Assassin's Masque (Palace of Spies Book 3)

by Sarah Zettel

  So it was that I replied to all their questions, but I did no more. Not one of them asked where I’d been that afternoon. Not one of them asked what had occurred at my father’s house. Therefore, not one of them learned about Mrs. Oglethorpe’s visit, much less what that lady and I had said to each other.

  I hoped against hope that the princess might send word and release me from these gentlemen and their badgering, but no word came. Eventually, I was told I might return to my rooms. By then, I was thirsty and hungry and worried in the extreme. I opened my door, thinking only that I would send Libby at once to the kitchens, and then to find out where Princess Caroline and her retinue were so I could make my appearance as quickly and decently as possible and hear all the news there.

  It was the sight of Olivia standing amid a sea of ruin that drove all such worthy thoughts out of my mind.

  My chamber looked as if it had been picked up and shaken. I could only assume it had been searched, but those who had done the work had not had much care for how it was done. My desk had been stripped clean and all its drawers left open. What few ornaments I owned had been upended, including my clock. My tea had been spilled from its jars and strewn out across the hearth. All of Olivia’s trunks had been opened, a number of them overturned. My closet door was open. I did not have the nerve to see what had been done to my wardrobe, my jewel boxes, my cosmetics.

  I was so stunned, I barely remembered to shut the door. Isolde poked her head out from under her blanket by the hearth and bared her tiny teeth at me.

  “Olivia . . .” I began, but Olivia was too busy diving for her overturned trunks.

  “My notebooks!” she cried. She groped among the scattered, empty boxes. “They took my notebooks! Those fiends, those Philistines! Those . . . those . . .”

  What followed was a string of exclamations, none of which belonged in the vocabulary of a gently reared young lady. For my part, I drifted over to my empty desk. I knew I should have been sharing Olivia’s outrage. Those notebooks were her prized possessions. More than diaries, they were the notes and musings she had written down throughout her life to turn into the plays and poetry with which she believed she would one day make her fortune.

  Fear, however, has a way of transforming one into an entirely selfish being. While Olivia raged over her lost books, all I could think was that everything that had been in this desk was now in the hands of those unforgiving men who had questioned me.

  “They took the letters.” The letters filled to the brim with (possibly) French ciphers and spies’ cant. The next knock on the door would surely be the yeomen of the guard. Would they, I wondered idly, house me near Mr. Tinderflint when I was taken to the Tower?

  “What?” snapped Olivia. “The letters? Of course they didn’t take them. Do you think I’m completely witless?”

  Slowly, and with very little intent on my part, my body turned, and my eyes stared. In response, my cousin left her plundered trunks and stomped over to Isolde’s bed. She expertly lifted the outraged puppy and yanked several papers out from under the cushion.

  They were, of course, the Mrs. Tinderflint letters, both the one I’d been sent by Mrs. Oglethorpe and the one Olivia had copied from her mother’s papers. There was also the description of the commemorative medal and, most importantly and blessedly, the copy she’d made of the enciphered letter with the House of Orléans seal.

  I gaped. Olivia folded her arms. “I’ll expect you to remember this the next time you’re tempted to scold me for dramatics.”

  “You are the best and bravest of cousins!” We embraced and held on for a very long time. This gesture reassured Isolde enough that she trotted up to nose at my ankles and tug at my hems.

  “Secrets, Izzy, secrets.” Some of her biscuits had been scattered across my nightstand. I broke one in half and tossed it to her.

  Isolde thus placated, I sat on the edge of my bed, which had been stripped of its covers. “Tell me what happened,” I said to Olivia.

  She righted my desk chair and sat down, uncharacteristically wringing her hands. “I barely know, Peggy. Everyone at the nuncheon was busy marveling over the fact that Sophy Howe has gone home—”

  “What!”

  “I don’t believe it either, but that’s the story, and she certainly wasn’t in evidence at court this morning. All the ladies were busy speculating on whether she’d finally gotten herself into an indelicate condition. Except Molly, of course. Oh, Peggy, I like her. She’s got an excellent wit.”

