Assassin's Masque (Palace of Spies Book 3)

by Sarah Zettel

  This person might well have been one of those youths. “He” was a dashing blade dressed in a coat of blue satin, embroidered with silver and trimmed with Irish lace. One white-gloved hand held a ribboned walking stick. A gold-handled dress sword hung from his left hip. He wore a blue and white feathered mask with a hooked nose meant, I think, to simulate a poll parrot. A blue hat with trailing feathers perched on his full-bottomed wig, and he sported a single round patch on his right cheek.

  “Good evening, Miss Fitzroy.” The dashing blade executed a perfect bow.

  It took several tries before I was able to gasp out, “Olivia?”

  The dashing blade grinned. “Ah! I fear that lady has returned home. My name is Orlando Preston, and I am your devoted servant.” He bowed again.

  “I don’t . . . I can’t . . . Olivia!”

  Grinning in delight at her triumph, Olivia held out her arm. “Shall we go, cousin? I believe you are expected in the lower hall.”

  Completely bemused, I took “his” arm and let myself be led out into the corridor. My headdress shifted and clattered with each movement, but it was not just my false branches that were making movement awkward. The lightness of my skirts made walking unexpectedly hazardous. If I moved too quickly, the flimsy, unshaped fabric flew upward, allowing all the world to glimpse my ankles or even—oh for shame to confess it!—my shins.

  “Now,” I murmured to Olivia as we made our careful way through the galleries and down the stairs. “You remember—you are to meet Matthew in the Ambassador Court, not the Color Court. That will be a madhouse. Well, I expect it will all be a madhouse, but you can ask any of the yeomen for directions, and—”

  “And then we are to take up our positions by the Arch of Prosperity,” Olivia recited dutifully. “From there, we will be able to spy what Sophy does and whom she talks to as she leaves the stage. Once you are released from the processional, we will each pick a direction and circulate about the party. When the bells strike midnight, we will rendezvous at the arch again and compare notes. Should any dire emergency occur, we are to find Mr. Tinderflint’s private pavilion by the park pond and plead for his presence promptly, Peggy.” She paused to see if I was astonished at all by her alliterative alacrity.

  I wasn’t. “And if you really want anyone to take you for ‘Orlando Preston,’ remember to keep your voice down and don’t giggle.” There may have been a hint of peevishness in these words, but it must be remembered that I had rather a lot to manage at this point, both internally and externally. “And don’t be late for Matthew; otherwise we’ll never find each other.”

  Despite my stern admonishment, Olivia giggled. “As if there were any earthly possibility we’d lose you while you’re wearing those branches. Peggy, promise me this thing was not your idea.”

  “That, cousin, I can and do promise most faithfully.”

  The anniversary of a royal birth must of necessity be celebrated in royal style. St. James’s Palace might not be ideally situated for favorite royal pastimes like water parties, but it was still conveniently placed next to a broad green parkland that was perfect for grand illuminations, fireworks, and processions of decorative ladies.

  Although the scenery and much of the scaffolding had been moved to the various stages erected in the gardens and parklands, the lower hall was still full of bustling persons of various professions and rank. Lord Beckenstile was naturally in the thick of it, shouting orders to workmen and servants as they darted or stomped back and forth. This, of course, did not prevent that gimlet-eyed man from taking full note of my arrival.

  “So kind of you to join us, Miss Fitzroy,” he drawled loudly as Olivia and I came through the doors. “Will you take your place? Or am I to inform His Royal Highness we must all await your convenience?”

  “I’m so sorry, Lord Beckenstile,” I murmured as I made my way through a somewhat disorganized crowd of youths impressed into the role of torchbearers. These attendants were dressed in black, blue, and white, meant to symbolize the broad heavens, I think. Those I could see through my combination of mask and branches looked as unhappy in their costumes as I in mine.

  We maids were, of course, meant to represent the four seasons. Molly Lepell, all in shades of green, pink, and primrose yellow, was spring. Mary Bellenden, in darker greens, reds, and golds, was autumn. Both of them, I noted, were allowed to wear perfectly reasonable wreaths of trailing vines and blossoms in their neatly dressed hair.

