Mistress of Lies

by Holly West

I reached out to her. “Give me your hands.”

  She removed her gloves and held them out to me. Predictably, they were softer and smooth, just the way one would expect those of a duchess to be.

  “Which hand do you write with?” I asked.

  “I don’t,” she said.

  “Which hand do you favor, then?”

  She extended her right hand.

  I stared at it for a long moment, trying to formulate a response. I found it difficult to concentrate. “Your lifeline is long. But it comes to an abrupt halt here.” I touched the point on her palm lightly.

  She looked a bit frightened. “What does it mean?”

  “It signifies a risk, an uncertainty in your future. But it also appears that you’ll live a long life. You won’t die of disease. But you must take care not to get into any accidents and don’t cross your enemies.”

  “Are you suggesting someone might murder me?”

  I shook my head. “I’m only saying that you should be careful.” I went back to my reading. “Your heart line is also long.”

  She smiled. “Of course it is.”

  “It means you’re rather amorous. Perhaps to a fault.”

  Her smile faltered and I felt her pull back her hand slightly. “What are you suggesting?”

  “You should conduct yourself more carefully when it comes to matters of the heart.”

  She flinched. “I didn’t come here to be insulted.”

  “You came here for advice and I am giving it. Surely you must know that not everything I say will be positive.”

  “You’re too impertinent for your own good. I ought to have you—”

  “Have me what?” I asked.

  She seemed to suddenly realize that she no longer had any power in England. She deflated. “Never mind. Just tell me if the king will see me.”

  “Have you already tried?” I held my breath, waiting for her answer. Had Charles already lain with her? It was a sickening thought.

  “Only once. His servant told me he was otherwise occupied.”

  I was relieved to hear this. “Did you believe him?”

  “How am I to know? I haven’t seen the king in four years—an eternity. Before that I was the most powerful woman in England. Not even the queen could touch me. And now—now he won’t even be bothered to tell me to go away himself.”

  “He’s the king, madam. He has servants to do that.”

  She seemed genuinely distressed. But even though I knew what it felt like to be rejected by Charles, I couldn’t bring myself to sympathize with her.

  “I’m not one to give up easily, I’ll warrant you,” Barbara said. “I’ll find a way to see him even if the stars tell me it’s impossible. Here now, I’ve paid you good money and you’ve done nothing but ask me questions.”

  “Hush, I must concentrate.” I spent a few more moments studying her hand, trying to formulate something to tell her. Finally, I said, “I’m sorry. I don’t see a future for you here in London.”

  Her face fell. “Truly?”

  I shook my head. “I don’t. Perhaps, if you’re patient, he will eventually agree to see you. Time will tell.”

  “What shall I do?”

  “Go back to France. Wait for him to summon you.”

  She threw up her hands. “How long does he expect me to wait?”

  “It’s for him to decide, Your Grace. I’m not privy to His Majesty’s whims pertaining to women.”

  “What kind of answer is that? I paid you for advice and this is all you can say?”

  “The king is a complicated man. He might accept you back into his circle, but it must be on his terms. He must make that decision.”

  “You say that like you know him,” she said.

  “He’s a man. They are not so very different, whether they wear a crown or a peasant’s cap.”

  She nodded and for the first time ever, I felt a sort of kinship with her. Women were always at men’s mercy, no matter their station.

  The affinity was short-lived, however. By the time Barbara left, she was no longer demanding that I return her money, but nor was she happy. I had no inkling of what she might do with regards to the king, but in truth I didn’t care—not at the moment anyway. I was more disturbed by what she represented than her actual presence.

  Charles and I had conducted our love affair for a very long time. We’d had occasional periods where we didn’t see each other, either because we’d had a quarrel or because he was too busy, but regardless—he’d always been the one in control, the one who summoned me, pulled the invisible strings that made me dance like a marionette at Bartholomew Fair.

  Even so, I’d always considered myself above his other mistresses. I had, after all, been with him the longest—longer, even, than the queen. I’d maintained my independence to the extent that I’d never be compromised if the king permanently tired of me. As a result, I didn’t wheedle him like some of them did and I rarely requested favors.

  But like Barbara, I was growing older. I craved security, even if it meant accepting it from the king. If I moved into Whitehall, would I end up like Barbara? Would I someday find myself exiled to France, or Holland, or some other place where he’d never have to deal with me again?

  Nonsense, Barbara and I were different people. He would never treat me the way he’d treated her.

  Would he?

  Chapter Seventeen

  Friday, 17 January

  Despite the bewildering discoveries of the day before, I awoke the next morning with a fresh outlook, more determined than ever to learn what had happened to Adam and now, Margaret. Was she really dead, as Sir Richard believed, or had she simply escaped and somehow managed to keep her whereabouts a secret all of these years? Why would she do such a thing?

  It was still unclear whether she and Adam had been romantically involved. The miniature portrait hinted at an affair but didn’t confirm it. And what, if anything, did Ann Sutton, Benjamin Stowe, Tom Clarke, and Kitty Sutton have to do with Adam? There seemed to be a connection between them, but I still couldn’t guess what it was.

