Assassin's Masque (Palace of Spies Book 3)

by Sarah Zettel

  Julius Sandford’s eyes—that is to say, Lord Lynnfield’s eyes—flickered in my direction, no doubt taking in my sudden pallor. His younger brother would have smiled to see it. Lord Lynnfield did not betray any such malicious expression, or indeed any expression at all.

  I became aware that Mrs. Howard had grabbed my elbow and pinched hard. She was not the only one among the ladies who noticed my discomfort. Her Royal Highness nodded regally toward me. “You may go, Miss Fitzroy. You have my permission to speak with the Lord Chamberlain about your cousin’s accommodation. When she is settled, send word and I will receive her.”

  “Thank you, Your Highness,” I murmured, and curtsied again. All the gentlemen, save the prince, bowed while I made my departure. I felt Lynnfield’s gaze like a leaden weight.

  It took a year to cross the princess’s drawing room, and then there was the antechamber and the gallery. It was another year before I rounded a corner into an empty room and was finally able to collapse against the wall, pressing my hands against my stomacher and dragging in the deepest possible breaths. Spots danced in front of my eyes. I squeezed them shut and fought for calm, but calm would not come. My mind was too full of the memories of roaring water. I saw Julius Sandford’s blank blue eyes as he raised his cane high, ready to strike. I saw his father toppling into the Thames and vanishing beneath the waves. I heard the crack of gunfire and felt the ball strike my midriff. I felt the icy Thames drag me down.

  “Oh!” cried a woman’s voice. “I knew I heard something.”

  Oh no. My eyes flew open. It can’t be her.

  I lifted my head. I was right. It wasn’t her. It was them.

  Sophy Howe stood in the doorway, poised and perfect in a gown of blue and cream with fountains of white lace at the throat and sleeves. A man’s silhouette lurked in the corridor behind her. I could not see him clearly, but I knew to the depths of my soul who this shadow was.

  “Look, Mr. Sandford, it’s our Miss Fitzroy.” Sophy Howe beckoned Sebastian to her side. “And she seems to be in some distress.”

  “I do believe you are right, Miss Howe.” He folded his arms and lounged against the threshold, elegantly, of course. “Whatever is the matter, Miss Fitzroy?”

  Sebastian Sandford smiled contemptuously at me from his place beside Sophy Howe. The golden pair stood almost touching and gazed down at me with false concern and genuine triumph.

  It required a massive effort of will, but I pushed myself away from the wall. These two were not permitted to look down on me. I hardened my stomach muscles, blessed my corsets, which helped me to stand up straight, and looked them both in their sparkling, predacious eyes. I might have been afraid, but I would not be cowed, not by them. Not ever.

  “It is nothing at all.” I flipped open my fan and fluttered it energetically. “A momentary faintness, no doubt brought on by the excitement and heat of the levee.” I took my time looking them up and down. Sophy and Sebastian were well matched in many ways. Both were tall, blond, and possessed of good looks that could be used to dazzle, if you knew nothing about the characters beneath. Like his brother, Sebastian dressed in all black, down to his stockings and polished shoes.

  “I had expected to be able to greet you there,” I went on, forcing a casual tone into place. “Your absence was much remarked upon. There was even some idle speculation that you might be finding a cold welcome at . . . certain tables, shall we say.”

  “Idle speculation?” Sebastian’s smile rivaled Sophy’s own for brilliance and danger. “Can it be we are becoming talked about, Miss Howe?”

  Sophy laughed. “Don’t be silly, Mr. Sandford. Miss Fitzroy is teasing, naughty thing that she is. But I do think I might hear just a trace of jealousy in her voice. Perhaps she misses you.”

  “Jealous? Oh, dear me, no, Sophy. You two deserve each other. In fact, I feel I should congratulate you. You must exert a most extraordinary fascination over your gentlemen. Mr. Sandford is not known for his constancy.”

  “Some women inspire man’s constancy by their actions,” replied Sebastian. “As others do contempt.”

  I had to make myself think. I needed to get past the bile and the fear and, if I could, steer this most unwelcome conversation into a direction that might yield useful information. To this end, I managed a small laugh. “Lud, Mr. Sandford, if that’s a sample of your conversation these days, It’s a wonder your brother lets you out of the house at all.”

