by Sarah Zettel
I made no answer. I did lean a little closer to Matthew.
“Has the princess agreed to let Olivia stay?” asked my patron.
I nodded. “And she made sure both the prince and Lord Lynnfield heard her do it.”
“Did she indeed?” Mr. Tinderflint turned Olivia’s note over again. “Now, that is also interesting. Yes, yes, most interesting.”
I knotted my fingers together. I did not like the path down which I was being led. “My father says it was a woman named Oglethorpe who caused him to be arrested while he was in France.”
“It could have been, yes, yes,” said Mr. Tinderflint. “The Oglethorpe family has been conspiring for the Stuarts for decades. Their matriarch, Eleanor, is called the Old Fury because of her righteous temper. Of her six children, her namesake daughter, the Young Fury, is married to the Marquis de Mézières and currently lives in Paris. A second daughter, Anne, remains with the mother and acts as her private secretary. If any one of these uncovered your father’s identity and mission, she could have made a great deal of mischief.”
“Mrs. O also said she knew my mother.”
“She did,” Mr. Tinderflint answered, and when he saw the shock on my face, he smiled gently. “My dear, the Oglethorpes form a line of communication between the Pretender and his friends in England. Your mother got hold of that line and brought what she learned from them to me.”
A pang of loneliness shot through me. When I was a child, it had seemed to me that my father’s departure had also taken away my mother. She went out almost every night and did not return until the small hours of the morning. I would sometimes keep myself awake in the hopes of catching a glimpse of her on the stair. Then, I hadn’t known what she was doing. I did now, for I was engaged in exactly the same work.
Why didn’t this make me feel any better about those lonely nights?
Matthew snapped his fingers and I jumped. “Now I know where I heard that name,” he declared. “Wasn’t there some rumor or the other in the broadsheets that a Mrs. Oglethorpe is the Pretender’s real mother?”
“What?” I exclaimed with more than a bit of feigned disbelief. “She’s the warming pan?” One of the most repeated rumors about James, the would-be Third, was that he was not actually the son of James, the formerly Second. They said his mother had falsified her pregnancy and arranged for a baby to be smuggled into the birthing chamber inside the pan normally used to carry coals to warm the royal bed.
Mr. Tinderflint chuckled. “Not a warming pan, no, no, no. But Eleanor Oglethorpe did give birth to a son named James about the time James the Pretender was born. The story goes that Mrs. Oglethorpe was one of old James the Second’s mistresses and that her son was fathered by James the Second. The legitimate James Stuart is supposed to have died of a fever some five weeks after being born. After this, the illegitimate James Oglethorpe was secretly brought in to take his place.”
I sat silent for a long moment, attempting to untangle this knotty thread of Jameses. “When I am in charge, I am going to require that all fathers give their sons distinct names.”
“When you are in charge, I will heartily support the motion,” agreed Mr. Tinderflint. “What this rumor shows us, however, is how very close the Oglethorpe family is to the Stuarts.” He paused. “And now we appear to have a line from the Pretender to the Oglethorpes to the Pierponts. Does that line also extend to the Sandfords, and from there to Miss Howe?”
“You can’t believe Sophy Howe has turned into a genuine Jacobite?” said Matthew. “She’s vicious, but she’s nobody’s conspirator, at least not in politics.”
“I’m not sure I like your becoming an expert in court machinations, Matthew,” I told him lightly. “It might remove the blush of your innocence.”
This earned me a smile that was most decidedly not innocent. “Sometime I’ll tell you all about the backstabbing that goes on between artists, especially when there’s money on the table.”
Mr. Tinderflint turned Olivia’s note over in his fingers several more times. “Whatever Miss Howe’s game, Peggy, you must take extreme care when your cousin arrives in court. Both Miss Howe and Mr. Sandford will be very interested in her presence here. There may be others as well.”
I shifted in my chair and tried not to show it. “If Olivia is with me, then everyone will know that unlike her father, she is part of the princess’s circle and a Hanoverian. That will keep the Jacobites at a distance.”
