by Sarah Zettel
I couldn’t see what was happening. There was a rustling of cloth, and the light dipped. Sophy squeaked.
“Who else? Was it Sebastian?”
Before Sophy could frame her answer, my world was shattered by a tiny, angry yip.
Oh, Isolde.
More rustling and abrupt movement of the light. A shriek from Mrs. Oglethorpe. An outraged bark. A heartbeat to hope Isolde had drawn blood.
“Where is she?” cried Mrs. Oglethorpe. “Where?”
In answer, I kicked the door back. Mrs. Oglethorpe jumped, stumbled over Sophy, and toppled to the floor.
I dived down on top of her, grabbing at flailing arms and rolling us over. I was vaguely aware of Sophy struggling to grab the candelabra and get out of the way at the same time. Isolde yipped and Mrs. Oglethorpe screamed and I twisted, coming up straddled across her body with my hand gripping one of hers and my knee pinning down the other.
Oh, yes, and with my very sharp straight pin pressed against her long, skinny neck.
“Not a sound,” I breathed. “Not one. Sophy, get up.” Isolde growled. “Secrets,” I told her, and she silenced.
I didn’t look away. I couldn’t. The Old Fury went still, but her mind was at least as sharp as my little pin. She’d be looking for some trick—any trick—to try.
She began by testing my resolve. “You wouldn’t dare,” she spat. “You haven’t the nerve.”
I felt myself smile. “I am the daughter of Elizabeth Fitzroy.” My voice was as steady as stone and ice. “You are trying to bring war to my country, and you would use me and my family to do it. You imprisoned and abused a colleague. You threatened the lives of me and mine.” I dug the tip of my pin a little farther into her skin. “Think on all this, madame, and then tell yourself again what Elizabeth Fitzroy’s daughter will not do.” Mrs. Oglethorpe didn’t answer. My smile stretched, and it was not at all a pleasant feeling. “Sophy, get the rope and find a gag.”
As it transpires, tying up an uncooperative person is more difficult than cutting a cooperative one free, especially when you have not been able to make advance preparation. Fortunately, Sophy had recovered enough of her strength to be of some help.
“Margaret, stop this,” the Old Fury commanded as we wrenched her hands behind her and wrapped the lengths of severed rope around her wrists. “Remember your mother. Remember I am the one who is your friend.”
“My mother was never your friend.” Once again, all those years of being confined in corsets and ribbons were proving unexpectedly useful. Both Sophy and I were rather good with knots. “She betrayed you a hundred times to the Hanoverians.”
It was rewarding to watch the Old Fury flush scarlet, but not quite as rewarding as grabbing her skinny ankles so Sophy could wind another length of rope around them. “Elizabeth Pierpont never betrayed me.”
“Perhaps not, but Mrs. Jonathan Fitzroy did.” I let myself smile. “She completely took you in.”
“Your father and Lord Tierney have taken you in, foolish child! You—”
I stuffed the scrap of cloth Sophy had torn from her skirt into Mrs. Oglethorpe’s mouth. I should have done that first.
I meant for us to bar her in. I’m sure I also meant to leave her with some clever parting words. Why should she be the only one who got to make a dramatic exit? All these plans, however, were entirely wiped away by the sound of heavy thuds and muffled curses.
I grabbed Sophy with one hand and Isolde with the other and ran out into the cellar. Or rather, I ran and Sophy stumbled.
There was just enough light to see the staircase. There were sounds behind us—men running, raised voices. I dragged Sophy up the stairs and we all but fell into the kitchen. Sophy banged into my back. She was in skirts and had been tied up for Heaven knew how long. I was in breeches and boots and could move much faster.
I hated Sophy Howe.
Lord Lynnfield was behind us. I could leave her and make my own escape.
I hated myself for thinking this.
I yanked Sophy hard across the kitchen, through the garden door, and up the three steps into the open air. Sophy gasped and moaned and Isolde wriggled and growled and I dragged them both into the bitter cold and dark.
“Sebastian!” she cried, or tried to. She also tried to pull away.
