The Secret History of the Pink Carnation

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Amy stumbled into the carriage in an extreme state of confusion. Confusion seemed to be her normal state, nowadays. Amy tried to remember what it felt like to feel sure of herself and her plans and her opinions and the people around her, and failed miserably. First, there had been the Purple Gentian, who had baffled her by seeming to care for her, then repudiating her. And now Lord Richard! Lord Richard who, whenever she thought she had him pegged—as a charming antiquarian, as an evil abettor of the French, as the lover of Pauline Leclerc—did something to confuse her. How could he speak so warmly of Sir Percy, and yet himself have aided the French? How could he bedevil her one moment and charm her the next?

Maybe, thought Amy, her hands pressed tightly together in her lap, she was just too easily charmed. It said something rather unpleasant about the shallowness of her own character that she could fancy herself in love with the Purple Gentian one day and be fascinated by Lord Richard the next. Oh, but she had been so sure of her feelings for the Gentian! And of his for her. His promise of a necklace of stars had seemed to be a sort of divine seal of approval, marking him out as her official, one and only true love.

The phrase fluttered in circles around her head. Something about it nagged at her memory. A necklace of stars . . . a necklace of stars. But she had never told the Purple Gentian about her father’s promise; she had never even told him about her parents’ death. Only one person in France knew about her childhood memory. One person who had grown up next door to Percy Blakeney, who had been in Egypt when Bonaparte’s fleet was destroyed. One person who had been sporting tight tan trousers the previous afternoon. One person who always wore citrus-scented cologne.

“That cad!” Amy breathed.

Jane broke off midsentence in her conversation with Miss Gwen and touched Amy’s hand. “Are you feeling quite all right?”

Oblivious to Jane, to Miss Gwen, to discretion, Amy jerked her hand away and slammed it back down against the seat. “That utter sniveling, lying cad!”

“Um, Amy? Would you like to tell me what’s wrong?” Jane was hovering from a safe distance, lest Amy strike out again. Amy could have told her she was safe—the only person Amy wanted to hit, again and again and again, was several yards back in the Tuilleries—but at the moment, Amy wasn’t capable of uttering anything quite that coherent.

“Cad . . . disgusting . . . urgh!” she muttered.

Amy’s arms flailed wildly. Jane scooted a little farther back on the seat and looked anxiously at Miss Gwen. “Should we . . . ?”

Miss Gwen, however, was smiling quite unconcernedly, if slightly maliciously, at Amy. “You certainly took your time figuring it out.”

“You knew?” Amy’s eyebrows flew up till they nearly reached her hairline. “All this time, you knew? And you didn’t tell me?”

Jane looked brightly from Amy’s agitated face to Miss Gwen’s smug one. “Oh, are you talking about Lord Richard being the Purple Gentian?”

“Arrrrrrrrrrrrrgh!” Amy flung herself face-first into the seat cushions.

“If it makes you feel better, I only figured it out this morning,” said Jane apologetically, wrenching a corner of her skirt out from under Amy’s head.

“Wonderful,” sputtered Amy, lifting a flushed face from the bench, “just wonderful. Everyone knew except me.”

“The First Consul doesn’t know yet,” volunteered Jane. “Nor does the Ministry of Safety.”

“Yes, but they haven’t been kissing him!” cried Amy heedlessly.

“I take that to mean that you have?” Miss Gwen’s beady eyes fixed on Amy like a vulture sighting prey.

“Um . . .”

“I will refrain from comment on your reckless disregard for your reputation,” Miss Gwen’s voice scraped across Amy’s raw nerves like talons clawing flesh. “Your morals I leave to your conscience. Since what is done cannot be undone, it remains only to take what little good one can from this unfortunate episode.”

“You mean that now I’ve learned my lesson and know never to kiss anyone ever again?”

Miss Gwen impaled Amy on a look of utter contempt. “Lesson, indeed! Kindly contrive not to be more absurd than the good Lord made you. No. I require a full description of the kiss or kisses for incorporation into my novel.”

The world and everyone in it had gone mad. That was the only explanation that Amy could come up with. Lord Richard Selwick, Bonaparte’s antiquarian, was the Purple Gentian. Miss Gwen, rather than scolding her for improper behavior, wanted to use it in her novel. What next?

Bewilderment momentarily distracted her from Lord Richard’s deception. But only for a moment. “How could he be so cruel?” she whispered, her eyes clouded.

“Why don’t you go to him and tell him you know who he is?” suggested Jane.

Amy shook her head so vehemently that her loose curls whipped across the end of Jane’s nose. “You don’t understand, Jane. I want to make him suffer.”

