Dangerous Deceptions

by Sarah Zettel

  I settled on the stool beside Princess Caroline, but she did not begin to speak immediately. Instead, she contemplated me as if I were a particularly complex piece of statuary. I, of course, could not speak until spoken to. I had to stare at my folded hands and work on not fidgeting. Doing this under the gaze of a woman who has the power to send persons who displease her to assorted unpleasant locations is an improving but exhausting exercise. I do not recommend it to the social novice.

  “Your dinner last night,” she said finally. “It was successful?”

  Now she spoke in her native German, a language in which I was reasonably fluent, more so at least than those gathered around us.

  “It went about as well as could be expected, Your Highness,” I replied, a remark that had the benefit of being polite, noncommittal, and true.

  It also earned me a fresh frown, and I blushed. By now I should know better than to try such a maneuver with my mistress.

  “It sounds as if you might have had unexpected company as well. Is this so?”

  I didn’t even consider lying. “Yes, ma’am. I did.”

  “It was not Mr. Reade?”

  “No, ma’am!”

  “Someone else, then?”

  “Yes.”

  She sighed, and for the first time that day, I saw her looking tired. Guilt, ever at the ready, stepped up and presented itself. “You have far more important things to do than providing food for gossip, Miss Fitzroy.”

  “Yes, ma’am. I do know it.” Tell her, urged some part of me. Tell her about Sebastian now. “I . . . please believe me, this was not my idea.”

  “Then you will have ideas to spare as to how to finish it.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  She waited for me to go on. I almost did, but I let the moment fall away. I could not tell her here, not now, when I understood so little and could do even less about it. I owed my living, and my life, to this woman. I could not cause her to regret giving me either.

  For her part, my mistress evidently decided I could be allowed my little secrets, for now. Her tone became brisk and far more sympathetic. “Now, I understand you will be visiting Mr. Reade this afternoon in regard to his commission?”

  “Yes, ma’am. He writes that it is finished.”

  “Good. Then you will have time for another commission afterward. There are rumors being put about that the king intends to stay in Hanover permanently. We need these confirmed as soon as may be. You will write your Mr. Tinderflint. Quietly, of course.”

  There are those among my readers who might find it odd that the princess was resorting to such circumlocutions to obtain this information. If anyone could make an inquiry of the king, it would surely be his daughter-in-law. Unfortunately, the sniping between palace residents neither began nor ended with the maids of honor. The Prince of Wales did not get along with his father the king, and the king did not get along with him. That some members of the cabinet and government actively exploited this rift should not surprise anyone. Like ambassadors, they were ready to tell their own set of lies in answer to any given question. As was King George himself.

  “I will write today, ma’am.”

  “Good.” Then Princess Caroline’s face softened. “Do not neglect this other matter, either, Miss Fitzroy. I dislike discord for its own sake, but especially where it interferes with necessary business.”

  “That, Your Highness, is a sentiment I entirely share.” I let my eyes drift toward Molly Lepell, knowing full well my mistress would make note of this lapse of attention. That I had succeeded in gaining her attention was signaled by a fresh arching of the royal brows.

  I steeled my nerve and hoped my mistress felt up to taking a hint. “But your hands are quite blue, Your Highness,” I said, in French, becoming a perfect model of maidenly concern. “May I fetch you a shawl?” I gave several wide-eyed, rapid, and exceedingly innocent blinks for added effect. The tight twist of Her Royal Highness’s smiling mouth accused me of overplaying the scene.

  But she did let out a guttural “ooof,” and massage her rounded belly. “Oh, very well, Margaret. You seem to have designated yourself my duenna for this day. Go. And take Miss Lepell with you.”

  Molly started. For a moment, it was clear she would have refused if she could. But bounded as we all were by the dictates of service and protocol, she could only lay her handkerchief and needle aside and make her curtsy. “Of course, Your Highness.”

