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

killer went free,” said Lucien bitterly.
    He made to rise, but Uncle Henry clapped a hand on his shoulder. “If you imagine that hasn’t haunted me all these years, then you aren’t the man I thought you were. Oh, yes. I see them in my nightmares, still, crying for justice.” His hand fell away. “But it’s too late now.”
    “Is it?” Lucien demanded. He rose unsteadily. His legs felt uncertain beneath him, and the room was wreathed in a haze. He caught at the back of the chair to steady himself. “If this is true—if the man is still alive, I’ll find him. I’ll find him and I’ll settle the score.”
    Uncle Henry looked at Lucien for a long, considering moment.
    Lucien met his eyes unflinchingly.
    Uncle Henry’s gaze dropped first. “Be careful. One Duke of Belliston has already died at the hands of these weasels.” His expression turned wry. “It would seem like carelessness to lose another.”
    Sally had lost her duke.
    “Do tell me more about your stoat breeding program,” she said, smiling up at her dance partner as she tried to angle just a little bit to the left.
    The Duke of Belliston had disappeared through those doors a good half hour ago and hadn’t come back.
    The idea that he might have departed for good made the evening feel strangely flat. She wasn’t done with him yet. She had at least seventeen opening lines prepared, each wittier than the last.
    So far, her quest to discover the duke’s dark secrets had not met with unparalleled success. There were certainly plenty of rumors circulating, but what with all the slaughtered chickens and Gypsy curses, Sally was having a hard time separating fact from fiction. Miss Gwen’s fiction, to be precise. Some of the theories being shared were lifted straight from the pages of The Convent of Orsino , which, as far as Sally knew, was a work of fiction, not a tell-all biography of the life and times of the Duke of Belliston.
    She wanted to know about the man, not the myth. Where had he been all these years? Why did he lurk in overgrown gardens? And what was it that his sister had said that had made him look like thunder?
    Their meeting the other night had piqued her curiosity. And if there was one thing Sally couldn’t endure, it was being piqued.
    “You mustn’t believe everything you hear,” Mr. Fitzwarren announced.
    Sally looked at him sharply. “About—?”
    “About stoats.” Mr. Fitzwarren shook his flaming red head. “People have the oddest ideas about them.”
    Sally didn’t have any ideas about them at all. “I’m afraid I’ve never met a stoat,” she said apologetically.
    “They don’t seem to get about much.” Mr. Fitzwarren seemed genuinely bewildered by this state of affairs.
    “Have you attempted popularizing them as pets?” Sally asked politely, her attention on the back of the ballroom. She wasn’t the only one. Half the people in the room seemed to be glancing over their shoulders for the duke; the other half contented themselves with gossiping about him.
    “Would you like one?” Mr. Fitzwarren asked eagerly. “I can give you Lady Florence.”
    Mr. Fitzwarren appeared to be looking at her expectantly. Sally shook herself back to the present. “Lady Florence who?”
    “Lady Florence Oblong.” When Sally looked at him in puzzlement, Mr. Fitzwarren explained, “That’s the name of the stoat.”
    “I see.” What Sally didn’t see was any sign of the duke. Blast.
    On the other hand, the people dancing behind them were having a rather fascinating whispered conversation about the wrong the duke’s mother had done. It appeared to have something to do with . . . sacrificing chickens? Really, the acoustics in this room were dreadful.
    “She’s a very genteel stoat.” What on earth was Mr. Fitzwarren on about? Oh, yes, Lady Florence Oblong. The stoat. “She’s very dainty about her kills.”
    Two words Sally hadn’t expected to hear in the same sentence. “I’m sure she’s a paragon among