Dangerous Deceptions

by Sarah Zettel

  Was that all, miss?” inquired Libby, pointedly covering her yawn as I climbed back into the coach.

  I deposited the box containing the gift for His Royal Highness in Libby’s lap and lifted up my mask. I didn’t put it on, I just stared at it. Until a moment ago, I had truly meant to return to the palace. This was not, after all, one of my days off. Tonight, the Prince of Wales and his family dined “in public,” as they did weekly. I needed to be in attendance at table, which meant I needed to allow time for yet another change of clothing. Olivia would also be at the palace with her basket to fetch Guinevere. If I tarried, I’d miss a chance to speak with her, and it was almost as important that I speak to Olivia as it was that I speak with Matthew.

  But my silent resolve in Matthew’s arms left me restless. I was frantic to know what turning of my uncle’s mind made him so insistent on my marriage. I had to discover the means that would allow me to smash his plan to pieces. Surely it was to do with business. Business and his bank were the driving factors in my uncle’s life.

  Now I did replace my mask and lean out the coach window.

  “The House of Pierpont, in Threadneedle Street,” I called up to the driver.

  I pulled my head back in. Libby huffed, set the box to one side, and picked up her mending, which she resumed peevishly. I tried not to be concerned that one or more of those seams might be designed to fail at a critical moment and instead spent the jouncing, creaking journey telling myself that this was a good idea. It was just the sort of thing a confidential agent should do.

  As it transpired, the House of Pierpont was just that—a house. It was one in a row of newish red brick buildings. A sign swinging on chains above the black door showed a gilded cup and plate, still gleaming despite the generous coating of the black soot that attached itself to all things hung out in the London air.

  Like many private bankers, my uncle’s family had once upon a time been goldsmiths. Men looking for a secure place to store coin, plate, and other valuables came to them and rented out a share of their strong room. Such worthies were then able to withdraw their coinage as needed for their expenses or write letters authorizing deputies to withdraw it on their behalf. Eventually, these enterprising gentlemen concocted a scheme whereby one smith would agree to lend another money against the value of the gold in their vaults. Over time, this engendered the mystical alchemy of debts, promises, interest, and alliances that had become the lifeblood of the city.

  This knowledge had largely come to me as I stood unnoticed and listening while various men who wanted the flow of those promises controlled (or expedited) explained things earnestly to Her Royal Highness. But I still had next to no idea what Uncle Pierpont actually did with himself within the confines of his bank. He had never encouraged visits there from the distaff members of his family. Perhaps I could go in now. I amused myself for a short moment by picturing the goggle-eyed look on my uncle’s face if I skipped in Bellenden-style and asked to deposit my money and jewels with the House of Pierpont or, even better, asked for a loan against them.

  Clearly the house did not lack for custom. In the time I sat trying the patience of both coachmen and maid, I saw three gentlemen enter the door. All were dressed in clothes of good quality, with plenty of gilt embroidery edging their hats and lace flowing from their coat sleeves. I tried to memorize their walks and faces while peeking out from the corner of the curtained window, as I imagined a first-rate spy should be able to do. This attempt failed. I would not know any of those men if they walked up and made their bow, with the possible exception of one heavy-jowled gentleman, but that was mainly because he wore a plain black coat of the sort favored by Quakers and certain foreign dignitaries, along with an exceedingly full and old-fashioned three-part wig.

  At one point, a monstrous, heavy coach bearing no fewer than six rough-looking men creaked up to the bank. Once the great shire horses pulling their conveyance had been halted, these grim, hairy, and bedraggled individuals ranged themselves around the coach with stout staffs ready in their hands. A withered man in good, plain clothes, with a black walking stick in hand, climbed down from the coach and paused to speak with the driver before he entered the bank. The driver, who remained in his seat and held the reins, looked as if he had never seen a barber in all his born days. Despite the cold, he wore no coat, so I could see the pistol roughly the length of my forearm that hung at his side.

