Assassin's Masque (Palace of Spies Book 3)

by Sarah Zettel

  In this, I was forced reluctantly to agree with her. “Have there been visitors of any sort since he left?”

  “Besides that . . . person you sent from the palace?” If it is possible to look down your nose at someone who is not present, Mrs. Biddingswell did so. “Some tradesmen with bills or deliveries, but otherwise no one.”

  “Any letters?” I tried hopefully.

  “The letters are placed in the book room, miss. Will there be anything else?”

  Dismissed by the housekeeper as firmly as I ever had been by the princess, I bowed my head. “Not at this time, thank you.”

  As soon as Mrs. Biddingswell was out of sight, I boldly and without hesitation walked into my father’s book room. If he was not going to leave me any useful information, I had no choice but to go looking for it.

  Despite the lack of windows, the room would be cozy once there was a fire in the hearth. My father had been busy with his shopping. The carpet under the desk was fine and new, as were the two stout armchairs and the tapestry footstool. The mantel held a beautiful gilt clock, as well as several porcelain jars for tobacco and tea. The carved bookcases held a host of volumes, mostly new, but several looked quite old. The elaborate parquet floor added an elegance that made up for the plain, dark paneling and the old-fashioned whitewashed walls. So did several landscape paintings, which, thanks to my association with Matthew, I recognized to be of the Dutch school.

  The broad oak desk, however, was empty except for stacks of bills, a ledger, and a small pile of unopened letters. I sorted through these, trying to convince my conscience that considering the circumstances, I was fully justified in breaking the seals and reading them all.

  But if I found nothing, what then? Should I follow Olivia’s example and search Father’s bedroom? Or should I first search Aunt Pierpont’s, to see if she had left anything informative behind?

  The thought of my aunt made me look through the letters again.

  “Nothing,” I murmured. Aunt Pierpont had always been a most dutiful writer of letters. She used to deliver us regular lectures on the importance of punctuality in all forms of correspondence. How was it possible she hadn’t written to Father, or to her own daughter? The journey to Norwich was not accomplished in a single day. She would have been able to send a letter from whatever inn or house they had stopped at for the night.

  She would have written first thing to say they’d already arrived safely and remained in good health. But I saw no trace of my aunt’s spidery handwriting on the sealed packets. “Aunt, has something happened to you?”

  “That’s what I wondered.”

  I screamed. I also jumped. Letters flew in every direction. When I came down again, I saw my father standing beside the chimneypiece, having seemingly appeared out of thin air.

  “WHAT IN HEAVEN’S NAME ARE YOU PLAYING AT?” I inquired.

  “I’m sorry, Peg, truly.” He did not sound sorry. In fact, he sounded as if he might have been trying not to smile. “If I’d known you were here, I would have been back sooner. Why are you here, by the way?”

  “I’m looking for you!” I informed him, mildly, of course. “Should I have looked up the chimney?”

  “No, under the carpet.” He gestured to the floor beside the hearth. I must have stared blankly at him, because he clicked his tongue in admonishment and bent down to lift away a section of the parquet floor. It was a trapdoor. Underneath, I now saw, was a ladder to the cellar.

  “There’s a tunnel under this room,” he told me. “Leads to the stables. Probably dug during Cromwell’s time. There are more of these around the town than anyone knows. Smugglers use them now, mostly. It’s the reason I chose this house. Sometimes a man needs to come and go without being seen.”

  He seemed to be waiting for me to make some exclamation of surprise and possibly of admiration. A truly filial daughter probably would have obliged. I, however, had a few other things on my mind.

  “How long have you been back? I’ve been out of my mind with worry about you!”

  It finally seemed to occur to my fond parent that I might have some sort of genuine grievance with his conduct. “I’m sorry,” he said. “That business in Oxford took longer than I thought it would.”

  I stopped and let his words play over again in my mind. Yes, he had said it, and he’d looked me in the eye as he had done so. I returned his steady gaze. “But Mr. Willis isn’t in Oxford.”