  “And who is this?” cried Mary as “Orlando” led me, rattling, to my spot in the line. “Don’t tell me Mr. Reade has a rival!” She then proceeded to bat her eyes at my escort in such a show of flirtation that I could not tell whether she was having a joke or if she’d been truly taken in.

  “Certainly not,” I said loftily. “This is my cousin, Mr. Orlando Preston.” At this, Olivia bowed in a flurry of broad gestures and flourishes of lace that would have done Mr. Tinderflint proud. I found a moment to enjoy the extreme consternation on Sophy’s face.

  “Yet another one?” Sophy murmured. “Be careful, Mary. The members of Miss Fitzroy’s family tend to be rather more than they first seem.”

  Sophy was the representation of winter, and I must admit she wore the part well. Her costume included a considerable acreage of pure white silk and figured blue gauze, not to mention cascading silver lace and a glittering blue and silver stomacher.

  I wanted to be closer to her. I wanted to see whether her pallor was the result of too much face powder or because Sebastian was still missing. I had made all the inquiries I could. No one had seen Sebastian, or his brother, for days. Given that Sophy did not do nearly as well at the card tables without her partner, few of those I spoke with seemed discomforted by the absence.

  It did, however, leave me in the impossible situation of being worried about Sebastian’s fate and of what lines Sophy might have crossed to help bring it about.

  “Well, Mr. Preston, what do you say?” Mary tilted her head just so, in order to peer mischievously at Olivia/Orlando. “Are you here to deceive us as well?”

  “Is that not the point of a masquerade?” inquired Olivia. “Not that I stand the slightest chance at deceiving such sagacious ladies as yourselves.”

  “Ooooh!” Mary clapped her hands. “I think I like this new cousin of yours, Peggy. Promise me we will see more of him later.”

  “Yes, do, Peggy,” said Olivia.

  Mary laughed brightly. Molly turned her face away and pressed her fingertips over her mouth. Sophy frowned hard.

  Lord Beckenstile cleared his throat, loudly. He also thumped his white staff for emphasis.

  “But I have overstayed my time.” Olivia made one more bow. “I will see you anon, Peggy.” She capped this performance off by winking at Mary before she sauntered away, wobbling only slightly in her unfamiliar shoes.

  Lord Beckenstile sniffed irritably. “If you are quite finished exhibiting your relations for Miss Bellenden’s approval, Miss Fitzroy, you might exert yourself to find your place in line.”

  I curtsied humbly, assumed my right station between Mary and Molly, and took my decorative brass lantern from the serving man who stood ready. At that same moment, a page came running hotfoot into the hall to bow to the master.

  “His Royal Highness has arrived!” boomed Lord Beckenstile. “Places! It begins!”

  I have endured much in my service to the Crown. I have stood for hours without complaint. I have been cornered and pawed by assorted “gentlemen.” I have gracefully lost ridiculous sums at the card tables to flatter those whom my mistress wished to keep in good humor. I’ve been kidnapped, shot, threatened at sword-point, and almost drowned. But nothing will ever equal the horror that was my performance as the Summer Willow.

  I ask my readers to imagine being led out of doors by a double file of torchbearers into a high, cold wind, holding a flickering lantern in one hand and their hems in the other. Then come the rickety stairs to be mounted to a vast and equally rickety stage decorated in a manner meant to s
uggest the whole of not just England, but Scotland, Ireland, and the Germanies. These fanciful bits of scenery sway in the wind nearly as violently as the lantern flames. Once arrived in this agreeable location, the dancer must try not to appear as if her gaze is riveted on the faint chalk line at her feet as she hops, slides, turns, turns again, skips, tries to find the dreaded Xs, weaves in a grand hay, crosses creaking scenery bridges, and crosses them again, all to the confused music of fife, flute, horn, and drum, which can barely be heard because of the rattling headdress.

  I trod on Molly’s hem. Mary’s hot brass lantern brushed my bare arm twice during one of the more complicated turns. I kicked Sophy’s ankle.

  Yes, for once, entirely by accident.

  The only good I can say is that it did not rain.

