Mistress of Lies

by Holly West

  Unfortunately, such evidence was in short supply. “That’s only part of what’s troubling me,” I said, changing the subject. “Adam’s daughter is now living with me.”

  Charles surprised me by looking genuinely pleased. “Isabel, you found the girl! That’s wonderful! The builders have been busy working on your apartments. I shall tell them to add a room for her.”

  “I prefer to wait, Charles. She seems comfortable in my home.”

  “Surely she’d be more comfortable living in the palace.”

  “She’s been through so much. I don’t want to upset her further.”

  “I’m beginning to think you don’t want to live here,” Charles said. “You’ve been distant with me ever since I extended the invitation.”

  Why couldn’t I just be honest with him? Was I afraid he’d end our relationship altogether if I didn’t do as he wished?

  “Why didn’t you tell me that Barbara Palmer was back in London?” I said instead.

  He glared at me. “I didn’t think it was any of your concern.”

  “So you do know.”

  “She’s tried to see me once or twice.”

  “And I suppose you refused her?”

  “Barbara’s an old friend. You know that.”

  “I’ll agree she’s old, but she’s no friend of mine. Nor of yours.”

  Charles couldn’t help smiling. “At any rate, she’s going back to France soon. It’s nothing you should be worried about.”

  “You’ve lain with her.”

  “I told you it’s none of your concern.”

  I stood and threw my cup into the fireplace. It was a silly, overdramatic gesture, but it made me feel better. “It’s not as though I expect you to change your ways, Charles. I know how you are. But Barbara? I can accept anyone but her.”

  Somehow my outburst served to soften Charles. He came up behind me and hugged me. “Anyone? What about Louise?”

  Louise de Kerouaille was the Duchess of Portsmouth and one of the most tedious women I’d ever met. Charles and I had had numerous quarrels about her. He was right—I couldn’t accept Louise either. How many women would I be expected to tolerate if I lived just a few doors away from the king? At least at my own home I was protected from seeing them day in and day out.

  I knew Charles was joking, trying to clear the air between us, and I appreciated the change in his demeanor. But I knew in my heart I would never move back to Whitehall. So why couldn’t I admit that to him?

  * * *

  Before I left the palace that night, Charles insisted upon showing me the apartments he’d chosen for me. They were adjacent to those of his brother, the Duke of York, and accessible to the king’s own bedchamber via a long hallway with large windows facing the Thames. Any visits I made to His Majesty would be unknown to all but ourselves and York, if he cared to notice.

  Charles opened the door with a flourish, revealing a spectacular room lit with a hundred or more candles. I didn’t know who had previously occupied the apartments, but judging from the feminine decor and its proximity to the king’s quarters, I thought it must’ve been a woman. Was this where Nell Gwyn had lived before she moved into her opulent house in Pall Mall? Had Barbara stayed here? The thought sickened me.

  The walls were covered with mauve-colored fabric panels and trimmed in gilded oak. The oversized mantelpiece was polished white marble, and a gilt-framed mirror hung over it, reflecting the sparkling crystal chandelier. The furniture, whilst obviously expensive, did not look particularly comfortable—it was more for show than for living.

  Just like Whitehall itself.

  I followed him into the bedchamber. The bed was set within a decorative alcove and the heavy draperies that hung from the canopy were tied back with thick golden ropes finished with long, full tassels.

  The rooms I’d originally occupied at Whitehall were half the size and quite plain when compared with these. Charles clearly meant to impress me, and he had—the rooms were undeniably beautiful. They were far more luxurious than the modest accommodation my own home offered. Beyond the furniture, I couldn’t think what I could do to make the rooms more appealing, and yet I couldn’t imagine myself living here.

  He put his arm around me and kissed my forehead. “I want you to be happy here, darling. We’ve been apart for far too long as it is.”