  It was pointless to go to Stowe’s residence at this hour. He’d likely already left for his warehouse, and with his secretary, Mr. Dunn, acting the watchdog I’d not have any more luck today than I had yesterday. Instead, I turned my attention back to the items in Adam’s valise.

  In addition to Stowe’s address, it contained the banknotes issued to Phineas MacBride and Matthew Collins, both of whom, according to the receipts, resided in Whitechapel. Might these documents hold some clue about Adam’s last days or weeks? Sam and I set out to visit them both, going first to MacBride’s home.

  I noted that the house was similar in size and structure to my own. These people lived comfortably but were not particularly wealthy. Sam knocked on the door and an aged woman answered it.

  “I’m Lady Wilde. I’d like to speak to with Mr. MacBride if I may.”

  The woman’s expression remained blank. “There’s no one here by that name, my lady.”

  I frowned. “Do you know what became of the MacBride family? They lived in this house about ten years ago.”

  “Never heard of ‘em,” she said. “The Whites live here now.”

  I sighed. “Oh well, then. I’m very sorry to have bothered you.”

  The woman shut the door and Sam and I headed toward the carriage. “Perhaps we’ll have better luck at the Collins’ house,” I said.

  We’d almost reached the carriage when I heard a voice call, “Wait, Lady Wilde!”

  I turned to see a younger woman hurrying toward us. We paused so that she could catch up.

  “My woman didn’t know,” she said, a little bit breathless. “I’m Mrs. MacBride—that is, I was. It’s too cold to talk out here. Please, come inside.”
r />   We followed her back to the house. Sam, who was acting as my footman today, waited in the foyer while I went with her into the drawing room. I thanked her for coming after me and accepted the cup of sherry she offered.

  “I apologize for the confusion,” she said. Her brogue was thick and Scottish. “Molly didn’t realize my first husband was named MacBride. I’m Mrs. White now.”

  “Phineas MacBride was your husband?” I asked.

  “Yes. Did you know him?”

  “I didn’t. But I’m looking into my brother’s affairs. His name was Adam Barber and he died in 1665. I found a banknote issued to your husband among his things and I wondered what you could tell me about it.” I removed it from my pocket and tried to pass it to her.

  “It’ll do no good,” she said, raising her hand. “I can’t read a word of it.”

  “It’s a banknote made out to Phineas MacBride, in the sum of twenty pounds, dated the twentieth of July, 1665. Do you recall the transaction?”

  “I remember the date. My husband died just two days later, on the twenty-second. But it’s impossible that he would’ve had business with your brother during that time. He was sicker than a dog and the entire house was quarantined. None of us could leave—there was a guard posted outside our door making sure of it—for the whole of that month.”

  “Would you recognize your husband’s signature?”

  She held out her hand for me to give her the banknote. I gave it to her and pointed to his signature.

  “It looks like it,” she said. “Of course, I’ve not seen it for many years.”

  “Do you have another document bearing his signature so we can compare it?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  It was becoming tiresome hearing this same answer over and over again. The years that had passed since Adam’s death made my search so cumbersome. “Do you remember if your husband had ever done business with Adam Barber or Sir Richard Winser before he got sick?”

  “No, but then I never paid attention to that sort of thing. I didn’t have to. Phineas took care of our financial affairs.”

  That meant she probably wouldn’t have even known if twenty pounds was missing after her husband died. Dare I mention it?

  “He never said anything about Sir Richard or Adam?”

  “Not that I recall.”

  “Mrs. White, are you certain there’s no possible way that your husband made that deposit?”

  “My husband couldn’t get out of his bed, let alone leave the house, even if the guard had allowed it. Do you doubt my word?”

  “I believe you. I simply wish to make sense of this banknote and what my brother’s activities were during this time. I truly apologize if my questions are intrusive.”

  “I lost my darling daughter Beatrice of the plague, Lady Wilde,” she said quietly. “‘Twas bad enough losing Phineas, but Beatrice too? May you never suffer such a loss.”

  I knew from experience how it felt to lose a child. “I’m very sorry, Mrs. White.” I said, without elaborating on my own tragedy. I allowed her a moment of respite before continuing with my questions. “There were actually two banknotes. The other was issued to Matthew Collins, who lived nearby in 1665. I thought you might know him.”

  She shook her head sadly. “Aye, I knew him,” she corrected. “Matthew and the rest of the Collinses took their last breaths around the same time Phineas did. There’s not a one of ’em left.”

  * * *

  After my conversation with Mrs. White I was more confused than ever. If her husband hadn’t deposited gold at Sir Richard’s shop, then who had? Had someone impersonated Phineas MacBride? Sam had identified Tom Clarke and Benjamin Stowe as a couple of scheming thieves. Had Adam and Sir Richard been their victim? But no, that didn’t make any sense. Why would they be depositing gold if their aim was to steal it?

  A day had passed since Charles had given me the pendant, and I was anxious to give it to my goldsmith, Francis Blanchard, for safekeeping. I thought Blanchard might also examine the banknotes to determine whether they were legitimate.