“Will it?” asked Mr. Tinderflint. “Or will it bring them swarming around, seeking her assistance and her loyalty to their cause?”
“What if it does?” I replied stoutly. “If they’re foolish enough to think there’s any good to be gotten from talking to Olivia, that’s to our advantage. It’s my job to bring such people to light, after all.” But even as I spoke these words, a chill rushed through me. I didn’t doubt Olivia’s ability to take all such maneuvers in stride. Hadn’t I joked from the beginning that she was the one who should be the spy? But I had just suggested we use her presence to draw the Jacobites out. That felt less like allowing my dear cousin to assist my spying and more like using her as bait.
Mr. Tinderflint’s reply, when it came, offered no reassurance. “We are entering a serious time. We must approach it in a serious manner.” He paused and shook out the lace on his cuffs. “Word has reached King George in Hanover regarding the Swedish plot and Peggy’s discovery of it. My correspondents tell me His Majesty is severely displeased regarding the Prince of Wales’s management of his affairs and so is hastening back. His early return will change the calculations of all sorts of schemers at court, and it may push the Jacobites into some hasty action.”
I said nothing. I realized I’d once again leaned close to Matthew only when I felt the fabric of his shirt brushing against my cheek.
Mr. Tinderflint adjusted several of his rings. “If you decide you wish to leave your post, my dear, I will not blame you for it. Oh no, far, far from it, especially now that your cousin might become involved. But if you do want to go, you should do so now. Otherwise, you may not be able to leave at all.”
In that moment, it was not Olivia’s face I saw, but Old Mother Pierpont’s, and I could hear her sly, cracked voice intoning, You’re thinking, “I’m clever . . . I can slip out of all this easy enough.”
I hadn’t told Mr. Tinderflint about that conversation. I was used to dangers coming from outside my family, but to sense such danger under the vicious words of an old woman inside my family bounds . . . I didn’t like it, and I didn’t like myself for becoming the sort of person who would suspect it. That was probably why I did not mention the exchange to him now.
Besides, since Mrs. Pierpont was leaving London, it didn’t matter. At least, it wouldn’t have mattered, save for the fact that Aunt Pierpont was defying habit and good sense to go with her. Aunt Pierpont, who had recognized Mrs. Oglethorpe as surely as her mother-in-law had.
A soft scratching sounded at the door. It took me a moment to realize Libby wasn’t here and that I must get up to answer it. Before I reached the door, however, something small and white shot across the floor.
It proved to be a scrap of folded paper. Mr. Tinderflint, whose grasp of manners varied wildly according to circumstances, leaned forward to watch as I unfolded it. Matthew looked over my shoulder, which was much more distracting.
The note was terse and to the point.
MY ROOMS. BEFORE WAITING TOMORROW.
There was no signature, but none was needed. I recognized Sophy’s hand.
“I have to stay on,” I said as I folded the note back up. “There’s far too much to be done.” What I did not say was that if I scuttled away now I’d never find out what was behind Sophy’s extraordinary behavior. I’d also be handing her, and the Sandfords, a victory. May Heaven help and forgive me, but that was more than I could stomach. I suspected that both men with me now knew this without my saying it. But Mr. Tinderflint only nodded.
“Excellent, and exactly what I’d expect to h
ear from the daughter of Elizabeth and Jonathan Fitzroy.” But Mr. Tinderflint wasn’t looking directly at me. He was looking over my shoulder, at Matthew. Coward that I was, I did not look at Matthew. I did not want to see his face just then. Instead, I took his hand from where it rested on my shoulder. “I’m sorry.”
“I expected nothing less,” he replied.
This was not the same as saying he agreed or that he understood. I felt a small but distinct crumbling underneath my heart, and there was nothing at all I could do about it.
CHAPTER TEN
IN WHICH OUR HEROINE ENTERS THE LIONESS’S DEN, WHERE THE SUBSEQUENT ROARING IS RATHER LESS THAN NOBLE.
