Uncomfortable, she restored her mask. ‘That aside, it would seem Sir Geoffrey and his like would benefit nothing from passing secrets to the Dutch.’
‘While war rages there can scarcely be trade at all, and if the Dutch win that coast, it will cease for the Adventurers completely. But men’s motives are often duplicitous, as you well know.’ He took another glass of wine from a passing page and sipped, speaking with his mouth against the rim. ‘So besides myself, the King and the Duke, those are the three men of the war council. Sir Peter Shaw, Sir Stephen Herrick, and Sir Geoffrey Allcot. Whether intentionally or through Virgo’s manipulation, one of those must be the source of her intelligence.’
Bubbles fizzed on her tongue as Mercia took a sip from her own fresh glass. ‘Lady Castlemaine said Virgo was close to the man. So I will begin with the obvious, and simply speak with the women she could be. She has to be near to compile her reports so promptly.’
‘It still leaves five, so you said.’
She nodded. ‘Sir Stephen’s wife, Lady Herrick, and his niece, Cornelia Howe. Sir Geoffrey’s wife, Lady Allcot, and his mistress, Helen Cartwright – Lady Cartwright, moreover, who is absent tonight. And finally Lavinia Whent, Sir Peter’s mistress. Nobody else is close enough at hand. Sir Geoffrey’s daughters are abroad or in the North, and Sir Peter only has sons.’
‘While the Herricks are as childless as I am. I doubt Anne Herrick will appreciate being thought a suspect.’
‘Unless she is the guilty one, she need never know. Nor that young woman with Sir Peter. But they must all be considered if I am to consolidate the King’s favour and rid myself of my uncle for good and all.’ She shook her head. ‘The noble Sir Francis. There he is now.’
She looked to the far side of the room where her uncle was standing amidst a group of well-dressed men, deep in conversation. Staring directly at her, one of the younger in his company caught her eye. He lowered his mask, breaking into a growing smile; even at this distance she could tell he was attractive, his thick, black hair and penetrating eyes exactly the type she admired. She found herself inclining her head in acknowledgement of his interest, until she remembered Sir William was at her side and she made herself look away.
Where was her aunt, she wondered, unable to find Lady Simmonds near her husband, but then she jumped as a trumpet droned from a balcony directly above, and a malicious part of her was glad her aunt had committed the error of missing the King’s imminent entrance. Too glad, she chided herself: was the intrigue of the Court rubbing off on her so soon?
The call of another trumpet joined the first, and through an entrance barely ten feet down, two pages stood aside as a grand couple walked in: an immensely tall man in a vibrant black wig, and a much shorter woman, her attire so elegant she was almost floating at his side. Mercia stepped from behind Sir William, curtseying as the regal pair strolled by, and flicking up her eyes she beheld the man who held the power over her future, the King walking with his Queen. Had he noticed her as he passed, or was that her imagination?
After the King and Queen came the Duke of York, joining the Duchess his wife, and in their train a number of ladies-in-waiting, Lady Castlemaine at their head. Presently the royal group halted, and the elderly man who had been conversing with Sir Geoffrey took a pace forward and bowed.
She could hear Sir William scoff. ‘Still she makes her own father bow in her presence.’
‘Who?’ she whispered.
‘The Duchess of York. It may be required, but she could spare him the embarrassment in his elder years.’
Mercia looked again upon the Earl of Clarendon. He was pulling himself up from his excessive bow, clutching his waist.
‘Why is not Clarendon on the war council?’ she mused, relaxing as the King’s party moved off. ‘Does the Duke seek to bar his influence as Lady Castlemaine would intend?’
‘He is not a member as such, but he can attend if he wishes. Indeed it was he who suggested I retake my own seat, for my knowledge of the Dutch that I learnt in New York. He sits rather on the Foreign Affairs Committee, to which the war council reports. The King and the Duke are naturally free to partake in both.’
‘So the war council has no real power?’
‘But massive influence. And the council members are … should I say were … Mercia? Are you listening to me?’
