Assassin's Masque (Palace of Spies Book 3)

by Sarah Zettel

  Father chuckled, but his face remained stern. “Leave Amelia Pierpont to me.” There was a soft undertone to these words, a cross between a purr and a growl. I did not like it at all. Father seemed to notice my discomfort. “And I equally promise, Peg, I shall be responsible for the protection of Delphine and Olivia, no matter what happens.”

  He spoke firmly. He wanted me to believe him, and so did I.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  IN WHICH OUR HEROINE PLOTS HER RETURN TO COURT, WITH FRIPPERIES.

  One does not, of course, simply walk back into the Palace of St. James. This is true even if one is nominally in residence there or has important, clandestine information to communicate to certain royal personages. As with all momentous events, letters must be written first.

  My initial letter addressed my mistress, Her Royal Highness, Caroline, Princess of Wales, and humbly requested her leave to return to my duties. As I was reasonably sure permission would be granted, I also wrote to my maid, Nell Libby. I’d had to depart so suddenly that there had been no time to put my belongings in any sort of order. Therefore, I’d left Libby at St. James with instructions to look after things there. Libby was a tiny girl of about my own age. Her intellect was so sharp, I was sure sooner or later one of us would be cut by it. She had, however, proved quite willing to put her wits, as well as her skills as a hairdresser and compounder of cosmetics, to work on my behalf. For my part, I rewarded her as far as my purse allowed. Thus far we were both satisfied with the arrangement.

  Then, of course, I had to write Mr. Tinderflint to inform him of my impending resumption of post and place. I did not set down any description of the curious events from the funeral day. Letters have a nasty habit of going astray, especially when one is being watched by veiled women and known blackmailers.

  Then there was one other letter. This last took longer to compose and suffered from several false starts. This note was to Matthew Reade.

  Matthew Reade had begun life as the son of an apothecary. His family, recognizing some spark of genius, or possibly mischief, had caused him to be apprenticed to the celebrated artist James Thornhill. Matthew’s chief work in the service of this great man was to assist in the management and operations of the Academy for the Improvement of Art and Artists in Great Queen Street.

  He was also tall and lean and possessed a head of dark red hair, fine gray eyes, and a smile of devastating sweetness.

  At the time of this writing, Matthew and I—and I am forced to admit this against the dictates of a nature my readers will have observed to be generally cautious and circumspect—had fallen head over heels in love.

  I did attempt to hide the strength of my feeling for a while. This façade, however, had proved impossible to maintain. I loved Matthew Reade. I loved his humor, his intelligence, his kindness, and yes, shallow thing that I am, his handsome face and fine form.

  But I still knew fear. It came most strongly during the times when it seemed that the turmoil of my life would never settle. I had dragged Matthew into very real danger not once but twice, and I now possessed unquestionable evidence that fresh dangers waited just over the horizon. That was a great deal to ask a lover to endure. How much should I confide in him? How much more would he accept and still stand beside me?

  I stared at the fresh sheet of paper in front of me. It was so tempting to close my desk without finishing the letter. Surely the veiled Mrs. O’s appearance would amount to nothing. Everyone who mattered already knew my uncle had been involved with Jacobites. It was only to be expected that one of them would show up at his funeral. Jacobites loved dramatic gestures: from loud toasts to bonfires on certain birthdays to attempted invasions at regular intervals. Also, common sense told me there was any number of perfectly incongruous reasons Mrs. O could have dredged up my mother’s name, and unnerved my aunt, and quieted Mrs. Pierpont, and turned Sophy Howe pale. If I gave myself enough time, I could surely assemble a complete list. There was no need to inform Matthew of such trifles.

  Yet, if I evaded the truth and he found out, things would surely be the worse for us both.

  I was taking far too long about this. Olivia had already gone down to breakfast and I had promised to join her. Probably she supposed I meant sometime before noon.

  I dipped my quill into the ink and laid down the words with an uncertain hand.

