Assassin's Masque (Palace of Spies Book 3)

by Sarah Zettel

  “That, Margaret Fitzroy, is the pot calling the kettle sooty. When do we go?”

  CHAPTER SIX

  IN WHICH OUR HEROINE RETURNS AMIDST MUCH COMMOTION ONLY TO RECEIVE A VERY SMALL—AND FLUFFY—PRESENT.

  The first reply to my flurry of correspondence came from Her Royal Highness and arrived in grand style: carried by a messenger in a red coat with blue cuffs and gold braid. The princess’s letter indicated approval of my plan to return and suggested I should do so in time for the levee the following morning.

  Thus do we learn that making requests of princesses can be a hazardous business. I had thought to have at least another day or two to complete my arrangements.

  With these orders came a second missive, not, as I expected, from Mr. Tinderflint, nor, as I had hoped, from Matthew. This one was scrawled in a childish hand and filled with suspect spelling.

  Dear Miss Fitsroy,

  I trust this find you well. I wish you to know that you puppie, Isold, is well and grows every day. It is my wish that you should come see me and Izolde as soon as is convenyent.

  Yrs.,

  Anne, Princess Royal

  I had to smile at this. Six-year-old Anne was the eldest of the three daughters of the Prince and Princess of Wales and was what is generally described as a precocious child. This meant she understood her own mind, and her own power, far better than anyone was comfortable with. She had attached herself to me largely because I had been instrumental in her acquiring her flock of lap dogs. Much to my consternation, my reward for this was to be gifted with the smallest member of the recent litter.

  The next letter came with the regular post from my maid, Nell Libby. It informed me that all was in order for my return. I waited the entire day, but no further missives arrived, not from Mr. Tinderflint, nor from Matthew. The first worried me. The second left me with a wish to give in to an attack of the vapors.

  Unfortunately, being under royal command left no time for vapors or waiting about for delinquent correspondence. There were persons to inform, transportation to arrange, and, unavoidably, clothes to select.

  The next morning, only Father and Olivia came onto the stoop to see me off in the chill and fog. Aunt Pierpont was keeping to her room to rest her nerves. Old Mother Pierpont was holding solitary state at the breakfast table.

  “Tender my greetings to Mr. Tinderflint, and don’t worry. I’ve things well in hand here.” Father kissed my damp brow and resettled my cloak’s gray hood. He also eyed the waiting sedan chair and its slouching attendants. “And I promise you, this is the last time you’ll be traveling by chair.”

  These separate declarations did surprisingly little to lighten my mood, especially when it is remembered that I very much wanted to return to the palace and I loathed sedan chairs. I could not, however, shed my worries about what would happen with Father and Mrs. Pierpont and Olivia once I left the house. Still, I managed to smile at Father before I turned to Olivia, kissed her cheek, and whispered in her ear. “Do no violence against your grandmother, and keep an eye on your mother. Write if anything happens.”

  Olivia took my hand in affectionate farewell. She also pressed something into it. When we drew apart, I was holding a wad of paper tight against my palm. Olivia leveled at me a look of such significance it could have been seen from Paris, let alone my father’s vantage point. I tucked the paper up my sleeve and tried very hard not to meet his eye as I clambered into the waiting chair.

  A sedan chair is, in its essence, a cabinet with a seat built into it. If one is lucky, that seat is padded. If one is even luckier, that padding is of some recent vintage. This cabinet is attached to two long poles, which are lifted by two strong men, one in front and one behind. These chair men then proceed to run, or at least waddle, through the streets, carrying the cabinet’s occupant to her destination.

  During the pauses in the chair’s twisting, tipping, and jolting progress, I managed to extricate Olivia’s note from my sleeve. With only a few indelicate phrases to accompany the effort, I was also able to undo its multiple folds and (eventually) read the following:

  Silver medallion, about the width of my palm and as thick as a sovereign coin. Designs on both sides. One side: large horse trampling down a house, noble lady (Britannia?) holds crying baby and weeps. Reverse: a man holding crown and scepter raises hand (in blessing?) to crowd of people reaching out (beseeching?), separated by waves. Edge engraved (stamped?) with NOBILIS EST IRA LEONIS.