  Whatever their master was taking away from my uncle’s vaults, he clearly meant to keep hold of it. Unfortunately, the bulk of their coach blocked my view of the bank entirely. In my frustration over this point, I uttered several (soft and entirely ladylike) curses.

  Eventually, the ruffians clambered back onto the coach, to sit on the roof or to cling to the rails behind. The driver touched up the horses, and the coach lumbered away. After it was gone, the man I’d seen in full wig and black coat came out carrying a leather-wrapped package bound with red ribbons and sealed with red wax. This startled and annoyed me, because I realized I hadn’t even noticed he must still be inside the bank. This, I told myself sternly, was an unpardonable lapse.

  Libby yawned, and I ignored her. She snapped off her sewing thread in her teeth, and I ignored her again. She coughed hard, just before the church bells rang over the cries of the clothing sellers and scissor grinders who passed us in the street. Privately I was beginning to understand this exercise was not only dull, it was futile. How on earth was I to make anything of these comings and goings? What did I honestly think I’d learn during this narrow window of time? If something mysterious was happening within the confines of the House of Pierpont, I’d have to watch day and night to catch a glimpse of it, or worse, I’d have to get inside the bank itself without being recognized.

  It was then my uncle emerged. I ducked back behind the coach’s curtains before I remembered I was masked. When I looked again, I noted he had under his arm a leather envelope similar to the one the Quakerish gentleman had carried. I also noted, somewhat to my surprise, that Uncle Pierpont had been spending some of the money he usually counted out with great reluctance. A new ebony walking stick with a silver tip swung in his free hand.

  I found myself wondering if there could be any significance to those matching envelopes. Was my uncle in some illicit trade with the Quaker dissenters? They were supposedly great ones for banking, as well as heavily involved in this new business of trading “shares” in business enterprises, something that I confess I did not at all understand. I did know the broadsheets and pamphlets hawked on the streets regularly decried their predations on honest Church of England members.

  “Miss,” said Libby severely, “my feet’s cold, and you’re going to be later than usual if we don’t shift. If you please.”

  Unfortunately, she was right again. Whatever I imagined my uncle might be doing, I could hardly be directing my coachmen to follow him through the teeming streets. I nodded to Libby so she in turn could shout the direction to the palace up to the coachmen. In the meantime, I slumped back in my seat and pretended not to hear the cursing as the men attempted to get the traffic to make way, or the cursing as they were ordered to stop cursing, or the cursing in response to the orders about cursing.

  “I suppose there’s a reason for this,” remarked Libby as she moved on to another section of stitching.

  “You may ask, if you choose,” I answered absently. “But before you do, no, I will not say what it is.”

  “As you please,” Libby replied to her mending. “My feet’s still cold.”

  I was not, however, going to be able to maintain my silence with Libby. If I continued to sneak out and to spy on my relatives, she would notice, and if I didn’t give her some kind of convincing argument to the contrary, she would talk. She might talk anyway, so at the very least I should concoct a covering story. This fact rankled me, even more than the note Olivia had left on my desk. It had obviously been written in a fit of pique and demanded to know where in the world I had taken myself. This rankling continued all the
while, as I carried dishes back and forth during the public dining.

  The public dining is one of the oddest of all royal affairs. It has its origins in the idea of the play, or perhaps the tableau vivant. Once every se’en night, a high table is set up on its dais in the largest hall the current royal residence offered. The table is laid with tapestry, plate, and crystal of the finest quality. All the royal family are decked out in silk, lace, velvet, and golden trim. Then the doors are thrown open to admit whosoever can cram themselves into the galleries, be they gentlefolk or simple citizen. While all these worthies gaze upon them, the royal family and their attendants process in, sit in the designated chairs, and eat dinner.

  For the length of this performance, we maids must wait on the princess, carrying dishes and bobbing curtsies as we serve, dressed in our most unwieldy court clothes. For once, our male counterparts have the worst of it, because they must kneel to the prince with each dish they present.

