Lauren Willig by The Seduction of the Crimson Rose
Authors: The Seduction of the Crimson Rose
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began to wonder if one could publish before one had anything written. I certainly wasn’t going to allow this, this archivist to pip me to the post. My Pink Carnation. Mine, mine, mine.
“Of course,” I jabbered, doing everything but hug my notebook to my chest, as if the identity of the Pink Carnation might somehow have leaked across the page, “my dissertation is on espionage more broadly. I’m looking at the means and manner of all sorts of different organizations over that twenty-three-year period between 1792 and 1815 . You said also ?”
Dempster shrugged, in a nonchalant gesture worthy of Vaughn himself. “My own background is in history of art, but the Pink Carnation has become something of a hobby for me. Working among these papers”he gestured broadly back towards the muniments room”it’s very hard not to take an interest. One of history’s great mysteries here, at my disposal.”
“Of course,” I said, relief oozing out of every pore of my body. It was a pity he hadn’t taken up the Princes in the Tower instead, but as long as his interest was genuinely that of a bored amateur, it was all fine.
“We might,” he suggested delicately, “even be of use to each other. I might be able to direct you to areas of the Vaughn Collection of interest to you.”
“Mmm,” I said noncommittally. Considering I already knew who the Pink Carnation was, I would be of far more use to him than he to me. As for keeping it secret, my own skills at subterfuge were what one might tactfully call less than well developed. My sister, Jillian, would say it went with the red hair. Did I mention that Jillian is brunette?
On the other hand, if this Nigel Dempster really did know his way around the Vaughn papers as well as he claimed well, it couldn’t hurt to pick his brain just a bit, could it?
I firmly shut out the echo of Jillian’s mocking laughter. Little sisters have no respect these days.
Dempster waved a hand at the box in front of me. “If you’re looking for spies, I’m afraid you’ll find Sebastian a bit of a disappointment.”
“Really?”
Dempster perched familiarly on the edge of the table. I could see a bit of striped sock poking out beneath his trouser leg, patterned with discrete red blobs. “For a man who wrote so fluently on politics and art, Sebastian is remarkably chary with the details of his personal life. He remains, even within his own collection, a bit of a shadowy personage.”
Were we talking about the same Sebastian? Lord Vaughn? It was the Vaughn collection, after all. I didn’t think Lord Vaughn would have tolerated the infiltration of extraneous Sebastians.
Dempster gazed pensively off into space, a pose I recognized from far too many BBC documentaries: historian waxes informative about lack of information. At length. It’s amazing how much screen time historians can eke out of the absence of evidence.
“Sebastian’s diaries place him in France at suspect times, but never say why. He attends meetings of underground societies, but leaves unspoken to what end. Do you know”he leaned confidingly forward”I quite suspect Sebastian himself of being the elusive Pink Carnation.” His plummy voice lent “elusive” all the pomp and circumstance of Alistair Cooke introducing Masterpiece Theatre . “But I have no confirmation, noas it wereproof.”
And then it hit me. He didn’t know who Jane was. And if he didn’t know who Jane was, then none of the rest of it made the least bit of sense. That list of names at the house party that had sent a hundred bells ringing for me wouldn’t mean anything at all to someone who hadn’t known about the circumstances of Lord Richard’s marriage, Lady Henrietta’s involvement in the search for the Black Tulip, and the peculiar circumstances of Lord and Lady Pinchingdale’s so-called honeymoon. Based on what was available in
“Of course,” I jabbered, doing everything but hug my notebook to my chest, as if the identity of the Pink Carnation might somehow have leaked across the page, “my dissertation is on espionage more broadly. I’m looking at the means and manner of all sorts of different organizations over that twenty-three-year period between 1792 and 1815 . You said also ?”
Dempster shrugged, in a nonchalant gesture worthy of Vaughn himself. “My own background is in history of art, but the Pink Carnation has become something of a hobby for me. Working among these papers”he gestured broadly back towards the muniments room”it’s very hard not to take an interest. One of history’s great mysteries here, at my disposal.”
“Of course,” I said, relief oozing out of every pore of my body. It was a pity he hadn’t taken up the Princes in the Tower instead, but as long as his interest was genuinely that of a bored amateur, it was all fine.
“We might,” he suggested delicately, “even be of use to each other. I might be able to direct you to areas of the Vaughn Collection of interest to you.”
“Mmm,” I said noncommittally. Considering I already knew who the Pink Carnation was, I would be of far more use to him than he to me. As for keeping it secret, my own skills at subterfuge were what one might tactfully call less than well developed. My sister, Jillian, would say it went with the red hair. Did I mention that Jillian is brunette?
On the other hand, if this Nigel Dempster really did know his way around the Vaughn papers as well as he claimed well, it couldn’t hurt to pick his brain just a bit, could it?
I firmly shut out the echo of Jillian’s mocking laughter. Little sisters have no respect these days.
Dempster waved a hand at the box in front of me. “If you’re looking for spies, I’m afraid you’ll find Sebastian a bit of a disappointment.”
“Really?”
Dempster perched familiarly on the edge of the table. I could see a bit of striped sock poking out beneath his trouser leg, patterned with discrete red blobs. “For a man who wrote so fluently on politics and art, Sebastian is remarkably chary with the details of his personal life. He remains, even within his own collection, a bit of a shadowy personage.”
Were we talking about the same Sebastian? Lord Vaughn? It was the Vaughn collection, after all. I didn’t think Lord Vaughn would have tolerated the infiltration of extraneous Sebastians.
Dempster gazed pensively off into space, a pose I recognized from far too many BBC documentaries: historian waxes informative about lack of information. At length. It’s amazing how much screen time historians can eke out of the absence of evidence.
“Sebastian’s diaries place him in France at suspect times, but never say why. He attends meetings of underground societies, but leaves unspoken to what end. Do you know”he leaned confidingly forward”I quite suspect Sebastian himself of being the elusive Pink Carnation.” His plummy voice lent “elusive” all the pomp and circumstance of Alistair Cooke introducing Masterpiece Theatre . “But I have no confirmation, noas it wereproof.”
And then it hit me. He didn’t know who Jane was. And if he didn’t know who Jane was, then none of the rest of it made the least bit of sense. That list of names at the house party that had sent a hundred bells ringing for me wouldn’t mean anything at all to someone who hadn’t known about the circumstances of Lord Richard’s marriage, Lady Henrietta’s involvement in the search for the Black Tulip, and the peculiar circumstances of Lord and Lady Pinchingdale’s so-called honeymoon. Based on what was available in
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