Assassin's Masque (Palace of Spies Book 3)

by Sarah Zettel

  “Oh, I’m certain of that,” replied Sophy. “The truth will out.”

  “We must take this as a lesson that life is brief and fragile,” announced Molly in a pious and valiant attempt to end the conversation. “We can none of us know when the final blow will fall.”

  “I know where the first blow will fall,” muttered Olivia.

  “Oh, dear, Olivia, you have gone quite pale.” I caught my cousin’s elbow. “Come, let me get you your salts. It has all been too much . . .”

  Spouting this and many other untruths, I dragged my cousin out of the parlor, up the stairs, and into her room.

  “Ghouls!” Olivia cried as I slammed the door shut. She plumped herself down on the edge of her bed and folded her arms. “Can one disown a grandmother, Peggy? She has always been awful, but this is beyond the limits!”

  I couldn’t disagree with this sentiment. At the same time, it wasn’t Mrs. Pierpont who was foremost in my thoughts. That position belonged to Sophy Howe.

  When she’d walked in, I’d assumed Sophy had come both to gloat and to satisfy her unwholesome curiosity. Now, though, I was less certain. Just before Uncle Pierpont’s death, Sophy had been trying to winkle out information about his private bank, and about me. Now here she was at the funeral, trying to draw out details about the fire from the spiteful Old Mother Pierpont.

  Sophy had also recently taken up with my former betrothed, Sebastian Sandford.

  “Peggy?” said Olivia. “You’ve got that look on your face. You’re worried about something.”

  I pulled my mind back to the present and did my best to wipe away “that look.” “I’m just worried about your mother,” I told her, which was true. “But it will be over soon. Dr. Wallingford will come back with the men. He’ll say a prayer and we’ll have supper, and then we’ll be able to shove the whole pack of them out the door.”

  But even once that door closed, none of the agonizing complexities surrounding Uncle Pierpont’s death would end. Not today, or for many months to come. Sophy’s presence and her insinuating questions were grim proof that rumors regarding Uncle Pierpont and his business dealings already flew about the town.

  Olivia screwed her face up tight with the effort to hold back the tears. But my cousin’s strength deserted her, and she began to cry. I gathered her at once into my arms and held her close.

  “I don’t know what to do, Peggy,” she wailed. “He was my father . . . he was my father and he was a villain and I don’t know what to do!”

  Her words were garbled, but I understood her perfectly. We are told daily that a dutiful daughter loves her father without measure or question. Olivia did not love her father thus. Sir Oliver Pierpont had been a hard, taciturn, unpleasant man who would have gone to extremes to enforce his will upon his household. Arguments between father and daughter were frequent, and a few days before his death, Olivia had walked out of his house, intending never to return.

  For all that, he remained her father. No sermon or homily yet written could make sense of the confusion between what one should feel and what one does feel upon such a loss of such a person.

  “It’s all right, Olivia,” I murmured. “You don’t need to do anything. Not right now.”

  “But Mother’s all alone down there with those . . . those creatures.” Olivia pulled herself away and wiped at her eyes and nose with the heel of her hand. “And Grandmother. I have to—”

  “I just told you—you don’t have to do anything.” I handed her the kerchief I had tucked up my sleeve against just such an emergency. “Stay here. Be prostrate for a while. I can keep the creatures at bay.”

  “Even Grandmother?”

  “I shall turn upon her the full force of my maid-of-honor courtesies.” I lifted my chin in the loftiest of fashions. “Should that fail, I’ll get Templeton to pour gin into her punch—hers and Sophy’s. Once they pass out, we can hide the bodies in the cellar.”

  This earned me a wan smile and a squeeze for my hand. “Thank you, Peggy.”

  I pressed Olivia’s hand in return. Then I let her see how well I could assume an air of dignity before I glided slowly from the room.

  CHAPTER TWO

  IN WHICH A MYSTERIOUS AND EXPENSIVE STRANGER ARRIVES.