  Sebastian stiffened. Unlike Julius, Sebastian possessed a temper, and when it was set off, his discretion crumbled. This could be a dangerous game, though, as the darkness behind his eyes reminded me. When Sebastian lashed out, it was not just with words. “You’d best beware how you toss about my brother’s name, Miss Fitzroy. You may find yourself on the receiving end of more attention than you wish for.”

  “How is that, Mr. Sandford?” I strove to maintain a sunny tone. I fear I managed only to achieve vaguely overcast. “Don’t tell me you and Lord Lynnfield will be staying on at court? That will be a change. Your father always displayed such splendid disregard for palaces and princes.”

  At last, I had scored a touch. Sebastian’s face flushed an arresting shade of scarlet and he moved to push past Sophy.

  “Don’t, Sebastian.” Sophy touched Sebastian’s arm, which spasmed as if he wished to snatch it away. “She’s just trying to draw you out.”

  Much to my annoyance, this intervention had its intended effect. Sebastian visibly reined in his temper. “Still playing your games, are you, Peggy? You should be careful. You’re not nearly so well protected as you think.”

  I forced my gaze to drift past his shoulder, as if unutterably bored by this remark. Inside, I fought the urge to shout at his threat, to demand to know what he and his brother were up to.

  Sebastian took Sophy’s hand and raised it. “As delightful as this has been, Sophy and I have places to be. You will excuse us, Miss Fitzroy?” He bowed to me.

  “I’m so sorry, Margaret.” Sophy sighed. “But I must delay the pleasure of further conversation, and I did have something I particularly wanted to mention to you.”

  “Sophy, we spoke on this subject.” Sebastian tugged at her hand, but she ignored him and kept smiling at me. This close, I could see two of her lower teeth had begun to turn gray.

  “Indeed, I stopped by your rooms earlier, but they were much occupied. I had no idea you had so many gentlemen friends to entertain.”

  Gentlemen? Plural?

  “Enough, Sophy,” said Sebastian with a credible air of command. “We need to be elsewhere. You are quite finished with Miss Fitzroy.”

  Evidently, Sophy heard some extra note of warning in the words, because she turned her back on me and looped her arm through Sebastian’s. “Goodbye, Margaret. Do give my best to all your diverse gentlemen.”

  In perfect step with each other, Sebastian and Sophy strolled away into the gallery. Neither of them looked back to see how closely I watched them go.

  CHAPTER NINE

  IN WHICH ANOTHER REUNION IS UNEXPECTEDLY ACHIEVED, AND OUR HEROINE RECEIVES FRESH AND NOT ENTIRELY WELCOME INSTRUCTIONS.

  When I finally reached my rooms, my first sight was of Mr. Tinderflint rising from the chair at my hearth-side. Considering his girth and style of dress, he did tend to draw one’s gaze, especially in a small space. He nearly eclipsed Libby, who sat on a stool in the chimney corner, sewing and eyeing me sourly.

  The flood of emotion I felt at seeing my friend and patron after so many unpleasant shocks threatened to overwhelm my delicate maiden’s sensibilities.

  “Why didn’t you warn me!” I demanded as I slammed the door shut. “I just had to—”

  Mr. Tinderflint coughed and nodded over his shoulder. I whipped around to see a much younger, much slimmer, and infinitely more welcome person standing beside my closet door.

  “Matthew!”

  My paramour made his bow and turned upon me the particular smile that melted my heart and mind as surely as a sunbeam melts snow. “H
ello, Peggy Mostly.”

  Mr. Tinderflint had become intensely interested in poking up the fire. This provided Matthew and me a moment to exchange our private greetings, or it would have if Isolde had not scrambled from her basket and scampered over to me, barking and wagging mightily. Fortunately, Mr. Tinderflint had provided himself with more anise biscuits and was able to lure the puppy away.

  I allowed myself to luxuriate in Matthew’s embrace, an experience doubly welcome after my unsettling encounter with Sebastian and Sophy. Being encircled by his arms was wonderfully relaxing and yet filled me with a kind of warm agitation. It was, I decided, the clash of these two sensations that enticed. Well, that, and the glow in Matthew’s gray eyes. And the way the light caught in his copper-colored hair. And his smile, of course, especially when taken in combination with the press of his hands on my lower back as he kissed me.

