Assassin's Masque (Palace of Spies Book 3)

by Sarah Zettel

The cavalier gripped his stick and headed for the nearest door into the palace. Sophy and the presumed Mrs. Oglethorpe set off in the opposite direction.

  Matthew squeezed my hand once. Then he drew the hood of his red robe over his cap and set off after them.

  I hurried into the palace, almost instantly regretting the loss of my decorative lantern. The gardens and yards might have been lavishly illuminated, but no such expense had been wasted on St. James’s near-empty corridors. I had to move with the tiniest steps, one hand grabbing my light hems out of the way, one stretching out to feel for the walls.

  The man I followed seemed to have no such troubles. He moved with confidence through the darkened corridors, walking with a deliberate, comfortable pace. He not only knew where he was going, he belonged here. That attitude, even more than the black and silver stick, convinced me Olivia had been right. This must be Lord Lynnfield.

  But where was he going? Was he meeting someone? Was he intent on stealing something? Now would be the time. The vast majority of the palace population was in the parks and gardens, enjoying the festivities. I and my midnight cavalier had the palace almost to ourselves.

  The silence and the dark together made it maddeningly difficult to follow at a safe distance. He moved quietly, and there were one or two turns where only the faint rustling of his costume told me which way to go.

  The cavalier vanished around another corner. I stopped and held my breath. There was a soft scraping of metal on metal, the unmistakable sound of a key being fitted into a lock.

  Slowly, with my heart thumping like Lord Beckenstile’s staff, I peered around the corner. It was a short, wide gallery papered in dark silk, which told me we were in one of the newer segments of the palace. Given the dark and how intently I had been concentrating on the cavalier, this was all I could say for certain about my location. The yellow glow of candlelight surrounded the cavalier as he pushed open a pair of doors in the left-hand wall. He stepped through and silently closed them, leaving me once again in the dark.

  A second set of doors waited on the right-hand side of the gallery. I slipped up to these as quickly as I could and tried the handle. To my relief, the doors opened easily, and I was able to dart inside. The chamber in which I found myself was dark, windowless, and populated by a series of anonymous black blobs that were probably furniture. I held the door open just a hairbreadth and crouched down so that the glittering trim of my costume would be less likely to catch the light from whatever candle might come along next.

  In this attitude, with my eye pressed against the crack between the doors, I waited.

  It felt like a very long time. Long enough to become grateful for my shocking costume with its lack of heavy hoops or constricting stomacher. It was certainly long enough to wonder how Lord Lynnfield, a country noble whose father had so recently and dramatically been involved in a plot against the throne, had gotten hold of one of the keys to the palace. Surely the prince had not gone that far in trusting him. Had he?

  Of course, it didn’t have to be the prince who had gotten him the keys. It could easily have been Sophy.

  Which led me to wonder what was happening to Matthew, not to mention Olivia. Had it gone on midnight yet? This deep in the palace, I might not hear the bells that signaled the time of our next rendezvous. Was my delinquent father out among the revelers searching for me? It would serve him right if he was. In fact, I desperately hoped it to be the case.

  And what of Mr. Tinderflint? At least I knew he was here. My patron had told me in detail how he intended to station himself in a striped tent beside the pond, there to entertain his “particular friends.” Numerous such pavilions were set up around the park by those who could afford to create private parties within the larger public celebrations. It was also, of course, a base of operations for the men in ordinary dress he had scattered about the party.

  “I’m a rather recognizable figure,” he’d confessed, smoothing his waistcoat over his considerable paunch. “Mask or no. It will not hurt to have a few extra eyes and ears about, in case there is any mischief afoot.”

  He’d nodded significantly. I hadn’t told him what I’d planned with Matthew and Olivia. I was still piqued at him for his remarks about my father and his murky motivations. Except now that Father had failed to appear as he’d promised, I was beginning to wonder if I had been mistaken, again. Perhaps my patron remained the one I should trust. Surely if I’d told him what had happened, Mr. Tinderflint could have found out where Father was and gotten him help if he’d needed it.