  That caught him off-guard, although just for an instant. “No, as it happens. But how did you come to know it?”

  “Mr. Tinderflint told me. We found a letter at the palace containing a cipher. He said Mr. Willis is a code breaker.”

  Father blanched. “What letter? Where?” His pause was a long one. I lifted my chin. “Why are you here, Peg?”

  “The princess has ordered you to come to the palace.”

  He didn’t answer this right away, but when he did, his voice was soft and serious. “What’s happened? What has Lord Tierney done now?” Instead of waiting for my reply, he whirled abruptly toward the door. “Damn.”

  With this highly informative, not to mention polite, exclamation, Father strode from the room. I grabbed up my hems and followed him down the hall and into the parlor. I’m sorry to report that both of us ignored Mrs. Biddingswell’s startled shriek at finding her master so abruptly returned.

  As before, the parlor drapes were tightly drawn. My father stole to the window and lifted the edge of one heavy curtain with his finger. “I thought as much.”

  He gestured for me to come stand beside him so I could also see. Outside was the general bustle of Lincoln’s Inn Field. All the persons in the broad, rutted street, whether they were on foot or horseback or riding in coach or chair, clearly had someplace else to be. All, that is, save for whoever was in the small, low-slung, black coach with its pair of unremarkable chestnut bay horses. The driver, in his plain brown coat, leaned his elbows onto his knees and watched the passersby.

  “Now, if I told you this was the second time in as many days that that coach has shown up here, who would you guess was inside?”

  The coach’s curtains were tightly drawn, but as the whole of it was as black as any hearse, it was impossible not to form certain associations.

  “I’d say it was Mrs. Oglethorpe. She seems to love black.”

  He nodded. “Do you have any idea what she might want?” His tone was a little too carefully neutral and made me look at him a second time.

  “I don’t,” I said. “But she wanted to speak to me enough that she donned her black veil at the masquerade and made herself as obvious as possible.”

  “Did she, b’God?” he murmured. “Well, well. I wonder if she, or whoever it might be, wants to speak with you badly enough to come into the house?”

  I bit my lip, profoundly uncertain. We did not have time for this. My mission was to bring my father to the palace. I had, in fact, been specifically enjoined from ever again engaging in any more clandestine activities. At the same time, I was painfully aware that this might be my last opportunity to gain even one answer to my vast store of questions and suspicions.

  “What should I do?” I asked him.

  The pride in my father’s smile was mixed with a generous dollop of mischief. “Go out and talk with her. Do everything you can to persuade her inside. Bring her into my book room. I’ll be waiting.” He touched the side of his nose.

  I nodded. I also squared my shoulders and, with an effort, set my anger aside. This might be my last bit of spying, but it was hardly the last conversation I would have with my father about it, not by a long chalk.

  With Mrs. Biddingswell sputtering behind me, I walked from parlor to front hall and out into the public street without cloak, hat, or pattens. I felt for the housekeeper. Surely she had not taken the position with the expectation that her master would appear at random intervals like a conjurer. I would explain matters to her one day when we both had more leisure, and I’d assure her she would receive a good character reference
if she decided to seek less exciting employment.

  I picked my way across the rutted street, avoiding the puddles as best I could. When I reached the coach, the driver turned his head to look at me, then leaned over the side and spat a large wad of tobacco into the street. Clearly, I was not considered a matter of immediate concern.

  I decided to address myself directly to the curtained windows. “It is considered polite to send written notice of an intent to visit,” I told them.

  The curtains did not move, not even about the edges. Nonetheless, a voice emerged. “That would have been unwise.”

  She might have been keeping her face hidden, but her voice remained as distinctive as her veil had been.

  “Mrs. Oglethorpe,” I said. “What do you want?”

  “To see that you are well, Miss Fitzroy.” She betrayed no surprise at all that I had learned her name. “I feared for your safety.”

  Of all the things I might have expected to hear, this was not on the list. “My safety?”