  I didn’t mind being on display. What I minded was the witty citizens in the galleries who did not confine themselves to shouts and jeers. These merry “cits” amused themselves by spitting pips and tobacco, sometimes making target practice of us. Fortunately, they were usually so full of cider and bad wine, their aim tended to be very poor.

  Eventually, our performance came to its natural close, and we were all able to leave the stage for the dim and blessedly quiet confines of the palace. Princess Caroline declared herself too tired to attend the evening’s private gathering and card playing, and I could not believe my luck, for this meant that if we chose, we maids could also retire early. I fully intended to do so. I had letters to write and arrangements to make, and more seemed to be suggesting themselves to me with each moment. But as I started up the corridor toward the stairs, the most unwelcome voice of Sophy Howe stopped me dead.

  “Do you think we’ll be seeing our Peggy anymore tonight, Mary?” Sophy asked, loudly, just in case there was anyone about to hear. She and Mary Bellenden posed together at the foot of the grand staircase. Or rather, Sophy was posed; Mary Bellenden was just leaning her forearms on the banister and grinning. The light from the flambeaux on the walls sparkled on the bracelet I had lent her.

  “Oh, I hope we will see her,” replied Mary cheerfully. “I’m dying to know what new developments her business has brought about.”

  I can’t say I stared in disbelief. I believed what I saw far too easily. Sophy would have arranged this little scene in the hopes of drawing blood and scoring some sort of victory. Mary, on the other hand, was simply enjoying herself, like a spectator at a bearbaiting. At that moment, I truly didn’t know which was worse.

  “She was gone for so long today, it was surely on business, don’t you think?” mused Sophy.

  This remark sent Mary into a fit of giggles. “Oh, most definitely business. I begin to wonder whether she’ll ever be back among us. After all, so much business must be done behind closed doors.” Mary laughed as if this were the veriest soul of wit. Sophy smiled wanly. Neither one of them looked at me.

  “And what is Sophy on about this time?”

  I jumped. Molly Lepell had glided up behind me. She was not looking her best. She was clearly tired. In addition, an unusually well-aimed and fairly rotted apple had caught her gown during the public dining and left a huge smear across her skirts. She saw me taking note of this, and we both grimaced.

  “Truly, there has to be a better means for the royalty to display themselves to the public,” I said. “As soon as I think of it, I will apply for a patent on the method, make myself a fortune, and never be put on show again.”

  I was talking nonsense, and I knew it, but I wanted to keep Molly here. While she was talking to me, she wasn’t off deciding to hate me, after all.

  Molly sighed, as if guessing what my babble meant. “Sophy was trying to cozen me today. She thinks to form an alliance with me against you, with Mary too, if she can be brought to pay attention for more than ten minutes altogether.”

  I bit my lip. “Did you . . . what did you answer her?”

  Molly waved in weary dismissal. “Sophy will ever be Sophy. She worries at anything she gets between her teeth. You just happen to be on hand.”

  “How do you advise I deal with this latest? Shall I go down to cards tonight and draw her out, or stay away?”

  Molly paused. The look she turned to me was long, and not entirely comfortable. I watched her struggle with feeling and knowledge, all of it heavy, and much of it pinned up from beneath by matters I didn’t know anything about, yet. I remembered Mary Bellenden’s little aside about Molly having fallen in love. I wondered if it could possibly be true, and if so, whether the gentleman returned the sentiment. Unrequited love could explain the weariness in Molly’s attitude, but so could the endless necessity of dealing with Sophy Howe.

  “Go to bed, if you want to.” Molly gave the tiniest shrug. “I’ll let you know if Sophy does anything truly outrageous.”

  I meant to ask if she was sure, but I saw this offer to watch out for my interests for one evening as what it was: an olive branch.

  “Thank you, Molly,” I said, but she had already turned to walk briskly across the larger chamber, making sure she brushed close to Mary and Sophy as she mounted the stairs. Sophy made a great show of ignoring her. Mary rolled her eyes and laughed, to all appearances enjoying the show. I hesitated. I did not like this new intimacy between Mary and Sophy, especially after Mary had seen Sebastian in my room. Careless Mary had no more control over her own tongue than I did over the revolutions of the Earth. But I had more important things to attend to than one night of trading barbs with Sophy Howe.