“No!” I yanked her back, and at that moment, at least, I was the stronger of us. With all the breath in my body, I hauled her through the kitchen gardens and across the dead and frozen lawn, away from the house, toward the wall, toward the lake and the marsh, where we could hide in the tall grasses. Where we could wait until the searchers passed us by, and from there make our way to the church. Matthew and my father would wait for us. They’d make Olivia wait. They’d be there with a coach or a cart, or horses, or something. The moon had risen hours ago; now it was well past its zenith. It didn’t matter. They’d be there. They would.
The garden opened in front of us. There were more shouts, but none close. I charged through the gate. Sophy wailed. Isolde wriggled and scrabbled, and I almost lost hold of them both. The lake stretched before us, black and still, its ice shelves shining in what little moonlight remained.
A figure rose from between the boats at the lake’s edge. I skidded to a halt.
“I thought you might come this way.”
Lord Lynnfield raised his sword.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
WHEREIN THERE IS MORE THAN ONE ENDING.
Lord Lynnfield, I noticed, favored a cutlass. No dainty court rapier for him. He was a serious man with serious business. I measured the shrinking distance between us as he advanced. On my own I would have run, but Sophy was already staggering and whimpering as I pushed us both back. She had reached her limit.
“Sebastian!” she cried again.
Much to my shock, there came an answer. “Sophy!” Someone jerked Sophy out of my grip. “What’s happened?” demanded Sebastian.
This, I decided, was one of those rare moments Mr. Tinderflint had mentioned when the truth would serve best. “Your brother had her trussed up in the cellar,” I told Sebastian. “We’re lucky she’s not dead.” I paused. “Why aren’t you dead, Sophy?”
“You’re a liar!” Sebastian growled.
“No! It’s the truth!” announced Sophy. I couldn’t see what she did then. I didn’t dare take my eyes off Lynnfield. He’d reached the edge of the gravel, and now he waded through the grass. I should run, before he got any closer. Alone. Sophy had Sebastian. I could leave them to each other’s tender care and run.
Run out into the marsh, with its channels and quicksands and its gang of Lynnfield’s smuggling men.
Isolde trotted up to me from wherever she’d been and whined questioningly. I ignored her.
“He promised you two could marry, didn’t he?” I said to Sebastian, wherever he was behind me. “He said he’d remain a bachelor and that you’d be his heir. All you had to do was lie low and not do anything stupid until the invasion played out. But Sophy worked out their plan and they had to try to silence her.” I paused again. “Why did you leave her alive?” I asked Lynnfield this time. “Come to that, why am I alive?”
“Why waste the bait?” Lynnfield shrugged. Fewer than three yards separated us now. “There were still others to rope in.”
“You filthy bastard!” Sebastian finally stepped into my line of sight. His fists were clenched; he was breathing hard. I suspected he meant to put himself between Lynnfield’s cutlass and Sophy, which was surprisingly gallant of him.
Lynnfield made a strangled sound. “Stop being ridiculous, Sebastian. It’s already a cock-up. Even if I was dead, do you think the Hanoverians would ever hand you the title now? Our mother has enough letters to convict us both, and she’ll use them. If she’s still alive, that is. Have you left her alive, Miss Fitzroy?” The note of hope in this question set my skin crawling.
I didn’t bother to answer. He was stalling, holding us here until his men arrived. How many men did he have? How close were they? There wa
s no way to tell and no way to find out.
“He’s going to kill us now,” I said. “That was the plan all along. To get us out here and make us vanish in the marsh. That way, even if things went wrong, there’d be no witnesses to his role in the conspiracy. You, me, and Sophy, we’d all be dead and gone.”
Sebastian turned to me, trying to see my face. He was wavering, uncertain which enemy to believe.
“She’s lying, you idiot.” Lynnfield sighed. “We only have to keep things quiet until the landing!”
“I never changed sides,” I reminded him.
Lord Lynnfield ran, cat quick, straight for his brother’s back.
I tackled Sebastian sideways and we all went down in a heap together with Sophy. There was cursing and flailing and roaring, and something hard slammed against my waist.
