Dangerous Deceptions

by Sarah Zettel

TWENTY-EIGHT

  IN WHICH TRIUMPH PROVES TO BE SOMEWHAT SHORT-LIVED.

  Sebastian cursed. Sophy laughed. Even over the rest of the exclamations, applause, shouts, and curses, that laugh was unmistakable. I did not move. I could not move. Nor could I take my eyes from Mr. Sandford.

  “Oh! But wait a moment!” cried Olivia.

  The din faded. Julius straightened up in his seat at the exact moment Olivia bent down and reached under the table.

  “Mr. Sandford, you seem to have dropped one of your cards,” she said, quite clearly despite the awkwardness of her position. “It’s under your shoe, here.”

  My cousin stood up again and laid the two of clubs down on the tabletop, right next to Mr. Sandford’s discarded hand.

  “You must have dealt yourself an extra card by mistake,” Olivia said with an air of perfect innocence. “Perhaps it was that ace?”

  I met Julius Sandford’s gaze. I dared him with my own. Deny it, please deny it. Make the whole court suspect you had to cheat in order not to lose to a woman.

  A man might cheat at cards, but he could never be seen to do so. It was all about appearances. Sophy, I noted, had stopped laughing. Myself, I seemed to have stopped breathing.

  Julius Sandford’s cool gaze traveled from me, to Olivia, to his brother and father, and across the crowd of courtiers and royalty.

  “She’s right.” He pushed his chair back. “It was my mistake. The game is yours, Miss Fitzroy.”

  Had the room been loud before? It was nothing compared to the roar that shook the walls now. People cried out, or laughed, or shouted, or began to challenge one another. I did the only thing I could think of. I rose from my seat and turned to face the direction of Their Royal Highnesses. In the manner of the leading lady in a drama, I gave them my grandest, most sweeping curtsy.

  That was the last moment I had to myself for a very long time. The court descended from all sides, all of them talking at once and vying to praise, flatter, and congratulate me. I would have been hard-pressed to draw breath if Matthew and Olivia hadn’t remained staunchly at my side, helping deflect at least some of the crush. I did catch a glimpse of Molly Lepell between the shoulders of the assorted grandees. My friend saluted me with her fan, and I saw she stood not just with Mary Bellenden, but Mrs. Howard.

  I did not see Sophy or Sebastian in the crowd, but it didn’t matter. They didn’t matter, not now. I was giddy with relief. I’d done it. I’d actually done it! So great was my sense of triumph that I didn’t bat an eye when I turned to take another hand and found it belonged to Julius Sandford.

  “May I congratulate you on a game well played, Miss Fitzroy?” Mr. Sandford bowed. “That final hand was . . . inspired.”

  I nodded in acknowledgment of the compliment.

  “I don’t have your contract with me, of course,” he went on. “I’ll see that it’s sent around tomorrow.”

  “I would have thought that would be your father’s chore.” The crowd had at last begun to thin. As I quickly scanned the shifting knots of people, I saw that Lord Lynnfield was nowhere in evidence. Neither was Sebastian.

  Disquiet tapped lightly against my thoughts.

  Julius shrugged. “I can’t see that it would matter to you. You’ve gotten what you want.”

  He gave me no time to reply, neither did he bow. He simply turned and shouldered his way through the silken crowd, heading for the door. Disquiet tapped again, demanding attention. But Olivia’s presence was more forceful than my internal feeling.

  “You were magnificent!” My cousin seized my hands and crowed, “Simply magnificent! Wasn’t she, Matthew?”

  “She always is,” he answered. “But I’m glad it’s over.”

  I wished I could lean against him and bury my face against his shoulder and in general fall to pieces from relief. As it was, I had to settle for the smallest of smiles and the lightest of whispers. “Oh, so am I.”

  “You wish it were over,” muttered Olivia. “But the Sandfords are still what they are, and that Sophy Howe is still after you.”

  I waved her assessment away. “Mr. Walpole can deal with the Sandfords as he sees fit,” I said. Mr. Walpole had been the recipient of several of my recent letters. “What’s important now is that the contract is broken, no matter where the paper is.”

