Assassin's Masque (Palace of Spies Book 3)

by Sarah Zettel

  I stuck my straight pin into the breeches seam at my hip where a man might hang a sword and pulled down my smock’s hem to hide it. I checked the window again and saw no more lights in the garden. Judging that the way was as clear as it could be, I lit one of my candles and retrieved the key from where I’d hidden it in Isolde’s basket.

  Isolde whined and pawed at my boots.

  “Secrets, Izzy,” I whispered, trying to step around her.

  She whined again as my toe nudged her. Then she growled meaningfully and nipped at one of my breeches’ laces.

  “Secrets!” I hissed. In answer, she growled again and scrabbled at my heels.

  I bit my lip. I couldn’t have her setting up a howl behind me while I was trying to sneak through the house. At the same time, who knew what would happen to the pair of us out in the darkness?

  Isolde growled again, as if to demonstrate both her innate ferocity and her willingness to make trouble. I rolled my eyes.

  “This is why spies in general do not keep pets.” I scooped Isolde up with my free hand and put her, and a biscuit, into my satchel. “Secrets!”

  She made no sound but settled into the bottom of the bag. Praying we did not both come to regret this sudden softness of head and heart, I turned the key in the lock, put my hand on the doorknob, prayed, and pulled.

  The door came silently open and I stepped out into the dead black corridor.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  IN WHICH A NUMBER OF NEW THINGS ARE FOUND IN THE DARKNESS.

  We are informed by writers of dramas and romances that there are two places to confine a female prisoner in any great house: the attics and the cellars. Given the possibility that this particular prisoner had been brought into the house by means of a tunnel—such as, I was reliably informed, smugglers routinely employed—I decided to begin with the cellars.

  I had made my way through a dark house with nefarious intent before. But during that previous attempt, the house had been empty. This house was filled with an unknown number of persons, any of whom might be light sleepers or even wide-awake. It also had armed men patrolling the grounds who might have orders to reconnoiter the house at regular intervals.

  That other time, I’d had Matthew with me. I wished I had him with me now, although, I must confess, what I wished for even more was a lantern. As I picked my way down the grand curving staircase, the candle in my hand flickered badly from the drafts and my own movement. The wax was softening in my grip, and some had dripped onto my fingers.

  But this was far from the worst of my circumstances. I was utterly exposed here. If anyone came upon me now, I had nowhere to hide and no way to explain. But I also had no choice. This was the only stair I knew in Bidmarsh House, and I had no time to search for some safer alternative.

  The marble foyer was cold as a tomb. My breath steamed in the feeble candlelight. I stood in the center of the vestibule, turning slowly, and then I saw it—the green baize door that was, in so many grand houses, the portal to those nether regions occupied by the servants.

  Surely, surely, surely such a door was not kept locked. Surely it must be left open in case of some summons after dark. I probably shouldn’t have thought of that. A sleepy servant stumbling through the kitchens because the master rang for milk and brandy could end my investigations just as surely as Lord Lynnfield’s armed men.

  I reached for the handle and I pulled. The door silently swung back, but my relief was momentary. Light flickered outside one of the foyer’s grand windows. My heart slammed against my ribs and I darted through the baize door. My candle flickered wildly and more hot wax spattered onto my fingertips.

  I also nearly toppled down the staircase in front of me.

  I slapped my hand against the wall and stumbled back, bumping hard against the door I’d just come through. Isolde whined uneasily in my satchel. I stood on that top stair for a moment, trying to recover breath and nerve. No one came. No one tugged at the door at my back and no light showed below me. I swallowed and started down these new stairs.

  They did not go down very far, and I quickly found myself in a narrow corridor lined with closed doors. I ignored them and moved cautiously forward.

  Someone was snoring.

  My breath stopped. I told myself I could not freeze—I could not even hesitate. I had to keep moving toward the open doorway, even though each step felt as though it must surely be my last.