  Blanchard’s shop was located at the east end of Fleet Street, near St. Paul’s Cathedral and nested between two booksellers’ shops. When I entered, he was seated on a stool behind his workbench, hunched over so that he could better see his work. The public portion of his shop was smaller than Sir Richard’s, furnished with only his bench, a desk at which to deal with customers, and a few glass cases displaying his creations, shiny and enticing. Blanchard was not the gifted goldsmith Adam had been, but he’d proven to be trustworthy and discreet, valuable qualities to have in one who safeguards one’s gold and precious belongings.

  “Good afternoon, Lady Wilde,” he said, smiling.

  “Hello, Mr. Blanchard,” I said. “I’ve a deposit to make.”

  He stood and started toward the back of his shop, where he kept his office. “If you’ll wait just a moment, I’ll retrieve my accounts ledger.”

  He returned with a heavy tome, already opened to the page where my finances were recorded. He placed it on the desk in front of me. “It’s been some time since you’ve deposited anything, my lady.”

  “My income has dwindled of late,” I admitted. “But this should help somewhat.”

  I opened my cape and revealed the pendant. I lifted the chain over my head and held it in my palm for Blanchard to see.

  “His Majesty recently gave this to me,” I said. “It might be the last piece my brother Adam ever made.”

  His eyes gleamed with admiration. “May I?” he asked, gesturing toward the pendant.

  I gave it to him and he inspected it, closing his right eye tightly to get a better look.

  “It’s quite well done,” he said. “And also quite valuable, as you can imagine.”

  “I don’t feel comfortable having it in the house. I’d like you to keep it in your vault.”

  “Of course.” Blanchard laid the pendant on the desk and took up his quill. He scrawled something in the ledger.

  “I also have a few questions for you,” I said when he’d finished. “Do you have time?”

  “For you, always. Would you like some refreshment?”

  I politely refused. “I’m curious about your trade. Or, I should say, the goldsmith business in general. Of course you know that Adam apprenticed with Sir Richard Winser for several years. How well do you know him—Sir Richard, that is?”

  “I’ve met him on occasion, but I cannot say I know him, exactly. His reputation is impeccable and of course his work is magnificent, though over the years he’s turned mostly to the banking part of the trade. It’s more profitable and requires less work.”

  “What do you mean?” I asked.

  “Much of banking simply requires storing gold in vaults and the issuing of receipts,” Blanchard said. “There’s work, of course, in keeping accurate accounts, but it’s easier, by and large, than putting numerous hours into the creation of jewelry and such like.”

  “If that’s the case, what’s to keep a goldsmith from ceasing the smithing altogether?”

  “As I’ve said, Sir Richard has moved away from that part of the business for just that reason. But my own shop is small and I keep a limited group of depositors. The bulk of my income still comes from the craft.”

  “I’ve known Sir Richard for a long time,” I said, “and I consider him to be reputable as well. But I’m interested in learning, if a goldsmith wanted to, how he might he betray his customers?”

  My question gave him pause. He gave me a level stare. “If you’re thinking about taking your money out of my care, I assure you, Lady Wilde, that I’ve acted with the utmost integrity. Why, on occasion I’ve sought out investments that paid more than the promised six percent.”

  “You misunderstand me, Mr. Blanchard. I’ve the utmost trust in you. But
surely there are other less scrupulous goldsmiths in the city. They are of whom I speak.”

  His features softened slightly. “I’m happy to hear that you’re satisfied with my services. But I must disagree with you with regards to goldsmiths being unscrupulous. Perhaps there are a few, as there would be with any business. Men are, by their nature, sinful, aren’t they? But on the whole it is an honest business. If not, people wouldn’t trust us with their money.”

  Blanchard’s words sounded similar to what Sir Richard had said about the Goldsmiths’ Company—that they “took care of their own” because they knew what was at stake if the public lost faith in the goldsmith bankers.

  “It’s not that I doubt the honesty of the trade as a whole,” I persisted, “but I’m curious. What might an unscrupulous goldsmith do if he wanted to cheat his customers out of money?”

  “I do hesitate to speak ill of anybody,” he said.

  “I mean in general. There’s no need to name anyone. I’m asking for my own personal reasons, which I don’t feel comfortable sharing. But I assure you, my intent is not to accuse anyone in particular.”

  He sat back in his chair. “I suppose one way is to simply misrepresent their investments.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Say I tell you I’ve invested your money at two percent interest when I’ve actually done it at six. I pay you the two, then keep the extra four for myself.”

  “But you do keep a percentage, don’t you? How else do you make money?”

  “I do. But you’re well aware of how much it is—I tell you that upfront.”

  “Wouldn’t there be a record of the investment that would indicate the truth?”

  “Paperwork can be fabricated,” he said.

  Once I considered it, it seemed so easy it was a wonder all goldsmiths didn’t do it.

  “And of course,” Blanchard continued, “a goldsmith could tell a customer his investment was lost and keep the money for himself.”

  “It would seem he couldn’t do such a thing very often. If he’s always losing money, no one would invest with him.”

  He nodded. “Indeed. But such a cheat would have numerous tricks up his sleeve. He would probably invest the majority of his customer’s money legitimately.”