by Sarah Zettel
“And I’m sure you will agree, miss, that hanging my future on your ability to wheedle and connive among a crowd of jaded sophisticates is hanging it on a weak hook indeed.” The languor and disdain with which he spoke chilled me bone deep. Unfortunately, that chill also got hold of my fragile good sense and snapped it in two.
“Then, Uncle, you may write me off. I am no longer your concern and may make my own way in the world.” My aunt pressed her fingers to her lips as it sank in that I had just declared my perfect willingness to live without protection. “All I ask is that you allow me to keep some sort of contact with my aunt and cousin. Agree to this, and I shall trouble you no more.”
All manner of calculations passed behind my uncle’s hard eyes. He very much wanted to be able to wash his hands of his sister’s branch of the family. Despite this, he hesitated, and I read the refusal in his expression before the words left his mouth.
“Olivia is to have nothing to do with you.”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Father,” said Olivia. “I’m to marry into a title and power so I can help advance the family, and we all know it. What could be better than for me to start making friends at court?” Being a banker, my uncle was not happily admitted to the company of the blue-blood aristocrats. My patronage could open that door for Olivia in ways my uncle’s could not. I was certain we all felt the irony of this fact most keenly.
Uncle Pierpont did not even look at Olivia. His gaze remained fixed on me. I had looked into a murderer’s eyes. I knew when a man had found his own sticking point. This was where the games ended and, even between enemies, there was only honesty left.
“What do you want from me?” I asked him.
My uncle’s thin lips twitched. “Honor the contract with your name on it. Marry Sebastian Sandford.”
FIVE
IN WHICH A MOST TOUCHING REUNION IS ACHIEVED.
I had been ready for Uncle Pierpont to issue this command. I could not remain justly proud of my courtier’s skills had I missed the signs of it. Especially when one of those signs had been Sebastian Sandford appearing at my door with an expensive gift and consoling manner.
My difficulty lay in the fact that now that the order was laid before me, my outrage obliterated the calm answer I held ready. I blush to report that what replaced it was somewhat less than gracious.
“Uncle, I would not marry Mr. Sandford even if I were dying of the pox and could have the satisfaction of taking him with me.”
This drew a startled gasp from Aunt Pierpont and a salute of appreciation in the form of a pair of abruptly raised eyebrows from Olivia.
My uncle, while less appreciative, was much more demonstrative. He leaned forward and gripped the edges of the table as if he thought to snap them clean off.
“You think I do not know your game? You smile and you simper and you talk of advantages you can give. But what you mean is you will get your hooks in and make me dependent on your largess.”
“You don’t honestly think—” began Olivia, but her father rounded on her with such an expression of violent fury that even my voluble cousin was shocked into momentary silence.
“I have said you will have nothing to do with her! That is an end to it!”
“Why do you hate me?” I murmured.
Uncle smirked. “I would have thought I’d made myself plain enough. You are the bastard child of my whoring sister.”
“Oliver!” cried my aunt.
“My mother served her rightful queen and her native country!” My shout pulled me to my feet so that I was looking down on this small-minded, thin-souled, unutterably foul man who happened to be my nearest living relative. “But you can’t be bothered to see that! You prefer to believe your own sister was a whore rather than to learn the truth!”
For a moment, I saw my uncle startled. For a single heartbeat, he looked uncertain, and for that same moment, I thought I might have scored some small victory. But then, a thin smile spread slowly across his face.
“Very well,” Uncle Pierpont said. “What is this truth? If you are so filled with loyalty and love for your dearest aunt and cousin, you can surely tell them how you came to receive this most advantageous post in the court of your rightful king. The tales the newspapers tell of your uncovering some scheme to defraud the Crown are remarkably short on plausible detail.”
“But it’s true.”
And it was, as far as it went. Of course, the “fraud” was more accurately called “treason.” While playing the part of Lady Francesca, I’d found myself in the midst of a grand scheme to overthrow the Royal House of Hanover and to return the House of Stuart from exile in France to take the throne in triumph. The main reason I was still at court was because Their Royal Highnesses wanted me to continue to quietly discover what other traitors might be hiding among the great and glittering.