  “And the steadiest head you’ll find at court. What did Molly say?” Isolde finished her biscuit and proceeded to burrow under my hems looking for more.

  “She thinks Sophy’s up and run off with Sebastian Sandford. He hasn’t been seen for several days either.”

  “Then his appearance at the masquerade wasn’t generally known. When did Sophy leave?”

  “Yesterday, apparently. It was quite sudden. According to your maid, Libby—wherever did you find her, Peg? I’ve never known such a piece of work!”

  I suppressed the urge to scream at my cousin’s tangents. “She is, and an expensive one. But what did she say?”

  “She says that Sophy’s rooms have not been properly packed up, but her maid has gone off with her.”

  I thought on Sophy’s personal treasure trove, and I shivered. Sophy would leave behind her worldly goods only if she expected to return, and return soon. And yet those apartments, and those worldly goods, came from her post, the one she would not be able to resume if she had actually run off with Sebastian. First and foremost, maids of honor need to be, well, maids. At least, they must appear to be.

  Did Sophy love and trust Sebastian enough to give up her place at court for him? If Lord Lynnfield had blessed their betrothal, she might. She might also give it up if it was Lynnfield she meant to marry.

  But when she’d told me to come find her, she surely hadn’t meant I should look out in the countryside. Something had changed since the masque.

  I shivered again. Lord Lynnfield clearing his brother out of court. Mr. Tinderflint taken to the Tower. Aunt Pierpont not writing her daughter. Any one of these would have been a momentous event, but all of them together? It felt as if the world was coming apart at its seams, and this was even without considering all of Mrs. Oglethorpe’s brazen lies about Mr. Tinderflint and my mother.

  “Tell me quickly, Olivia—what happened to Mr. Tinderflint? And to you?”

  “It was all terribly confused.” Olivia shook her head. “We’d been dismissed from waiting. Molly offered to show me some of the principal rooms of the palace, to help me learn my way about. We were just beginning when a shout went up from the hall, and a whole troop of yeomen marched through, clearing the way. If it weren’t for his, well, size, I’m not sure I would even have recognized Mr. Tinderflint. I’d only just caught my breath from that realization when a footman found me and took me to some salon or the other. Several very grand and long-winded men came in and asked all manner of outrageous questions.”

  “Did you tell them anything?”

  A flush rose in Olivia’s cheeks. “What could I possibly have told them?” Evidently, the look on my face reminded my cousin she had recently expressed a wish to lead both her mother and grandmother to the gallows. But she remained defiant. “If I am to condemn my family, it will not be to men who leer at my bosom while demanding to know whom I’ve been carrying letters for!”

  A knock sounded at the door. “Come in,” I called. Olivia looked horrified. I shrugged. If it was the palace yeomen, calling “I’m not at home” would be of no help.

  But it was not the yeomen. It was my father. Wherever he had been, he looked no worse for it. Not that driving through London all morning had left him in particularly good repair.

  When he saw the state of my apartment, Father exclaimed a phrase in French I probably should not have understood.

  “I thought something like this might have happened.” He came over to take my hand. “I’m sorry for it. Are you all ri
ght, Olivia?”

  Olivia lifted her chin. “We’ve seen worse, you know.”

  “I do, and you have my deepest respect for it.” Despite his coachman’s garb, Father gave her a most courtly bow.

  “Have you news about Mr. Tinderflint?” I asked.

  Father shook his head. “I have a message for you from Their Royal Highnesses, though. Your princess, I find, is every bit as intelligent as she’s said to be, and I’d not bet against the prince in any hurry either, for all he has reputation as a fool. They both, by the by, speak very highly of you, Peg.” I blushed at this, but Father did not smile or make any joke. “Indeed, you may be the only reason I’m still at liberty. They were not pleased with my reluctance to present myself before this.”

  “What did you tell Their Highnesses?”

