by Sarah Zettel
CHAPTER SEVEN
IN WHICH OUR HEROINE REESTABLISHES HERSELF IN FAMILIAR TERRITORY, THERE TO FIND THE GAMES VERY MUCH IN PROGRESS.
Every head turned. Every eye fixed itself on my progress through the princess’s antechamber and into the brimming drawing room. My shoulder blades twitched, as did one particular spot beneath my corset, corresponding with a recent bruise. I did not permit myself to hesitate. Instead, I walked straight through that assemblage of the glittering and the great.
It had taken more than the usual level of fuss and bother to get my wardrobe even somewhat prepared for my return. That cruel dictator, Custom, commands those of us who suffer the loss of any near relation to attire ourselves accordingly for lengths of time that vary depending upon our proximity to the dead. This leads me to suspect that the powers behind Custom’s throne consist largely of mantua makers and handkerchief merchants.
I, as a mere niece, was not expected to wear unrelieved black for a year like my aunt and cousin, but I did need to dress somberly for several weeks at least. I (and Libby) chose to honor this particular collision of Fashion and Custom with a black skirt and white underskirt accompanied by a bodice and stomacher of plum and gray. I felt very much like a twilight shadow as I crossed between persons arrayed in rainbow hues and trimmed with quantities of sparkling gold and silver.
I saw Molly Lepell standing at the center of the crowd with Mrs. Howard, one of the women of the bedchamber. Mary Bellenden, our sister maid of honor, was in the corner talking and laughing with several evidently captivated men. Her previous favorite, Lord Blakeney, was not among them. Had poor Blakeney fallen in that maid’s fickle estimations? As if she guessed my thoughts, Mary looked at me over all their heads and winked with her usual careless humor.
The person I did not see was Sophy Howe, who should have been front and center at this gathering. I could not ask anyone about this unexpected absence, however, for no one among the gathering could officially acknowledge my arrival until I had made my greetings to the princess.
“And here you are, Miss Fitzroy,” Her Royal Highness, Caroline, Princess of Wales, remarked as I dropped my deepest and most respectful curtsy. The royal dressing table had been moved from the bedchamber to the drawing room for the levee. The princess reclined on a comfortable couch, with her slippered feet resting on a cushioned stool. Her corsets had been loosened to their fullest extent to make room for her great rounded belly.
As with many ceremonies, the levee has its origins in the French court. There, the nobles would assemble to watch the royalty getting bathed and dressed. Why France’s rulers felt the need for their courtiers to see them wearing naught but what the Lord blessed them with at birth remained beyond my powers of comprehension. Thankfully, the levee as practiced in Great Britain did not involve viewing royalty in their most natural state. At this time, for example, Princess Caroline was almost entirely dressed, missing only a few details, such as her rings, the ribbon for her throat, and her shoes.
“You see, Lord Amesbury, I told you Margaret would not disappoint.” The princess beamed slyly at a thin man in a full-bottomed wig and a coat of shimmering aquamarine satin. “I must warn you, though, that you are only one among the crowd asking after her. Margaret, I had not realized you achieved quite so many conquests during your brief time with us.”
There was only one answer to that, and it involved the fluttering of my freshly painted eyelids and a demure murmur. “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean, Your Highness.”
The princess laughed, but I couldn’t help hearing that the sound was strained. “Well, perhaps they simply wish to recoup their losses from gaming tables. Is this the case, Lord Amesbury? Have you lost money to our Margaret?” The princess tilted her chin up to him flirtatiously. I didn’t know who Amesbury was, but if my mistress was taking so much trouble to charm him, I needed to find out.
“Heavy pride and a light purse are indeed a fearsome combination, madame,” quipped that worthy. “But neither drives a man so hard as the prospect of spending time in charming company.”
We all laughed at this elegant phrasing, as did the few persons within earshot. It was expected that we maids would partner with the gentlemen, play cards, laugh charmingly, and lose prettily. However, as the stakes at these games ranged from the merely high to the utterly ruinous, I had become rather good at, let us say, clandestinely controlling the flow of the game. I do assure my readers this was purely out of self-defense.
