Assassin's Masque (Palace of Spies Book 3)

by Sarah Zettel

  We arrived at the door of Aunt Pierpont’s room and she turned. “Good night, Peggy, Olivia. My dears, I . . . you are both very good girls.”

  I swallowed. “Are you certain you’re all right, Aunt? You have everything you need?”

  “Of course, dear. Fitzroy—your father, that is—has been so very kind.”

  Olivia watched me closely. My conscience dug in its heels. For better or worse, however, I’d become adept at ignoring such internal inconveniences. “I’m worried that woman upset you.”

  My aunt blinked her big, watery eyes up at me. “Which . . . oh, that woman.” Her gaze darted between us. “She was only an old friend of my . . . of Sir Oliver’s, and his family,” she added with more haste than such a statement would seem to warrant. “She’s been abroad a great deal in recent years, so I suppose she’s acquired some foreign manners. Foreigners can be so dramatic, as I’m sure you know, Peggy.”

  “She told us she was acquainted with Peggy’s mother,” said Olivia.

  “Did she?” Aunt Pierpont blinked. “She may have been. She knew all the Pierponts at one time, I believe, and when Elizabeth still lived with us, we all were used to going out a good deal. We met many people.”

  “She never said her name,” Olivia pointed out. “That seems . . . odd for a friend of the family.”

  Aunt Pierpont blanched at this. My conscience took an unusually firm hold and squeezed, but not quite hard enough.

  “I know so few of my mother’s friends,” I said. “I would like to correspond with her, if I could.”

  “Oh. Ah. Let me see.” Aunt Pierpont twisted her handkerchief. “When I knew her, she was Eleanor Wall, I think. Yes, Eleanor Wall. She married when she went abroad. That would make her . . . let me see . . . something with an O . . . I’m sorry, Peggy—I simply don’t remember.”

  Disbelief tightened my stomach. This could not be happening. It was not possible that mild, nervous Aunt Pierpont was lying to my face.

  “But what did she give you?” I asked. This startled Olivia, who had not been there for that particular exchange, but she recollected herself enough to remain silent.

  “A little memento, some trivial thing. I’ve already forgotten where I put it.” Aunt Pierpont looked around herself in mild confusion, as if the trinket might have fallen to the carpet.

  Olivia, with that presence of mind that is so particularly hers, stepped forward. “I’m sure it will turn up in the morning.” She kissed her mother’s cheek, fondly but quickly, and grabbed my arm firmly. “We’ll just say good night now.”

  “Yes, thank you. I am very tired. Olivia . . . Olivia, I’m so sorry, about everything.”

  “Don’t, Mother,” Olivia whispered. “None of this is your fault.”

  Without waiting for her mother’s reply, Olivia pulled me into our room, shut the door, and locked it. Then she sat me down on the edge of the bed and grasped both my hands.

  “Tell me everything.” She must have understood something of the look on my face because she added quickly, “And don’t you even think of trying to shelter me. If this is about my father, I have every right to know what consequences are coming to us.”

  What protest could I possibly make against that? I took a deep breath, and I told her what I had seen.

  “You’re sure it could not have been simply a keepsake?” she asked. I knew from Olivia’s knitted brows and hardened jaw that she was already considering whether to storm out and demand answers of her mother. Hopefully, my cousin would decide against it. I didn’t feel quite up to tackling her from behind.

  “What sort of memento could it possibly be?” I asked her, and myself. “And why bring it now? And why would she be so careful to disguise herself? If she’d had one more inch of lace about her person, she could have opened a milliner’s shop.” I could have gone on. For instance, if this mysterious Eleanor, who might also be “Mrs. O,” was a friend of my mother’s, why wait to make herself known until Mother was eight years dead?

  But then, she’d never said she had been Mother’s friend. She said they were “birds of a feather.” Mother had been yet another member of the Fitzroy firm of confidential agents, so that phrase could mean many things, some of which were less than benign.