  I knew a moment of pride as I made my own curtsy and exited the pavilion with Molly Lepell. I had successfully orchestrated that moment alone with her, an event that had seemed highly unlikely. The single flaw in this little plan was that Miss Lepell did not want to be alone with me.

  Despite high heels, hoops, and corsets, Molly could achieve a turn of speed that was nothing short of astounding when she chose. She chose this now, and was all but receding into the vasty distance of the gardens before I found a stride that would allow me to catch up.

  “Molly,” I said, between undignified puffs of breath and silent curses against all mantua makers. “Please, listen.”

  Molly’s response was to increase her pace and keep her heart-shaped face turned determinedly forward. I watched her back and wondered idly if this was what spurned suitors felt like.

  Well, if I was to be spurned, I would also be persistent. I hiked up my hems, balanced on the toes of my shoes, and broke into a wobbling trot across the grass, praying that I would not turn an ankle. Given her anger, I was not sure Molly would feel obliged to call for help.

  When I caught up again, I had no breath left to be anything but direct. “Molly, I’m a fraud and an impostor, and what I did was appalling, and you have every right to be angry.”

  “I see that we are in agreement,” she snapped.

  “But . . .”

  Mercifully, we had reached the paved path that ringed the palace, so I no longer had to worry about my heels sinking into the damp lawn. Molly stopped, and she turned. When she spoke, she did so low and quickly. Molly never forgot the court was filled to its gilded brim with listening ears.

  “If you are about to say that you never meant to deceive me, I suggest you save your breath.”

  “Oh, no. I meant to deceive everyone.”

  In point of fact, I was still deceiving everyone. It was Mr. Tinderflint who had concocted the story of how I came to court. It was almost as fanciful as the reality, but differed in several important details. The story went that Lady Francesca, all innocently, had discovered certain Unscrupulous Personages were attempting to siphon monies from the royal household and line their own pockets. Being a delicate but honest maid, she returned home to consult with her “uncle,” Lord Tierney, about what was best to do. While at home, she fell dangerously ill before she could provide the names of those involved in the fraud and theft. I, as a close and loving cousin, was sent back, in disguise, to find who was so callous as to abuse a position of trust within the household—quietly, of course, and without fuss or embarrassment to the king or the prince. Who, after all, wanted such low gossip in the papers?

  Unfortunately, Francesca died of her fever. My subsequently taking up her post was both in remembrance of a loyal servant of the Crown and my reward for being Honest and True.

  I had no idea whether there was anyone who actually believed a word of this tale, and that included Molly herself. Not that most people really cared. The important thing was that between this story and the princess’s favor, they had an excuse to accord me a measure of welcome. Everything else would work itself out in time. But on one point both Their Royal Highnesses were clear. No one was to know my real business of finding Jacobites at court. Firstly, because it would cause a scandal to shake the rooftrees. Secondly, because it might make His Royal Highness look weak and hasten the return of the king from Hanover, something no one among the prince’s allies wanted.

  Thirdly, because it would effectively ruin my usefulness as a covert agent. Which was something I, at least, did not want.

 
“I expected I would come here, spend a little time, and vanish again when . . . certain prospects changed,” I told Molly. “I did not expect to be offered a post in my own name or to make friends.”

  The look of surprise this brought to Molly’s pretty face was as genuine as it was scornful. “You thought that you and I were friends?”

  “I wished that we could be. You were the only one who actually liked Lady Francesca.”

  Molly winced, and slowly, a new thought occurred to me.

  “You did like her, didn’t you?”

  She turned her face stubbornly away. “What difference would it make whether I liked Fran or not?” she asked bitterly. The line of her jaw hardened as she struggled to hold a flood of harder words in check.

  “It makes a difference because I’d like to know whether you are angry at me or at Lady Francesca for deceiving you.”

  This seemed to give Molly some small pause. Her eyes glittered, and I was almost certain part of that shimmer came from unshed tears. “Well, it would be rather pointless being angry at Francesca,” she said with that cold, clipped enunciation that comes from suppressing violent emotion. “She is, after all, dead.”

