Lauren Willig: The Secret History of the Pink Carnation

Sent to Eton to learn the classics, Richard raced through the adventures of Odysseus and Aeneas, earning an utterly undeserved reputation as a scholar. Richard burned for the day when he could set out on his own adventures.

There was only one problem. There seemed to be very little call for heroes nowadays. He had, he realized, the ill fortune to be living in a time of singular peace and civility. Other employment would have to be found.

With that in mind, Richard looked first to estate management. He did have his own little estate, but the steward was a genial man of middle years, universally liked and unusually competent. There was little for Richard to do but ride about making polite conversation with his tenants and kissing the occasional baby. There was certainly something satisfying about it, but Richard knew that playing the role of gentleman farmer would leave him bored and restless.

So Richard did what any other young man in his position would do. He set out to become a rake. By the time he was sixteen, the second son of the Marquess of Uppington was a familiar figure in the fashionable gaming dens and bawdy houses of London. He played faro for high stakes, drove his horses too fast, and changed his mistresses as frequently as he did his linen. But he was still bored.

And then, just when Richard had resigned himself to a life of empty debauchery, good fortune smiled upon him in the form of the French Revolution. For hundreds of years, the Uppington estates had adjoined those of the Blakeneys. Richard had spent countless afternoons hunting with Sir Percy, raiding his kitchens for tarts, and kicking about the Blakeney library, reading Percy’s extensive collection of classical works, all of which contained bookplates with the Blakeney coat of arms, which happened to contain a small scarlet flower. When the Scarlet Pimpernel began making headlines, it didn’t take much for Richard to put two and two together and come up with the fact that his next-door neighbor was the greatest hero to appear in England since Henry V.

Richard had begged and pleaded until Percy agreed to take him along on a mission. That one mission went well, and became two, and then three missions, until Richard, with his gift for the heroic, became absolutely indispensable to the League of the Scarlet Pimpernel. So indispensable that Percy and the others had forgiven him when . . . No. Richard squashed the thought before it could grow into memory, stomping up the steps to his club with unnecessary vigor.

Richard felt himself relaxing as he entered the masculine stronghold of White’s. The smells of tobacco and spirits hung heavy in the air, and from a chamber to his right, he could hear the heavy thud of darts being flung against a target—and missing, if the curses coming from that room were any indication. Meandering through the first floor, he spotted several hands of cards in progress, but none that he cared to join. One of his sister’s many suitors made enthusiastic welcoming motions at Richard from the small table where he was ensconced with two friends over a bottle of port. Unfortunately, his welcome was a little too enthusiastic. He toppled himself right over the side of his chair, taking the table, port decanter, and three glasses with him. “Well, that’s one person we won’t be seeing at Almack’s tonight,” murmured Richard to himself, as he nodded in passing at the flailing boy and his port-sodden companions.

Richard found his quarry in the library.

“Selwick!” The Honorable Miles Dorrington flung aside the news sheet he had been reading, leaped up from his chair and pounded his friend on the back. He then hastily reseated himself, looking slightly abashed at his unseemly display of affection.

In a fit of temper, Richard’s sister Henrietta had once referred irritably to Miles as “that overeager sheepdog,” and there was something to be said for the description. With his sandy blond hair flopping into his face, and his brown eyes alight with good fellowship, Miles did bear a striking resemblance to the more amiable varieties of man’s best friend. He was, in fact, Richard’s best friend. They had been fast friends since their first days at Eton.

“When did you get back to London?” Miles asked.

Richard dropped into the seat next to him, sinking contentedly into the worn leather chair. He stretched his long legs comfortably out in front of him. “Late last night. I left Paris Thursday, stopped for a couple of nights at Uppington Hall, and got into town about midnight.” He grinned at his friend. “I’m in hiding.”

Miles instantly stiffened. Anxiously, he looked left, then right, before leaning forward and hissing, “From whom? Did they follow you here?”

Richard shouted with laughter. “Good God, nothing like that, man! No, I’m a fugitive from my mother.”

Miles relaxed. “You might have said so,” he commented crossly. “As you can imagine, we’re all a bit on edge.”

“Sorry, old chap.” Richard smiled his thanks as a glass of his favorite brand of scotch materialized in his hands. Ah, it was good to be back at his club!

Miles accepted a whisky, and leaned back in his chair. “What is it this time? Is she throwing another distant cousin at you?”

“Worse,” Richard said. He took a long swig of scotch. “Almack’s.”

Miles grimaced in sympathy. “Not the knee breeches.”

“Knee breeches and all.”

There was a moment of companionable silence as the men, both fashionably turned out in tight tan trousers, contemplated the horror of knee breeches. Miles finished his whisky and set it down on a low table beside his chair. Taking a more thorough look around the room, he asked Richard quietly, “How is Paris?”

Not only Richard’s oldest and closest friend, Miles also served as his contact at the War Office. When Richard had switched from rescuing aristocrats to gathering secrets, the Minister of War had wisely pointed out that the best possible way to communicate with Richard was through young Miles Dorrington. After all, the two men moved in the same set, shared the same friends, and could frequently be seen reminiscing over the tables at White’s. Nobody would see anything suspicious about finding two old friends in hushed conversation. As an excuse for his frequent calls at Uppington House, Miles had put it about that he was thinking of courting Richard’s sister. Henrietta had entered into the deception with, to Richard’s big-brotherly mind, a little too much relish.

Richard took his own survey of the room, noting the back of a white head poking out over a chairback. He lifted an eyebrow quizzically at Miles.

Miles shrugged. “It’s only old Falconstone. Deaf as a post and fast asleep to boot.”

“And his son is one of ours. Right. Paris has been . . . busy.”

Miles tugged at his cravat. “Busy how?”

“Stop that, or you’ll have your valet baying for your blood.”

Miles looked sheepish and tried to rearrange the folds of his cravat, which had gone from being a perfect waterfall to simply falling all over.

“Lots of comings and goings from the Tuilleries—more than usual,” Richard continued. “I’ve sent a full report to the office. Along with some information helpfully compiled by our mutual friend Monsieur Delaroche at the Ministry of Police.” His lips curved in a grin of sheer glee.

“Good man! I knew you could do it! A list of all their agents in London—and right out from under Delaroche’s nose, no less! You do have the devil’s own luck.” Richard’s back was too far away to reach, so Miles slapped the arm of his chair appreciatively instead. “And your connections to the First Consul?”

“Better than ever,” Richard said. “He’s moved the collection of Egyptian artifacts into the palace.”