interest of the story, some rather large liberties were taken with the historical record. Napoleon inconsiderately sacked Joseph Fouché and abolished the Ministry of Police in 1802. Both were reinstated in 1804 – a year too late for the purposes of this novel. But no novel about espionage in Napoleonic Paris could possibly be complete without Fouché, the man who created Napoleon’s spy network and cast terror into the hearts of a whole generation of Frenchmen and English spies. In addition to rehiring Fouché a year too early, I also made him the gift of an impressive new Ministry of Police on the He de la Cite. No existing building possessed an extra-special interrogation chamber ghastly enough for Gaston Delaroche.
I also rearranged England’s secret service a bit. During the Napoleonic Wars, espionage was coordinated through a sub-department of the Home Office called the Alien Office – not the War Office. Given the strong fictional tradition of ascribing dashing spies to the War Office, I just couldn’t bring myself to have Richard and Miles reporting to the Alien Office. I could picture the wrinkled brows, the raised eyebrows, and the confused ‘Shouldn’t he be going to the War Office? Where do aliens come into it? I didn’t know this was that kind of book!’ As a compromise solution, while I call it the War Office, any actual personnel, buildings, or practices described in conjunction with Richard’s and Miles’s work really belong to the Alien Office. For the little-known story of the Alien Office and much more, I am deeply in debt to Elizabeth Sparrow’s wonderful book, Secret Service: British Agents in France 1792 – 1815, which is, essentially, Eloise’s dissertation. Eloise, however, is not jealous, since she a) has that fabulous scoop about the Pink Carnation, and b) is fictional.
Tempted to unmask more flowery spies?
Read on for further details of the
Pink Carnation series …
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The Secret History of the
Pink Carnation
BY LAUREN WILLIG
Nothing goes right for Eloise. The one day she wears her new suede boots, it rains cats and dogs. When the tube stops short, she’s always the one thrown into some stranger’s lap. Plus, she’s had more than her share of misfortune in the way of love. In fact, after she realises romantic heroes are a thing of the past, she decides it’s time for a fresh start.
Eloise is also determined to finish her dissertation on that dashing pair of spies, the Scarlet Pimpernel and the Purple Gentian. But what she discovers is something the finest historians have missed: the secret history of the Pink Carnation – the most elusive spy of all time. As she works to unmask this obscure spy, Eloise stumbles across answers to all kinds of questions. How did the Pink Carnation save England from Napoleon? What became of the Scarlet Pimpernel and the Purple Gentian? And will Eloise Kelly escape her bad luck and find a living, breathing hero of her own?
The Masque of the
Black Tulip
BY LAUREN WILLIG
‘If modern manhood had let me down, at least the past boasted brighter specimens. To wit, the Scarlet Pimpernel, the Purple Gentian and the Pink Carnation, that dashing trio of spies who kept Napoleon in a froth of rage and the feminine population of England in another sort of froth entirely.’
Modern-day student Eloise Kelly has achieved a great academic coup by unmasking the elusive spy the Pink Carnation, who saved England from Napoleon. But now she has a million questions about the Carnation’s deadly nemesis, the Black Tulip. And she’s pretty sure that her handsome on-again, off-again crush Colin Selwick has the answers somewhere in his family’s archives. While searching through Lady Henrietta’s old letters and diaries from 1803, Eloise stumbles across an old codebook and discovers something more exciting than she ever imagined: Henrietta and her old friend Miles Dorrington were on the trail of the Black Tulip and had every intention of stopping him in his endeavour to kill the Pink Carnation. But what they didn’t know was that while they were trying to find the Tulip – and trying not to fall in love in the process – the Black Tulip was watching them . . .
The Deception of the
Emerald Ring
BY LAUREN WILLIG
‘All in readiness. An unmarked carriage will be waiting for you behind the house at mid
night …’
History student Eloise Kelly is in London looking for more information on the activities of the infamous 19th century spy, the Pink Carnation, while at the same time trying to keep her mind off the fact that her mobile phone is not ringing and her would-be romantic he ro Colin Selwick is not calling.
Eloise is finally distracted from checking for messages every five minutes by the discovery of a brief note, sandwiched amongst the papers she’s poring over in the British Library. Signed by Lord Pinchingdale, it is all Eloise needs to delve back in time and unearth the story of Letty Alsworthy and the Pink Carnation’s espionage activities on the Emerald Isle …
The Seduction of the
Crimson Rose
BY LAUREN WILLIG
Hoping to track down the true identity of the elusive French spy the Black Tulip, graduate student Eloise Kelly delves ever deeper into the archives at the British Library and the family papers of her boyfriend Colin Selwick, the modern-day descent of her Napoleonic spy subjects. As she becomes ever more entwined with Colin, her research brings her closer to uncovering the Black Tulip’s true identity.
Determined to secure another London season without assistance from her new brother-in-law, Mary Alsworthy accepts a secret assignment from Lord Vaughn on behalf of the Pink Carnation: to infiltrate the ranks of the dreaded French spy, the Black Tulip, before he and his master can stage their planned invasion of England. Every spy has a weakness, and for the Black Tulip that weakness is black-haired women – his ‘petals’ of the Tulip. A natural at the art of seduction, Mary easily catches the attention of the French spy, but Lord Vaughn never anticipates that his own heart will be caught as well. Fighting their growing attraction, impediments from their past, and, of course, the French, Mary and Vaughn find themselves lost in the shadows of a treacherous garden of lies.