  I settled into his chest, feeling his warmth against my cheek. How I loved this man. And yet, he could never truly be mine. This would always be the problem—why I could never give myself to him fully.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Thursday, 23 January

  Susanna was nervous about meeting her grandfather. Though she had no real inkling about his wealth or status as a goldsmith banker, she understood the significance of the occasion and fretted at the mirror as Charlotte dressed her hair.

  “Oh, Lady Wilde,” she said. “I do hope he likes me!”

  “Susanna,” I said, standing behind her. “Don’t you think it’s time you began calling me Aunt Isabel?”

  She turned around, causing Charlotte to lose hold of the tendril she’d been curling. “I’d like that, Aunt Isabel.”

  “Good, that’s settled. And you’ve no need to worry about pleasing Sir Richard. You’re sure to charm him.”

  I borrowed a gown from Charlotte for her to wear since they were nearly the same size. There was no time to buy a new pair of shoes, but the length of the dress covered her scuffed ones. Hair combed and face scrubbed, Susanna was as sweet and pretty as any young girl could hope to be.

  Wilson was uncharacteristically friendly when he greeted us. Recalling yesterday’s outburst, Sir Richard had probably warned him to mind his behavior. “Good afternoon, Lady Wilde,” he said with a reserved smile.

  “We’ve come to see Sir Richard, Wilson. This is his granddaughter, Susanna.”

  He bent to get a closer look at her. “What a pretty little poppet you are! Come into the drawing room. Sir Richard will be with you momentarily.” Though his voice was somewhat brittle, I appreciated the effort he made to welcome her.

  As Susanna passed through the grand entry and into the drawing room, she regarded her surroundings with awe. When she sat on the drawing room couch, she did so delicately, as though she were afraid of soiling it.

  But she should not have worried. As soon as Sir Richard saw her, he raised his arms to hug her. She hesitated just a moment before running to him. Their embrace was as sincere and loving as I’d ever seen.

  “Oh my dear, dear girl,” Sir Richard said. “I can hardly believe it. Let me look at you.”

  She stood shyly while he appraised her, tears filling his eyes. He turned to me. “She’s the very picture of her mother, isn’t she?”

  “She is.”

  “Sit down, my dear,” Sir Richard said. “I have so many questions, I hardly know where to begin!”

  “May I call you Grandfather?” Susanna asked.

  He laughed. “Of course you may.”

  “I’m happy to meet you. I’ve lived my whole life with no family except for my mother. And now I have an auntie and an uncle and a grandfather! I can hardly believe my good fortune.”

  “You are indeed a brave girl to come such a distance.” Sir Richard’s face grew somber. “I hope to one day see your mother again. Tell me, Susanna, have you had a happy life?”

  “Oh yes, Grandfather. America is a wonderful place.”

  “Perhaps one day we’ll be able to go there and see it together.”

  “I would like that.”

  And thus, they began to chatter, as though no time or distance had ever stood between them. It warmed my heart to bear witness to it.

  * * *

  To celebrate the successful meeting with Sir Richard, I asked Alice to make a special supper for Susanna that
night: roasted squab with sweet blackberry sauce, mallow salad with mustard and onion dressing, and a trifle for dessert. When the four of us—myself, Sam, Charlotte and Susanna, sat down to eat—Sam raised his cup.

  “To family,” he said.

  “To family,” we each declared.

  Susanna had clearly been as taken with her grandfather as he was by her and claimed she was now looking forward to going to Bingley House to meet the rest of the family. But I also noticed her sadness.

  “What’s the matter, Susanna?” I asked. “Aren’t you happy to have met your grandfather?”

  “Oh yes, Aunt Isabel,” she said. “But it made me wish that my mother was here with us.”

  I hugged her. “I know you do, sweetheart. I wish she were here too. I’m glad you came to London, but there is no doubt in my mind that Margaret—your mother—is frantic that you’ve left her. If it comes to it, I will take you back to America myself. I don’t think any mother should lose their child.”

  “She’s probably terribly angry with me.”

  “I’m sure she’s much too worried about you to think about being angry. But with any luck she’ll receive my letter very soon and she’ll know that you’re safe.”