  I crossed the threshold and found myself in the kitchens. The snoring was fainter here, but still sounded to me like the rumble of approaching thunder. I raised my candle with my trembling hand and made out the long board tables, the counters, all the great pots and similar utensils laid out for the coming day’s work. The place smelled of fresh food and old slops and was filled with a cold that was unrelieved by the carefully banked coals in the hearth.

  There were, however, candles waiting on the mantel, prudently and efficiently set into holders by diligent servants whom I surely had to remember to thank later. I helped myself to one such candleholder. Service to the Crown did not require me to burn my fingers, especially if it meant I would drop my only source of light.

  The snoring faltered. I bit my lip and tasted blood. My hand shook so badly, I almost put my old candle out before I had the fresh one lit.

  Isolde whined again.

  Something creaked. Something scrabbled behind the walls. The snoring faltered again and Isolde stirred restlessly.

  I made myself ignore all of these noises and concentrate on the room. No fewer than four doors led out of this cavernous kitchen. One, I could see, opened onto the gardens. The next . . . I was halfway across the floor before the stench told me that way was the scullery.

  The third opened onto yet another stair. This one was flagstone and smelled of damp and dirt. I slipped inside and started down. My boot soles slapped against the stone and the sound echoed off the walls. I ducked the trailing cobwebs that hung from the walls and ceilings. My hands were all but numb from fear and cold. I could no longer hear the snoring, but the scrabbling was getting louder. Something squeaked, and for a change it wasn’t Isolde or me. The Bidmarsh rats were awake and at play in the cellars down below.

  I don’t know quite what I expected of a smugglers’ cellar. The ceiling was low enough that I had to duck beneath the ancient beams. The floor was dirt and the atmosphere smelled cold, dank, and unwholesome.

  There were doors in the left-hand wall. Wooden and banded with iron, they reminded me most unpleasantly of the doors in the Tower. No one had wasted money on locks down here. These doors were barred with broad wooden beams, and there were a lot of them.

  Fighting indecision, and a not unjustified fear of lurking, horrible, unnaturally huge rats, I reached into my satchel and lifted Isolde out. She wriggled anxiously in my hand as I set her down.

  “Come on, girl,” I whispered. “There’s somebody here. They might have cake. Come on.”

  I pushed her forward. She looked at me, puzzled, and turned in a circle three or four times, growling at the dark, but instead of moving forward, she backed up until her rump pressed against my boots.

  I straightened, pressing my hand against my mouth to keep my exclamations of despair silent. I told myself it had been a poor bet from the beginning and I could not blame Isolde. But even as I reached for her, the pup leapt to her feet, put her nose to the floor, and scampered ahead, all the way to the door farthest from the stair.

  I followed, hoping against all hope. These were probably the longest odds I’d play all night, but what other help did I have? When I reached the door, Isolde was scrabbling at the crack beneath it, trying to dig herself an entrance.

  From the other side, I heard a heavy rustling and a low moan.

  “Who is that?” I whispered at the lock.

  The moan cut off short, only to be followed by more indistinct shuffling.

  “I’m a friend,” I said. “I promise. Who is there?”

  “Margaret?” said the woman on the other side. “G
ood Lord, Margaret Fitzroy—is that you?”

  I licked my dry lips. “Yes, Sophy. It’s me.”

  It seemed I wasn’t going to need my rope ladder after all.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  IN WHICH OUR HEROINE IS ONCE AGAIN FORCED TO REEVALUATE THE UTILITY OF CORSETS AND SMALL DOGS.

  The bar was unwieldy and had to be slid out of two iron brackets. I swore and strained and made far too much noise, all of which set Isolde yipping at a dangerous volume.

  Eventually, however, I did manage to get the door open. The chamber on the other side was about the size of my bedroom upstairs and contained a large number of wooden boxes and kegs.

  It also contained Sophy Howe.

  She sat propped up against a pile of corded chests. She’d been bound hand and foot. Her face and dress were smeared with dirt and probably worse than dirt, and her hair was in straggling disarray. She shrank back from my meager candlelight, blinking hard.