“Lord Amesbury is certainly welcome to try his luck, if he thinks it has turned,” I said. “But I believe I may swear off cards.”
“Why is that?” asked the princess.
“The sight of how terribly crestfallen the gentlemen become when they lose is far too much for my delicate nerves.”
This earned me a round of raised eyebrows and “oho’s” from our bystanders. The princess smiled and nodded her approval.
“We cannot have you risking your health on any account, Margaret. My daughter Anne will never forgive me.” Her tone caused me to risk a glance at my royal mistress, one that was closer to direct than was strictly allowed by the twin forces of Rank and Custom. For my pains, I got an unpleasant shock. Princess Caroline was smiling and laughing, but not a trace of this sparkling humor reached her clear blue eyes. Those remained cold and hard as glass.
Fortunately, I was not called upon to make further reply. “Now, Margaret, I release you to the room and Lord Amesbury to his luck.” Her Highness waved her fan in a broad gesture that ended with her beckoning to her chief women of the bedchamber, Mrs. Titchbourne and Mrs. Claybourne.
Dismissed and unsettled, I withdrew. I needed to speak with Molly Lepell. At once.
The art of navigating a crowd necessitates a great deal of vague smiling and waving in combination with determined forward motion. At last I reached Molly’s side and we were able to clasp hands and brush cheeks.
“Hello, Peggy,” said Molly. “I see you’ve lost none of your edge for being away.” She nodded at Lord Amesbury, who had joined a cluster of men and women at the far side of the room, but who was nonetheless watching us with speculative attention.
“Welcome back, Miss Fitzroy.” Mrs. Howard gave me a kiss in greeting. “It is good to have you with us once again.”
Mrs. Howard had the dubious distinction of being much admired, much talked about, much married, and much in the favor of the Prince of Wales all at once. Unlike some others, she did not relish her notorious and complicated status. Also unlike some others, she had an astoundingly steady nature.
“Thank you, Mrs. Howard. It is good to be back.” It was surprising to not just say those words but to realize how much I meant them. “I’m afraid, however, I have a favor to ask. Could you inquire as to whether I might be allowed a private word with Her Royal Highness?”
There is a hierarchy to communication with the sovereign, even for those of us who have royal regard. When one plans to ask for favors, it is prudent to observe all the protocols.
Another woman, especially one so highly placed, might have mentioned that it was a bit soon for me to be trespassing on Princess Caroline’s time, or her own. Unlike many of the other ladies and women of the bedchamber, though, Mrs. Howard was fairly well disposed toward me. “I’ll see what can be done.” She gave me a smile that did not reach her grave eyes and slipped away easily through the crowd, leaving me and Molly as alone as two people can be in a room filled to bursting with servants, courtiers, nobles, and royals.
The ability to carry on a private conversation in the middle of such a crowd is yet another skill that those desiring a successful career at court must cultivate. When I spoke to Molly, I made sure to keep my tone light, lest I attract undue attention to the words.
“Her Highness seems in poor humor today. Is anything amiss?”
“You mean anything beyond your recent discovery of funds for the plot to return the Stuarts to the throne?” Molly smiled over my head at someone and nodded toward someone else. “If a
nyone knows, no one’s telling, not even Mrs. Howard.”
And I had just sent her to ask for some of the princess’s time so I could beg a favor. My chances of achieving my aims seemed to shrink precipitously.
Molly, for her part, wasted no time in changing the subject. “I confess, Peggy, I did not expect you back quite so soon. Not that I’m sorry. It’s been positively dull here without you.”
I smiled and waved my fan vaguely toward some of my own acquaintances. “Surely Sophy’s been at pains to provide you all with entertainment. Where is she, by the by?”
“I couldn’t say.” Molly searched the crowd briefly and shook her head. “She asked permission to withdraw shortly before you arrived.”