  “Olivia, you are hopeless.” I returned the note to my sleeve, striving to remain appropriately appalled by Olivia’s unfeeling behavior. Clearly, my cousin had not lost a moment in resuming her self-appointed station as my assistant in spy work. At some point during the night, Olivia must have rifled through her mourning mother’s possessions to find the memento.

  The fact that her observations might prove useful made this show of proper feeling difficult.

  “Hopeless,” I muttered again as I stared out the window at London wobbling past. “All of us.”

  London made no answer at all.

  St. James’s Palace is famous across Europe. Unfortunately, its fame derives largely from being low, cramped, labyrinthine, and in general unsuited as a home for the rulers of Great Britain. These inadequacies extend to its four great courtyards. On any given day, even the largest of them is filled to the brim with a monumental uproar of persons, carts, and livestock. On the day of my return, the madness had reached a fever pitch. The Prince of Wales’s birthday celebrations were almost upon us. Following the grand fête, His Royal Highness would begin a tour of the southern counties, and somewhere among these festivities, there should also occur the much-anticipated birth of a new member of the royal household. Such a confluence of great affairs required extra deliveries of supplies and a greater than usual influx of persons of all stations and sorts, from provisioners and additional cooks to the men who would stage and manage the fireworks and theatricals.

  Despite this swelling flood of human activity, my arrival in the Color Court did not go entirely unnoticed.

  “Peggy!” A small girl wearing a blue velvet cloak and carrying a covered basket barreled out the nearest door, cutting a chaotic path between porters, carters, and a flock of highly annoyed geese. This bit of expensively dressed enthusiasm was followed by two individuals made extraordinary by their contrast to each other. The first was Lady Portland, the most senior of the royal governesses. A tall, thin apparition in black, she wobbled along on wooden pattens in a futile attempt to keep up with the girl. The second, shorter personage was my patron, Hugh Thurlow Flintcross Gainsford, Earl Tierney, or, as he was privately known to me, Mr. Tinderflint.

  “Your Highness!” shrieked Lady Portland. “Your manners! Your shoes!”

  The immediate result of this explosion was that all persons within earshot, regardless of station, were forced to stop whatever they might have been doing and make their reverences, for the minute and exuberant individual in blue was none other than Her Highness, Anne, Princess Royal.

  “Lord Tierney said you’d come back today!” Princess Anne bounced to a halt in front of me, entirely ignoring that she did so in a mud puddle. “Thank you for telling me, Lord Tierney,” she added as he came puffing up behind her. She spoke with the lofty, lisping courtesy she was capable of assuming at the drop of a hat or turn of a whim.

  “It was my pleasure, Your Highness.” He bowed, still puffing.

  I have labored to find the exact words to fit Mr. Tinderflint. Portly barely begins to describe his girth. Splendid possibly does justice to his elaborate dress. Dry suits his humor, and his manners are the epitome of courtly. What remains beyond description, however, is the shrewd and sometimes ruthless mind beneath the surface of the short, round, beribboned, bejeweled, and excessively refined individual.

  Princess Anne’s moment of courtesy vanished as quickly as it had arrived. “The dogs have missed you so much! And look! I brought you Isolde!” Her Highness thrust the covered basket forward. “She can stay
in your rooms now, but you must bring her back to play with the others every day!”

  I kept my smile fixed as I peered into the basket. A fluffy white puppy, small enough to fit in my cupped hands, peered back at me with eyes of demon-bright intelligence.

  “Of course, Your Highness. I am looking forward to it.” This was not true, but it is difficult to confess that one holds no fondness for dogs, especially to royal girls giving them out as gifts. I reached out and attempted to pat the little creature’s head. I was experienced enough in the ways of the royal lap dogs, however, that I was able to snatch my hand back before the overfluffed ingrate snapped her sharp little teeth around my index finger. Lady Portland looked disappointed. She and I had never agreed, even before I became responsible for her nursery being saddled with Isolde’s large, loud family. Sometimes I got the feeling Lady Portland itched to see me turned out with all of the dogs in my luggage. Fortunately, my rank in the court, as well as the favor I was held in by royals large and small, limited her ability to injure me to the occasional sharp glower, such as the one she used now.