  I hated Sophy Howe, and she returned the sentiment. I had in the past amused myself by imagining her in various uncomfortable and embarrassing situations. But not like this. Never like this.

  I could not even smile when Isolde bounded in to scrabble around her skirts, looking for biscuits.

  “Please tell me you brought something more useful for an escape than this creature.”

  I had to give Sophy her due. Filthy, imprisoned, and tightly bound, she still raised her chin defiantly.

  Her familiar contempt broke my paralysis. “Fortunately, yes.” I dropped to my knees beside her and set my candle on the nearest keg. “Give me your hands.” I pulled out my straight pin.

  Sophy’s hands had been tied behind her, and she wriggled around until she had her back to me. The ropes were stout, and her slender, white wrists were badly chafed. I winced in sympathy and set to work.

  “How did this happen?” I asked as I picked and sawed at the rough hemp.

  She was silent for so long, I thought she wasn’t going to answer at all. When she did speak, the words came out in a harsh whisper. “I believed I was deceiving Lord Lynnfield. He told me that once Sebastian and I were both here in Bidmarsh, we could be married and wait out what was to come in safety. He . . .” She stopped and I heard her swallow. I suspected tears. I kept my eyes on the rope in front of me. I was less than halfway through it. I cursed myself for not remembering a proper knife. What was the point in experience with such things if it was not properly applied?

  “It was a trap, of course. I knew it when I agreed. I thought if I could just get to Sebastian, I could convince him . . .” She stopped again. “You thought the same, didn’t you? You thought, Since I know it’s a trap, I will be able to get out before it’s sprung.”

  “I’d be lying if I said no,” I muttered.

  I expected a witty rejoinder, but Sophy had other things on her mind. “Have you seen Sebastian? Is he all right?”

  “Yes. He’s worried about you.” I sat back on my heels. “Pull your wrists apart. See if you can break the rope.”

  “He doesn’t know,” she declared as she struggled to separate her wrists. “Ow! That hurts.”

  “No, he doesn’t, and yes, I know. Try again.”

  Sophy gritted her teeth and tried a second time. This time the rope snapped. She gasped with the pain as she slowly brought her arms around to a more natural position. She looked at her raw, bleeding wrists and at once grasped the essentials of her situation.

  “Will it scar, do you think?”

  “Mine didn’t,” I assured her as I moved to her feet. “Matthew has a recipe for an excellent medicinal salve. I’ll have him copy it out for you.”

  I shoved her filthy skirts aside and started sawing vigorously at the ropes that held her ankles. Should I have done these first? Then she could have at least run, if someone came upon us suddenly.

  But run where?

  “I was trying to help, you know,” said Sophy with a startling amount of belligerence, considering the circumstances.

  “How? By getting Lord Tierney arrested?” Isolde had grown bored with these events and was delving into corners. This was taking too long. I should have shut the door. I should have hidden the bar. I stabbed at the rope.

  “Lynnfield and the Oglethorpe woman had two letters to be delivered at the masquerade. One was genuine, with plans to assassinate the prince and how it should be timed for best effect to support the coming invasion. The other looked similar but was just a dummy to ensnare Lord Tierney. The information it contained was false, so even if the code was broken, no real plans would be compromised. Sebastian was meant to hide the dummy at the masquerade, because . . .”

  “Because they knew I would follow him.”

  “And find the dummy letter to give to Tierney, exactly. You have always been predictable in these matters.”

  I gritted my teeth and kept sawing at the abominably thick ropes. “You should consider carefully before insulting the one setting you free, you know.”

  Sophy sniffed. “Sebastian knew there were two letters. I convinced him to help me lay hands on the other. I told him we would profit if we had copies of them both. We could either sell them later or use them as evidence against his brother and the Oglethorpe, if things didn’t go as they planned.”

  Forgery and blackmail, two of Sophy’s specialties. Three, if you counted seduction. I had no doubt she’d worked all her wiles on Sebastian to get him to play along.