“If it’s true, then tell me, what was the nature of this fraud?” countered my uncle. “What bank, what firm, what titled gentlemen did your action bring to the bar of the king’s justice?”
I knew I should find a lie. I was a confidential agent. Surely I had a whole pack of deceptions into which I could delve at will. Uncle Pierpont was waiting. They were all waiting.
“I cannot say,” I murmured.
“You will not,” Uncle Pierpont replied, that thin, terrible smile still in place. “You certainly did not get here on your own. Someone aided you. Someone placed you here, deliberately, to do his bidding. Who was it? Why did he choose you?”
“I cannot say,” I repeated. “I have sworn an oath to remain silent on the subject.”
“And there it is. Your loyalty to power is greater than your loyalty to your own flesh and blood. Just like hers.”
Had he made some move to leave at that moment, I might have given in. I might have pleaded with him and parted with at least a few of my secrets.
But my uncle did not move. Understanding cleared my mind with an astounding speed, and I was able to look once more into his eyes. In that moment, I saw beyond the oily triumph and his narrow, countinghouse calculations. He was gambling, just as I was. There was something he wanted to win from me, and it wasn’t only my agreement to this marriage.
My uncle’s thin smile wavered. He turned away, but he did it too quickly. “Wife, Olivia, we are leaving,” he said. This time, he did move toward the door. Norris, who had been holding his post by the wine bottles, stepped alertly up, ready to open it for him.
I caught Olivia’s eye and made a frantic motion with my hand, indicating she must keep them here. Fortunately, my cousin understood.
“You may be leaving, Father,” she said sweetly. “But I most certainly am not.” Olivia not only failed to get to her feet, but picked up her wineglass.
“You are impertinent and disobedient, miss!” roared her father.
“Well, Father, as you do not see fit to do your duty in behaving honorably toward your own flesh and blood, as your faithful daughter, I have no choice but to follow your example.”
Even I was astounded by this show of bravado. I thought Uncle Pierpont would certainly strike her. So did Aunt Pierpont. I know this because, against all expectations, my little, nervous aunt slipped between her husband and daughter.
“Oliver,” she said with a level of decisiveness I seldom heard from her, “you will kindly take me out of here. It is too warm. I am feeling faint.”
My uncle reared back. Aunt Pierpont continued to face him, but I saw the terror in her eyes. This finally brought Olivia to her feet, and we closed ranks behind her mother. I had no idea what I would do if Uncle Pierpont raised his hand. I had no idea what Olivia would do. But I would be dead and damned before I let this man strike either of them.
Without warning of any sort, the door opened.
“Her Highness, the Princess Anne,” announced a man’s voice stiffly.
In the next heartbeat, a living carpet of small, fluffy white dogs surged across the floor, barking at the top of their tiny lungs. The canine mob immediately surrounde
d Olivia, leaping up into the air and standing on their hind legs to whine and yip and wag their tails in a show of puppy ecstasy.
This breathtaking onslaught was followed by the far more dignified entrance of a small girl dressed in cream and pink ruffles. She, in turn, was followed by a tall woman in black who looked as if she had eaten a surfeit of pickled cucumbers.
For those who have not experienced it directly, I can hereby attest that the mantle of royalty is a most mystical adornment. It can cause grown men and women to stop whatever they are doing and make their deepest possible reverences to little children. Even a wild pack of fluffy white dogs seeking to gnaw at one’s slipper toe will be ignored while this duty is performed. Further, that mantle causes the youngest of children to understand that as long as they can pipe out certain phrases, they wield a great deal of power.
“Peggy, you will introduce us, please,” announced the princess, the dignity of the command spoiled only slightly by the royal lisp. Her Highness, the Princess Anne, was six years old, and the first of the three girls George Augustus, the Prince of Wales, had fathered thus far. She was a pretty, sturdy, determined child who was fully aware of her position and power. One of the least expected developments of the previous summer was my becoming Her Tiny Highness’s friend. This was in part due to my own merits, but had been much assisted by the fact that I was the one who had arranged for her to be gifted with this flock of obnoxious, spoiled, overfluffed dogs.