“Really? Am I so terrifying that the Howe must flee? She was bold enough to meet me at my father’s house.” Molly’s mouth twisted tight and I dropped my voice to a murmur. “You said she was fairly insistent about coming to the funeral.”
“She was. Although I can’t tell for certain whether the idea came from her or her Mr. Sandford.”
That spot beneath my corset twitched again. I do not lightly label anyone an enemy, but the members of the Sandford family were all enemies to me, most especially Sebastian and his older brother, Julius. These were not simply the snippy, annoying antagonists such as a maid might be expected to develop at court. Clan Sandford dealt in life and death.
“The papers have been full of Sophy and Sebastian’s exploits at the card tables,” I ventured. “They seem to be permanent partners these days.”
Molly nodded. “And it’s getting worse. One begins to wonder if they have some special need for all that money.”
“Perhaps they mean to flee the court. Or the country.”
Molly laughed. “Hold tight to hope, Peggy. You may need it later. Ah!” she cried, raising her voice to a volume meant to be heard. “Now there stands Lord Amesbury, all alone. I’m sure Her Highness told you he has been most persistent in his requests to make your better acquaintance, Margaret. As have about a dozen others.” Then she added, sotto voce, as she looped her arm through mine, “Are we ready?”
“We are,” I replied, and with that, Molly and I plunged into the crowd.
CHAPTER EIGHT
IN WHICH ONE MYSTERY IS SWIFTLY EXCHANGED FOR ANOTHER.
All during the hours of the levee, the doors opened at irregular intervals, either to admit newcomers to the gathering or to allow those who had business elsewhere to depart. Despite the demands on my attention, I kept a close eye on these comings and goings. But none of the newcomers was Sebastian Sandford, and Sophy Howe didn’t seem to be returning.
Where were they? What were they up to? I had no answers and no way to find any. Until the levee ended, duty and protocol demanded I remain here, helping to amuse Her Highness’s guests.
There are things in this world about which one cannot properly complain. One of these is an excess of attention. Any attempt to moan over the fatigue generated by hours of receiving compliments from richly dressed men or invitations to parties and the theater from a bevy of wives and widows is far less likely to generate sympathy than dismissive laughter.
I attempted not to lose sight of the fact that none of these flattering attentions resulted from my own charm or effort. They came because I stood in good stead with Her Royal Highness. The lords and gentlemen who smiled and flirted, as well as the women and wives with whom I exchanged witty barbs, all wanted one thing—to move that much closer to the center of power. At the same time, I could not help but relish the compliments, the congratulations, and the requests for my opinion on various questions, much the way one relishes a fleeting patch of sunlight on a rainy day.
But why should it be fleeting? murmured an insinuating voice in my mind. You have well-placed friends. You have a father now, and he has money. You have the princess’s good will, and she’s given you a task and trust for which you cannot easily be replaced. Why shouldn’t this be your life for as long as you wish it?
It may be seen by this that there are some small, still voices inside us that have nothing to do with conscience.
By the time the levee ended, my memory was stuffed with names and invitations. Molly had already given me several warning taps with her fan, probably because she detected in me symptoms indicative of a severe spinning of the head. The last tap was actually a hard poke in the ribs. When I turned to stare indignantly, Molly jerked her chin toward Mrs. Howard, who stood beside the princess and beckoned me over.
“You wished for a private word, Margaret?” said the princess as I made my curtsy. Although the footmen were closing the doors behind the last of the guests, we were, of course, not alone. That never happened. The ladies of the bedchamber remained arrayed about us. They were all politely doing something else, however, such as standing and talking with one another or directing the servants to move various displaced furnishings back to their proper locations.
“Yes, madame. I do not wish to presume . . .”
Her Highness dipped her chin and gave me a Quelling Look. Princess Caroline hated false courtesy, including any declaration that one was not doing the thing one was clearly about to do.