  At exactly the moment my legs began to cramp from crouching so long in one position, I heard the scrape of the lock. I eased myself back on my heels and waited. The cavalier emerged from the other room, locked the door behind him, and walked unhurriedly out of the gallery and around the corridor.

  He actually swung his cane and whistled as he did so.

  I clapped my hand over my mouth to muffle my startled gasp. I knew that careless gait and attitude. This wasn’t Lord Lynnfield. He’d never give away a whistle, and he’d certainly never swing his stick that way.

  I’d been following Sebastian.

  I tried to shoot to my feet. In this I failed, collapsing backwards in an undignified pouf of silk and grape leaves.

  When I finally gathered myself up and scrambled back out into the gallery, my first thought was how deeply disappointed Olivia would be to have her murder plot discredited. My second was that I must get into that locked room.

  I crept toward the corridor, straining eyes and ears to their limit to be sure that Cavalier Sebastian was nowhere nearby. Then I caught up my flimsy skirts and ran out into the hallway, toward the brightest patch of light I could see.

  As I had hoped, light indicated the presence of persons. In this case, much to my delight, those persons were a group of footmen lighting candles in the wall sconces set about the stairwell, in preparation, I supposed, for the return of the palace’s more celebrated inhabitants.

  Here I had an advantage Sebastian Sandford could not match. He might pretend to belong to the palace, but I actually did.

  “Hullo there,” I called to the nearest man, whipping off my mask so that I might be better recognized and understood. “Who would have the keys to the rooms off the short gallery there?” I pointed behind me.

  “I’m sure I don’t know, m’lady,” said the nearest of the men. Of course, I wasn’t officially a “m’lady,” but I did not bother to correct him.

  “Can you find out?” I dug into my grapevine sash and came out with a silver half crown. This was another habit I’d acquired since I’d begun my career as courtier. I always kept a coin or two tucked in sash, or glove, or wherever else I could find a place. Sometimes this was a challenge. That Master of Fashion who decreed women had no need of pockets would receive a stern lecture as soon as I learned his name.

  The footman eyed his compatriots. The one up on the ladder shrugged. The shorter one, who held the lantern and tapers, rubbed his fingers together in a universal sign of approval and greed. My man bowed. “If you’ll wait but a moment, m’—”

  “Miss Fitzroy.” I laid the coin in his hand, and he strode away with a commendable turn of speed.

  The other two went back to their business of bringing light to the darkness. I desperately wanted to go back outside. I needed to know where my father was, where my friends were, and most importantly, where my enemies were. I wanted to find Matthew, Olivia, and Mr. Tinderflint. I wanted to find Mrs. Oglethorpe before she got away and before she met with her own compatriots to finish whatever plan had brought them here.

  Footsteps clattered on floorboards and I jumped. It was the third of the work party returning with a ring of keys. I suppressed my nervousness long enough to lead him to the short gallery and the double doors.

  I took charge of the candle while the man sorted through the keys. He seemed to find it necessary to peer closely at each one in order to determine which belonged to the doors in front of us.

  I gritt
ed my teeth until I felt they might break. How much longer? It was surely past midnight now. Why had I let Sebastian distract me? If Mrs. Oglethorpe wanted me to find her, I should have obliged.

  At last, the man found the key, fitted it to the lock, turned it, and pushed open the door.

  It was a book room, and I needn’t have bothered with the candle. A small brass lantern flickered on a round marble-topped table.

  Next to this table, arrayed in her magnificent white silks, stood Sophy Howe.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  IN WHICH OUR HEROINE ACQUIRES THE LOW HABIT OF READING OTHERS’ CORRESPONDENCE.

  “What are you doing here?” And how had she gotten into the room without my seeing her? I had a brief, fantastical vision of her swapping costumes with the midnight cavalier. A glance at her dirtied white hems showed the more likely scenario: she must have come up the back stairs to meet Sebastian.

  But if there was a back-stairs route to this room, why had Sebastian used the public ways?

