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about. Various French agents had sworn to unmask the Pink Carnation or die trying.
    The Black Tulip actually had died in the attempt—or so they had been led to believe. The Tulip had an inconvenient habit of resurrection. If the Tulip, or someone like him, had Agnes . . . Not that she believed that Agnes had been kidnapped. The very idea was ridiculous.
    But it wasn’t impossible.
    Jane read her conclusion in her face. “You see? We have to find her.”
    Gwen rubbed at her cheek where her false whiskers had irritated her skin. “Not so fast, young lady. Have you considered you might be walking into a trap? If someone has discovered your identity—not that I’m saying that they have—but if they have . . .” The Black Tulip hadn’t been known for mercy.
    “How could I leave Agnes to suffer on my behalf?” Jane’s indignation made Gwen feel small, small and selfish. “If I put her into danger, it’s my duty to get her out again.”
    Gwen’s eyes met Jane’s. “Have you considered that if you leave, you might not be able to come back?”
    Travel across the Channel was still technically forbidden. If it were known that they traveled back and forth to England, it would arouse suspicion. For brief and necessary clandestine visits, Jane usually pretended an illness, “taking to her bed” at the Hotel de Balcourt, with Gwen at her side to nurse her. It only added to her mystique of fragile delicacy. In public, they went disguised, under other personae: the forbidding Ernestine Grimwold and her dithery niece Miss Gilly Fairly, or the widowed Mrs. Fustian and her daughter. They were themselves only within the safety of the family circle, and that sparingly.
    “Miss Fustian,” suggested Jane with unaccustomed hesitation, “might seek employment in Miss Climpson’s school.”
    Gwen shook her head. “No. You look too much like Agnes. The students will suss it out in ten minutes, maybe less. Unless . . .”
    She had an idea, an idea insane enough that it just might work. Part of her, the craven, selfish part, wanted to shake it away, to pretend helplessness. After all, wouldn’t it make more sense to stay in Paris and delegate the task to one of their agents in England? The former Purple Gentian would leap at the assignment. If he were out of commission, there were half a dozen others who would take on the task with a great deal of enthusiasm and varying levels of skill.
    And Jane would never forgive herself.
    Reluctantly, Gwen said, “There might be a way.”
    Jane regarded her warily. “Does this have to do with wearing your false whiskers?”
    “No,” said Gwen. “We disguise ourselves by having no disguises at all. We go as ourselves.”
    Jane gave her a frustrated look. “I know you don’t approve of the venture, but there’s no need to speak nonsense.”
    “It’s not nonsense. It’s our best chance,” said Gwen rapidly. “We evade suspicion by being entirely aboveboard. What is there to hide, after all?”
    Jane cocked an eyebrow. It was an effective trick, one the chit had picked up from her early mentor, the Purple Gentian. Gwen had practiced it herself, but it required one attribute she had never mastered: the gift of sustained silence.
    “No, not like that.” Gwen waved Jane’s silent protest aside. “You apply to the Emperor for permission to travel. You tell him your sister has eloped and your family needs you. He, of all people, should understand the concerns of wayward sisters. Look at his! A scandal, all of them.”
    Jane sat down on the edge of Gwen’s bed, a slender figure in a white nightdress. “You might be right,” she said slowly.
    Gwen harrumphed. “Of course I’m right. Aren’t I always?”
    What was she doing? The last thing in the world that she wanted was to go back to England. Here in Paris, she had presence, she had standing, she had fear, if not respect. Back in England, she was just Miss Meadows, spinster. The very idea made her stomach cramp.
    She