  Somehow, though, we succeeded in navigating our hazardous pathways mostly unscathed and even successfully found our final Xs. That Molly Lepell had to cough loudly to signal me to my proper place is a scurrilous rumor. We did raise our lanterns high with something approaching easy grace as the musicians brought their final crescendo to a triumphant close.

  Not that anyone was watching us at that moment. Everyone’s attention was fixed on the stand where the royal family sat, and more particularly on the prince and princess, waiting to see how they would respond.

  The prince rose to his feet and brought his hands together.

  “Bravo!” he cried.

  Now that it was safe, cheers and applause rose around us. Princess Caroline was also on her feet, as were the three little princesses, all making an appreciative uproar. Distance and the dancing shadows prevented me from reading my mistress’s expression. This bothered me. I’d had no opportunity to converse with her since my return with Olivia and so had been unable to determine how things stood between Lord Lynnfield and the prince.

  I tried to wrench my mind back to more immediate concerns. Such as how the Master of the Revels stepped to the fore to make his bow and lead us off in reverse order, which meant I was watching Mary and Sophy precede me. Sophy moved with her usual controlled perfection. Whatever activity she had planned with or without Mrs. Oglethorpe, who might, or might not, be here this evening, Sophy did not permit it to affect her deportment.

  Perhaps there was nothing. Perhaps the plans had been changed during that same conversation that had changed her mind about Lord Lynnfield. Perhaps Sebastian had simply been sent home to keep him out of trouble. Perhaps Lynnfield had left because, after all, smuggling gangs in the Great Romney Marsh could not be trusted to manage their own affairs. Perhaps Mr. Tinderflint, and my father, and the princess were all wrong, and the Swedish plot really had been the beginning and the end of matters.

  Perhaps I would be crowned Queen of the French tonight.

  We returned to the Ambassador Court, which was thronging with well-wishers. Ladies and gentlemen, friends and family, as well as idlers and the simply curious, cheered and clapped as we maids filed entered the court. As Olivia had predicted, my ungainly headdress served to make me highly visible, and I endured only a brief moment of twisting and turning before I spotted my cousin sauntering toward me with Matthew beside her.

  I nodded to them both and backed to the edge of the swirling mob. Now that I knew my friends had seen me, there was only one question left.

  Where had Sophy gotten herself to?

  The courtyard was little more than a shifting sea of backs and shoulders. I held my pathetic lantern as high as I could reach. I strained to stand on my toes on the uneven cobbles. I may also have used the cover of so many voices to utter a few new expressions I had learned from certain disreputable persons. Had I lost her? Could she have already slipped away?

  No. Sophy had only separated herself from the crowd. Her glittering white dress stood out sharply against the darker backdrop of the palace’s brick walls. Most unusually, she stood alone, her own decorative lantern held high. Like me, Sophy Howe sought someone in particular.

  That someone was not long in coming.

  I shoved my branches back with my free hand. Now that I was looking in the correct direction, I could make out a man dressed all in solemn black—a wide-plumed black hat, black mask, and black gauntlets, holding a black and silver walking stick. A tall lady, elegantly dressed in similar unrelieved midnight shades, walked at his side. Both were moving deliberately through the crowd toward the beacon that was Sophy Howe.

  “Here, Peggy, you’re going to ignite something.”

  I jumped. I’d become so engrossed in watching Sophy, I’d missed Olivia and Matthew’s arrival.

  Matthew took my lantern and blew out the candle inside. In contrast to Olivia’s dashing blade, Matthew was dressed as a scholar. He wore a black velvet cap, a white mask, and a dark red robe. A magnifying glass dangled on a chain about his neck, and he tucked a huge leather-bound (false) book under his elbow.

  “What are you staring at, Peggy?” asked Olivia, pushing back her hat brim and peering about. “Oh!”

  She had spotted the Howe. The pair in black had reached Sophy, and proceeded to make their bows. The lady, I could now see, was masquerading as a Spanish duenna in a black velvet gown with a high comb in her hair and a veil fashioned from yards of black lace.

  Black lace like I had seen so recently before.

  “Is that Lynnfield all in black there?” Olivia was saying. “That could be the cane he takes with him everywhere. Who’s the woman? You don’t suppose that’s his mother, do you?”

