Dangerous Deceptions

by Sarah Zettel

Mary stared at me. She stared at her maid, who stood frozen in place with the kettle in her hand. “She’d lodt her wits,” declared Mary.

  “Oh, yes, I’ve lost my wits, and that’s why Sophy knew to write to Sebastian and invite him to the party!” And give him a chance to issue his demands and his deadlines—

  “Sophy wrod to your beau?” Mary sneezed and honked into her kerchief. “Ad you care? I tought you didn’t like him.”

  “That’s not the point!” I shouted. “The point is that you told her, and now, now, it’s all over the papers and people think . . .”

  Oh, God in Heaven, people would think I actually cared about Sebastian! Matthew would think I didn’t tell him about the betrothal because I harbored some affection for that arrogant monstrosity! That had to be why he wrote so tersely.

  “Lud, Peggy,” groaned Mary. “Do go away. I’b doo tired to keeb ub wid your delirium.”

  “I’ll tell you who’s delirious!” I snapped back. “You are, if you think it’s not plain as paint who told Sophy about Sebastian, you snake!”

  The next thing I knew, a damp towel hit me in the face. I snatched at it, to see Mary reared up on the bolsters, her face flushed with far more than fever.

  “Because of course it could’d possibly hab been dat sneaking liddle maid you pay to spy for you,” snapped Mary. “Oh, do! Peggy de Mystery Girl can’t possibly be mistagen aboud adybody! Eberybody loves Peggy, from da princess on down. It’s just mean old Sophy and stubid, careless Mary Bellenden who don’d!”

  She flopped back on the pillows and gave me a glower of professional sharpness spoiled only by a fresh sneeze. “Ged away frob be until you cad talk sense.”

  I did “ged away.” Slowly and reluctantly, carrying the far-too-heavy possibility that Careless Mary—bedridden and most thoroughly provoked—had just spoken the truth.

  I sat miserable and sulky through the play that night. This was probably a shame. The comedy was The Wanton Wife, and it had the rest of the party in stitches, including Her Royal Highness. But I could not get past Mary’s assessment of my judgment. I truly might have been mistaken about who had talked to Sophy about Sebastian. It could easily have been Libby.

  The fact that I’d had no time to write to Matthew, let alone Olivia, did not help my mood. Among the unpleasant possibilities that had squeezed into the royal theater box with me was that Matthew must believe I had flirted with Sebastian. The strength of our feelings had never really been tested before, and I realized, bleakly, that I had no idea what I would do if it failed.

  With such pleasant thoughts as these for bedfellows that night, my readers will not be surprised to learn that once again sleep proved elusive. This meant my ghost could not make an appearance, but that seemed poor compensation for the aching head and burning eyes caused by hours of staring into darkness.

  When dawn, and Libby, at last arrived, I sat in bed for a long time, watching her. I don’t know what I expected to see as she moved about the room. Perhaps I thought that if she really was the one who had talked to Sophy, I could disconcert her guilty conscience with the strength of my weary gaze.

  “Will you be getting up today, miss?” Libby inquired mildly as she handed over my chocolate.

  “Yes, yes.” I gulped my drink and was rewarded with a scalded mouth. Even chocolate was conspiring against me.

  “And when might this grand event be occurring?” asked Libby.

  This was quite enough. She was not the only one with the right to be snippy this morning.

  “Libby?” I said. She folded her hands, and Waited at me. “Someone told Sophy Howe that Sebastian Sandford came to see me, and . . .” I stopped. I did not need to elaborate for Libby what other people might think. She probably knew better than I did. “Was it you?”

  I waited for her to deny it, energetically. But Libby just snorted. “It didn’t have to be me. That one’s got plenty of her own spies.”

  I had nothing at all to say to this. Libby apparently took my silence and my codfish stare as evidence of a certain weakness in my powers of reason. “You must know you’re not well liked below-stairs, miss.” She enunciated each word carefully. “It doesn’t take a great deal for some people to start telling what they think they know.”

  “I’m not well liked? What have I done?” Except pay out more than I could afford to every single servant in the whole of St. James’s Palace, I added silently and perhaps a trifle irritably.