  I was in a desperate hurry to get back downstairs so I could separate Sophy and Old Mother Pierpont before any more injudicious words were spoken. I told myself to be calm. The matter might well be taken care of. Molly was expert in all social settings. If anyone could elegantly and delicately drag them apart, it was that maid dubbed “The Treasure” by the fashionable press.

  At first glance, this seemed to be the case. Sophy stood in the far corner of the dining room with Molly and two plump women I did not know. Old Mother Pierpont was still seated beside my aunt, alternately snorting and harrumphing at everything she saw. Between them, the milling, murmuring, sipping, and nibbling continued undisturbed.

  This distance between Mrs. Pierpont and Sophy eased my worries but did not erase them. Whatever Sophy’s reason for being here, I knew there was nothing good behind it. I needed to get her out of this house, especially before anyone felt obligated to invite her and Molly, as my fellow courtiers, to stay for supper.

  My mind was so much on this, I failed to be properly circumspect as I started across the parlor.

  “And then there’s this one!” Old Mother Pierpont waved her stick at me. “With her name always in the papers. Oh, yes, my gel. I read the papers!” She drew herself up, clearly proud of such literary accomplishments. “And you spend your time flaunting yourself among all those fancy Germans at court! As if any decent gel would want to see her name in print, except to get married or buried!”

  Fortunately, I was much used to navigating crowds and so was able to slide quickly past that ancient and opinionated dame.

  “Templeton,” I whispered as I reached the maid where she stood beside the refreshment table. “Tell Dolcy to get Miss Howe’s and Miss Lepell’s cloaks, and then find out if there’s any gin in the house.”

  Before she answered, I turned and sailed up to Sophy and Molly.

  “Thank you both so much for coming,” I said, making sure my words could be heard above the general murmur. “I know you must return to the princess, but it was very good of you all the same.”

  Molly caught my gist at once, as I knew she would. “Yes, indeed. We were specifically enjoined by Her Royal Highness to convey her sympathies on your loss, but we must return to our duties. Come, Sophy, we cannot be late.” Molly laced her arm right through Sophy’s. If Sophy chose to object now, she’d just make herself look ridiculous, especially as every mourner in the room was watching our little scene with interest.

  “Do let me walk you out.” I put my hand on Sophy’s shoulder for emphasis.

  “I am so sorry not to have met your father while we were here, Margaret,” Sophy began. “How delightful for you to have your parent back! Tell me—”

  “Sophy,” I interrupted, “if you want to taunt me, surely you can wait another few days. I’ve got too many other things to deal with. Thank you for coming, Molly,” I added as we passed into the dark-paneled entrance hall, where Dolcy waited to help them into their cloaks. I beckoned to the footman. “Hayden, the ladies are ready to leave.”

  Hayden moved to the outer door. Before he could put his hand on it, however, there came a thud from the brass knocker on the other side. The rest of us jumped, even Dolcy. Hayden simply opened the door to bow in whoever had made the sound.

  I looked up, my polite smile rising of its own accord. But when I saw the woman who entered, all thoughts of murder, gin, conspiracy, and Sophy Howe fled my mind.

  This new arrival carried herself with the rigid composure of one who has spent years being tutored in the art of deportment. The black satin of her overskirt and gloves gleamed in the candlelight. Jet beads sparkled across the luxurious folds of her skirts and the full length of her sleeves. The part of me made mercenary by my time at court tried to calculate the c
ost of enough Spanish lace to make the veil that trailed from her head to her hems, and failed. The part of me that daily grew more accustomed to the arts of the spy noted that this profusion of riches made it impossible to clearly discern any feature of her face or person.

  In defiance of all good sense, the apparition wore no bonnet or cloak. In defiance of all good manners, she swept straight past me without speaking a word.

  “Molly,” I murmured.

  Molly touched my arm and stepped away. “Come along, Sophy.”

  Sophy, for a wonder, let Molly lead her away without protest. Before the door shut, I caught a glimpse of the Howe’s face. Under all her perfectly laid-on paint, Sophy had gone white as a freshly laundered sheet.

  I hurried back to the parlor as quickly as skirts and corsets allowed, but the veiled woman already stood in front of Aunt Pierpont’s chair. My aunt gazed upon this expensive apparition from behind her much more modest veil of Irish lace, and she shuddered.