  Despite this, I knew Olivia was right. She only mistook which players still had to be met. Your father will be coming for you soon, cousin, I thought, and I’m going to have to blackmail him to save you all. And Mr. Tinderflint will be back any day now, and I must deal with him, and bid any hope of finding my own wayward father farewell in the process.

  A wave of weariness tumbled over me, washing away my triumphs and threatening the last of my strength. But I called on my training and kept smiling.

  Gradually, the bids for my notice faded away. Her Royal Highness declared she was tired, and we were all permitted to depart. I knew from the glances that Molly and Mary gave me that I would be called upon to give a full account of exactly what I’d done to secure so public and thrilling a victory. I wondered what I would tell them.

  But that, like the rest of my worries, was a matter for later. For the present, I would walk Olivia and Matthew to the gate. Afterward, I would take myself to bed as soon as humanly possible.

  We three crossed the Color Court, with Olivia on Matthew’s left arm and me on his right. The night was chill and smelled heavily of frost and more rain. We had the place nearly to ourselves. The rest of the court had packed themselves up almost an hour ago. That suited me well enough. I was done with being witty. The night had left me drained and empty. I wanted to see my friends on their way and find my bed. I would sleep for a week, waiting or no waiting.

  Matthew looked insufferably pleased with himself as he escorted the two of us silken belles under the great arch of the palace gatehouse. I pressed a little closer to him, taking shelter against the cold and against an uncomfortable certainty growing in the back of my mind.

  “I’ve forgotten something,” I murmured. “I’m sure of it.”

  Olivia yawned until her jaw cracked. “You’ll think of it in the morning,” she said.

  We emerged from the archway onto the cobblestones of the Mall. Matthew faced me and lifted up both my hands.

  “Besides, whatever it is, it will all come out right,” he told me. “We’ve gotten this far. We’ll see it through the rest of the way.”

  I lifted my face to his. I did not care if Olivia and all the world could see. I craved Matthew’s kiss with all the fibers of my being, and I meant to have it here and now.

  Then Olivia screamed.

  I whirled around and stumbled as Matthew shoved me to one side. Shadows rose up, seeming to walk straight out of the brick walls. I could not see faces, but in the instant before they rushed us, I could see the cudgels.

  Now I knew what was wrong. There were no yeomen at the gate. There should have been. They were gone, and there were only these ruffians.

  Lord Lynnfield’s ruffians.

  Olivia screamed again, and I added a scream of my own as one man swung his staff out to catch Matthew’s brow and snap his head back. I didn’t even see him fall. Two of the toughs blocked my view. I had my straight pin in my hand, but the third man, the one I didn’t see, was behind me, grabbing my arms. I kicked and I screamed and I couldn’t see Olivia, and I was hoisted high and they were all laughing. I felt my foot connect hard with a chin.

  I felt the blow on my own head.

  After that, there was nothing. Nothing at all.

  TWENTY-NINE

  IN WHICH OUR HEROINE RELUCTANTLY FORMS SEVERAL NEW ACQUAINTANCES.

  It is known, of course, that young ladies of a Certain Temperament are prone to episodes of unconsciousness in the form of the Faint. I cast no judgment on them now, but I will say that the variety of unconsciousness caused by a state of mental agitation cannot possibly hurt as much as that caused by a well-placed blow to the head. If it did, those young ladies would work much harder
to avoid it.

  My whole skull hurt abominably. The pain pulsed in time with my frantic heartbeat. After the pain, the next thing I became aware of was a stink. It was thick and vivid and carried a taste like copper and rot, and I wanted very much to get away from it. This base desire lent mind and body enough strength to attempt a more complete resumption of consciousness. As my eyelids hesitantly pried themselves open, I found only darkness. For a panicked moment, I feared I’d been somehow struck blind.

  The next thing I became aware of was that I was being discussed.

  “Why the f—’d you even bring ’er!” croaked a man. His voice was high, sharp, and brittle. “She was supposed to be at the bottom of the river by now.”