  “You’ve forgotten?” Libby rolled her eyes. “Well, he was only a footman, and was not much to remember, I expect.”

  Oh. No. “How could anybody blame me for Robert Ballantyne’s ruin?” I meant to shout, but I could barely manage a croak. “He acted alone. I had nothing to do with it.” Although I had to admit, it wasn’t for lack of trying. “Besides, he was the Jacobite.”

  “I’m sorry to inform you, miss, but it don’t matter. He was below-stairs, and his family was below-stairs, and for some, blood is not only thicker, but . . .” Libby stopped and shrugged.

  “Robert still has relatives in service?” I knew his father had been, but I hadn’t stopped to consider that there might be others. I’d been too busy trying to sort out my life above-stairs.

  “Not anymore. They were all dismissed for the crime of being his relatives, and for maybe wishing they were cleaning up after the King Over the Water instead of German George.”

  And there it was. If I’d lost someone his position, I instantly became the enemy of all those who remained behind.

  “Not that it matters to me who’s in the bed I’m making as long as I’ve got a roof, dry feet, and a full belly at the end of it,” Libby went on. “But it’s amazing what some people will let get in the way of what’s important.”

  Yes it is, I agreed silently. None of this, however, answered my original question.

  “But was it you who told Sophy about Sebastian?” I asked.

  “No,” said Libby flatly. “Neither was it Norris or Cavey—that I would have known. I can name you plenty who might have done it, if you want to hear.”

  I found I had no answer to give to this bald declaration, and Libby returned to the closet without waiting to be dismissed. I stayed as I was for a long moment after that, clutching my cup of chocolate as if I feared it might be planning its escape.

  I had honestly not thought about it. I prided myself on understanding the workings of the world below-stairs and its inhabitants, but I hadn’t thought about loyalty and family, and that there might be a whole group of people somewhere in this palace who did not like me for what I had done. Aside from Sophy Howe and any of her friends, that is.

  The worst part of it was that I was dependent on these people. The life of a maid of honor is essentially that of a permanent houseguest. I had very little power over those who served, aside from some slight ability to make their days uncomfortable if I chose to turn shrewish. But these unknowns could do far worse to me.

  I tried to tell myself that hand had been dealt and I must play it out as best I could. This effort met with limited success. Seeking distraction, I took up the first of the letters that lay on the tray beside the plate. It was from Mr. Tinderflint. I broke the seal, hoping it might provide me some sort of guidance. But as I scanned the lines of Latin, French, and Greek, that hope plummeted with breathtaking rapidity.

  My Dear,

  I write this from the city, where your letter has just found me. I hope Jane continues in her quiet and peaceful life there, untroubled by any suitors importuning her.

  “You know Mr. Walpole’s talking to me,” I murmured. “If you were that worried, you might have said something before you left.”

  As to your inquiry about the Family S——, they are, as you know, not townsfolk, preferring to keep to their own neighborhood on the skirts of the Great Romney marsh. It is not my ideal of country. The air in that district, I’m convinced, is bad for one’s health. Neither is the company there of the most wholesome sort, as the marsh is a notable haunt of thieves, smuggler
s, Jacobites, and men of similar ilk. I fear the family may have made a questionable exchange when they decided to quit Barbados to return to that country. I do wonder at it myself. I would council Jane to avoid them as much as possible. If necessary, I think you may apply to your good friend Mrs. PG for assistance in advising Jane regarding the family.

  I tossed the letter down, my teeth grinding in frustration. What was the point of a spy master if he could not supply his spies with important information? Here my great, scheming, mysterious patron could only tell me that Sebastian was a conniving no-good from a family of conniving no-goods who associated themselves with other conniving no-goods from a county well populated by members of that species.

  “Will you take another cup of obscurity with your roll, Miss Fitzroy?” Then a highly unwelcome thought flitted about the back of my mind. What if Mr. Tinderflint did have important information? What if he was withholding it?

  Impatience and a sudden chilly unease impelled me to action. I put the tray aside and kicked my way out from under the covers. Grabbing my keys from my dressing table, I unlocked my desk.