  “I hope so.”

  When she took a bite of trifle—she’d never had the dessert before—she nearly swooned with delight. “I’ve never tasted anything like it! In America we only have sweets at Christmastime.”

  There came a pounding on the door—unusual, given the hour, but I didn’t give it a thought until Alice returned from answering it with a worried expression. She came over to where I sat and whispered, “It’s the constable, m’lady. He’s asking for Sam.”

  My eyes cut to Sam. He didn’t appear to have heard Alice and was busy draining his cup of ale. I didn’t want to alarm Susanna, so I excused myself and went to the door.

  It wasn’t Mr. Foxcomb, the local constable. This man stood tall in my doorway, his starched red coat perfectly tailored to his physique, an expression of grim authority on his face.

  “I’m Lady Wilde,” I said. “The mistress of the house. What is it you want?”

  “I’m told Sam Turner resides here, madam,” he said. “Is he home?”

  “You’ve interrupted my supper. You’ll have to return later.”

  “I’m here under the authority of His Majesty. If Mr. Turner is here I advise you to bring him to me immediately.”

  “What is this all about?”

  “I’m here to arrest him for the murder of Tom Clarke.”

  * * *

  Susanna cried out and I and realized, belatedly, that she’d followed behind me to the door.

  “What’s happened to Tom?” she cried.

  “Charlotte,” I said. “Take Susanna upstairs.”

  “No!” Susanna screamed. “He said Tom is dead! I want to see Tom!”

  “Shush, Susanna,” I said. “Go with Charlotte while I speak to this man and I’ll be up as soon as I can.”

  “Come,” Charlotte said gently. “Such a serious matter isn’t fit for young ears.”

  Susanna struggled a little but finally allowed Charlotte to take her hand and lead her upstairs.

  I returned my attention to the redcoat. “There now, are you satisfied? You’ve upset my daughter terribly.”

  He set his jaw and put his hand on his sword’s scabbard. “For the last time, madam, I’m asking to speak with Sam Turner.”

  “Mr. Turner isn’t here,” I said, loud enough for Sam to hear me. I needed to give him time to get out of the house. “Now, what is this about Tom Clarke being murdered?”

  “He was found bludgeoned in his room two hours ago. His landlady gave us Sam Turner’s name. We’ll need to search the premises.”

  It had obviously been a mistake for us to have gone to Tom Clarke’s room undisguised, but at the time I hadn’t seen the need. And there was no doubt that Clarke had been alive when we’d left. Someone else had to have come in and killed him some time after that.

  I peered out the door behind him and saw two more redcoats standing on the street, ready to be summoned. I couldn’t hold them back for very much longer. “I said Mr. Turner isn’t here. Do you have the nerve to doubt the word of a lady?”

  “I have my orders, Lady Wilde. Now, will you allow the search or do we have to force it?”

  Alice came up beside me. “It’s all right, my lady. I’ve cleared the supper dishes.” The pointed look she gave me told me that Sam had already gotten out.

  I stepped aside so that the men could come in. “Search if you must.”

  As the three men explored my house, my mind raced, frantically trying to figure out what had happened. Who had killed Tom Clarke? Had it anything to do with Adam’s murder? Had Mother Plimpton thought it was Clarke who’d taken Susanna and had one of her ruffians kill him as revenge?

  I considered the most likely culprit. Clarke had told me that he’d been involved in a scheme with Benjamin Stowe and Adam. Two of the three were now dead, which as far as I was concerned, made Stowe the primary suspect in Tom Clarke’s murder.

  I knew Stowe was powerful, but I’d not considered him to be so dangerous. Why would I? When he’d come to Coal Yard Alley to speak with Mistress Ruby, he’d been searching for a peaceful solution to his problem. If anything, it was I who’d suggested violence. And of course, a man of his means had many ways he could protect himself. Hadn’t he proven it when he hired the man to intimidate me at my own house? He’d apologized, yes, but he’d also hinted that I’d do well to stop my investigation into Adam’s death. It wasn’t so overt as to be a threat but now that I knew how much he had to hide, I wondered if perhaps it had been just that. What better way to get rid of two problems than to kill off one of them and set the other one up for it?