Ignoring Sir William’s pique, Mercia was staring at a commotion in the corner of the room, where a gradual murmuring was taking flight, growing in volume alongside a series of frowns and a shrugging of confused shoulders. At its epicentre, a footman was leaning against a liveried servant; even from here Mercia could tell how he was agitated, his head shaking, his face pale. Then another, more certain servant broke from the group, and unheeding the demands of his betters, he strode across the room, halting directly before her uncle. As she raised her eyebrow in surprise, the servant bent in to speak to him in confidence.
On his new cane, Sir Francis stumbled. Applying too much force, the stick shot out from beneath him and he staggered to the floor. Swiftly, the efficient page stooped to help him up, and placing himself as a substitute staff, he led Sir Francis away while the Court looked on in bemusement. Then in echo of the growing murmur, a series of gasps spread from where he had been standing, until the waves reached Mercia, looking towards the door through which Sir Francis had been led in obvious confusion.
‘’Tis Lady Simmonds,’ said the first person she could overhear.
‘What of her?’ said a second.
‘She is grievously hurt. A blow to the head. It seems she has been attacked.’
Chapter Five
Despite the warm comfort of her bedsheets, she lay awake for much of the night, agonising over her aunt. When morning came, she splashed rosewater about her body and put on bodice and dress, this time choosing a more subdued, purple outfit, slit down the middle to reveal a fine lace petticoat, its whiteness seemingly taken from the pattern of snowflakes Phibae applied to her cheek.
Aiming for her aunt’s chambers, she strode out into the palace, but she quickly became lost. Whitehall was huge, comprising thousands of rooms, stretching for half a mile along the course of the Thames between its slow curves at Westminster and Charing Cross. Rooms were built on rooms, corridors atop stairs, balconies jutting over the river, some with a view of the King’s moored yacht. She was sure the courtiers she passed were laughing as she hesitated at each junction, wondering which way she should turn.
Conceding defeat, she found a helpful page, who told her the way: back from where she had come. And so she resumed her dance, waltzing left down this passage, carousing right down that, until finally she came to the closed door she was almost hoping not to reach.
With a light knock, she groaned open the heavy wood, sliding her head through the gap. It was dark within, the curtains drawn, but in the adjoining room a candle was burning, the light shining beneath the connecting door. As she crossed towards it a figure stirred to her left, and she paused as her uncle awoke with a single grunt of a snore.
‘Is that you, Faith?’ he asked, his voice lightly shrill.
‘’Tis Mercia, Uncle. I hoped to see my aunt.’
‘Mercia.’ The three syllables dripped with his bitterness. ‘I thought you were that new servant of Margaret’s.’
‘How is she? My aunt.’
‘Not well, if you care. She was struck devilish hard.’
‘Of course I care. Do you know who did it?’
Grasping the cane at his side, he staggered to his feet and hobbled to the window.
‘No.’
She waited in vain for more. ‘But she will live?’
‘Yes.’ He opened the drapes and stared through the glass. ‘Now you can go.’
‘Uncle, I merely wanted to find out how my aunt was faring. I have lain awake all night worrying—’
‘Worrying?’ He spun on his cane to face her. ‘Worrying – you?’ The morning light accentuated his reddening face, his eyes narrowing to slits of black
. ‘Mercia, follow me into the corridor.’
She did as he bade her, walking behind him as he limped down the passage to enter a smaller room stuffed full of books and charts. He stood by the doorway, looking into the air, anywhere but at her, and when she had come through he pushed the door shut.
‘Mercia,’ he said. ‘Let us have this discussion once, and once only. I am ashamed to call you my niece.’
‘Must we act like this?’ She sighed. ‘I told you last year, I would not abandon my home to your illegitimate claim. Return it to me now, as is my right, and this animosity can be over.’
His knuckles blanched on the head of his cane. ‘You be done with it. Move in with Sir William, as I wanted from the start.’
‘I have, it would seem.’
‘Not in pretence,’ he scowled. ‘In truth. You want wealth and houses – take it from him.’
‘Sir William and I have become close these past months, Uncle, but not as you would wish it. Your hopes of using me to win his influence are over.’