  “What I could. That there is a long-standing plot with a probable invasion at the end of it. Its participants think it is close to bearing fruit. I gave them what names I am certain of, and did affirm that my late brother-in-law was involved. As to Lord Tierney’s entanglements, I could not speculate.” He looked at me directly as he said this. “I said I believed my daughter had placed substantial trust in him and that he had done great good service to the Crown.”

  “Thank you.” I paused. “Did you . . . did you tell them about Mrs. Oglethorpe?”

  “Not yet. But one of us will have to soon.”

  At this, Olivia could no longer contain herself. “Have you heard from my mother?”

  He glanced sideways at me. “No, Olivia. I’m sorry. I’m sure you were questioned as well. Did you tell them about her? About the letters? Or anything else? No one will blame you if you did,” he added.

  I noted that my cousin looked unusually awkward at this, and I wondered at it. “Olivia didn’t have to tell anyone about the letters,” I said quickly. “I told the princess about them this morning. I also told her about Aunt Pierpont and Mrs. Oglethorpe.”

  I did not imagine the way my father swayed on his feet or the pallor that touched his face. But I did not have time to inquire what caused this extreme of feeling.

  “I have to talk to Mr. Tinderflint,” I told them both. “How—”

  My father interrupted. “Princess Caroline anticipated you, Peg. She has given permission for you to go to him. Over, may I say, the objections of a certain Mr. Walpole. You are, however, strictly enjoined to be present at the drawing room this evening so no one may have further cause to speculate about your . . . involvement, I believe was the word she chose, with Lord Tierney.”

  This injunction left me very little time. My stomach rumbled loudly, reminding me I hadn’t eaten since before sunrise. Which in turn reminded me that I didn’t even know where Libby was.

  But these concerns must be laid aside. The clock lying sideways on my mantel would chime four in a handful of minutes. To be ready in time for the drawing room, I would have to be back in the palace before eight. How far was it to the Tower and back? How was it I did not know this important fact?

  “Olivia, I need you to write to Matthew and tell him everything, only make sure it’s Libby’s Norris who takes the letter and no one else. Will you?”

  To my surprise, Olivia acquiesced after only the briefest of pauses. I would, of course, be quizzed closely about every aspect of the place I intended to visit, but I considered this a fair price to pay for being allowed to make a swift exit.

  Father offered no objection to these instructions either, but instead uttered such a declaration as no good English father had ever before spoken to his daughter.

  “Come on, then, Peg—I’ll take you to the Tower myself.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  THE TOWER.

  It is a long, grim way into the Tower of London. There is a drawbridge to cross, and not one, but two portcullises with iron spikes—one at either end of a dark stone tunnel. The quiet green square at the end comes as something of a surprise.

  There is a smell of cold stone, iron, and rot that not even late October’s relentless rain can wash away.

  The Tower ravens watch. They are large, healthy, and quite well fed, and their black beaks glisten. They croak like courtiers commenting unfavorably on your apparel when you pass them. The Tower guards also watch. These are not slouching palace yeomen who scratch and leer and would like as not abandon their post for a drink or a piss without a second thought. These are sharp-eyed men, and the blades on their pole arms glisten like the ravens’ beaks. They are the ones who lead you inside the central building of this venerable fortress, up winding stairs and down narrow corridors to be met by the jailer, who has all the appearance of a bank clerk with his black coat, full-bottomed wig, and soft hands.

  It is impossible not to stare at his great iron ring of keys that clang and rattle as he leads you up more stone stairs. Other than this noise, the place is eerily silent. I should have been grateful, I suppose. Part of me had expected screaming.

  The Tower is not a well-appointed place; neither is it very dry. There is straw on the stone floors, but I still had to lift my hems to avoid trailing them through the filthy puddles. What few slit windows looked out from the corridor had no glass, so there was nothing to block the icy wind, nor that particular stench that was the Tower itself.

  At last we came to an oaken door, practically black with age. It had an iron grill and was banded with yet more iron. The yeoman lifted the great bar from its brackets, and the gentleman jailer fitted his iron key into an iron lock that clattered as it turned.