Miss Gwen emitted a cracking noise that might have been a laugh. “Ah. Young love.”

Amy scowled at her. “What in heaven’s name are you talking about?”

“You shouldn’t take heaven’s name in vain, missy. You might want to go there someday.” Miss Gwen smirked. Amy simmered. When Miss Gwen felt Amy had simmered for a suitable length of time, she spoke. “It’s quite simple. You wouldn’t hate him so much unless you loved him. Hmm. I like that. Maybe I’ll use it in my book.”

“At least someone benefits from this farce,” bit out Amy.

“Don’t take that tone with me, young lady. I’m on your side in this. You needn’t goggle your eyes at me. The young man played with your affections in a most inappropriate way and deserves whatever punishment you choose to mete out.” Miss Gwen considered for a moment before adding, “Excluding physical mutilation. One must acknowledge the bounds of decency.”

Amy gave a laugh that sounded suspiciously like a sob.

“How do you intend to wreak your revenge?” Miss Gwen asked briskly.

Amy plunged with relief into her favorite distraction. Planning. Planning almost anything was a dependable remedy for weepiness. Planning ways to wreak devastation, vengeance, and mayhem upon the guilty golden head of Lord Richard Selwick was even better. Amy rubbed her eyes clear and set to work.

The ideal revenge would be to serve back to him the bitter brew of his own devising. Perhaps she could appear at his chambers in disguise, heavily veiled in black, and convince him that she was a secret agent sent by the War Office. Or, even better, she could be a French agent defecting to the English. He wouldn’t see her face, and she would speak in a heavy accent—a Provençal dialect, perhaps, southern and exotic, with echoes of the troubadours and courts of love—so he wouldn’t recognize her voice. And once he was terribly, painfully, in love with her, she could repudiate him on a dark midnight, and leave him standing broken beside his own house. An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth, and a deception for a deception. Justice in its purest form.

The plan was perfect.

And entirely impracticable. There was nothing to guarantee that she could make him love her. Besides, one yank of her veils, and the whole plan would be undone. Amy sank back into thought.

What mattered most to him? What would it pain him most to see taken away?

“I’ll beat him to the Swiss gold. I’ll show the Purple Gentian that he isn’t the only one who can thwart Bonaparte.”

Miss Gwen leveled an appraising gaze at Amy. “I thought there might be some mettle in you.”

Both Jane and Amy stared openmouthed at Miss Gwen.

“Was that a compliment?” whispered Amy to Jane.

“It sounded like one,” Jane agreed, eyes wide.

“Don’t allow it to go to your head,” Miss Gwen interrupted dryly. “I spoke solely of potential. You may yet prove the contrary.”

“Thank you,” said Amy.

“I like this plan much better than tormenting Lord Richard,” contributed Jane, leaning forward on the seat.

“Oh, I still intend to do that, too,” responded Amy stubbornly. “Miss Gwen’s right. He broke the do-unto-others rule, and now he’s going to get his just deserts. It’s too bad I can’t pretend to be two people, just to show him what it feels like.”

“Let’s not go into that again,” Jane put in hastily. “How shall we intercept the gold?”

“We already had a plan.” Amy’s lips twisted in a rueful grimace as she relayed the plan she and the Purple Gentian had contrived together the night before. Miss Gwen listened intently. “If that is the plan the Purple Gentian intends to employ, we must find another one.”

“We don’t have enough people for it,” pointed out Jane, ever practical. “The Purple Gentian has a league; we just have us. Not that we aren’t formidable,” she added hastily, with a glance at Miss Gwen.

“Why shouldn’t we be a league?” demanded Miss Gwen.

“That’s it! Amy—” Jane’s mouth was a round O of amusement. Speechless with mirth, she rocked back against the seat, one hand pressed to her chest, the other held out to her cousin.

“Out with it!” snapped Miss Gwen.

“The Pink Carnation!” gasped Jane.

Miss Gwen looked at her as though she was considering transporting her immediately to Bedlam.

“You must remember, Amy! Before the Purple Gentian appeared, when we were going to be our own league, and call it—”

“The Pink Carnation,” Amy finished, the beginnings of a smile glimmering across her unhappy face. “We liked it better than the Invincible Orchid,” she finished, her voice cracking slightly.

“Shall we?” asked Jane breathlessly, a faint pink flush rising in her pale cheeks. “Shall we become the Pink Carnation?”

“Oh, Jane!” Amy launched herself across the seat to hug her cousin. “I would like nothing better! We’ll make Bonaparte quail at the very sight of a Carnation!”

“I prefer the Invincible Orchid,” announced Miss Gwen.

Neither of her charges listened. They were too busy planning the career of the Pink Carnation.