With a wordless roar, Sebastian shook himself free of our writhing mass. Lynnfield was on his feet. His blade gleamed in the moonlight. Sebastian leapt at him, head down, arms out. Lynnfield swung the cutlass, but the blow missed. Sebastian hit him dead center and they collapsed, rolling, kicking, cursing. Sebastian came up on top and Lynnfield dealt him a blow to the chin that snapped his head around. They rolled over again.
“Sebastian!” screamed Sophy. I got hold of her by the sleeve and dragged her to her feet. I looked about us, searching for torches, waiting for shouts, trying to decide which way to run.
Cursing, struggling, tumbling, the Sandfords rolled down the hill toward the lake. They shouted and they swore and they ordered each other to stop.
They rolled out onto the lake’s black ice.
Sophy ripped herself from my hands and stumbled down the slope, still trying to scream. I ran after her. Isolde was barking somewhere. I kept after Sophy, swearing and crying, with no thought in my head except to try to get her back from the lake’s edge. I all but stumbled over Lynnfield’s cutlass where it lay like a fallen branch on the gravel. I scooped it up with numbed fingers.
“Stop it, you idiot! We’ll both drown!” screamed Lynnfield.
He was on his knees on the ice with Sebastian in front of him. Sebastian roared and somehow found enough purchase to fling himself forward.
“See you in hell!” Sebastian grabbed his brother’s wrists. “See you in hell!”
“Sebastian, stop!” shrieked Sophy.
But Sebastian was too far gone in his own rage. He twisted and swung himself around, sliding on the ice, swinging his brother’s prone body out toward the black and open waters. Lynnfield screamed again and slid to the ice shelf’s ragged edge, and over.
There was barely any splash. He was just gone. Swallowed by darkness.
There was a moment of silence, broken only by the sound of harsh panting. Sebastian turned his head toward the shore, and me, and Sophy.
He laughed. He threw back his head and flung his fists to the sky. “Yes! You goddamned bastard! I got you! I beat you!”
Then he leapt to his feet.
There was an ugly sound, like glass breaking, only slower and much, much louder. Sophy screamed.
We all stared at the ice and saw the crack form. Sebastian leapt sideways, slipped, and slammed down. The shelf under him crumbled.
Sophy lunged forward, too fast and too hard for me to keep hold of. She all but fell down the bank and I threw myself after her. Sebastian sprawled on the ice. I couldn’t tell if he was sliding toward the waters or if the waters were advancing beneath the fragile ice to claim him.
Sophy was on the ice now too, on her stomach, struggling toward him. He scrambled to reach her, but there was no purchase for him. They were screaming to each other, incoherent words of love and desperation. The ice was under me too, and I was flat on my belly, like they were, trying to scrabble forward and somehow catch hold of Sophy’s hems.
There was the smack of flesh against flesh. Another cry, different this time, for it was hope and triumph. Sebastian had hold of Sophy’s wounded wrist. She went still a moment. I grabbed her skirts and used them to haul myself far enough forward that I could grab her waist.
“Hold on, you idiots!” I bellowed. “Hold still!”
I don’t know if Sebastian struggled. I don’t know if he squeezed Sophy’s wounds too hard, or if he was too heavy, or if his brother reached up from the black depths to haul him down. I couldn’t see. All I knew was that Sophy screamed, and I felt her weight shift and his weight slip.
Sebastian screamed, and that scream ended in a horrible choking, and in the next heartbeat, that choking ended too.
Sophy tried to fling herself forward. I held on and rolled, and rolled again. The ice cracked. Sophy struggled. I rolled again and cried and prayed.
I felt gravel under my back, against my cheek.
I stopped. Sophy was on top of me, wailing out her grief, screaming Sebastian’s name to the entirely indifferent sky.
She was very heavy.
Someone was running toward us. With the last of my energies, I shoved Sophy to the side and struggled to my feet. Whoever it was, whatever their orders, I would meet them standing. I would not be humiliated at the last by dying tangled in Sophy Howe’s skirts. I raised my hands. I raised my head.
I looked into Matthew’s wide, frightened gray eyes.
I fainted dead away.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
BY WAY OF AN EPILOGUE, IN WHICH ALL IS REVEALED—AT LEAST, ALL THAT’S LEFT.