  My tongue was so dry, it stuck to the roof of my mouth. That was probably for the best, because it prevented me from making any startled sound at this casual proposal to dispose of my life and person. I turned toward the brittle voice. Now I could see a dim and flickering light several yards away and somewhat above the level of my head. I further became aware that I was lying on my side on a hard surface. The splinters poking against my cheek led me to conclude it was a wooden floor.

  “What? An’ waste all them good pickin’s?” another man was saying. In contrast to his companion, his voice was plump and round. It lingered lovingly over each word. “She’s wearing a f—kin’ fortune.”

  “So strip ’er before you dump ’er!” snapped the first man. This practical advice was followed by a convoluted and disparaging assessment of the intelligence, ancestry, and sexual predilections of his companion.

  There are, I would venture, few things in this world that will clear the mind like hearing strange men discuss one’s impending murder in vulgar language. I was suddenly wide awake, and though I still hurt worse than I ever had in my life, I no longer cared. Wherever I was, I had to get away. Now.

  There were, however, some barriers to this excellent scheme. To begin with, my wrists were tied. The hemp rope chafed painfully against my skin. My arms had been pulled so tightly in front of me that my shoulders ached. My legs and ankles had been left free. If I could get to my feet, I could at least walk.

  I tried to take stock of every part of me that hurt. The answer appeared to be all parts, but none worse than my raw throat and sore head. I took some comfort in this. I was also clothed. That, too, was encouraging. If I could get out of this place, I would still have the resources I carried with me.

  The men kept on talking.

  “Ah!” said the plump-voiced man with the air of someone knowing he’s about to lay down his ace. “But to the right buyer, a pretty little bit like her’ll bring in at least as much as that dress she’s wearing. Waste not, want not, is what I say.”

  This philosophy did not seem to carry much weight with his shrill companion. “You ’ad one job—one—and you ’ad to go an’ get greedy.”

  Fortunately, the high-voiced man’s tendency to allow his discourse to slip into long strings of insult bought me time. I kept my eyes slitted and carefully pulled my hands back toward my belly.

  “’E’s right, you know,” said a new voice, this one slower and deeper than the others. “She could be worth a pretty penny, especially alive and in one piece.” This third man drawled these last words in a way that turned my blood to water. “We’d be cutting you in for your bit, o’ course, Mr. Pym,” he added with a deference that to my ears sounded rather hollow.

  Mr. Pym, the high-voiced man, did not seem impressed either. “Johnny Leroy, you can take all your bits and—”

  I was not entirely sure what followed, but I believe it contained several anatomical references to either the speaker or his mother.

  I tried to arch my back. It was difficult to decide whether I still wore my stomacher. I knew I didn’t have my straight pin. My hand remembered the pain of that weapon being ripped away. But what of the other blade? The little hidden blade? That was the question now, and the only question that mattered.

  My vision had cleared somewhat. I could now make out that the light came from a single flickering lantern set on a table. Two of the men sat on barrels beside that table. The third leaned against the wall with his arms folded and ankles crossed. The lantern did not give me much help in making out their features. All wore hats. The man against the wall had a beard. The man showing me his right profile was all sharp angles and jutting chin. The man showing me his left profile had a round belly beneath his smock shirt.

  “The job was to get rid of the girl.” The sharp, right- profile man—Mr. Pym, I assumed—stabbed a finger toward me as he climbed to his feet. I could now see he had a hunched back and a long neck. “When I get back, I want ’er gone, or it’ll be your corpse in the f—in’ river right alongside ’ers, get me?”

  Crooked though he might be, Mr. Pym was a spry man. I heard his boots clatter briskly against the floorboards as he vanished from my field of view. I had by this time gotten my wrists up against my torso. I could feel the rough embroidery of my stomacher and dragged my arms to the right, trying to find the seam of the hidden pocket. I strained and I wriggled, but I couldn’t twist my hands around far enough to get my fingers to my pocket. I bit my cheek to keep down a desperate and undignified whimper.

  “An’ so we’ve our marchin’ orders, Johnny.” The round-bellied man in the smock shirt leaned his elbows on the table. “You doin’ the deed, or is those ’ands too lily white for it?”

  “Shut it, ’Orace Clay, you stupid sod,” said Johnny Leroy, entirely without rancor. He pushed himself away from the wall. “My question is, do you know anybody who’d buy such goods as we got to sell?”