  I heard the sound of the coach door being unlatched. That door opened to reveal a shadowed but apparently well-upholstered interior. Mrs. Oglethorpe had arrived in her customary veiled state and beckoned to me now with one black-gloved hand. “Please get in. It is urgent that we speak.”

  Was it possible the woman believed me fool enough to climb inside her coach? Even if I hadn’t been intent on getting her into the house, to step happily into such a conveyance with the horses harnessed and the driver ready to take up the reins would have required an entirely unprecedented sort of naiveté.

  Fortunately, my hours spent adorning public events had taught me to quickly adapt to shifts in conversation. Mrs. Oglethorpe had mentioned my safety; I latched on to that now.

  “I daren’t,” I breathed, glancing behind me for good measure.

  “Are you watched?” She leaned forward. “I can help you, if you will but trust me.”

  I bit my lip and glanced behind myself again. In my mind, I heard Olivia warning me not to overplay my scene.

  “You must come into the house,” I said quickly. “Father is still in Oxford. I thought he’d be back by now. I thought . . .” Mrs. Oglethorpe reached out as if she meant to touch my hand, and I knew I’d made the right choice of conversational strategies. “You can tell your man to take the coach into the mews around back.”

  “Impossible. The servants will have already seen too much.”

  I twisted my hands. “But there’s nowhere else, and I’m expected back at the palace soon. There’s so much happening now . . . I don’t know when I’ll be able to find you again.”

  It was a performance worthy of the Drury Lane theater, and it seemed to have the desired effect. Mrs. Oglethorpe nodded solemnly, closed her door, and signaled to her coachman. I picked up my skirts and hurried back to the house.

  “No questions, please, Mrs. Biddingswell,” I said as I once again brushed past the housekeeper. “Just clear the staff from the first floor. I’m going to be bringing a lady into the book room who does not wish to be seen.”

  Mrs. Biddingswell looked at me, shock and disapproval plain on her usually stolid face. Being the mistress of a house is a useful thing, however, and our servant did not question or argue. I hurried to the back door, but I made one stop, and that was at the parlor. I noticed my father’s smoking tools were laid out on the hearth-side table. I snatched up the little hooked knife used for cleaning the bowl of pipes and tucked it, carefully, into my sleeve.

  Father presumably had stationed himself directly beneath his trapdoor in order to hear whatever conversation might occur without his weighty presence impeding a full and free exchange of views. However, recent events had taught me that one never knew what a spy might attempt, and it was better to be prepared.

  When I opened the back door the hairbreadth requisite to demonstrate fear of discovery, it was to see the black coach already there. Mrs. Oglethorpe clambered down at once and darted inside far more nimbly than I would have given her credit for, considering her age and voluminous skirts. I made sure my eyes were wide with worry as I beckoned for her to follow me.

  Once we reached the book room, I locked the door. There was no hint of Father anywhere. Everything in that windowless room was exactly as it had been. I found myself glancing about nervously, as if I expected him to poke his head out from a desk drawer.

  I very carefully and deliberately did not glance toward the floor.

  Fortunately, my companion took this show of nerves in stride. She lifted back her dramatic veil and I got my first full look at Eleanor Oglethorpe.

  She was a sharp woman. Her cheekbones were high and slanting, making hollows out of her sallow cheeks. This, in combination with a pointed chin, made her face resemble nothing so much as a doleful hatchet. Her thick hair had gone entirely gray, but given the pale shade of her skin, I suspected it had once been fair. Her eyes were unusually large and startlingly blue. These, along with the well-curved figure beneath her black dress, hinted that she must have been a beauty in her youth. Her appearance now combined with her bearing to give her an air of decided elegance. That elegance had a hard edge, though, and was filled to the brim with suspicion.

  Nonetheless, she made a valiant attempt at softening her hatchet face as she gazed at me.

  “What happened to you at the masque?” she asked, as if she had every right to know my doings. “I searched everywhere for you but could find no trace. We feared the worst.”