  I stepped between them.

  “Thank you so very much for coming, madame.” I presented the veiled woman with my most precise and polite curtsy. “I pray you will excuse my inattention. I did not hear your name.”

  We stood close enough that I could just make out how this lady’s eyes gleamed as hard as any of her black beads. “But you, I gather, are Miss Pierpont?” Her voice was high and rough, carrying the accent of the Midlands.

  “Miss Pierpont is my cousin, madame. I am Margaret Fitzroy.”

  “Margaret Fitzroy? Yes. I should have known at once.” The stranger spoke these words slowly, almost caressingly, but it was the caress of a well-honed blade against bare skin. “You look very much like your mother.”

  My mother? I could not have been more stunned had she thrown back her veil and danced a minuet. My mother had died when I was eight years old. Since then, I had met only one person outside the family who would admit to knowing her.

  The veiled mystery took advantage of my shocked silence to reach out to Aunt Pierpont, but she didn’t get far.

  “Well, and here’s another fine one!” cried Old Mother Pierpont. “With plenty more fripperies about her! No good there, I’ll warrant. What have you to say for yourself?” She thumped her stick. “Speak up, madame!”

  The apparition turned toward the withered and tart old woman, and when the stranger spoke, I heard the smile in her voice. “Good afternoon, Amelia. How delightful to see you again. I am only sorry as to the circumstances.”

  These gentle, polite words produced the most astonishing effect. Old Mother Pierpont positively and unmistakably shrank backwards in her chair.

  Apparently satisfied with this as her answer, the woman bent down so close to Aunt Pierpont that their veils brushed together. It was only by straining my gaze sideways that I was able to see that she was pressing something silver into my aunt’s hand.

  When the stranger spoke, it was in a murmur. “Against that day when you will need your true friends.”

  A warning tremor ran down my spine as she straightened.

  “Will you take some punch, madame?” I asked quickly.

  “No, thank you, Miss Fitzroy.” Again her tongue lingered about the syllables of my name. “I must away.”

  “Then let me see you to the door.” I fell into step beside her and, whether she would have it so or not, walked with her into our cool, and quite empty, entrance hall. “Again, I thank you for coming in this sad time. Do let me once more beg your pardon for my terrible inattention.” I faced her and smiled in what I hoped to be gentle befuddlement. “I still do not know your name.”

  The woman made no answer but took a step closer to me. She smelled strongly of musk and old roses. I could just make out the shape of her face beneath her veil. It was sharp, with hollow cheeks and, I thought, the marks of age.

  “But I know you, Margaret Fitzroy,” she said. “I know who you are and all that has been done to you.”

  She clearly meant to discomfort me with this. Unfortunately for her purposes, I had been intimidated by experts, some of whom were armed with far worse than words. “You are singularly well informed, madame, and evidently well acquainted with the Pierponts. Were you also acquainted with my mother?”

  “Extremely well. You might say Elizabeth and I were birds of a feather.” She may have smiled beneath her lace.

  “And yet you won’t tell me your name.”

  “Not yet, Miss Fitzroy. But that will come quite soon.” Now I was sure she smiled. I could hear it coloring her voice. “Now that I have seen you, and seen Elizabeth in you, I shall know how to act.”

  She meant to turn her back and glide away. I could tell. It was, after all, a fine speech and would have answered very well for an exit. Alas—giddy maid that I am—I can be deeply inconsiderate when it comes to other people’s dramatic turns.

  “How is it any friend of my mother’s should come to our house afraid to show her face?”

  Movement caught the corner of my eye. It was Olivia, standing in the doorway from the parlor, pale but determined, and glowering. The apparition must have seen her too, but the appearance of a witness apparently gave her no pause.

  “Very promptly spoken, Miss Fitzroy. In truth, it is my own fault. I was too slow and left too much in the charge of others. But I am here now, and we will be together again in due course.” The veil turned toward Olivia. “Look to your family, both of you. Remember who you and yours truly are, and do not be dissuaded.”

  This time, the apparition did glide, right out the door and into the street, while we were left to stare.