  The rope parted another fraction of an inch. I really had to get Mr. Tinderflint to tell me the name of his jeweler. The man did excellent work.

  “After that, it was simply a matter of putting the genuine letter into the hidey hole where you would find it, instead of the false one they meant you to have.”

  My hands stilled. Had she said the genuine letter?

  “That was why you were in the palace library. You were swapping the letters.”

  “Sebastian would not do it, so I had to.”

  That explained why Sebastian had taken the front ways rather than the back stairs. I had been meant to follow him. While I was busy cursing myself once more for a fool, I realized something else. This meant I had given the genuine letter, with the real assassination plans, to Mr. Tinderflint. That was the letter that had been taken from Mr. Tinderflint and was now in the hands of assorted agents of the Crown and, most likely, that legendary code breaker Mr. Willis.

  “That was why Sebastian came to my door during the masque,” I said slowly. “He wanted to get me away so he could search my rooms, or have them searched, for the genuine letter.”

  “He did not agree with my plan but in the end was not able to do much about it.” She paused. “He was terribly angry, which ought to please you.”

  So Sophy had, in fact, been playing a double game. Quietly, using her own methods, she’d managed to get the real information about the planned assassination to the prince and his people.

  “He thought Julius would find out I had switched the letters. He thought I would be in danger.” Sophy’s voice filled with bitter pride. “What a time for him to be right and for me to ignore it.”

  I took a moment to appreciate the irony inherent in the fact that Sophy’s plans had worked out rather better than mine. Until, that is, she had decided to emulate the rest of us and disregard Sebastian’s understanding of his own family.

  “Why are you down here?” I asked her as I resumed sawing at her ropes.

  “I was in the attics. They threatened me with rather dire consequences if I attempted to reach Sebastian.” She swallowed. “They meant it.”

  She’d been trying to reach her lover when she’d been caught outside my door. That made a good deal of sense. What did not make sense was that she’d been left alive. This thought felt like a blade against my ribs. I told myself it didn’t matter. I had to keep working.

  “Well,” I murmured, “you did ask me to come find you when I understood what kind of favor you’d done me.”

  “I had hoped you’d work it out sooner th
an this.”

  “I’m slow—you’ve often pointed this out.”

  “I’m proven right again. How thrilling.”

  The rope snapped. I scrambled to my feet and held out my hand. Sophy took it and let me help to pull her upright. But as soon as I let go, she staggered and fell hard against me, almost slamming the both of us, and the candle, to the floor.

  She hissed. “I don’t think I can walk.”

  Isolde made my answer for me. She barked and ran out into the main cellar area.

  “No!” I gasped. Then I heard them. Footsteps. Heavy footsteps running across the floor above. Voices shouting.

  “Lie down!” I ordered Sophy as I snatched up the candle. Overhead a door scraped open. I swung our cell door shut and, in the same motion, pressed myself against the wall and blew my candle out. The darkness was instant and absolute.

  Boots thudded against dirt outside our door. I clutched the straight pin in my cold and sweating hand.

  “I’ll check the tunnel. You and you, come with me.” It was Lord Lynnfield’s voice and he was not alone. What surely must have been a whole army worth of footsteps raced past us.

  “I’ll check on the girl,” called Mrs. Oglethorpe after him.

  The sounds of running faded. She means me; she means me up in my room, I prayed frantically, but to no effect. Light appeared around the edges of our cell door. Our unbarred cell door.

  That door swung slowly back and light spilled into the room. I had just enough time to see that Sophy had, for once, done as she was told and stretched out on the dirt floor, before the door cut off my view.

  “Now it’s you?” Sophy croaked.

  “Who else has been here?” Eleanor Oglethorpe stepped, I supposed, across the threshold. She had a light with her. I could see the flickering glow of her candles around the edge of the door, but concealed as I was by oak and iron, it was all I could see.

  Sophy managed a credible snort. My sister maid of honor might not have a scruple in her body, but she did not lack for nerve. “They didn’t leave a card,” she said coldly.