  Olivia frowned at the fire, at the door, and at me. “You should tell your . . . that is, Uncle Fitzroy.” She stumbled over the designation that was even newer for her than it was for me. “He’s still acting as a confidential agent for the Crown, isn’t he?”

  “I think he is. He has not said otherwise.” Not that we’d had many opportunities for private conversation. When a person dies, there is a great deal to be done, even when the necessity of finding a new house and facing inquiries from various magistrates, lordships, bankers, royalty, and a spy master or two are not involved.

  I saw the unavoidable importance of laying matters before my father. But reluctance crept over me, which was as strange as it was ridiculous. If some new Adventure was about to seek me out, I should be glad to have Father’s protection, not to mention his staunch and experienced assistance.

  Despite this, I did not move, at least not toward the door.

  “Let me get out of these weeds first.” I shook out my black skirts. “I can barely think for the itching.”

  If Olivia realized I was delaying, she said nothing. We helped each other out of our heavy mourning and into lighter housedresses and wrappers, caps, wool stockings, and slippers. The house my father had taken was of older, half-timber construction, and the late October drafts had not only gained easy entrance but now chased one another merrily about the floor.

  And I still hesitated.

  “Do you want to come with me?” I asked Olivia, and hoped it did not sound too much like a plea.

  Olivia shook her head. “No, I think you should talk to him alone. You can tell me all about it later. I really am tired.” I remembered again it was her father we buried today. Such a thing was wearing, even for someone of Olivia’s energetic and dramatic temperament.

  I took up a candle. I swallowed and brushed at my wrapper. Olivia smiled.

  “Come now, Margaret Fitzroy.” She opened the door and stepped back. “You’ve faced swords and pistols. You can face your own father.”

  This was most likely true, and I was entirely out of delaying tactics. There was nothing to do but set off into the dark, old house and hope to find Jonathan Fitzroy in a communicative mood.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  IN WHICH THERE IS A FRANK EXCHANGE OF VIEWS.

  The gleam of firelight from underneath the closed parlor door told me where my father might be found. I hesitated, lifted my hand, hesitated, chided myself, hesitated, blushed, hesitated, and knocked.

  “Come in.”

  I obeyed.

  Father had drawn a tapestry chair up close to the fire and sat with his stockinged feet on the brass fender. In one hand he held a long white clay pipe. All the attendant paraphernalia of tobacco pouch, knife, and tamping tools had been laid out on the table at his elbow, along with a pewter tankard of what I supposed to be beer. He’d left off his dark wig. In truth, he hardly needed it. His own black curls tumbled almost to his shoulders. He’d evidently been scratching at his chin, because his previously pointed beard now closely resembled a squirrel’s nest.

  Father gestured to the empty seat on the other side of the hearth while still managing to tuck a fresh wad of Virginia leaf into his pipe. “I hope you’ve no particular dislike of tobacco,” he said. “I acquired the habit on my travels. I suspect it may not be entirely wholesome, but it does help a man think.”

  “Pray do not stop on my account,” I murmured as I put my candle on the mantel and took my seat on the other side of the hearth.

  He nodded his thanks, lit a spill from the fire, and applied the flame to the pipe. I watched this operation in uncertain silence. I wanted to talk with him, to grow to know him, and I wanted him to know me. But I wanted different circumstances. Different settings. Perhaps what I truly wanted we
re different emotions.

  When Father had his pipe going to his satisfaction, he settled back in the chair and blew out a long, fragrant plume.

  “Well, Peg, it has been a long day.”

  “It has,” I agreed.

  “Your aunt says you’ve been a great help and comfort.”

  “I did what I could. She has always been kind to me.”

  There then followed a labyrinthine silence, the sort where you desperately want to find a way out, but cannot.

  It was my father who provided the exit. “Have you made up your mind yet?”

  “On what point?”

  Father regarded me through the twisting veil of his smoke. “Whether or not I’m to be trusted, I think,” he said at last.

  I felt a fresh blush. “I wish that I could make up my . . . not my mind, exactly.” The words tumbled out of their own accord. “My heart? I want things to be right between us, but I can’t see what right is, and I am trying. Truly, I am.”