  Libby popped out from the closet like she’d been launched on a spring.

  “Miss!”

  I stopped her with a glance. That was a new thing, and I admit it pleased me.

  “I am writing two letters,” I said. “I will be quick, and I will put them and my keys in your hands afterward. You will see that the letters get where they need to go. Get Norris to help, and make sure he’s paid for his trouble. That is your work for today. Do you understand?”

  Libby raised her brows in surprise that was not entirely devoid of disapproval. “Yes, miss. Very clear.”

  My first letter was to Matthew. It was brief.

  Yes, that was Sebastian. It was also most emphatically not my idea, and not at all what happened. Come at five o’clock tonight, and I will tell you everything.

  P. Mostly

  I was in the process of pressing my seal into the wax when a knock sounded and the door opened. Molly Lepell stepped into the room in an unusually hesitant fashion.

  “Oh. Hello, Peggy. I was thinking . . . that is . . . if you were ready, we might walk down together.”

  Oh, no, Molly. I haven’t time for your troubles. Just go away, just for a little while—let me sort out Sebastian and the Jacobites and Mr. Tinderflint and my uncle and my criminal acts and then I’ll be right with you.

  This, of course, was not what I said. I set my quill back in its stand and from somewhere mustered a smile for this girl who was, after all, my friend. “Come and talk while Libby dresses me. It will help me hold still.”

  “I doubt anything could manage that,” said Molly, but she smiled and followed me to stand in the doorway of my tiny closet while I assumed the Dressing Position—standing still with my arms straight out while Libby removed inappropriate garments and substituted more proper ones. All the while, Molly looked about her. She even sidled over to my table and adjusted the pots and bottles there, clearly searching for some way to begin a conversation. I decided to take a leaf from Her Royal Highness’s book and say nothing. It might kill me, but I would hold my tongue and let Molly speak when she was ready. I would. Truly I would.

  “I think I saw you with Mrs. Egan the other night?”

  “Yes. Thank you for giving me her name.” I said this as casually as possible, which was difficult because Libby now pushed me into the vanity chair and gripped my chin to square it up so she could start wielding her paintbrushes. “She seems most discreet.”

  “I am glad to hear it.”

  There was that uncharacteristic hesitancy again. I cocked an eye at Molly, only to have Libby grab my head in both her hands and firmly square it up again. “I’m sure she’d be more than willing to help you with any of your business as well,” I said, ignoring Libby’s threatening glower and the meaningful gesture with the powder box.

  “No!” Molly blushed. “Well, that is, I was hoping you might speak to her on my behalf.”

  “Without mentioning that it is on your behalf?” I am not actually as slow to take a hint as Libby might believe.

  “Yes.” Molly looked down at her hands as she spoke. “I mean, she doesn’t know your jewels, does she? One or two extra pieces would not rouse her suspicions in any way.”

  I bit my lip. Then I pushed Libby’s hands away and stood to take Molly’s arm instead, walking us toward my bedchamber. “Libby, we need a moment.”

  Libby scowled. “At least you’ll be late together!” For emphasis, she slammed the closet door behind us.

  Unusually docile, Molly let me steer her toward my chair and sit her down.

  “Molly, what’s the matter?” I sat on the stool at her feet and took her hands. “Are you in trouble?” She didn’t answer. This time I was not inclined to wait. “I saw you playing cards with Lady Bristol.”

  Now she did raise her eyes to mine, and I saw they were swimming with tears.

  “I have to do something. For John . . . Mr. Hervey.”

  “Oh, Molly.” I squeezed her fingers gently.

  Molly shook her head. “I’m a fool, I know it. But there’s nothing to be done about that. His mother, Lady Bristol, she plays so deeply, and she loses so badly. It’s draining them dry.” She stopped, and her mouth twisted up. “I thought if she lost to me, then she’d have enough money, at least for a little while.”

  As far as it went, it was a good idea. There was one problem: for a player such as Lady Bristol, there was no such thing as enough money, not even for a little while.