My dreams that night were not comfortable. They featured churning water and fire, not to mention the ghosts of the dead reaching out to welcome my grinning uncle. This culminated in something cold, wet, and horribly real touching my nose, which led me to scream and flail at the bedclothes, which, in turn, raised a furious yipping. Only then did I realize it was not my old ghosts coming for me, but my new puppy.
I fell back on the bolsters. Isolde scrambled up my chest and burrowed under the covers at my right hand.
“Secrets,” I murmured to her, and to myself. “Secrets.”
The direct result of all this private drama was that Libby had no reason to scold when she came in to light my candles and fire. Despite the unusually early hour, I scrambled out of my bed and dressed as quickly as humanly possible. The sooner I could go down to meet Matthew, the sooner his presence would wipe away the last of my nightmares.
Before he’d left me the night before, Matthew had insisted on coming to my rendezvous with Sophy.
“She might have Sebastian with her,” he reminded me grimly. “And I am not letting you near him alone.”
“I swear upon the Holy Bible that I’ll take Libby with me.” I took his hand to emphasize my point. I may also have looked into his eyes in a pleading manner. “She’ll be watching every instant.”
“No.”
“Then will you at least—”
“No.” This time he kissed me in what I choose to believe was an apology for his obstinacy rather than a blatant attempt to disorder my wits.
Whatever Matthew’s ultimate intention may have been, I admitted defeat. This earned me another kiss, proving that the time-honored strategy of calculated retreat has its merits.
The morning was a cold one. Frost filmed the mud puddles and rimed the cobbles of the Friar’s Court. Isolde, whom I’d brought out to save at least a few towels, stepped gingerly as we, along with Libby, emerged from one of St. James’s many side doors. Fortunately, Matthew had already arrived and needed no more signal than my raising my hand to hurry across the yard to us.
“They’ll be missing you at the academy,” I remarked after we’d finished our lengthy personal salutations. Libby discreetly took Isolde off to attend to her individual business. Matthew was wearing his good jacket again, I noted. This was not a surprise. He owned only the one. But even in the dim light of St. James’s back stairs, I could see that the jacket was quite rumpled. Normally, Matthew took good care to brush it out and fold it neatly.
“I’m expected to be at the palace daily until His Royal Highness’s birthday masque.”
“Are you?” I drew back. “How very . . . convenient.”
“I’m helping to paint the stage scenery. With all the other news yesterday, I forgot to tell you. Mr. Tinderflint arranged it.” He paused to take note of the confusion in my expression, as well as the distance I put between us. “I thought you’d be pleased. We’ll be able to see each other every day.”
“Of course I’m pleased. Still, you must have risen very early.”
It was then I noticed that the slight smudge of face powder I had left upon his shoulder was still there. “Oh, lud, Matthew, you never left last night, did you?” My sweetheart greeted this accusation with a shrug. “Are you mad? Staying out all night, and turning up late today! You’ll lose your place with Mr. Thornhill!”
“Well, what of it? It’s better than you losing . . . than losing you.”
My patience bridled at this. There was so much uproar in my life, I desperately needed Matthew to keep a level head. “You can’t really believe I’m in any danger from Sophy.”
“What should I believe, then?”
There were a hundred answers to this, but I couldn’t find even one of them. I was entirely confident I could meet and match whatever hand Sophy Howe chose to play. But there was Sebastian Sandford lurking in the shadows, as well as his far more dangerous brother, Lord Lynnfield, who couldn’t be bothered with lurking and had come right out into the open.
Lacking a cogent argument, I fell back on sentiment. “You should believe that I love you.”
“And I love you,” Matthew replied solemnly. “Which is why you’re not going to see that harridan and her bully boys alone.”
I tipped my face up so he could see me smile. “One day, Matthew Reade, I’m going to push you too far.”
“Probably, but it’s not today.” There was not as much warmth in this answer as I might have wished. I told myself that it was the combination of the late night and the early hour of this meeting.
