by Sarah Zettel
Movement caught my eye and I swung around, lantern high. Robert’s sword, aimed for my head, swept out from the darkness and clanged against the tin housing. The force of the blow ripped the lantern from my hand. It hit the floor and sputtered into a bare spark. I dropped to my knees, frantic to right it, to breathe that last spark back to flame. Matthew and Robert closed overhead. The light flickered and flared again. Matthew had his hands around Robert’s wrists and was struggling to keep the sword over both their heads.
Robert’s knee came up and planted itself in Matthew’s groin. Matthew went still for a heartbeat, and then he fell, but not alone. He dragged Robert with him, and together they toppled down the stairs, all the long way down to the landing where the staircase turned.
“Matthew!” I forgot Robert, forgot the pain in my foot, the lantern, the letter, and danger altogether. I forgot everything except flying down the stairs to where Matthew lay sprawled on his back and horribly still.
“Matthew, wake up, wake up!” Blood ran freely from his hand and his head. “Oh, God, please, please, please. . . .” I pressed my hand against his chest, against his throat, feeling desperately for some sign of life. Robert had fallen half a step farther and was sprawled on his back, his head and hands both bloody, his chest still. I disregarded him. I cared only for Matthew. He had to live. He had to.
Matthew’s eyes fluttered open. Joy and relief stopped my breath. Slowly, his mouth shaped one word.
Run.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
IN WHICH OUR HEROINE IS PROVED RIGHT ONCE MORE.
But before comprehension or fresh fear had time to penetrate the whirlwind of my thoughts, I felt the warmth of another body behind me. A single frantic heartbeat later, I felt the bite of cold metal against my spine, just above my collar.
“Get up,” ordered Mr. Peele.
So. I had been right, again. Robert did have a confederate with him. Why could I not have been right about something pleasant and useful?
On my knees, I turned. The sword’s edge slid slowly against my skin, not quite hard enough to break it, until the tip rested right over my collarbone. Mr. Peele had the lantern in one hand and the sword in the other. He’d had plenty of time to retrieve both while I tried to discover if Matthew still lived.
“Please,” I croaked. “He’s hurt. They’re hurt,” I added. “They need help.”
Mr. Peele glanced from Matthew to Robert, who hadn’t moved at all, despite being in a most awkward and uncomfortable position. Mr. Peele took one step forward, and another. He rested the tip of his sword against Robert’s bosom. I screamed and lunged, but not in time. Mr. Peele stabbed deep. Blood welled out, dripping down the stairs, and Robert convulsed once.
Mr. Peele turned to me. “On your feet, young woman, or I’ll serve your apprentice just the same.”
I could not believe what I had seen, and yet I had seen it. Robert Ballantyne was dead. Poor, loyal, romantic, deceived Robert was dead, and the man who had killed him loomed over Matthew and me.
“I said, get up, Peggy Fitzroy.”
Matthew’s face had gone dead white. Blood ran down from a gash in his forehead. The angle of his sprawling right arm was wrong. He’d broken a bone, at least. He mouthed Run, go, run. But I couldn’t. Mr. Peele would do as he said. I couldn’t leave Matthew to be killed.
I climbed to my feet and turned to look into Mr. Peele’s bland, calm eyes. Then and there I hated him with as pure and cold a hatred as was ever given to womankind. If I’d had the power in that moment to cast him into the fires of hell, I would have done so, and done it cheerfully.
“Why are you doing this?” I asked. “What does it matter to you who’s king?”
“Nothing at all.” He smiled his thin smile. “But it matters very much that there are plenty of men who will pay a great deal of money for the letter in your pocket.”
I thought for a moment he was going to stab me as he’d stabbed Robert. I almost wished he would. If he moved, if I could dodge, I could grab him, grapple away that sword. This time I would not strike so weakly. If I just had the chance, I’d drive that blade straight into his murderous heart.