  I had not in any way finished reacquainting myself with the lengthy list of Matthew’s unique virtues before he broke our kiss.

  “I believe you were about to chastise Mr. Tinderflint,” he murmured with a regretful nod toward that individual’s broad back.

  I sighed and rested my forehead against Matthew’s shoulder, after which I had to brush a wealth of face powder off his good jacket. “I’m afraid it’s a matter that cannot wait.”

  Matthew, clearly uncertain whether to be amused or worried, stepped back and swept out his hand, indicating that the path was clear. I turned to my patron.

  “Thank you, sir, for bringing Matthew,” I said with my best air of lofty dignity. Matthew’s station as an artist’s apprentice did not allow him general access to the palace. It was also, of course, against the rules of conduct for any solitary young man to enter the private apartments of a maid of honor, at least when anyone might see.

  “Not at all, not at all.” Mr. Tinderflint settled himself slowly and heavily into the tapestry chair. Isolde growled uneasily at his golden shoe buckles. I picked her up as I sat on the cushioned stool. I also covered her, and a bit of biscuit, with my kerchief.

  “Secrets,” I said. Isolde hushed and gnawed. Mr. Tinderflint looked surprised.

  “I suspected you and Mr. Reade had not had much of a chance to see each other these past few days.” Mr. Tinderflint smoothed down the lace ruffles that adorned his shirt from neck to waistcoat. Isolde could not see and so for once did not bark at the movement of my patron’s hands or his lace. “Now, I expect you wish to know why I did not inform you that the brothers Sandford were also at St. James today?”

  “Why, Mr. Tinderflint, however did you guess?”

  He bowed his head. “It is a reproach I deserve, yes, I do. Because, you see, I did not know myself.”

  “Do you expect me to believe that?”

  “I’m rather afraid you’ll have to, my dear, for it is the truth.”

  “It is, Peggy,” said Matthew unexpectedly. He had helped me more than once in my affairs as a confidential agent, indeed had saved my life, but these adventures had left him with a deep disquiet where Mr. Tinderflint was concerned.

  “Did he tell you?”

  Matthew shook his head. “While we were waiting for you, Sophy Howe turned up at the door.”

  “I thought so. I met her in the gallery. She all but said she’d already been peering through keyholes.”

  “Knocking on doors, to be precise,” said Mr. Tinderflint. “Fortunately, your excellent Libby”—he nodded to my maid at the fireside, who was pretending in equal parts to mend a stocking and ignore this conversation—“rose admirably to the occasion.”

  “Libby answered the door and received the message,” translated Matthew. “While we hid in your dressing closet.”

  “I shall be trusting entirely to your discretion in this matter, Mr. Reade, yes, entirely.” Was Mr. Tinderflint actually blushing? It was a sight entirely without precedence. “For a dashing young fellow such as yourself, hiding in a lady’s closet is a humorous anecdote. For a man of my age and, ahem, girth, it descends rather quickly to low farce.”

  The picture of Mr. Tinderflint and Matthew jostling for position in my small dressing closet required me to stifle what I hoped would be taken for a series of short, sharp coughs.

  “I regret you were put to any trouble,” I said when I could speak again. “Especially since it doesn’t seem to have worked. Sophy accused me of having multiple gentlemen in my rooms, although that might just have been one of her ordinary slanders.” I paused. “What was her message?”

  “That you should be careful where you stepped,” said Matthew. “Because Lord Lynnfield was with the Prince of Wales today.”

  “It was,” Mr. Tinderflint said, sighing, “something of a shock.”

  “Something of a shock!” My patience, which had made a brief appearance, departed abruptly for parts unknown. “How could you not know this!”

  Isolde poked her head out from under my kerchief and growled at my patron.

  “Secrets.” I patted her and she ducked back under the kerchief, looking for biscuit crumbs.

  Mr. Tinderflint bore my shout and Isolde’s growl without so much as wincing. “You will recall, my dear, that I also have been away from the palace on business. I had thought myself well informed on all pertinent matters, but it seems I was mistaken.”

  There was something particularly dreadful about the idea that the Sandfords had been able to slip past Mr. Tinderflint. Since we were alone, or practically so, Matthew was able to put his arm about my shoulders.

  “Do you have any idea why Sophy would want to warn you about Lynnfield?” he asked.