  “Her Royal Highness sent me to retrieve a book she wanted.” Sophy had long ago mastered the trick of lifting her chin while at the same time looking down her nose. She put this skill into practice now as she pulled a volume from the shelf.

  “In the middle of the prince’s birthday party?”

  Sophy shrugged. “To settle a bet. Something regarding a quotation. I’m sure I don’t know, but we all must do as we’re told, mustn’t we? And what were you doing here?”

  “Looking for someone.” I attempted to force a tone of flirtation into my voice, but the result was sadly limp and inadequate.

  Sophy laughed at it, and at me. “In a locked room? Peggy, you are always so original. What on earth do we find to talk about when you are not with us?” She flashed me one of her brilliant smiles and brushed past me. As she did, she breathed, “Find me when you know the favor I’ve done you.”

  Favor?

  But she was already gone, leaving us both staring—me at the door Sophy let close behind her, and the footman at me.

  “Thank you,” I said to the footman. “You can go.” I was sure Sophy and Sebastian had wanted something in this room or had left something behind for others to find. I needed privacy to conduct a search.

  “But I’ll have to lock up, Miss Fitzroy.”

  “I’ll do that, and my maid will return the keys.” I had every faith Libby would know to whom such items should be sent.

  The man didn’t like it, and I didn’t blame him. I silently vowed I would send another coin along with the keys as an apology.

  Somewhat at a loss for where to begin my search, I studied the shelves in front of me. There was a great deal to examine. Our former queen, Anne, had not been a great one for reading, but her sister, Mary, had loved learning and built up the palace libraries with great attention and energy. This single room contained dozens of volumes, perhaps as many as a hundred. All were shelved so close together, it was easy to see the gap left by the one Sophy had removed. As I bent closer, I saw that the book to the right of that gap had been placed on the shelf upside down. It was a newer volume, with a bright green cover and fresh dark lettering stamped upon it: Histoires ou contes du temps passé, by one Monsieur Charles Perrault. From the page indicating the contents, it appeared to be a collection of stories, some with truly odd titles—there was “Little Red Riding Hood,” something called “Cendrillon,” and “The Master Cat, or Puss in Boots.”

  I riffled through the book and shook out the pages. No convenient letter fluttered down. I set that aside and pulled out the book on the left-hand side, another volume by this M. Perrault, who appeared to be a busy scrivener, and subjected this tome to similar treatment with similar result.

  I blew out a sigh in lieu of the curse I wished to mutter. My candle was burning dangerously low, and I had no notion how long I had been here. Matthew and Olivia would surely be worried. Sophy might well be toying with me or deliberately delaying me. I quickly moved to replace the books, telling myself that I had not entirely wasted my time. We now knew that Sebastian was alive and that he and Sophy and the Oglethorpe were all working together. Perhaps with his brother’s knowledge, but perhaps without it.

  This thought gave me pause. What if Sebastian had fled from his brother? What if the reason Lynnfield had left the palace was to try to find him? I could never imagine Sebastian outsmarting the cold, calculating Lord Lynnfield, but Sophy was another story.

  That was when I saw the loose panel.

  Had it been replaced properly, I never would have noticed it at all. As it was, whoever had last laid hand to the square of dark wood had been hasty or sloppy, and it was crooked. Even so, the shadows from my guttering candle all but obscured it.

  It took a moment’s nervous scrabbling to pry the little panel loose. Goose pimples prickled my thinly clad arms, quite at odds with the flush in my cheeks and the pounding of my heart.

  At last, the thin square of wood came away in my hands. What lay on the other side wasn’t a proper hole, but just a patch of brick, little wider than the span of my hand. I sucked in a breath, disappointed. Once again, I had found absolutely nothing.

  Lingering stubbornness, though, combined with a deep respect of Sophy Howe’s talent for connivance, drove me to pick up my candle and bend closer. There. In the central seam of the brickwork, the mortar had been cut away, leaving a narrow slit. And in that slit, I could see the edge of a paper.