“You killed Francesca,” I said. “You worked out that she meant to take the letter to the Jacobites and leave you behind. So you killed her and convinced the others that this business with a substitute could be made to work. But once you’d gotten hold of the sketches she left, you didn’t need me anymore. You knew where the letter was hidden. You tried to get me to leave, but it didn’t matter if I obeyed, because you’d poisoned the wine in my room.”
“Just in case,” said Mr. Peele mildly. “Then either you’d be dead or in chains as a murderer. You are a clever girl, Peggy Fitzroy, but very headstrong. And yes, you were my idea, and I will say you played your part quite well. You flushed Francesca’s secret lover out into the open. I had only to expose you to him and to play the loyal Jacobite. Now, clever girl, you will walk down the stairs. No tricks, or I swear I’ll strike your lover dead.”
I had done many difficult things since I made my decision to become Lady Francesca, but none so difficult as fixing my eyes ahead of me and walking down those stairs. My bare foot stepped into Robert’s cooling blood, and my nerve almost failed me. I carried that blood with me now. With each painful step down the staircase, the sole of my foot stuck to the wood and peeled away again reluctantly. Mr. Peele followed me, his sword resting against my spine.
Behind us, Matthew moaned in his pain, but I could not let that distract me. I could not even look back. I had to look ahead, only ahead. I had to think. I must get Mr. Peele away from Matthew. I must find some way to fight back. I didn’t know where my knife had gone. I had only my bare hands and my wits, and both felt hollowed out by fear and exhaustion. I believe that without my anger over Matthew to sustain me, I would have fainted dead away.
As soon as I thought this, an idea blossomed in my mind. Complete and perfect, it filled me, from the soles of my bare and bloody feet to the crown of my head. Perhaps it was a gift from my mother, who waited in the portion of Elysium reserved for good spies. The splendid irony of it all was that here I was, finally dressed as a male, and yet I was about to act as the worst of all possible females.
“Please.” I swallowed my bile. “Please, don’t kill me.”
“Oh, I won’t. Not yet, anyway,” said Mr. Peele calmly. He cared nothing at all for the possibility that he had reduced me to tears.
“No, please. I’m frightened. Don’t.” So much emotion flowed through me, it was surprisingly easy to work my voice into a fever pitch. And something of an odd relief, after all the time spent holding my fear at bay.
“Pathetic,” he sneered. “I suppose it was inevitable you should break in the end.”
“I can’t do this. I can’t!” I let myself limp, as if the pain was joining with the fear, each making the other worse. “Please, please, don’t hurt me!”
“Save your breath.”
“No, no, please, I’ll do anything!” Forgive me, Matthew. “Anything you want! I’ll say I’m for King James. Anything. I hate George and all the Hanovers. I was only pretending to be on their side. Please!”
We were on the main floor now. The cupola room opened around us, its ceiling soaring into shadow, its cocooned chandelier seeming to hover in midair.
“I’ll do anything! I swear I will!” Tears fell from my eyes far too easily, and I thought I was going to be sick from anger and guilt. Matthew could hear me. I just had to trust he knew it was all a lie. Except for the tears. The tears were genuine.
“Keep moving, and never mind your oaths.” Mr. Peele pressed the sword harder against my spine and I stumbled forward, another few steps. Another few steps was all I needed.
“I can’t . . . I can’t. Oh, Matthew! Oh, God! Help me! Help me!” I screamed and staggered away, exaggerating my limp, trying to run, but plainly—oh, frail female creature that I was—too weak to truly flee. “Save me! Please, someone save me!”
�
�Get back here, you stupid bitch!”
Come after me, I begged in my mind as I limped and wailed from the cupola room to the chamber beside it—where there was a fireplace. I remembered passing it. Come after me, Mr. Peele. I can’t move that quickly. You can catch me. It’s not worth it to go back to threaten Matthew. It’s not. Come after me.
Mr. Peele cursed. His boots slapped the floor as he stomped up behind me, calling me names I should have very much resented if I hadn’t been expending all my energy on not looking back and keeping up the truly pathetic wailing. I was at the hearthside now. I slumped and sagged forward, clutching at the mantelpiece and weeping wildly.