  My Dearest Matthew:

  You asked once that I not hold anything back from you when it comes to any business I might have with Mr. T. Unfortunately, it seems I will have to keep that promise sooner than I had hoped. Be assured, I am well and looked after, but I am most likely returning to court sometime during the next s’en night. When I do, I will bring more of that business with me. Write to me there and I will reply as soon as I can.

  I miss you and I love you. Please write soon.

  Yrs. ever,

  Peggy Mostly

  I sanded, folded, and sealed the letter as quickly as I could so my coward’s heart would have less time to change the work of my rather more conscientious hand.

  As I applied my seal, a knock sounded at the door.

  “Come in,” I called, picking up my quill to write the direction. The knock was soft enough that I assumed it was our new footman come for the letters.

  But when I turned, Aunt Pierpont was standing at the threshold. “I hope I’m not interrupting, Peggy.”

  She still wore her heavy black dress, as she would for a while yet. She clutched her black handkerchief, but her eyes were dry and there was an unexpected air of resolution about her.

  “No, of course you’re not interrupting,” I said quickly, dropping my quill back into its stand. I was somewhat surprised, however. My aunt usually spent her mornings abed, resting her nerves. Since for once those nerves had sound and objective reason to feel strained, I had assumed we would not hear from her until well into the afternoon.

  “Fitzroy—that is, your father—tells me you are to return to court soon.” She advanced a few steps into the room.

  “I hope to. It all depends on Her Royal Highness.”

  “Yes, of course.” Aunt Pierpont fiddled with her handkerchief. “I do not wish to impose, but . . . do you think there is any way you could bring Olivia with you? She is eating her heart out here. I am afraid she will make herself ill.”

  I found myself staring in surprise. “Are you sure, Aunt Pierpont? That is, I would think you and she needed some time to . . .”

  But my aunt just shook her head. “I might need some time, but Olivia needs distraction, and, well . . .” She swallowed. “She is not betrothed yet, of course, and I am no longer—that is, I no longer move in the right circles . . .”

  With that, all things became clear. My aunt was asking me to take Olivia to court so she could catch herself a husband. For once, something in my life had a perfectly conventional explanation, and I found myself rather appalled.

  “But would you be all right here, alone?” True, my father was currently in residence, as it was his house. However, he had a bad habit of disappearing on short notice. Then there was the specter of Mrs. O to be considered.

  “Oh, I shall be perfectly well,” replied my aunt with forced cheerfulness. “In fact, I had thought once Olivia is safe with you that I might go away for a bit.”

  Had I been startled before? Now I was dealt a resounding blow. Aunt Pierpont had never once before spoken of leaving London’s immediate environs. Indeed, for her to go from St. James to Mayfair was an undertaking that involved every servant in the house, not to mention all the wraps, shawls, and smelling salts.

  Aunt Pierpont took note of my undisguised shock and lifted her quivering chin. “I have some family of my own. In Colchester. I have not seen any of them in such a long time. Mrs. Pierpont will want to return to her own home soon, I think.” I hope. It was not difficult to hear these words under the others. “She will feel easier if she has someone more than just a maid to help her. If all goes well, I mean to travel with her to Norwich and then go on to my own people.”


  “Are you sure, Aunt Pierpont? Maybe you should take a little more time to recover . . .”

  My aunt just shook her head. “I believe that when all other things are taken into account, it is best if I am away from London for a bit. I find myself in need of a respite from this difficult business, and, well, especially as my home is gone. I’m leaving all my business in your father’s hands.” She twisted her handkerchief. “It is not precisely as my husband would have wished, of course.” This was putting things mildly indeed. Had Uncle Pierpont been more than a handful of ashes, he would have reared up out of his coffin. “But Fitzroy was always good to me, and your mother loved him so. I am certain he will do what is right for me and Olivia.”

  I was almost certain he would mean to, but he’d left his family alone once before, for eight years. It might have been longer if I hadn’t stumbled over him during my own adventures. How much could we really count on him for mundane details such as paying the household bills?