  And you just found out, and you’ve had no chance to mourn. And yet I’m still here to remind you of everything that happened.

  “A feeling may be pointless and still monstrously strong,” I breathed. “Molly, please hear me. I would like the chance to be your friend, under my own name. You are kind, and you are honest in your friendships. If there is anything . . .”

  I meant to say if there was anything I could do, I would. But the look Molly turned on me just then killed that earnest promise. She knew as well as I did that any gesture I made now would be nothing short of a bribe. I was ashamed of myself for even beginning to make such a suggestion, and I think it showed. I also think it might have been the best thing I could do, because Molly looked at me again. This time—and perhaps for the first time—she saw Peggy Fitzroy rather than the poor counterfeit of her deceased, deceitful friend.

  “Not yet,” she murmured. “Perhaps later. But not yet.”

  “Then I will ask a favor of you instead.”

  Molly’s expression turned at once suspicious and dangerous. I did my best to ignore it. “I need to sell some jewels, Molly, but I don’t know where to go with them. I was hoping you might be able to tell me.”

  I was prepared for a scathing reply, even for mockery. What I had not expected was the fury that caused her pale skin to flush scarlet from the roots of her hair to the neckline of her gown. “Who have you been talking to? What makes you believe I would know such persons!”

  With difficulty I kept my own countenance, and answered as steadily as I could. “Because unlike Mary or Sophy, you actually do know everything that goes on in this place. Ladies sell their jewels to pay their debts every day. I just need to know who they go to, so I can pay my own debts and keep up appearances. That’s all, I swear.” I paused. “I’ve nowhere else to turn, Molly.”

  Whether it was due to my confession or her own understanding of appearances, Molly made a visible effort to rein in her temper. She turned her face away, and for a moment, I thought she must be ashamed. But of what? The answer seemed obvious, as it does after any furious, blushing denial. Despite this, I held my peace. If I pried now, I would break the fragile moment we held between us.

  “A Mrs. Egan will be at the next card party,” said Molly quietly. “You can speak with her. She is most discreet, or so I’ve been told.”

  “Thank you, Molly. I won’t trouble you further.”

  “It was no trouble . . . Peggy.”

  I nodded, and together we walked the rest of the way in silence, and at a pace I could easily keep. It was not much, but it was a beginning, and for now, it was all I had.

  NINE

  IN WHICH OUR HEROINE MAKES A PERILOUS DESCENT AMONG SOME UNRULY AND UNKEMPT RUFFIANS.

  The morning’s diversion made one thing abundantly clear: I had to tell Matthew about my betrothal immediately.

  A small, cowardly part of myself tried to reason that I could have my answers and my solutions to the problem Sebastian’s existence presented before the week was out, if I moved quickly enough. Once my betrothal was broken, there would be no reason for Matthew to know it had ever been in place and therefore no reason for me to ever have to confess.

  Another, more realistic part of myself saw far, far too many ways for this comforting scheme to go horribly wrong, especially since Mary had put no less a hound than Sophy Howe onto the scent of fresh trouble. The best I could do was to make sure that when the thin ice of secrecy broke, I would not be found guilty of lying, at least not to Matthew. The princess could only send me to the Tower if she caught me deceiving her. Matthew could stop speaking to me.

  Whatever my private plans, my errand was nominally royal business, which conferred several advantages. It saved me from having to find a replacement to stand in waiting this afternoon, and I was allowed the use of a small black coach. This conveyance was well sprung, which meant the jouncing passage through the streets was only equal to that of being in a ship on a rough sea, rather than in a rowboat in a tempest. It also meant Libby got to ride with me, rather than having to walk the whole way behind a sedan chair, which improved her outlook slightly. It also gave her an excuse to bring out my traveling cloak and mask.