“Stop that at once!” He set the lantern on the mantel’s corner. He sheathed his sword and moved forward to kick me or push me with his free hand. I never found out which.
Because I grabbed up the poker from the fire irons and struck him on the arm, then, with a backswing to the chin, snapped his head back.
Mr. Peele crumpled, rather more slowly than I would have expected, and thudded onto the floor. He was bleeding hard from his jaw, and I was panting, and suddenly the poker felt terribly heavy in my trembling hand.
There was a noise. In the other room. A banging, rattling noise and a man’s shout, much muffled by stout doors and falling rain.
“Open! In the name of King George, open!”
Moving on little more than instinct, I walked into the cupola room. I fumbled with bar and latch, one-handed, because I couldn’t seem to make myself put down the poker. I grasped the ring and pulled open the heavy door. On the other side, mounted on a pale horse of truly astounding proportions, sat Mr. Tinderflint.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
IN WHICH THERE OCCUR SEVERAL MATTERS OF LIFE AND DEATH.
“Where’s Peele?” Mr. Tinderflint asked with commendable brevity as he dropped from the horse’s back. He also drew an enormously practical-looking sword. If I had been anything other than numb at that moment, I would have been afraid. But the night’s adventures seemed to have inured me to the sight of swords. Or anything else.
“Where is Peele?” demanded Mr. Tinderflint again.
I pointed to the antechamber and only belatedly noticed that I did so with the hand holding the poker.
“Oh, dear,” he murmured. “Dear, dear, dear.”
Mr. Tinderflint ran to the next room, his cloak flapping behind him and showering me with raindrops as he passed. He knelt beside Mr. Peele, who still had not moved. He cradled his former confederate’s head in his hands. I heard him grunt, and I heard a sharp, short, terrible snap.
Mr. Tinderflint stood up and turned away from where Mr. Peele lay.
“Perhaps I should take that.” He gently removed the poker from my unresisting hand. At the same time, he peered closely at me, looking me up and down to ascertain whether I was all there. I could not have given him much reassurance on that point. “There will be some soldiers with us soon, and we do not need extra questions. No, we do not. Now, my dear, where is Mr. Reade?”
“Matthew!” I swung about toward the staircase. I had forgotten Matthew. How could I have forgotten him, even for a moment?
There was movement in the shadows surrounding the great staircase. In the faint light of the two lanterns, I saw Matthew, on his feet, cradling his arm and leaning heavily on the banister, but he was upright, and he was awake, and our eyes met.
I was not to remember anything more for a long time after that.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
THE ENDING, WHICH, AS THE SAGACIOUS READER WILL KNOW, IS ALWAYS A BEGINNING.
It can be further said of adventures that their endings are very protracted things. The soldiers did eventually arrive, and Mr. Tinderflint gave many orders concerning myself and Matthew, as well as the corpses of Mr. Peele and poor, deceived, traitorous Robert. The soldiers, being soldiers, were familiar with broken bones and banged-up skulls, and were well able to bind Matthew’s wounds and pour quantities of brandy down his throat until he was almost as dazed as I was.
A cart filled with straw and equipped with warm blankets was acquired from somewhere to transport Matthew and myself to the docks and the boat that waited to carry us back to Hampton Court.
Somewhere in the whole business, amid the orders and the bustle, my coat, with Queen Anne’s letter still in its pocket, went missing.
We were not taken back to the palace directly, but rather to a stout cottage somewhere on the grounds. There we were looked after by a mostly deaf and entirely ancient man and his equally deaf and ancient wife. One redcoat soldier lounged by our door, and another around back. I had the bedchamber, which I shared with Olivia, who had been brought down, along with all the dogs. Matthew was stowed in the attic. I was allowed to sit with him all day. He slept a good deal. When he woke, we talked over what had happened. Once he could stand, we went downstairs and sat with Olivia in the parlor. We talked over what had happened some more, the three of us. We tried to guess what would happen next. We wondered whether any word had been sent to Olivia’s parents regarding her whereabouts and health, and if so, if that word bore any resemblance to the truth.