  And what would he think when he heard that Aunt Pierpont planned to leave town in the company of her mother-in-law? As I considered it, I wondered if there might have been more than the hope of a marriage behind her desire to get Olivia out of the house.

  I found myself looking at my aunt with fresh eyes, and I did not at all like what I saw.

  Stop this, I ordered myself. You are inventing fears. Haven’t you enough real ones? I rallied my spirits and conjured up a smile. “I will, of course, do everything I can to help.”

  “Thank you, Peggy.” Aunt Pierpont gave her much-abused handkerchief an extra twist. “I knew we could count on you.”

  “Will you come down and tell Olivia?”

  “Oh, no, no. I’m still quite worn, and you know I cannot bear the smell of food before one of the clock. I will go to my room and rest for a while, and then there will be so many letters to write, I’m sure you understand.”

  I did not. I did not understand one thing that was going on. I said I did, however, and accordingly wished her good morning. Aunt Pierpont closed the door, leaving me alone with my rapidly growing sense of disquiet. Which was ridiculous. Aunt Pierpont had nothing to do with Jacobites or veiled women, or court, or anything of the kind.

  But her husband had, and her mother-in-law might, and my deceased mother, who was once my aunt’s close friend, most decidedly had.

  This was entirely too much to contemplate before breakfast.

  I hurried downstairs, determinedly keeping my thoughts fixed on food and coffee. But as I reached the dining room door, I heard a shrill voice shiver through the thick oak planks.

  “. . . Oh, I see through you. You’re thinking, ‘I’m clever. I’m a modern, educated gel, and my father is dead. I can slip out of all this easy enough.’”

  I clamped my mouth shut around a most heartfelt groan. That was something I had failed to take into account. Aunt Pierpont might not take breakfast, but Old Mother Pierpont most definitely did.

  “Really, Grandmother—are you talking of family, or a hangman’s noose?”

  “Ask yourself this, my gel,” said that sagacious dame. “Where’s all this ready money come from so sudden, eh?” I could not make out Olivia’s reply, but it did not mollify Old Mother Pierpont. “You’re a fool ten times over, Miss Olivia. What is stolen from one Pierpont is stolen from all.”

  “If you think for one moment I’m going to listen to your calumnies, you old—”

  This seemed a prudent time to rattle the doorknob and sail into the dining room.

  “Good morning, Mrs. Pierpont, Olivia.” I breezed over to the sideboard, where breakfast was laid out in covered porcelain dishes. “How do I find you today?”

  “Hmmph.” Mrs. Pierpont stared a fine set of daggers at me as I helped myself to cake and jam along with a ragout of root vegetables and the previous night’s roast beef. Olivia’s look—somewhere between alarm and relief—was far more disturbing.

  I joined Olivia and Old Mother Pierpont at the foot of the table. That grand dame immediately leaned over my plate and sniffed. “What sort of mess is that, I’d like to know? Stuffing your face with them slurries and sugars!” She had a small bowl of watery porridge in front of her, accompanied by nothing but the salt cellar. “I suppose that’s a fashion you picked up among all your fancy friends at the court. You think that complexion of yours will last forever? Well—”

  “Just so, Mrs. Pierpont,” said my father.

  Father had entered a good deal more quietly than I had. He made his bow to our little assembly and passed to the sideboard. There, he removed the cover on one of the tureens and helped himself to nothing less than gray, watery porridge before settling at the head of the table. “In addition to the expense, a luxurious breakfast is extremely hazardous to the digestion. If I may trouble you for the salt, Peg?”

  I passed the salt. I also exchanged a meaningful glance with Olivia before we two returned to ruining complexion and digestion with plum cake and ragout.

  Mrs. Pierpont narrowed her eyes at Father. “Are you mocking me, sir?”

  “I am agreeing with you, Mrs. Pierpont.” Father tucked into the thin mess he’d selected with apparent relish. “There’s no excuse for wasting money on something so ruinous to one’s health. Unfortunately, with the unavoidable necessity of entertaining so many guests, extra provisioning had to be brought in, and the house is not yet ordered entirely as I would wish it. As waste is the more grievous sin, the food must be eaten somehow.”