“Certainly, Your Highness,” I murmured, lowering my curtsy an extra inch, just to show I could. “May I make known to you Sir Oliver Trowbridge Preston Pierpont, my uncle. Lady Trowbridge Preston Pierpont, my aunt.” Aunt murmured and bobbled. “And this is their daughter, my cousin, Olivia Amelia Preston Pierpont.”
At this, dignity fell away, and the little girl dashed up to Olivia to seize both her hands and squeal, “Oh, I am glad to meet you! You must miss them so much! Don’t they look well?” She scooped up two of the fluffy flock and pushed them into Olivia’s arms. For a moment, I thought Olivia was going to cry. Until I’d interfered, these creatures had indeed been her beloved pets.
“I’ve taken most particular care of them,” the princess informed Olivia while grabbing her elbow to sit her down in a chair so she could help hold the squirmy dogs on her lap. “And Peggy’s helped, haven’t you, Peggy?”
“It’s been my pleasure, Your Highness.” I kept my gaze pointed toward the floor, because Olivia knew full well her dogs and I had never been on speaking terms.
“I cannot thank Your Highness enough for your kindness to them.” Olivia hugged the two she held. The princess beamed. I was in no way enamored of the now-royal hounds, but I had to admit, they had taken well to palace life. They were fluffier and fatter than ever, with little blue and pink ribbon bows about their necks and tails. Despite these new ornaments, they remained ready to leap to the defense of whoever had fed them last by growling and lunging at every hemline and ruffle that dared move an inch in their presence.
“As Miss Pierpont misses her dogs so terribly, surely it is time they returned home to her,” said the black-clothed governess. Her name was Lady Portland, and she was quite probably the only person in the palace who felt less affection for the dogs than I did. “We spoke about this matter, did we not, Your Highness?”
“Oh, but I could not,” said Olivia at once. “I can see how happy they are. It would break their hearts to leave Her Highness now.” She made a good show of meaning it too.
The princess was picking up each dog in turn and presenting them to Olivia to be praised and kissed and exclaimed over. I glanced at my uncle, and I confess, I let all my triumph show on my face. Aunt Pierpont reached out and steadied herself against the table. For a moment, I was truly afraid she’d faint. Fortunately, Cavey saw this as well and handed my aunt a glass of wine. I had never seen Aunt Pierpont gulp a drink before, but she did so now.
“I think Miss Pierpont has not yet heard the joyful news, Your Highness,” I said.
“You didn’t tell her? Peggy, what were you thinking!” I cast my face into the proper lines of regret at this admonishment. “I am sorry, Miss Pierpont,” the princess went on to Olivia. “You should have been told. Guinevere’s breeding. She’s going to have puppies!”
Olivia possessed the ability of all mothers to instantly tell their babies, whether two or four legged, apart. She unerringly picked Guinevere up out of the busy flock and turned her over to see her distended belly and teats. How is it possible for a small dog to look insufferably proud?
“She is! How wonderful, Your Highness!” Olivia rubbed the aforementioned belly, so that Guinevere wriggled and snuggled closer into the crook of her arm.
“She and Arthur are properly married now, of course.” The princess gently pulled on Guinevere’s ears, so she closed her eyes in puppy bliss. “I am sorry you could not be at the wedding.”
Olivia arched her brows at me over the royal curls. I grimaced and indicated with a tilt of my head that I would apprise her of the details later. Princess Anne had decided, quite naturally, that Puppy Arthur must have been the father of Puppy Guinevere’s impending offspring and that therefore they must be properly married. Lancelot stood as best dog, and ten of us had been invited to the small private ceremony.