There was not quite as much confidence in this conclusion as I would have wished either.
Matthew and I followed Libby into the world known as “the back stairs,” a snarl of poorly illuminated stairs and sooty corridors, all of which were continually full to overflowing with the army of servants and officials who kept the palace in working order, as well as by anybody who didn’t want to be seen by the world in general.
We collectively ignored the muttered complaints of those we pushed past, until we emerged into the gallery where we maids of honor were lodged. We first returned an affronted Isolde to my hearth-side and from there continued on to Sophy’s chamber.
To my surprise, it wasn’t Sophy’s maid who opened her door wide to release a stifling cloud of heat and perfume. It was Sophy herself.
“Ah, Margaret. There you are. I’d quite given up on you.” Sophy let her gaze wander over both Matthew and Libby. “Your artist may wait outside. What I have to say is for your ears, and, as you can see, I have no one concealed in my apartment.”
Today. But I did not say that aloud. I just turned toward Matthew. I was very afraid he might argue, which was not an event I wanted Sophy to witness. Matthew, however, simply nodded, although I could tell he was not in any way happy. I could also tell he was going to keep watch on this door until Libby and I emerged.
I wished I could kiss him, or at least tell him once more there was nothing to worry about, but Sophy’s presence as an excessively hostile witness limited me to a small smile.
Walking into Sophy’s apartment was like stepping into a treasure trove or a pawnbroker’s shop. Every available surface (and there were plenty of these) was covered in trinkets. There were elaborate jewelry and snuffboxes of enamel, gilt, and silver. There were silk scarves that would make a sultan blush for their richness, fans with silver staves, mirrors with gilded frames. Painted porcelain figurines of well-frilled shepherds and shepherdesses decorated the mantel and most of the carved and painted tables.
Libby retired at once to the chimney corner, her sharp eyes shifting left and right to take in the scene from under her modestly lowered lids, quite probably adding up the worth of all these movables. I edged into the stifling chamber, trying to avoid knocking something over or being set on fire by one of the many candles.
“Tell me, Margaret, was it your artist who delayed you so?” Sophy took her seat at an elaborately inlaid writing desk with painted enamel panels and gilt trim.
“Sophy, you and I can exchange barbs at any hour, anywhere in the palace. If you have something important to say, please do get on with it.” I looked about for some place to sit where I would not dislodge a scarf or crush a shepherdess. Finding none, I remained standing.
Sophy glared at me but seemed to decide that delivering her message was mor
e important than giving me yet another dressing-down. “I have information for you, or perhaps I should say for your master.”
“I have no idea to whom you are referring.”
Sophy rolled her eyes. “We can also lie to each other at any other place and time, Margaret. Do you want to know what I have learned?”
“Would I be here otherwise?”
“Very well. I know the name of that woman who came in disguise to Sir Oliver’s funeral. I also know what she wanted there. I can give you this information, and more, but none of it for free.”
This sounded much more like the Sophy with whom I was acquainted. It instantly raised every suspicion I possessed. “Why would you give me any information at all?”
“Does it matter?”
“Yes. You might be spinning me a story for profit—yours and Sebastian’s. Not that he was exactly eager for us to be holding more conversation.” Or you might once again be planning to make a fool of me in front of Her Royal Highness.
“Mr. Sandford does not always know what is best for him.” Sophy spoke with a soft regret I had never before heard from her. Either she was plumbing fresh depths of her acting abilities, or I had struck a rare vein of genuine feeling.
“I think that’s largely his brother’s fault,” I ventured. “And their father’s.”
“You are right in that. What a surprise.” The drawling insult had the feel of a reflexive response, and I let it pass.
“What is it you want in exchange for your information?” I asked.
Sophy took a deep breath and mustered her considerable nerve. “I want your help— yours and your master’s.” I opened my mouth to remind her how little I cared for that phrasing, but her next words stunned me into silence. “I need to get Sebastian away from his family, but he refuses to go.”