  CHAPTER THREE

  IN WHICH OUR HEROINE HAS SEVERAL UNCOMFORTABLE CONVERSATIONS AND MAKES A WELL-INTENTIONED, BUT SOMEWHAT RASH, PROMISE.

  The appearance of the veiled mourner had one lasting effect on the rest of the funeral day: it almost exactly replaced my attitude with Olivia’s and vice versa. Olivia found the strength of purpose to stand by her mother’s side, even to the point of ignoring every one of Old Mother Pierpont’s vehement declarations. For my part, I found it nearly impossible to return my attention to funeral matters. My thoughts raked over the veiled woman, searching each detail of her form and voice for some clue as to her identity. I needed to know who she was and what had brought her to my treacherous uncle’s funeral. More than that, I needed to know how she dared pretend an acquaintance with my mother.

  Perhaps most importantly, I needed to know why she had frightened not only Aunt Pierpont and Mrs. Pierpont, but the unflappable Sophy Howe.

  Of course, I was also frantic to discover what she had given my aunt, but we were not afforded any fresh glimpse of the item. Not even when Aunt Pierpont stood to receive the gentlemen as they returned from the graveyard.

  Being chief mourner and host, my father, Jonathan Fitzroy, led the black-clad and wholly masculine crowd into the parlor. He bowed solemnly to Aunt Pierpont before he passed to me.

  “All well, Peg?” he asked softly.

  “As well as can be, sir,” I murmured as I made my curtsy in greeting.

  His dark gaze held mine for a long moment. I was still growing accustomed to having any sort of father, let alone one with such startling looks. Jonathan Fitzroy had a long, strong, angled face accentuated by a pointed beard and mustaches. He wore the dark curling wig favored by the French. In his mourning clothes, he looked like the devil come disguised as a bank clerk, which is an unnerving comparison to make of one’s parent.

  I was certain he knew that something untoward had happened. Like me—and indeed, like my mother—Jonathan Fitzroy was both courtier and spy. I burned to tell him about the veiled mourner, but now was most decidedly not the time.

  The rest of that long day passed with only the normal sorts of strain. The men circulated decorously among the women. Dr. Wallingford did indeed speak a solemn prayer. He also said an appropriate number of consoling words to Aunt Pierpont and Olivia. For the chief among the guests, a supper was in due course presented. Not once during that meal did my aunt look at
me. Olivia mostly pushed the food on her plate about, and in an impressive show of self-restraint, she answered any remark addressed to her with a solemn shake of her head.

  With Old Mother Pierpont we did not have to contend. Shortly after the men returned, she declared herself “done with this never-ending nonsense” and took herself up to her bedroom. I spent most of supper wondering if this declaration and her accompanying absence were related to that veiled, nameless, unwelcome woman.

  When our new housekeeper, Mrs. Biddingswell, was finally able to shut the door behind the last of the departing mourners, all four of us let out sighs of relief. My father and Aunt Pierpont were scarcely less demonstrative about this than Olivia and myself.

  Aunt Pierpont did dab at her eyes and take my father’s hand. “Thank you, Fitzroy. For all you have done. I’m sorry . . . I’m so sorry . . .”

  “Don’t distress yourself, Delphine,” he answered. “I’m glad to be able to return a little of the good you did for Peggy while I was abroad.”

  “Yes. Yes. Of course. Well. I am very tired. I think I’ll go to my room . . . if . . . that is to say . . .”

  I found myself looking at her hands, to see if I could catch some glimpse of that silver artifact the veiled woman had given her, but all I saw was her tightly crumpled kerchief.

  Father patted her shoulder. “It’s exactly what I was going to suggest. Anything else can wait for the morning.” He bestowed upon me a significant glance. “Peg, Olivia’s also looking tired. Why don’t you girls go upstairs as well?”

  With this, we, the distaff members of the household, all proceeded up to the second floor. On the way, I debated with myself. I knew what I wanted to do, and it was not right. It was, in fact, deeply inconsiderate. My aunt had just lost her husband. I should give her all possible time to grieve in peace.