I started again. “With Your Highness’s permission, I would like to bring my cousin, Olivia, to stay with me for a little time.” Being at court essentially meant one was a permanent houseguest. One could do very little without the host’s direct permission.
“This would be the cousin we met so recently? The breeder of Princess Anne’s puppies?”
“Yes, madame.”
“She is also, I believe, the daughter of Sir Oliver Pierpont?”
“Yes, madame.” I tried to keep my tone matter-of-fact, but this was exactly what I had feared. The accusations against Uncle Pierpont had already come home to roost for Olivia.
“Margaret, it is imperative that you understand our situation is extremely delicate.” The princess’s demeanor had changed. Gone was the warm and witty lady of the levee. Before me now was the clear-eyed and calculating mistress of palace and court. “No matter what the upheavals of your personal life, I need you here and I need your attention fixed on the matters that have been entrusted to you.”
“Yes, Your Highness, I do understand. Because of that, I feel I should mention that Olivia was of great help to me when it came to the recent discoveries.”
“And you will vouch for your cousin’s conduct?”
“Yes, Your Highness, without hesitation.”
There is no silence so sharp as that belonging to a princess, and Princess Caroline could wield her silences like a carving knife. I knew I should go on to explain that Olivia had no part in her father’s doings, that she was not only my cousin but my firm and fast friend. But the words would not come. I kept remembering Olivia’s heedless cheer at the chance to turn courtier and spy. Perhaps it would not be so terrible if permission to come to court was delayed a little—just until Olivia’s temper had time to settle and I knew more of what was going on.
I had no opportunity for speaking at all just then, because the drawing room doors opened and the footmen snapped to abrupt attention.
“His Royal Highness, the Prince of Wales!”
All persons in the room stopped whatever they were doing. Those who were seated rose, including Princess Caroline, with Mrs. Howard’s assistance. We likewise all dropped into grave and respectful curtsies, our eyes directed modestly downward.
I was, of course, forbidden to straighten, or even look up, until granted permission, but I could hear a whole clattering crowd of men’s hard-heeled shoes crossing the floor. I strained my gaze to its limits, but all I could make out was a flock of decorated shoes, white silk stockings, and parti-colored coat hems. There was, I noted, one pair of black stockings among them, matched with a pair of plain black shoes.
Prince George and his retinue came to a halt in front of the princess. There then issued forth a loud rustle of stiff silk brocades and starched linen to indicate they were all bowing.
; “Good morning, madame!” cried the prince in his hearty, German-accented French. “I apologize that our business kept us so long that we could not join your levee, but these gentlemen wished very much to make their duty known to you.”
He gestured to the room at large, permitting all of us to straighten. I took the opportunity to raise my eyes a little.
On all occasions to which I had been witness, George Augustus, Prince of Wales, affected the character of a bluff and hearty gentleman, filled with lavish praise for all things English. This last habit especially endeared him to many, which was why he did it. In physical terms, His Highness was a medium-size man, inclined to a certain thickness about the middle, who preferred to dress as if he were about to go riding or shooting.
Today he wore a dark blue coat with black cuffs and only a modicum of gold braid. His white breeches were stout cloth rather than velvet. In contrast, the half a dozen gentlemen currently in his train had mostly donned jewel-colored silk coats with full skirts and bright buttons. One, however, dressed in the unrelieved black of deepest mourning.
Cool, poised, and proud as a black cat stood Julius Sandford, Lord Lynnfield.
First I froze. Then I staggered. How had I not known Julius Sandford was here? I should have felt it in the creeping of my skin. I’m sure I would have, but for one small fact: his presence was impossible.
Julius Sandford could not be standing with Prince George. His Royal Highness might appear shallow, but he was no fool, and he had a knack for spotting his enemies. He could not have been taken in by a man whose father had been an avowed and proven Jacobite.
Who less than a fortnight ago had tried to murder me.
Lord Lynnfield also could not be here because Mr. Tinderflint would have known it, and Mr. Tinderflint would not have concealed such vital information from me. Of this I was certain, or mostly so.