‘Listen hard.’ His fist shook as he tightened his grip. ‘I will not be undone by you, the child of my sister! Halescott Manor is mine now in law. The King is not likely to force me from it.’
‘Only one person here has pleased the King of late. Nor is your infirmity my fault, even if you have convinced yourself that it is.’
‘Dare you speak to me of the King?’ He raised his cane, only to strike it against the floorboards. On a shelf behind him, a pile of musty papers jumped. ‘You sailed to America to spite me, nothing less. I shall not forgive it. Not while I remain master of this family, while you are bound to obey, or you should be.’
She folded her arms. ‘If you say I have tried to spite you, you have brought it upon yourself. But I have lived through too much now to be cowed by you, relation or no.’
His face trembled, and he made to move towards her, but he stumbled after one pace and was forced to stop.
‘Mercia, I swear – it shall not be long now before I am rid of you. The King will never grant you back your house.’
She cocked her head. ‘My house?’
‘Get out!’ He abandoned all composure, his raised voice sure to be heard in the adjoining rooms. ‘Perhaps when you have pried further into this ring of spies it will be you lying hurt, and not my precious Margaret. Except perhaps you will be dead!’
She looked at him open-mouthed. ‘You are changed, Uncle, even for you. I no longer care to … I will not—’
But words were impossible. Sickened at his hatred, she marched from the room, striding fiercely along the corridor to the foot of a marble staircase, clutching the edge of a granite-topped table with such force she could feel its sharpness digging into her ungloved palm. Head bowed, she breathed in and out, willing herself to be calm.
‘Are you well, my lady?’ asked a passing maid.
She took a deep breath, eyes closed, before nodding and forcing a smile. She continued on, wanting to walk, turning this way and that. Her uncle’s fury had stoked an urgent need for action – to do something, anything – and she decided to set her inflamed zeal to good use by seeking out the women she wanted to question. And besides, she reflected, it was not just her uncle that could inspire her passions. She was English, by God’s truth. If there was something she could do to help protect the nation, she would strive her utmost to do it.
But which woman to attempt first? There were five principal suspects, as far as she could tell, and while four of those five she had seen at the ball, she had spoken with but two. Determining to build on her modest complicity with the mistress of Sir Peter Shaw, she selected Lavinia Whent as her initial target. Another bored page indicated the way, and she mounted what seemed to be an everlasting staircase, catching her breath as she finally came out onto the magnificent landing at the top. Recalling how the last time she had climbed such a height had been along a spry waterfall in the wilds of New England, she was about to press on when a tittering of court women made her pause and turn her head.
‘See,’ one of the party was observing. ‘How he is handsome, for one of his sort.’
‘Somewhat thin,’ replied another. ‘But charming.’
‘I think he goes well with me,’ said a third. ‘Although he is slow, and must learn to accept his place. Quite incapable of reading a thing.’
Hovering a little back, Mercia craned her neck to view the object of the women’s discussion. Sitting at the side of the last to speak, beneath an Italianate statue of a perfect male youth, a teenage boy was staring out onto the landing. Although finely dressed, the agitation in his widening eyes was apparent.
‘Yes, Helen, he goes well with your outfit,’ said the first woman. ‘Much better looking than that fool of Rebecca’s.’
‘Shall I keep him, then?’ said the third. ‘These blacks can be irksome, but they match well with a ruby necklace, and they behave better than those dogs the King is so fond of.’ She laughed. ‘Heaven knows how they behave in Africa, but at least here they are trained not to shit all over the palace. He is getting old, I suppose, but I can use him for a year until I find another.’
The women looked on the boy as on a misbehaving cat. Still incensed by her uncle’s behaviour, Mercia spoke up without much thinking.
‘He is not a pet, you know.’
The women turned, their faces a kaleidoscope of combined amusement.
‘That is precisely what he is,’ said the boy’s supposed mistress.
‘And yet it would do you well to treat him with some dignity.’
‘My, I should take care how you address me.’ She leant forward and frowned. ‘Are you not that middling churl who sailed to America?’
‘I had that pleasure.’
She looked around her group and smiled. ‘Then it would seem the ways of the savages there have infected you.’