  “I might,” said Clay noncommittally.

  “Well, move your lazy carcass and go wake ’em up! If Pym comes back, I’ll ’old him off. Then, when you come back, well, there’s two of us and one of ’im, ain’t there?”

  The sheer force of this argument was enough to give Clay pause. I strained, I twisted. The ropes bit into my skin. My dry and aching throat closed around my breath. I cursed myself for not having concealed my second blade in my skirts, or my bosom—anywhere but at my waist, where I could not reach it, no matter how I tried.

  “Pym’s right about one thing,” Clay said thoughtfully. “’Is Lordship won’t like it.”

  Leroy circled the table, putting his back between me and Clay as he leaned forward and planted both hands on the table. I blessed his name and strained harder, twisting my hands in the other direction. My little finger found the slit of the hidden pocket, and I pressed it in hard. The tip brushed the warm, smooth surface of the blade.

  “’Is Lordship wants ’er gone,” Johnny Leroy was saying. “Well, she’ll be just as gone in the colonies or the ’orehouses as dead in the river, won’t she?”

  I jammed my little finger farther into the pocket and managed to hook it around the blade’s handle. I began wriggling and pulling, worrying the slip of metal out of its embroidered sheath. It moved out one fraction of an inch. All my focus was on that tiny, rough bit of metal held by my smallest finger. I strained and I prayed, and I pulled and I prayed.

  “Whatcher gonna tell Pym?” asked Clay.

  “You leave that to me. You want the money or what?”

  Clay evidently lived up to his name, at least in terms of speed of thought, because this question seemed to set off another bout of pondering.

  The blade slipped free, and I scrabbled to turn it flat against my palm. My wrists were thoroughly raw by now, and I suspected they were bleeding. I didn’t care. My fingers were going numb, but I had sensation enough to tuck the blade into my sleeve. It was not much of a hiding place, but at least I could reach it more easily now. I didn’t dare try to cut the rope yet. That would take time, and I had no idea when one of these two might take it into his head to check on me.

  “All right.” Clay heaved himself to his feet so that he could poke Johnny Leroy in the chest. “But if I find out you’ve plucked our little chicken before I get back, I’ll be takin’ my share ou
t of your sorry ’ide. Get me?”

  “Yeah, yeah, an’ I’m shakin’ in me boots,” said Leroy amiably. “Now, get goin’!”

  Clay aimed a cuff at Leroy’s ears, which Leroy ducked easily. Then Clay stumped across the boards and disappeared, apparently sinking into the floor. I realized we must be in an attic, and Clay was headed down through a hatchway.

  Now there was only me and Johnny Leroy. Leroy stayed standing, his back toward me, as if waiting for something. There was the sound of movement below. There were some shouts outside the window. I tried desperately to remember everything Monsieur Janvier had ever taught me about fighting and escaping, but for those lessons, I’d had my hands free. Panic threatened again, and I pushed it aside. My hands were tied, but my feet were not. I inched them up under my skirts. Maybe I had strength enough now to get to my feet. Maybe I could run. At the very least, I could kick.

  Leroy had moved to the edge of the space lit by the smoky lantern. He squatted down. I heard wood slam against wood and the slight rattle that comes when a bolt is shot home. He’d locked us in together. Fear bit down hot and hard, and my fingers scrabbled for my blade. Leroy turned around. Our eyes met, and I understood my mistake. In my desperate bid to get hold of my only weapon, I’d forgotten I was supposed to be unconscious.

  “Well, well. Thought you might be awake.” He walked over to me. Like his friend Mr. Pym, Johnny Leroy moved more quickly than I expected, but he was lighter on his feet than the other two. Despite his thick boots, his feet made barely any sound.

  “Let’s ’ave a look at you, then.” He squatted down in front of me.

  I shrank back. I tried to do as I’d been taught—that is, stay calm and keep my eyes open, looking for my openings and opportunities. But all I saw was a hard man, much bigger than I was, and one with his hands free. His beard was long, dark, and tangled, as was the hair under his battered, slouching hat. He smelled of cider, onions, dirt, and the river.