Of Mrs. Abbott there was neither sign nor word.
Our confinement lasted two days before the front-door solider stepped into the parlor, where the three of us were just finishing up a breakfast of kippers and porridge, and announced I had been summoned to Her Royal Highness.
Olivia, still pale and weak, blanched more than was good for her. Matthew pressed my hand and met my gaze steadily. I brushed my skirts down and took my leave of my companions quietly and without too many words. What was there for me to say?
Resignation is a very freeing thing, and I sank into it now. I would either live or I would die. All had been done. There was nothing left but to meet my mistress and learn my fate.
I did finally get to see the back stairs, which were not, in fact, a single staircase. Rather, they were a dank, dusty, and unpainted labyrinth branching throughout the entire palace. They were also crowded with all manner of servants and courtiers racing up and down heavily shadowed corridors that reminded me far too much of that horrible night in Kensington Palace. I hadn’t slept at all well during my residence in the cottage. Robert Ballantyne had developed a disconcerting habit of turning up at the foot of my bed, his waistcoat covered in blood and his long face drawn and haggard as he looked down at me with sad, accusing eyes.
I was much relieved when my soldier opened a door in the wall, stood aside, and gestured for me to pass him. I walked, blinking, into the clear daylight that filled Her Royal Highness’s apartments.
The great room was all but empty. Two footmen I did not know stood at rigid attention beside the main doors. The only other occupant was the princess herself, sitting in the carved and gilt chair beneath the canopy of state. This woman was not my kind and clever mistress. She was Her Royal Highness Caroline, Princess of Wales, and she looked at me with cold, clear, blue eyes and waited.
The door clicked shut behind me.
I approached Her Royal Highness, because it was what I must do. I tried not to look at her hard face. I failed in that as badly as I failed to keep my legs from trembling as I made my curtsy.
Her Royal Highness gestured once for me to rise. I did so. I stood there for a long time, my gaze directed toward the floor. The parquet was scuffed. I’d never noticed that before.
“You will want to know that your Lord Tierney has been this morning to see His Royal Highness,” said the princess.
I thought to say he was not my Lord Tierney, but that would not have been true.
“That conversation has reached a satisfactory conclusion. Although my husband did say he believes it would be wise for his lordship to be absent from court for a while. It has been left to me to deal with you.” The edge to the royal voice could have cut glass. “A scandal of this nature while the king is in Hanover could very easily upset some delicately laid plans. I cannot be at all sure Mr. Walpole will be able to intercept all the . . . un
fortunate letters that will be sent.”
I said nothing. What on earth could I have said?
“As regards you, Margaret Fitzroy, I had initially thought your case would be a simple one. But it turns out you have several persons pleading for you. Beginning with my daughter Anne. Although I am not sure whether it’s you or those blasted dogs she wishes to save.”
I swallowed.
“I am given to understand you speak German?”
“Yes, ma’am,” I whispered.
“Sehr gut,” she said. “You will use it now,” she continued in harsh and heavy German. “You are now given one chance, and one only. Tell me the truth. How do you come to be in my house?”
I told her. It took a very long time. So long, my throat and my feet began to ache, especially the one Robert had stomped on. But the princess did not allow me to sit or to have a drink of the wine that waited at the royal elbow. She just sat as still as a painted portrait, absorbing each syllable, every single intonation and tremor.
At long last, my well of words ran dry, and I stood trembling as badly as I had after my battle with Mr. Peele. I had no excuses to offer, no plea to make. I was entirely at this woman’s mercy. If she raised her hand, I would be imprisoned or transported. Hanged.
Slowly, the princess nodded. “That sorts with what his lordship has said. Now. I have one more question for you, and I urge that you think most carefully before you give your answer.” She paused, making sure I had adequately understood this. “What do you think of me?”
I hope my readers will believe me when I say there is not a more complicated question one’s sovereign lady can ask. Especially when one has been implicated in the death of two men and as fine a piece of blatant fraud as was ever committed within palace walls.