  The chamber on the other side was larger than I expected. There was even a hearth, although it had no fire, so the place was fiercely cold.

  Mr. Tinderflint sat in a small wooden chair by the window, which was, thankfully, glazed. He had been stripped of his wig and much of his jewelry and ribbons. Even the buckles of his shoes were gone. I had laughed behind my hand at Mr. Tinderflint’s appearance on any number of occasions. Now I regretted that frivolity. In this cold, bare chamber, he looked diminished—deflated, even.

  Mr. Tinderflint levered himself to his feet and held out both hands toward me. “Peggy, my dear.”

  I rushed toward him and seized his frigid hands. Doubt did not cease to swirl through my heart, but this man remained my friend and patron. In this instant, that seemed to be what truly mattered.

  Behind me, the cell door creaked on its hinges and slammed shut. I heard the noise of keys and lock and the scrape of the bar being slid back into its iron bracket, announcing that I too had been locked into the Tower.

  “Now, now, I know this looks very bad.” Mr. Tinderflint spoke quickly and urgently, with much bobbing of his head and wagging of his chins. “But you mustn’t worry for me—no, no, you mustn’t. I’m to be allowed fire, as soon as it can be arranged, and a message has already gone back to my people that I stand in need of some movables and clothing. Those lodged here may pay the keeper for extra comforts, and I have more than enough money for all such. I will be made snug—perfectly snug, I do assure you—in short order.”

  I gaped at him. He was in the Tower of London, where kings and queens—never mind portly, overdressed, conspiratorial earls—lost their heads, and he thought I worried about whether he was comfortable!

  The window had a narrow ledge, and I propped myself up on it so I could lean close as he sat back down.

  “Tell me this is a plan,” I whispered urgently. “This is part of one of your schemes, isn’t it? Just nod, or pat my hand, if you can’t say it out loud. Please.”

  But Mr. Tinderflint did neither; he simply hung his head. My throat closed around my breath.

  “Then who is responsible? Who betrayed you?”

  He glanced over my shoulder at the closed door with its iron grille and shook his head minutely. I knew what he meant. We were not really alone. Someone was out there listening.

  “You should not have come,” he murmured to me. “It will make you look complicit. I’m surprised your father permitted it.” He paused. “He did give you permission, d
idn’t he?”

  “The princess did, but Father drove me here.”

  “Did she? Now, that is interesting. Still, for appearance’s sake, it is very bad, very bad indeed.”

  “I don’t care how I look! I—”

  “Keep your voice down, Peggy.” Mr. Tinderflint dropped his own to the lightest whisper, and with a significant nod, he switched from English to Greek. “You must care how you look; you must care deeply.”

  Ready to strangle on my own impatience, I also turned to what limping Greek I possessed. “Or what will happen? I’ll lose my place?”

  “You’ll lose your chance to bring the Sandfords and the Oglethorpes to this so-pleasant place,” Mr. Tinderflint said. I had to strain to hear him. “I have followed the Jacobites for many years, Peggy, longer than you or your father has lived. Not once have they dared move against me directly. Something is different this time.”

  “But how did this even happen?”

  “The enciphered letter,” he breathed. “The one you took from the palace library. It was found in my desk.”

  “That’s not possible!” Mr. Tinderflint would never have been so careless as to leave a coded letter with the House of Orléans seal on it in his desk. He had been trapped because he had taken a letter from my hand without thinking about it.

  Because out of all the people in this mad business, he had trusted me.

  I saw the truth then, and it was as cold as the approaching winter outside. I had not been the one they were after. I was the tool, the little girl spy simpering about the court. Why would they worry about me when they could ensnare my patron: the subtle, scheming man who had thwarted them across a decade or more?

  Almost crying from the effort of it, I dropped my voice back to a whisper. “She—the veiled woman—when she came to me, she said plans were close to completion,” I breathed. “She said she wanted to get me away before the storm broke.”