  My father reached out and took gentle hold of my shoulder. This close I could see the lines about his eyes and the shadows beneath them. “It’s all right, Peg. We have been apart for a long time. We should neither of us be afraid if the breach takes more than a day or two to mend.” He offered me a smile. This I accepted, and returned one of my own. “There, that’s better, my pretty little Peggy-O.” He chuckled.

  “If I may be so bold as to ask a favor of you, sir?” I murmured.

  “Why, of course. Anything you need.”

  “I need you to never call me that in public.”

  That drew a sharp bark of laughter from him. “You have my word on it.” He laid his hand over his heart.

  Something in me eased. If we could laugh with each other, surely we would not remain distant for long.

  “Will you tell me what happened today?” Father asked as he settled back in his chair. “Was it something to do with Olivia?”

  “No. Not entirely.” I took a deep breath to try to wash the pique from my tone and told him of the veiled woman. I did not omit our exchange in the entrance hall.

  “She said she knew my mother. She said . . . that they were birds of a feather.”

  Father made no answer. He only puffed away at irregular intervals, like a blocked chimney.

  “Did you hear me, sir?”

  “You may be very sure that I did. But you have not finished yet, I think.”

  This startled me a bit. But it was accurate, so I told him of the much briefer conversation when Olivia and I had accompanied Aunt Pierpont up to her room.

  “She lied?” His eloquent brows arched. “You’re certain?”

  “I’ve learned to identify the phenomenon.” I believe I may have lifted my nose in the air a trifle.

  “Of that I have no doubt. Well.” He took another long and thoughtful draw on his pipe. “It is not at all what I’d expect of Delphine.”

  “She must be at least somewhat aware of Uncle Pierpont’s involvement with the Jacobites.”

  “I’d be surprised if she wasn’t. But did she agree with the involvement?”

  “She’s far too conventional, and too nervous. She’d never take a rebellious stand, not even out of loyalty to Uncle Pierpont.”

  “Quite true.” Father puffed a few more times on his pipe. “Probably she’s trying to protect you, and Olivia, of course.”

  “From what?”

  “That is the question.” He removed the pipe stem from his mouth. “She gave you no name for this veiled woman?”

  “Not an entire one. She said she’d known the woman once as Eleanor Wall, and that the woman might have married some man whose name begins with O.”

  My father dropped his pipe.

  The clay shattered on the hearthstones, scattering ash and sparks in every direction. Father and I both shot to our feet, he with a rather greater abundance of exclamations. There followed a period of madly brushing and stomping at the sparks, with the tankard of beer being sacrificed to douse the infant flame that sprang up on the edge of the new Turkey carpet.

  When all the sparks had been extinguished, my father and I stood staring at each other, breathless.

  There was a knocking and the door opened. “Is everything all right, sir?” asked Mrs. Biddingswell.

  “Yes,” answered Father calmly. “A trifling accident. You needn’t wait up. It can be cleared away in the morning.”

  “Yes, sir.” Mrs. Biddingswell clearly didn’t believe this, but she did withdraw.

  When the door shut, I said mildly, “I take it you also know this mysterious Mrs. O?”

  Father shook his head and shook it again. I watched him considering whether to lie, and how much. I prepared myself to be angry.

  “You know I was sent to Paris to spy on the Stuart court in exile at Saint-Germain. You also know I was betrayed and sent to the Bastille.” Father stopped. It was a long time before he started again. “I heard, much later, that the letter revealing my mission and identity was written by one Mrs. Eleanor Oglethorpe.”

  “Oglethorpe?” Mysterious veiled women at funerals should not be named Oglethorpe. DuMonde. Veracruz. Fierenza, certainly. Oglethorpe entirely lacked dramatic grandeur.

  I opened my mouth, but Father held up his hand.

  “We don’t know,” he said firmly. “We know absolutely nothing. We can, however, surmise that this Swedish plot you so recently uncovered is part and parcel of some larger effort.”