It was a long, cold, maddened coach ride back to London. My father all but killed the horses he’d stolen from the Lynnfield stables. Sophy didn’t stop weeping the entire way. How Olivia resisted the urge to slap her, I am not sure. My only excuse was exhaustion. That, and the fact that Matthew wouldn’t let go of my hands for a single instant.
It seems that the three of them were the direct cause of Lynnfield’s men failing to put a stop to the altercation at the lakeside. When I missed the rendezvous at the church, Father and Olivia had both become convinced that something was horribly wrong, such as my having been found out. The only solution was to make use of Father’s extensive knowledge of the area and come look for me at once. They found the alarm had been raised, concluded I was the cause, and set about an impromptu rescue attempt. This, in the end, necessitated incapacitating any number of ruffians.
Matthew declined to correct any of these particulars. I made a note to have a word with him on the subject as soon as we were alone. He did venture that Father might not be the best role model for my impressionable cousin.
Despite Father’s best efforts, we were not entirely in time to stop all of the assassination plans. One person, a Mr. Freeman by name, did escape the net flung by the palace guard. This Freeman got one shot off at Prince George from an empty box in the Drury Lane theater. That shot sailed over the prince’s shoulder and hit a defenseless wall, causing some small damage to the plasterwork. In what must be taken as a bad sign for the Jacobite cause, Mr. Freeman was promptly tackled by an irate mob and barely escaped with his life.
All witnesses agreed that throughout the entire incident, the prince conducted himself with a soldier’s courage as well as royal dignity, and public opinion in his favor swelled. Princess Caroline was by then recovered enough from her own tragedy to stand and greet him when he returned to the palace. Their tender reunion was recounted by the papers in great detail.
When I made my own return to the palace, Princess Caroline remained seated and showed few signs of tenderness. She did, however, shake her head a great deal as I recounted what happened at Bidmarsh House.
When I asked her if I could take the winter off from waiting, she agreed.
Sophy Howe also went home for the winter. This time her arrival could be verified, for Molly Lepell received letters almost daily complaining about how very dull everything was and that nobody in her home county had any head for cards.
According to the papers, the brothers Sandford had died in a tragic accident. There was one account in particular of Sebastian losing his life trying to pull his noble brother from the l
ake that I suspect might have been contributed by Sophy herself. Olivia read it aloud to me over breakfast. She tried to make me laugh at it. She failed.
The noted artist Mr. James Thornhill tried to cancel the articles of apprenticeship for the troublesome and frequently absent Matthew Reade, as well as to demand payment for unfulfilled years of service. But the academy’s students and masters rebelled in such numbers that Mr. Thornhill was forced to relent. I suspect there might also have been a quiet word sent from the palace, but I have no direct proof of this.
Father tendered his official resignation to whoever within the depths of government took such things. He said he was growing too old for adventures and wanted time to smoke and think and take his leisure. I expected this to last perhaps as long as a month.
I was two solid weeks in bed recovering from a fever brought on by exposure to ice and falling damps. During my illness, Olivia, who remained infuriatingly healthy, took it upon herself to spoil Isolde until she really did forget every single command I’d ever taught her.
Also during this time, an enormous bundle of letters arrived from Colchester. They were filled with Aunt Pierpont’s profuse apologies if she had caused any worry, as well as a long and detailed account of how the local mail coach had been beset by highwaymen, all of whom escaped and were even now being pursued across the countryside.
I found myself wondering exactly who those highwaymen had been, and which lake they had dropped my aunt’s papers into and whether the medallion had gone with them.
Mr. Tinderflint, having been released from the Tower without fuss or apologies, sent us all gold-edged invitations to a dinner to be held at Tierney Manor as soon as I was quite recovered. My card mentioned that Mr. Reade had also received an invitation.
Two days before the suggested date, I made a trip to that august residence on my own. My patron’s door was answered by a slim footman in the plainest possible livery. He evidenced no surprise at all to see a solitary maiden on his master’s doorstep and conducted me into a demure yellow and cream morning room with a fire blazing in the broad hearth.