  I had been right. That veil was no true disguise. She had meant for me to find her. Why hadn’t Sophy, or Sebastian, told her where I was and what had happened regarding the letter? Perhaps they had. Mrs. Oglethorpe was a liar, I reminded myself. She might be lying right now in order to draw me out.

  The wisdom of the ages informs us that what is sauce for the goose is sauce for the gander.

  I decided to flutter. It was something I did a great deal on various occasions, and I had gotten rather good at it. “I know you were looking . . . that is . . . I thought I knew . . . but I was afraid.”

  “Of course you were.” The smile Mrs. Oglethorpe returned was thin, but it seemed to be genuine. She reached out and touched my hand. I had to make an effort not to pull away. “Your father has no doubt told you that our family was responsible for his arrest and many other heinous acts besides.”

  I did not let my gaze drop to the floor or turn toward the hearth. I most decidedly did not check to see if Father had properly closed his trapdoor. I swallowed. Mrs. Oglethorpe entirely mistook the reason for my uneasiness (I hoped) and pressed my hand.

  “Miss Fitzroy—Margaret—I have done you great wrong. We all have. I can only hope in time you will be able to forgive us.”

  Now I did draw back. “Which wrong is that?”

  “I should have come to you as soon as I learned of your mother’s fate. I should have taken you into my own home, where you could have learned the honest truth of your heritage.” She paced away, circling the desk with its ledger and letters in plain view. I gritted my teeth. She might be here to make some strange show of apology, but apparently Mrs. Oglethorpe was too much the spy to leave an enemy’s papers unexamined.

  “Why should you care about me?” I croaked, grateful that I’d chosen to put on a show of nerves at the beginning of this conversation.

  “Because, Margaret, your mother—Elizabeth—was the dearest friend of my life.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  IN WHICH HEAVY WORDS MAY BE SEEN TO BE LIGHTLY THROWN.

  Mrs. Oglethorpe’s declaration hung in the air for an inordinately long moment, and yet I could make no immediate answer. I was in a state of shock. It was not possible she was going to try this move against me. “A great many people have claimed to be my mother’s friends since I came to the palace,” I said. It was only at the last moment I remembered to make some sort of fluttery gesture with my hands.

  “Have any of them offered you proof? You read the letter I left you?”

  “I did. I . . . we
ll . . .” I twisted my fingers together. “I have seen falsified letters before.”

  Mrs. Oglethorpe reached into the reticule hanging from her wrist and drew out not one, but two more letters. These were as old and as creased as the other had been. I did not have to force the furrows into my brow as I took the letters from her.

  My Dearest Mrs. Righthandwall, (I read)

  Oh, how very much I miss you. Do promise me you will be returning soon. If it were not for my little mischief Margaret, I should be running quite distracted with boredom. How on earth shall I endure another drawing room or supper party without you to help me laugh at them all?

  You say you are pursued by a most troublesome suitor. And you, a married woman! Do write and tell me more of this bold gentleman. Does he really mean to importune you for your connections there? How very rude and saucy of him! Give me but a hint of who his people are here and I shall tell you all I can of his circumstances that you may know better how to act.

  Yr. Faithful,

  Mrs. Tinderflint

  My hands trembled. Memory surged across me, of my mother’s voice filled with mock outrage. “Margaret! You little mischief! Come back here right now!” And laughter. Mother had had the loudest, longest, most beautiful laugh. I blinked hard to clear my vision.

  I remembered I must ask a question. I must pretend ignorance and bewilderment. “You . . . Is . . . is my mother Mrs. Tinderflint?”

  Mrs. Oglethorpe nodded. “And I am Mrs. Righthandwall. We had adopted the pseudonyms as something of a joke when we were still girls, but as our work continued, it became prudent not to correspond under our right names.”

  Her face had fallen into lines of gentle concern. My stomach twisted badly, and it suddenly felt easier to open the second missive than look at her any longer.