  “You needn’t trouble yourself with any more flattery, Mr. Fitzroy. Oh, yes, I know flattery when I hear it.” Mother Pierpont nodded. “Your daughter is proof of your genuine views—nothing but meringue and mischief picked up from them Germans at this new court.”

  Father cast me a careful look that, if short on meringue, certainly held a fine dose of mischief.

  “Nothing like the court of the good old queen,” he murmured, shaking his head.

  “Exactly! These trumped-up foreigners and their lackeys and their women with these ideas and fancy French talk. How could any man allow his daughter to mingle with such corruption?”

  “Profit,” he said.

  Mrs. Pierpont’s mouth shut like a box lid.

  “As little as I like it—being entirely of your opinion about the hazard these foreigners represent to the heart and soul of our nation—there is only one way to wring the cash of England out of the German hands that hold it, and that is from within their ranks.”

  He looked toward me again, and I dropped my gaze modestly and exerted all my powers to raise a blush in my cheeks.

  “Dutiful daughter that she is, Margaret returns among them to be the eyes and ears of the Fitzroy family.” He paused and turned his dark, knowing gaze upon Mrs. Pierpont. “I very much hope she will continue as the eyes of the Pierpont family as well.” His fresh pause was so pregnant with significance, I expected it to burst all across the breakfast table. “To that point, if you have finished your meal, there are one or two matters I think it important we discuss. The children do not need to be involved in such business.” He rose and extended his hand. “May I see you settled into the back parlor? I’ve given orders that the fire in there be banked for the morning. A warm house is unsettling to the humors, not to mention a waste of fuel, especially after a heavy meal.”

  Whatever foes Mrs. Pierpont had faced in her life, she clearly had never known such an assault of agreeable shrewdness. Mute with what I presumed to be wonder, she extended her arm to let my father walk her solicitously from the room.

  The door closed behind them.

  “Did that just happen?” asked Olivia.

  “It did,” I replied. “I will thank him later.”

  “We both will.” She raised her cup to me, and we clinked our rims.

  “What was she going on about when I came in?” I asked as I turned back to my coffee and cake.

  “I barely remember. I’m sure it was family, family, and more family.”

  This I did not entirely beli
eve, but I also recognized that mulish gleam in Olivia’s eyes and knew I would get nothing further from her at this moment. “On the subject of family, Olivia.” I pushed some cake crumbs about my plate with my fork. “Your mother came to see me.”

  “She got up before one?”

  “She did, and it was to ask me to speak with the princess on your behalf, to see if you might come to court.”

  Olivia sat back and blinked at me. “Mother suggested this?”

  “She says she wants to go back to her people in Colchester and that she wants you to stay with me.” I left out the bit about it being a husband-catching expedition. There was no reason to set off that particular explosion before we’d finished breakfast.

  Olivia looked past me to the door and said nothing. Silence from Olivia was never a good sign. Her mind worked so quickly, any of a hundred things might have been happening in there simultaneously.

  Then her face lit up in a brilliant smile. “It’s perfect!” she cried. “We’ll be able to work together to unveil our mysterious mourner!”

  “Olivia,” I said as sternly as I could manage. “Clearly we need to uncover what’s happening, but we can’t go charging about like angry bulls or mad playwrights.”

  “Of course not!” Her reply held an astonishing amount of indignation. “But isn’t this exactly what we wanted, even before this disaster began? We’ll be pursuing your work, both of us together, and we’ll be free, really free, for the first time in our lives!”

  She seized my hands, obviously overjoyed, and yet there was a determination underneath that joy that caught at me like a thorn against skin.

  “Only if you’re sure, Olivia.”

  “I’m entirely sure. Everything is working out for the best.”

  Since “everything” included her father’s demise and her mother’s heretofore-undiscovered talents at deception, this was not an entirely reassuring statement. “Olivia Pierpont, you are not a normal sort of girl.”