  I could make up a hand for that game at any time.

  TWELVE

  IN WHICH OUR HEROINE RECEIVES A HIGHLY UNUSUAL DANCING LESSON.

  Fortunately, one thing I did not have to concern myself with was Olivia’s pique. It so happened that the perfect way to soothe her ruffled feelings was at my fingertips.

  Saturday morning, in the brief period between Libby dragging me from my bed and then dragging me from my morning correspondence, I dashed off a note to my cousin letting her know that at three of the clock, I would be taking my dancing lesson with one Monsieur Janvier. I begged her in the strongest possible language to forgive me for my absence and to please join me for the lesson and to share supper afterward.

  I did not set down any details as to where I’d been or what I’d been doing that had caused me to be so late. I had perfect faith in Olivia’s discretion, but etiquette and prudence dictate that if one must inform one’s cousin one has spied on her father, it is best done in person. I sealed the missive and trusted it to Libby’s tender care, reminding her to put the letter into the maid’s hands and on no account to be seen by Uncle Pierpont.

  Neither Libby nor Olivia disappointed. When I returned from waiting at the princess’s nuncheon, it was to find Olivia sitting primly in my chair, with Guinevere in her lap. Both of them wore remarkably similar expressions of frosty indignation.

  “You’ve brought the young princess’s favorite for a visit, I see, cousin,” I said by way of greeting. Guinevere, aware she was being talked about, gave an imperious yip, for which feat her doting guardian immediately patted her head.

  “It was reasonably warm today, and I felt the danger but slight,” replied Olivia. The studied distance of her tone was meant to inform me that her displeasure was as yet undiminished. “Now, I am here as you insisted. But, good heavens, Peggy, you know how much I loathe dancing.”

  I smiled at this, because at least Olivia sounded like herself again. “Ah! But this is an entirely new form of dancing come but lately to the court. You must trust me when I say you will enjoy it extremely.”

  This, of course, gave rise to a barrage of questions, none of which I answered. Enjoying my cousin’s mystification more than a properly meek and charitable soul should, I led Olivia down several corridors and up several staircases to meet my dancing master.

  It had been dif
ficult to find a suitable location in St. James’s narrow confines for my particular variety of lessons. We had at last settled into a chamber on the second floor overlooking the Chair Court. The long room was entirely without carpet or furnishings, except for a table and a stool too old to be used in any other part of the palace, but this was perfect for our purposes.

  Monsieur Janvier was already inside when Olivia and I arrived. His violinist, whom I knew only as Felix, stood by the window, tuning his instrument. The table was decorated with two unlit candles and a brown-paper package tied with string.

  “There you are, Miss Fitzroy!” Monsieur Janvier executed a perfect bow as we entered. Naturally, he spoke in French. “And who is this you bring me today?”

  I introduced Olivia. While her curtsy was scrupulously polite, my cousin did not bother to hide how she used the moment to closely inspect my instructor. Monsieur Janvier was not tall, topping my own height by a scant two inches. He had a square face whose only refinement lay in a pair of large black eyes with a curious tilt that rendered them positively arresting. To go with these, he possessed a strong frame, with thick arms and dramatically curved calves earned in the practice of his particular arts. His hands too were broad and callused, and his wrists rawboned. He wore no wig, but pulled his black hair back in a curling queue.

  Her Royal Highness, being an educated woman herself, believed that ladies should spend their time in improving activities. Therefore, she had been more than ready to agree to Mr. Tinderflint’s plan to engage me a private tutor so that I might refine my skills at dancing and several related activities. What I do not know is whether Mr. Tinderflint ever told her the exact nature of the steps Monsieur Janvier taught.

  “You must be a formidable instructor, Monsieur Janvier,” said Olivia, in her excellent French. “My cousin has never shown such enthusiasm for the dance.”