  I picked at it with my fingernails until I was at last able to grasp the paper and pull it free. It had been folded into a tight square, wrapped once with plain blue ribbon, and sealed in plain blue wax. I had seen ribbons and seals of this sort before—all on Jacobite letters.

  I bit my lip and glanced at the door, which remained shut, and at my candle, which flickered fitfully. There was no way to tell if it was Sophy or someone else who had planted this letter, let alone who was expected to receive it. If I broke the seal to read it now, whoever that other person was would know it had been read. If I took it away and didn’t have it back before it was missed, the person would know the letter had been found. In either case, if the letter contained plans, those plans would be changed at once.

  But if I left the letter here and Sophy’s co-conspirators came to retrieve it, we would lose all chance to know what it contained or who any additional conspirators might be.

  Nearly shaking with my uncertainties, I tucked the letter into my bosom. I replaced the panel and the books, making sure the Histoires ou contes du temps passé was upside down as I had found it.

  I took up my candle and the keys and hurried from the room.

  Contrary to my fears, midnight had not passed while I was in the palace with Sebastian and Sophy. The bells began to peal that portentous hour almost exactly as I entered the Ambassador Court. Counting my blessings, I made my way toward the Arch of Prosperity. Matthew was there ahead of me. He had his red hood down and his white mask pushed up high on his forehead, and he watched the crowd intently.

  Under the convenient cover of the general revelry, I all but fell into his arms.

  “Are you all right, Peggy?” he cried. “What happened?”

  “I found Sebastian, and Sophy, and a secret letter.”

  Matthew blinked but did not waste his breath on exclamations. “I’d say your time was better used than mine, then. I must have made two full circuits of the park following that duenna.”

  “Whom did she talk to? What did she do?”

  “No one and nothing, in that order.” He frowned. “Could we have the wrong woman?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t know anything at this point.” I craned my neck to see among the celebrants. “There’s Olivia!”

  My cousin, taking full advantage of her male garb, strode speedily across the grounds. But when she reached my side, I could see she was flushed with far more than exertion.

  “Peggy! What do you think has happened!” she cried. “I’ve been challenged to a duel!”

  “WHAT!” I cried, appropria
tely aghast. My normally sober paramour, on the other hand, responded to this pronouncement by doubling over, clutching at his stomach and making a series of alarming choking noises.

  “Stop that!” cried Olivia. “It is not in the least funny!”

  “Yes . . . it . . . is,” whooped Matthew. “Who was it? Prince George himself?”

  “As a matter of fact, it was Lord Blakeney,” Olivia said, sniffing. “He came upon me—that is, Orlando—and Mary Bellenden, and . . .”

  I turned to Matthew, who still seemed to be finding my cousin’s inappropriate, not to mention time-wasting, antics a matter for general hilarity. “Mr. Reade, will you take Mr. Preston up to my rooms before someone murders him?” Upon recognizing the touch of my very sharpest glare, Matthew struggled manfully against this unworthy and unfeeling display and promised to do as I asked.

  Olivia, for her part, promised to go quietly. I had no choice but to believe them, because I needed to find Mr. Tinderflint at once.

  The mood of the crowd had grown noticeably more raucous since I’d entered St. James. A good many of the persons I elbowed my way between held whole bottles of drink and were loudly engaged in pulling off one another’s masks, and occasionally other things.

  I averted my eyes and went on.

  I kept thinking I might finally see my father in this great stew, but I did not. Nor did I see Sebastian, or Sophy, or Mrs. Oglethorpe. I comforted myself with vague hopes that they might be standing in a circle somewhere, wasting their mutual breath with accusations about what might have happened to the letter I now carried.

  When I reached Mr. Tinderflint’s pavilion, I found him engaged in distributing wine and other strong drink to a whole crowd of merry personages. I had not seen his chosen costume before this, and looking on it gave me a very long pause. Mr. Tinderflint was dressed in the red robes and full-bottomed wig of a high-court judge. But not just any judge. He had on the black velvet cap of a judge ready to sentence a man to death.