‘Savages?’ As the women laughed, Mercia stepped forward. ‘If you mean the Indians, then I grew to have a keen respect for their ways. They have as much nobility as—’
‘Do you think I care to know? Go, leave us be.’
‘So you can abuse this poor child some more?’ Mercia’s anger was now decidedly piqued. ‘Perhaps I should stay until you learn manners of your own.’
One of the woman’s friends sucked in through blackened teeth. ‘Do you not know with whom you speak?’
‘I care little with whom I speak. Be she the Duchess of York herself.’
The principal of the group rose. ‘Come, ladies. Let us leave Mrs … Blakewood, I believe, with my black. They can converse in whatever base language they both share.’ She threw Mercia a contemptuous glance. ‘You will learn who I am soon enough.’
Without a thought for the boy, she walked to the staircase, affecting a deliberate gait: when she tripped on the top step, even her friends had to stifle a hasty laugh. But eventually the harpies vanished, leaving Mercia alone with the teenager.
‘Hello,’ she said. ‘I am sorry about them.’
Perched on the edge of the plinth, he was as rigid as the statue above his head. Like the half-naked youth, his eyes were firmly fixed. She adjusted her dress and sat beside him.
‘What is your name?’ she asked.
‘Tacitus, my lady,’ he replied after a silence.
She smiled. ‘Your name is as peculiar as mine. I am Mercia.’
‘My Lady Blakewood.’ He nodded, the slightest of bows. ‘I heard you speak.’
‘I hope I have not caused you any trouble with your mistress.’
‘No, my lady.’ He swung his feet against the plinth.
‘How long have you been here, Tacitus? At the palace.’
‘About a year, my lady.’
‘With your mistress all that time?’
‘Lady Cartwright is my second. I … am a gift from Sir Geoffrey.’
‘That was Lady Cartwright?’ Mercia threw back her head, narrowly avoiding the outstretched finger at the end of the statue’s arm. ‘By the Lord, I should have known. Sir Geoffrey Allcot
’s mistress. It gets worse.’ She glanced at Tacitus askance. ‘Her chambers are near, are they?’
‘That is right, my lady.’ Of a sudden he looked right at her. ‘But I must return to her now, or she will be displeased.’
‘Yes, of course.’ She got to her feet, but Tacitus stayed put. ‘Then you may go.’
The boy bounded from the plinth, his polished shoes echoing on the slippery floor, and he hurried after his mistress. Mercia was watching him leap the stairs when another voice made her jump.
‘He is sixteen, you know. And they treat him like a piece of jewellery. An animal to coddle or chastise.’
The woman she had been hoping to find was standing almost alongside her. ‘Miss Whent,’ she exclaimed. ‘I did not notice you approach.’
‘I heard the commotion from within my rooms. I was trying to read, but this sounded more … entertaining.’
‘Miss Whent,’ she repeated. ‘I am pleased to remake your acquaintance.’
‘And the pleasure is all mine, and so on, and so on. Call me Lavinia, or else nothing at all.’
‘I am sorry if I said—’
‘I am jesting. Do not look so appalled.’ She folded her arms. ‘Now would be when you tell me your name. I did not get to learn it yesterday night.’
Mildly thrown by her abruptness, Mercia stammered her response. ‘Mercia. Mercia Blakewood, Miss Whent.’
‘I have already told you, Mercia, to call me Lavinia. I cannot abide these covers of formality. Miss this, Sir that.’ She flicked at the lace of her wrist. ‘Why do you care for what happens with the blacks?’
‘I suppose …’ Mercia stared into the distance, caught in an immediate reverie. ‘I suppose ’tis because I have travelled. But a half year since, I was talking with the chief of a tribe of Indians, a majestic figure draped in a vast pair of eagle wings. How can I be like the women of this Court when I have seen that and they know nothing but their comforts?’ She shook her head, dispelling her vision, of a sudden embarrassed. ‘Forgive me, Miss – Lavinia. I do not mean to offend. I have been in a temper. I do not include you in that over-hasty judgement.’
Traitor Page 5