  Mr. Tinderflint, as usual, accurately read both Lady Portland’s glare and my urge to say something we might all later regret. He gave a delicate cough. “Tiny pups can become chilled so easily. It would be advisable, I think, for Miss Fitzroy to take Isolde inside before her pillow grows damp.”

  “Oh, yes, of course.” Princess Anne deposited the basket into my hands so that I was forced to juggle it and my bandbox. The basket’s occupant growled.

  “Oh, don’t worry, Izzy!” The princess went up on tiptoe to rub the puppy’s ears. “Miss Fitzroy will bring you to play often! You promise, don’t you, Miss Fitzroy? No matter what?”

  “No matter what, Your Highness.” I hoped Princess Anne did not notice my smile straining around the edges.

  The princess nodded, a surprisingly adult gesture that emphasized her resemblance to her mother. “I shall expect you shortly, then.”

  “After lessons, Your Highness,” prompted Lady Portland. “Which you will soon be late for.”

  Princess Anne rolled her eyes, sighed, and flounced away with an attitude of righteous tolerance. Lady Portland also departed, but not without one more backward glower.

  Isolde, for her part, gave me another sharp growl and burrowed back down into the depths of her basket. I felt a surprising amount of sympathy with this act.

  “How very good it is to see you, Peggy, my dear!” Mr. Tinderflint said as he helpfully relieved me of my box so I could wrap both arms around the basket.

  “And you, sir!” I gave him the curtsy I had neglected before. This caused the basket to joggle, which in turn caused Isolde to yip in outrage. “But isn’t the hour a bit early for you?”

  “It is, it is.” He nodded, setting all his chins wagging. “But I could not deny myself the pleasure of seeing you as soon as possible.”

  “And the chance to remind Princess Anne of our friendship was merely pleasant coincidence.”

  “Naturally.” Mr. Tinderflint winked heavily. “For no man of proper feeling would attempt to ingratiate himself to a mere child, no matter how highly born.” He extended his arm. “May I claim the privilege, the very great privilege, of escorting you and your new charge to your apartment?”

  “You are all kindness, sir.” I cradled the basket in one arm so I could lay my hand on my patron’s blue silk sleeve. “We must talk,” I murmured.

  Mr. Tinderflint made no direct answer but bestowed upon me a swift and owlish glance to indicate he had heard. “Yes, yes. Come along, my dear, do come along. Her Royal Highness has not been feeling very patient of late.”

  With this ominous declaration, my patron led me inside to the place that, for better or worse, had become my home.

  “Welcome back, miss,” said Libby as I entered my rooms. The fire was going, the candles were lit, and I felt myself relaxing as familiar walls and furnishings surrounded me. I could even regard with some good humor the way Libby halted in midstride when she heard my basket growl.

  “Oh, no,” she said.

  “Oh, yes.” I deposited the basket on the hearth. “We’ll need some rags, and a bowl of milk, and some towels.”

  “I expect so, miss,” Libby muttered. “And some more towels after that. I’m going to need extra coin for the laundry women.”

  “Yes, Libby,” I said obediently as I allowed myself to be divested of cloak, gloves, pattens, reticule, scarf, and all other such outdoor trappings, which Libby whisked away into the dressing closet. Libby, among other things, suspected I did not take my responsibilities toward my worldly goods seriously enough.

  As soon as Libby was out of sight, I deposited Olivia’s note into my writing desk. Mr. Tinderflint watched this with great interest and arched brows. I shook my head and mouthed, Later.

  “You seem to have kept everything in excellent order,” I called to Libby to cover the noise as I locked the desk. Libby murmured her thanks. She came out of my closet to glance sharply around at the room’s relatively simple furnishings of bed, chairs, writing desk, and stool. I wondered what was missing, or had been missing until recently. Libby I trusted, but she kept some company among the palace servants of which I was less certain.