  “Molly, does he love you?”

  “I don’t know.” A tear trickled down one cheek, and she wiped at it with the heel of her hand. “I only know I love him.”

  “I understand.” In my mind’s eye, I saw Matthew and his smiling face and his clear gaze. Would I sell my jewels if he needed the money? I wouldn’t even hesitate.

  What Molly saw in my face, I do not know, but it was enough to pull her back into something like her old humor. “To be honest, I never thought to find myself in love.”

  “Neither did I.”

  “It is . . . awkward,” she ventured.

  “So the poets tell us. I believe the word painful is also frequently mentioned.”

  “Inconvenient,” Molly suggested.

  “Conducive to a gross disordering of the faculties.”

  “It makes one wonder why we persist in it.”

  “I have heard it is because we are weak and frail female creatures.”

  “Ah, yes, of course.”

  Our gazes met. It was Molly who laughed first, but I joined her readily.

  When our mirth had spent itself, I hesitated. I feared she would take offense at my next question, but I had to ask. “Molly . . . Mr. Hervey hasn’t asked you to sell your jewels, has he?”

  “No!” she exclaimed. “I did try . . . His mother’s debts . . . You can’t begin to imagine . . .” If I’d needed proof of the reality of Molly’s distress, I had it now. Never in my time at court had I heard her fail to finish so many sentences. “But when I suggested it, he scolded and told me to never mention such a thing again. So, the best help I can give is to play with her and lose. But the money, well, it must come from somewhere.”

  I was beginning not to like the sound of this Mr. Hervey. “You should not have to deceive him to help him. If he cares, you should be able to speak openly to him.”

  “And you always speak openly to your beau?” countered Molly. She meant the remark as a barb, but it quite failed to stick.

  “I try to. If nothing else, it keeps things simpler, given that my most innocent transgressions might well turn up in the papers.”

  “Then perhaps you are a better person than I am,” said Molly. “Or perhaps your beau has less pride to injure.” My first impulse was to leap to Matthew’s defense, but I held myself admirably in check. “I know only that John is in straits and I can help him.” She looked at me, and I saw all her familiar strength had returned. “But
I can’t go to Mrs. Egan myself. Someone might see. Will you help me, Peggy?”

  “You know that I will.” Hope and guilt warred in me, because my friend’s cry for help meant I might impose upon her for my own business. “But I need your help as well. I may need to get away from the palace for a few hours tomorrow.”

  Molly pulled back. “Tomorrow? To do what?”

  “It’s a private family matter.” Molly nodded as if she understood. Exactly what she thought she understood, I could not say and did not ask. “Mary’s planning to be back tomorrow, isn’t she? You can tell Her Royal Highness I’ve caught Mary’s cold and am lying down.”

  “Very well, if Mary’s back, and if you’re in place by evening. Any more untoward gossip, and Her Royal Highness might decide to make some changes in her household.”

  “I know it. Now, we can be going just as soon as I write this one last letter.”

  There was a groan from my closet that made it sound suspiciously as if Libby had overheard these words. I ignored it as I hurried to my desk and pulled out another sheet of paper.

  This time, I wrote to Olivia.

  Be at my rooms tonight at half past six. It’s time for our plan.

  P.

  EIGHTEEN

  IN WHICH OUR HEROINE MAKES ONE MORE BOLD ATTEMPT AT BOTH RECONCILIATION AND ARTIFICE.

  So it was that I found myself hurrying away from the Tuesday afternoon party of coffee and cards to meet Matthew. I could not decide whether I should be ready with apologies, insouciant explanations, or arguments. None of these options felt right, and I was left with the understanding that I simply wanted to see him. I felt at my wits’ end. Precious days had passed. I’d found no way to stall Sebastian and his ridiculous deadline, and no way out of the risks of delving into whatever secrets my uncle held. I needed Matthew’s warmth, his solid intelligence, his embrace. I had then to find some way to achieve that meeting of hearts in tender reconciliation as was appropriate between lovers who have quarreled. This all must be done before Olivia arrived at half six to help plot our infiltration of her father’s innermost secrets.