  “Does he even have a mother?” muttered Matthew. “I’ve never heard anyone so much as mention a Lady Lynnfield.”

  “Be quiet, both of you,” I ordered. My brain was spinning and I needed to right it quickly. Because Sophy had been telling the truth that day she had tried to recruit me to her cause, and despite all my hopes those plans had not changed.

  The woman on the cavalier’s arm was none other than Mrs. Oglethorpe.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  IN WHICH BOTH IDENTITIES AND MOTIVATIONS MIGHT WELL BE MISTAKEN.

  The realization that we were all staring at Mrs. Oglethorpe brought an avalanche of smaller realizations. The first was that we had no time to waste.

  “Get this thing off me!” I croaked.

  “Which thing, Peggy?” said Olivia. “You’re wearing rather a—”

  Matthew, always quick to understand, dropped his book into Olivia’s hands. “Hold this, and keep an eye on Sophy.”

  He immediately set to work finding the multiplicity of pins Libby had concealed in my hair. I once again cursed fashion, masquerades, and my duty. Here I was, with the man I loved running his fingers through my hair, and I couldn’t actually enjoy the moment because I was in public and because I had to worry about a trio of Jacobite conspirators getting away.

  “What do you see?” I hissed at Olivia. I couldn’t see anything for myself, as I was busy grappling with my slipping branches. Matthew yanked out another pin.

  “They’re chatting. Some people are coming up and bowing and . . . Oh, get out of the way, can’t you!” She stretched up onto tiptoe. “They’re turning, they’re walking. Hurry, Peg!”

  Fortunately, at that moment, Matthew found the crucial pin. The hated headdress tumbled free and slithered to the ground. At long last, I was able to kick it aside, with only the smallest twinge of guilt at the waste and expense.

  “Matthew, Olivia . . .” I began.

  “Well!” cried a new voice. “Here we are again, Mr. Preston!”

  The three of us spun about. Like a fairy appearing in the morning mists, Mary Bellenden in her autumnal garb slid gracefully through the crowd. With a swift and much-practiced movement, she threaded her arm through Olivia’s.

  “Peggy, do loan me your cousin for a bit. I’ve a thousand friends who will be delighted to meet such a charming gentleman.” Mary sucked in a deep breath and batted her eyes at Olivia. “You must agree, Mr. Preston. I am quite prepared to stand here all night and argue until I carry my point. I beg you, please spare me that troub
le and come along quietly!”

  I motioned frantically for Olivia to refuse. Olivia, however, appeared to decide that this was an excellent moment to lose her mind.

  “Of course,” she said, in a credible imitation of a gentleman’s booming agreement. “I will accompany you wherever you wish. How could I possibly refuse? You will excuse me, cousin? Mr. Reade?”

  Mary laughed and dragged Olivia into the crowd. I could do nothing at all but stand and stare.

  “What does she think she’s doing?” I demanded of Matthew.

  “Getting Mary out of the way before we lose Sophy and whomever that is she’s with,” he replied calmly. “And circulating to spy on the gathering, like we’re supposed to.”

  “Oh.” I would have to apologize to Olivia later for the several horrid thoughts I had momentarily entertained.

  Sophy, in the meantime, was making her curtsy to the couple in black. The man in cavalier garb separated from the duenna. Clearly they were getting ready to head off, and in different directions.

  I bit my lip and made a rapid decision.

  “If anyone goes to the palace, I’ll follow. You stay with those who head into the park. If you have to make a choice, follow the Oglethorpe.”

  “You’re not—”

  “I have to. If I’m seen, I have a thousand good reasons to be roaming about the palace. You don’t.” I was straining like a horse against the bit. The cavalier was listening as the duenna spoke another few words. He’d move away any instant. “In fact, it will go the worse for us both if I’m found wandering in the dark with you.”

  There was something more I did not say: I was certain Mrs. Oglethorpe wanted me to see her. Why else would she wear her distinctive lace veil? There was no telling if the idea had come from her or Lynnfield, who surely must be the midnight cavalier. It hardly mattered. I had no intention of being so easily lured into the dark with them.