  “Well, now, my dear, I must leave you in your maid’s most capable hands,” Mr. Tinderflint said regretfully as he gave me another of his courtly bows. “I am, alas, alas, not able to accompany you to this morning’s gathering.”

  “Why not? Surely nothing’s wrong.” I said this with a smile and a very strong awareness of Libby’s bustling presence and attentive ears.

  “Oh, no, no. It’s a mere matter of business. If you will permit, I will wait on you following the levee.” It was not strictly proper that I should receive Mr. Tinderflint in my apartment. I was an unmarried maid, after all, and he an unmarried man. But Libby’s presence combined with the general belief that he and I were related in some not-entirely-understood way would give us a fig leaf of propriety.

  Isolde chose this moment to scramble out of her basket and tumble onto the hearthstones. She immediately set about establishing her rank and status by barking furiously at them. I watched, overcome by the sinking feeling that I would never know a sound night’s sleep again. “Please do come after the levee,” I said grimly. “You may be needed to help hide the corpse.”

  “Now, now, my dear, when you are with others you may pretend you do not understand the advantages of being godmother to the royal lap dogs. But with me?” He laid one bejeweled hand on his expansive chest and assumed a doleful air. “We know each other better than that. Oh, ah, yes, and you might find these useful.” He made a great show of patting his pockets before drawing out a wooden box to hand me. I lifted the lid to reveal a small store of anise biscuits.

  Mr. Tinderflint winked, bowed, and took his leave. Isolde followed dangerously close to his high heels, barking as if she were personally chasing him out the door. As soon as she was denied Mr. Tinderflint’s heels to molest, she immediately turned and began barking at my toes.

  While I had hoped for at least one or two fluff-free days, I had known I would not be able to put off assuming responsibility for Isolde for long. I had therefore recently entered into correspondence with St. James’s Master of the Hounds—a bandy-legged, irascible, tobacco-spitting man who seemed highly amused to be discussing a creature that would never hunt anything bigger than a silk ribbon. Nonetheless, he had provided me with some sound advice regarding the tendencies of canines in general, which I hoped to combine with my knowledge of the royal lap dogs.

  There was one particular trait that all the members of Isolde’s family shared. They would do anything, follow anyone, if they thought there might be food at the end of the journey.

  I snapped one of the biscuits in two. “Isolde, shh! Can you keep a secret?”

  She stopped her barking in confusion. I dropped the biscuit. “Secret!”

  Isolde pounced on the tidbit with alacrity and silence. I watched, a whole set
of unaccustomed ideas filling my mind. Not that I had time to put any of them into play. Libby stood at the threshold of my closet, tapping her foot. From this I deduced that I was, as usual, in danger of being late to wait upon Her Royal Highness.

  In short order, Libby had stripped me down to my chemise and pushed me into the dressing table chair so she could begin work on my face. Isolde decided to investigate the closet. She apparently took exception to my clothing and dove at my fresh hems with a growl.

  This time, I was prepared.

  “Secret!” I dropped the other half of the biscuit. Isolde was diverted, my hems were spared her displeasure, and Libby was able to wield her brushes and pomades in peace.

  A good hour—and four more of Mr. Tinderflint’s biscuits—later, my maid pronounced me fit to be seen. By this time, Isolde was stretched out in her basket in front of the fire, her swollen belly emitting ominous rumbles and indelicate, anise-scented vapors. I was therefore able to collect my fan and leave the room entirely unscolded and even unnoticed.

  The Princess of Wales’s apartments were not difficult to find. The corridor was brightly lit, and teemed with well-dressed persons. If this was not indication enough that august personages waited behind the double doors, there were also a pair of footmen and four yeoman, not only on duty, but at attention.

  I gave myself a final moment to smooth my skirts and touch my pomaded hair. As ready as I could be, I snapped open my black and lavender lace fan and nodded to the right-hand footman. He nodded back solemnly and drew in a great breath.

  “Miss Margaret Preston Fitzroy!” he cried, and flung back the doors.