  I was sitting again. “I might observe, sir,” I said with rather exaggerated calm, “that a woman—whatever her name—who would betray you to the Stuarts and the French should not be publicly parading about my uncle’s funeral claiming close acquaintance with my mother.”

  “That concerns me greatly. I do not like conspirators—whoever they may be—who are not afraid to make a grand show. They tend toward other dramatic gestures of the more dangerous variety.” This cool understatement sent a chill through me.

  “But if she is this Mrs. Oglethorpe, and is a Jacobite . . . do you think she really knew my mother?”

  He was a long time answering. “She may have.” He picked up the largest pieces of his broken pipe and laid them carefully on the table. “Elizabeth, your mother, was at court when several of our most important treaties with the French were signed, not to mention during at least one of the attempts by the Pretender to return at the head of his own army. Even I do not know how many plots she may have overturned by her work. Lord Tierney never found all her letters, and he is a very thorough man. She may have burned them, of course.”

  “Or they may have been stolen.”

  He nodded in agreement as he settled back into his chair. “Because of that, I cannot say for certain why this is happening now, but I will find out. No one has the right to use Elizabeth’s memory to play their petty games against us. When are you due back at court?” he asked abruptly.

  “That is not fixed. Her Royal Highness told me I should take as much time as I needed.”

  This made him chuckle. “When the Princess of Wales says one should take as much time as one needs, Peg, it is as well not to presume too heavily on the statement. But more importantly, I dislike this veiled mourner, whether or not she is Mrs. Oglethorpe. I think we need to inform Lord Tierney of her appearance. He should be able to give us good information in return, as he’s been spending these past several days delving into Sir Oliver’s affairs.” This did not surprise me. “You should also be there at court to hear at once when anything new occurs,” he added.

  Despite its many inconveniences, I liked my court life. I should therefore have been quite relieved that my father showed no inclination to insist that I retire from it to the shelter of his house, there to live anonymously, not to mention stainless and pure, until he found me a suitable bridegroom. I could not, however, help but find Jonathan Fitzroy’s easy acceptance of my circumstances perplexing. After all, when we’d found each other, we’d come within an inch of being killed. One would think that might have earned me a protective g
esture of some sort.

  Father must have realized something of my confusion. “While I was imprisoned, I thought of you and your mother, Peg,” he said softly. “But the only picture my mind carried of you was the little girl who rode on my shoulders. When I saw you—the real you—I saw an extraordinary young lady who had earned her life, and her place. I could not be more proud, but I don’t know how to be a father to that lady.” He lifted his face toward mine. “I very much want to be someone you trust. I want . . . I want you to feel you can talk with me, and I want you to know that I will help you however I can.” I noted how his hand shook where it rested on his knee.

  “There is another reason I should perhaps return to court,” I said, more to break the fresh silence than anything else.

  “What is that?”

  “When the veiled mourner arrived, there was another girl here, Sophy Howe. She clearly recognized the woman and might be talking with her. Sophy is not above slander, or blackmail, if she feels it might gain her some advantage.” I paused. “Also, just before I . . . left . . . she’d taken up with Sebastian Sandford.”

  “Did she, now? I’ve heard about Sebastian Sandford’s conduct toward you.” Father’s tone made me look at him again. He was speaking to the fire, but his face had hardened. His body had gone stiff and still. I knew that attitude. It was the posture of a man readying for a fight.

  Had I wanted some protective measure? Here it was.

  Father relaxed again, but only slowly. He also eventually managed a smile. “No more of this uneasy talk. You look exhausted. Get you to bed, young lady.”

  “And what of you, sir? Should you not also retire?”

  “I shall assume the privilege of my age and station and not answer that. Go, my girl. Look after yourself and your cousin. I will see you in the morning.”

  I stood and bobbed a respectful curtsy as I had been taught. “Sir, I must extract one solemn promise from you before I go.”

  My father looked up at me. “Whatever it is, you already have it.”

  “Then swear to me, upon your immortal soul, you will get Old Mother Pierpont out of this house before someone—I will not say who—is driven to violence.”