  I shook my head. “When we met just now, she seemed to want to talk with me, but Sebastian was with her . . .”

  “Was he, b’God?” murmured Matthew. Matthew’s opinion of Sebastian was even lower than mine, if such a thing was possible. Sometimes I feared he might act on that opinion and then have to flee the country. Sebastian, for all his gross and obvious faults, was the son of a titled family, whereas Matthew was the son of an apothecary. When it came to the law, blame, like Newton’s apple, tended to fall to the lowest possible point.

  “He was,” I said. I laid a hand on Matthew’s arm and endeavored to show a calm demeanor. “And he was unusually opposed to Sophy and me communicating.”

  “Now, that is interesting—yes, yes, very interesting indeed.” Mr. Tinderflint’s eyebrows arched up to the line of his periwig. “Mr. Sandford and Miss Howe have been quite close since you’ve been gone, or at least as close as they’ve been permitted to be.”

  “I believe the expression you’re looking for is ‘hand in glove,’” I said tartly. “Although for them ‘hand in pocket’ might be more accurate. I’ve already heard that news. Several people at the levee went out of their way to further acquaint me with it, in fact.” I frowned. “What I can’t work out is why Lynnfield would permit them to be together at all. It’s not as if Sophy has any money she hasn’t won off some unfortunate gamester.” But I wondered then if she might have other connections. Once again it occurred to me how very little I actually knew about Sophy Howe.

  “Will you seek her out?” asked Mr. Tinderflint.

  “Between this and the funeral, I don’t see how I can avoid it.”

  “The funeral?” echoed Matthew. “What happened at the funeral?”

  I did not answer at once. Instead, I picked Isolde up off my lap and deposited her in her basket. “Libby, would you take Isolde for a walk down in the Color Court? Or the gardens?”

  Libby curtsied, the very picture of demure obedience. She then took the basket as if it held something vicious, or at least malodorous. Which only proved that my maid also had direct experience with the royal lap dogs.

  Once we’d closed the door behind Libby and Isolde, I told Matthew and Mr. Tinderflint about “Mrs. O,” the veiled mourner, and her brief but noticeable effect on the senior Pierpont ladies and Sophy Howe. I told them how carefully Mrs. O had passed her memento to my aunt. Finally, I took Olivia’s note describing the
object from my desk and handed it to Mr. Tinderflint.

  “Well, well,” murmured Mr. Tinderflint as he read. He must have found this phrase either instructive or comforting, because he repeated it several more times. “This ‘memento’ is surely a commemorative medal. You noted the symbols? The white horse stands for Hanover, and it is trampling a good English home. Here on the reverse we clearly have the King over the Water, James himself. And in case anyone missed the message, we have”—he ran his fat index finger under the Latin words Olivia had said were stamped on the medal’s edge—“Nobilis est ira leonis, which is the motto of the Stuart House.”

  “‘The roar of the lion is noble,’” translated Matthew promptly.

  “Yes, yes, very good, Mr. Reade.” Mr. Tinderflint turned the paper over, presumably to see if there was anything on its back, and then turned it over again. “Such medals are given out as keepsakes by persons attached to the Pretender’s court. Sometimes it is in thanks for some service, other times simply as largess to keep the loyalty of those they need and to show they are prosperous enough to give gifts.”

  “Then it isn’t anything important,” said Matthew stoutly. “We know that Sir Oliver was moving money about for the Jacobites. This is their thanks.”

  “Except,” Mr. Tinderflint said with a sigh, “we also know, or rather my friends know, that this particular design was struck in Saint-Germain, to be given out only by the hand of the Pretender himself.”

  I opened my mouth. I closed it again. “It still doesn’t have to mean anything. This . . . Mrs. Oglethorpe was probably supposed to give the medal to Uncle Pierpont as thanks for his role in the Swedish plot. When she found out he was dead, she decided to tender the thanks to his widow.”

  In reply to this hopeful speech, Mr. Tinderflint gave me one of his most owlish looks. “Your aunt, I believe you told us, recognized the lady, despite her veils, and was much disconcerted.”

  “Everything disconcerts Aunt Pierpont.”

  Mr. Tinderflint sighed again. “But I also believe you said it was after she received this that Lady Delphine asked you to bring your cousin to court?”