It was another measure of the power of royalty’s aura that all those invited did attend and not one dared laugh through the entire marriage, or the wedding breakfast—not even the Prince and Princess of Wales. Should any reader feel inclined to envy this invitation to so intimate an occasion with our future sovereigns, I wish to point out that selecting an appropriate wedding gift for a royal lap dog is no easy task.
I mouthed a reminder at Olivia, and she frowned impatiently at me. “So, please tell me, Your Highness, what are the arrangements for Guinevere’s confinement?”
“Her confinement?” Princess Anne drew back.
I nodded. “You know that when an English lady is ready to be delivered of her baby, she traditionally goes into confinement.” I had taken pains previously to explain this was an English custom, because it was most definitely not the one being followed by our German-born Princess of Wales, who was at least as pregnant as Guinevere. “It is for her health, as well as for the baby’s. Well, it is the same with puppies. We can’t have Guinevere giving birth in a draft, can we?”
“Oh. I hadn’t thought.” The princess looked decidedly nervous at the idea, and I felt a moment’s guilt.
“Olivia is very experienced with puppies,” I went on, making sure I caught Olivia’s gaze so I could lift my brows in a significant fashion. “And you know there is no one who loves Guinevere more.”
The princess, however, was reaching her own conclusions. “You think it will be better because of . . .” Her Highness’s eyes shifted sideways toward the Portland.
I nodded, but all I said was, “I think it will be better for Guinevere and her litter.”
The princess squinted dubiously up at me, and for a moment, I feared I had gone too far.
“All right. But . . . you’ll send me bulletins, won’t you?” Princess Anne looked pleadingly into Olivia’s eyes.
“Of course you shall have bulletins,” Olivia replied. I waggled my eyebrows frantically at her and saw the light dawn. “I can deliver them personally, if Your Highness wishes it.”
“Oh, yes!” Princess Anne grabbed the chair arm and jumped up and down. This caused much flapping of curls and ruffles. It also caused Lady Portland to make the most amazing sound, very much like a chicken being throttled. “And when you do, you’ll be able to stop and play with all of them, and then you won’t miss them so much. Isn’t that a good plan?”
“An excellent plan. Of course . . .” Olivia hesitated, and my heart plummeted. If she tried to play this scene out too long, it might still fall to pieces. I risked a glance at my aunt and uncle. I felt I had not until that moment truly understood what it meant to be “staring daggers” at another being, but that is very much what Uncle Pierpon
t was doing to his own daughter. My aunt, on the other hand, had taken on an expression as close to shrewd as I had ever seen on her.
“What? Are you worried about Mama?” Princess Anne said. “Don’t be. I’m sure she’ll agree.”
“While that is excellent news, I’m afraid I will need my father’s permission to visit here on such a regular basis.” Olivia’s expression of humble piety would have done credit to a cloistered nun.
“Oh.” Princess Anne stopped her bouncing, and we were all treated to the sight of that minuscule personage carefully mustering her dignity. Then she folded her hands and scooted up to my uncle, four or five of the dogs traveling with her as a disorderly honor guard.
My uncle watched her approach as one might watch the fall of the headsman’s ax.
“Sir Oliver,” said Princess Anne, “it is my express wish that your daughter, Olivia, wait on me with updates as to Guinevere’s health. Will that be acceptable to you?”
I watched Uncle Pierpont want to refuse. I watched him search frantically for some hint of a way out of this cul-de-sac of etiquette and obedience. I watched Olivia looking down at Guinevere in her arms and saw her face twitch as if she’d contracted some terrible palsy.
Slowly, stiffly, like the most ancient and arthritic of men, my uncle bowed to this miniature specimen of royalty and her attendant puppies.
“It is entirely acceptable, Your Highness.”
Princess Anne nodded in stately acknowledgment. “Thank you. I will mention you particularly to Mama as a good friend to me.”
Lady Portland, it seemed, could stand this drama no longer. “And now it is time you were in bed, Your Highness,” she said.
The sigh with which Princess Anne answered this was long, loud, and gusting. “In a minute. It is too late for Guinevere to travel tonight, don’t you think?” she said to Olivia. “There could be rising damps. Or falling.”