  My mask was a relatively simple affair, being plain white with a bit of diamond-cut onyx in the place of a black patch beside the right eyehole. It was framed with silver ruffles and tied with silver ribbons to match my gray velvet cape with its deep hood. The reasoning I heard for this particular Nuisance of Fashion was that it protected one’s delicate skin from accidental contact with the harsher elements, like winter wind or any season’s sunlight.

  In reality, however, it is to keep the third of the Great Rules: Fashion must make all activity more complicated and open to misinterpretation.

  Each woman in court will declare how she shuns gossip and scandal. At the same time, if no one talks about her, she trembles in fear of losing her consequence. If, however, said lady goes out always masked and cloaked, then even if she is not actually on the way to an assignation, someone might at least think she is.

  Matthew worked, and lived, at the Academy for the Improvement of Art and Artists in Great Queen Street. His master, James Thornhill, sat on the academy’s governing board, but Mr. Thornhill himself was not much there. After a long and bitter fight such as can only occur between rival artists, Mr. Thornhill had been awarded the commission to paint the interior of the new St. Paul’s Cathedral. This left him no leisure time to oversee the running of so trivial a thing as an art school. Instead, he consigned that task to his least favorite apprentice.

  By this, Mr. Thornhill had meant to disgrace Matthew. What he succeeded in doing, however, was exiling Matthew to Paradise. At last, Matthew was surrounded by art and artists. Despite the errands and being the man-of-all-work, he still managed to sit in on lessons with the academy’s masters. He had time to draw and to paint, to read in the library, and to spend hours with men and youths who shared his love and ambition.

  For my part, I didn’t think he slept enough. Both his shirts were permanently stained with wine and paint, and his hair was usually tousled, which I found terribly endearing. I loved to see the energy and passion blossom in him. But I feared it, too, because that passion must take him away from me. When his apprenticeship ended in three years, Matthew meant to take his status as journeyman literally and travel to Amsterdam and Paris and Rome.

  My service, on the other hand, did not end in three years. I did not know when it would end, if ever. Whenever I contemplated this lack of confluence, I suffered a most curious sensation, as if my heart had dried up and begun crumbling within me. I instructed myself firmly, and repeatedly, not to dwell on the future. Anything might happen in the next few months, let alone the next few years. James the Pretender might come from over the water and be successful in his attem
pt to take back the throne for the Stuarts. Fire and toads might rain from the heavens. Matthew might meet some other girl in the midst of a wholly different set of dramatic adventures and become madly infatuated with her instead.

  As this last thought crossed my agitated mind, I went straight back to contemplating civil war and deluges of unlikely items. They seemed the least unpleasant options.

  We reached Great Queen Street, and I stuck my whole head boldly out the coach window to see Matthew waiting for me at the academy doors. The horses were still stamping when I stripped off my mask. With that article dangling from its chain at my waist, I ran up the steps to meet him. The smile that spread across my face as he made his bow might best be described as entirely silly, but I cared not one jot.

  “Is it here?” I cried. “Do you have it?”

  “Come see.” Matthew pushed the doors open with a great flourish.

  When Matthew first moved himself and his belongings to the academy, we endured some disagreement over which entrance I should use when visiting. He wanted me to enter from around the back. I declared I would not. Unlike other court ladies, I did not care to be thought of as sneaking about when I called on my beau. Matthew, rather cautiously, indicated that a number of the front rooms were taken up with classes “drawing from life.” By this he meant there were naked women posing for the students. I pointed out I had seen more naked women than he—at least, it was to be hoped I had. He mentioned that the quality of woman who might be induced to pose naked in front of a room full of men was not of the best. I inquired as to whether he was worried that I would see these women or that I would see him staring at naked women of dubious quality. And what exactly would be the reason behind that worry?

  With this, I carried the argument. I could now enter through the front door, along with anyone who could pay the guinea fee to study the elements of drawing, painting, engraving, and sculpting. As a result, the dim and narrow halls were crowded, and our progress slow. It was slowed further yet because most of the inhabitants had some word or jest for Matthew as he passed.