  The redcoats made quick work of their task and thankfully, found nothing. Still, I was filled with dread—I had no clue where Sam had gone off to, but I knew he’d have to stay in hiding until Tom Clarke’s real killer was caught.

  As soon as they left, I went upstairs to see about Susanna. She’d flung herself across the bed and was sobbing uncontrollably.

  “My lady, is it true what they said?” Charlotte asked. She sat next to Susanna on the bed, stroking her hair, trying to soothe her.

  “I don’t know,” I said truthfully. “But whatever happened, Sam’s in trouble. Thankfully he got out of the house before they searched it.”

  Susanna jumped up, wiping her eyes. “What did you do to Tom?”

  “Nothing, Susanna, I swear it.” I couldn’t admit to her that Sam and I had roughed Tom up a bit. She’d never believe that it had nothing to do with his death. “We just talked to him.”

  “I don’t believe you!”

  “We had no reason to hurt him.”

  “Yes, you did. You wanted my ring back—probably so you could sell it yourself. I hope they find Sam and hang him,” she said bitterly.

  “I understand you’re upset, Susanna. But you know I’ve done nothing but help you. I want only the best for you. I promise I’ll find out tomorrow what’s going on.”

  “I despise you,” she said. “I wish I’d never come here!”

  “Susanna, please—”

  She jumped from the bed and ran out of the bedroom, slamming the door behind her. Charlotte turned to me as she rushed after her. “I’ll see to her, my lady. She’ll be all right.”

  But Susanna had suffered a terrible loss. I didn’t know if she’d ever recover.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Charles sat at his massive oak desk, penning a letter and sipping from a cup of brandy when Chiffinch announced my arrival. He laid down his quill, stood up and came over to me, kissing me on the forehead. “I was happy to get your message this evening, my dear. Thank you for coming.”


  He was in a cheerful mood, quite unlike my own. But I took it to be a good omen, and for a moment I felt badly, as though I were somehow taking advantage of his good nature by coming here to inform him of Tom Clarke’s murder. He clearly believed I was here for another reason entirely. But with Sam’s very life in peril, I couldn’t afford to let any misgivings I had about hurting Charles’s feelings deter me. I had to convince Charles to have Sam released.

  His kisses became more passionate and I pulled away gently. “There’s a reason I wanted to see you.”

  “Well, I assumed that,” he said, leaning in for another kiss.

  “This is serious. But before I tell you, I must have your assurance that I can trust you.”

  He looked concerned. “You know you can trust me, Isabel.”

  Perhaps I could, but I was taking a risk just the same. The authorities wanted Sam for murder and if I admitted to Charles that I’d helped him escape, he might not take kindly to it. But did I really think Charles would have me arrested for such a thing? I couldn’t fathom it. He’d betrayed me in the past, but I knew he loved me more now than he ever had.

  I exhaled. “Sam is wanted for a murder he didn’t commit. I need you to exonerate him and focus the investigation on the real culprit.”

  He crossed his arms. “He’s been arrested?”

  “No. He wasn’t home when the constables came to the house,” I said, settling on a fib. “I’ve not seen him since.”

  “Who was murdered?”

  “A man named Tom Clarke. I told you about him—he was involved in a business venture with Adam before he died. An illegal business venture. They had a third partner and I think he might’ve killed both of them.”

  “And who was that?”

  “Benjamin Stowe.”

  Charles rubbed his forehead. “Benjamin Stowe? God’s blood, Isabel. I told you before I’d not entertain your accusations against him unless you had actual evidence—not just your own suspicions.”

  “I know it’s difficult to believe. But Stowe had business with Adam—he told me that himself. And Tom Clarke admitted that the three of them had been involved in a scheme to forge banknotes.”