Assassin's Masque (Palace of Spies Book 3)

by Sarah Zettel

It was a long time before my power of speech returned. The eventual result was not at all shrewd or even witty. “I don’t understand.”

  Sophy laughed. “You understand perfectly. Lord Lynnfield is in neck deep with the Jacobites, just as his father was. One would have thought the deaths of both a near relation and their principal banker would serve as warning, but no. They are pressing ahead with their plans.”

  This was not happening. I was not sitting here in this dragon’s cave of a room hearing vain, clever, shallow Sophy Howe calmly discuss high treason.

  “Why bother with me?” I croaked. “You’re a maid of honor; you have the princess’s ear. You could tell her what you know and take the credit for whatever discoveries come of it.”

  When Sophy spoke again, it was with her eyes directed at the arrangement of porcelain sheep and shepherdesses on the nearest marquetry table. Sophy could have sold off this treasure trove and lived like a queen for years. Yet as she cast her glance across her hoard, Sophy looked neither proud nor covetous. She looked fearful.

  “If you expose the Sandford family and their plans, Sebastian will think nothing of it. If he discovers I am the one who betrayed them, he will turn from me.”

  Why on earth was she still keeping company with Sebastian Sandford if she intended to sabotage his standing with his family? It made no sense. Either the Sandfords had some hold over her, or Sebastian was a far more useful co-conspirator than I had initially realized, or . . .

  Or Sophy and Sebastian were playing for larger stakes.

  If the current Lord Lynnfield was taken up for high treason, that would leave Sebastian heir to the Lynnfield title, lands, money, houses, and all other aristocratic perquisites. If Sophy then married Sebastian, she would trade this overcrowded room for a house, an income, and lands and title besides.

  Now, that made sense. What was more, it was very like the Sophy Howe I knew. “Well then, do tell me, Sophy, who is this lady, and why did she come to bother us? Would her name be Oglethorpe, by any chance?” Sophy blanched, and that was answer enough. “I take it you’ve also discovered some connection between the Oglethorpes and the Sandfords?” And the Pierponts, I thought, but I didn’t say that out loud. I didn’t trust my voice not to stumble.

  Sophy could have a remarkably steady gaze when she wanted, and she used it now. “Mrs. Oglethorpe and Lord Lynnfield will both be in attendance at the prince’s birthday masque. I will lead you to them, and you will expose their plans to the Crown and all the world.”

  She might do it. Sophy had always been willing to use every weapon in her considerable arsenal to get what she wanted. If the truth could serve, she would use that. If enemies could serve, she would use them just as quickly.

  “Well, Margaret? What is your answer? Are we agreed?”

  Agreed? How could I agree with Sophy Howe, who had set herself against me from the start? She had forged letters and seduced men she believed to be my favorites. In fact, she had tried every possible trick to ruin my reputation. If I did as she asked, I would elevate Sebastian Sandford to a title and hand Sophy prosperity and nobility.

  But I could not forget that my principal business was to unearth the Jacobites at court, and Sophy was offering to help. If she was telling the truth, I would not only be serving my king, I would be sending Lord Lynnfield to the Tower.

  My thoughts had no time to range further. From outside the door came a man’s shout, followed fast by the distinctive thud of a fist against flesh.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  IN WHICH A DISAGREEMENT BETWEEN GALLANTS IS CUT SHORT.

  Forgetting for a heartbeat all our quarrels, Sophy and I together rushed into the gallery. There we were treated to a dramatic tableau formed by Matthew and Sebastian. The pose did not do Sebastian a great deal of credit. He was pressed against the wall with Matthew’s forearm across his throat. His blue eyes bulged in their sockets as he struggled to get some purchase on Matthew’s arm while at the same time trying to reach the dress sword dangling at his side.

  “You will not go near her,” said Matthew from between gritted teeth. “You will never go near her!”

  Sophy charged forward. I suppose I was expecting her to do something useless like beat on Matthew’s back, or I promise I would have moved much more quickly than I did. Instead, she kicked Matthew’s ankle with one slippered foot, which would not have done much good on its own, but she also grabbed his ear and twisted, hard.

  Matthew cried out and staggered. I darted forward. I aimed to grab Sophy’s hand, but hearing the ring of steel as Sebastian finally managed to draw his sword dislodged that plan. I swung both my fists under the blade and into Sebastian’s solar plexus. He grunted hard and doubled over, and I snatched his sword from his grip. Matthew grabbed my arm and hauled me backwards.

  “I’m fine,” he panted, before I could so much as open my mouth. “He wanted to go in. I informed him he could not. We disagreed. That’s all.”

  “That looks to have been quite enough,” drawled a new voice.

  We all turned. At least, the three of us did. Sebastian just groaned and clutched his midriff, trying to breathe.

  “Really, Peggy!” Mary Bellenden laughed as she sauntered into the gallery. Apparently her wits were so rattled by the scene before her, she forgot she was still wearing nothing but an insubstantial nightdress. “You do keep managing to find the most entertaining gentlemen! Hello, Sophy. I must say yours is not looking half so well as Peggy’s.”

  “This is none of your business, Mary,” snapped Sophy.

  “If you want to keep your quarrels private, you shouldn’t stage them in the gallery.” This tart comment was not from Mary, but from Molly Lepell, who had also emerged from her rooms. Unlike Mary, Molly had remembered to cover herself with a silk wrapper and had the sense not to flounce into the middle of our little gathering. “Peggy, what are you doing?”

  I glanced at Matthew and at the slender dress sword in my hand. Matthew took the blade from me and walked up to Sebastian. He handed that worthy the rapier, hilt first. Sebastian glowered but managed to straighten up enough to reclaim his property and sheathe it.

  “I will kill you, you low-bred son of a bitch.” Pure hatred rang in Sebastian’s voice and showed in the terrible scowl of his twisted mouth. Matthew met his gaze, utterly impassive. I had seen Matthew look like this only a handful of times, and I never knew what to feel. Matthew did not fight for sport. When he fought, it was in deadly earnest, and he would do whatever it took to lay his opponent low. This frightened me a little. Not because I feared Matthew himself, but because I did not know this part of him—not where it came from nor where it might lead.

  Mary laughed and applauded. “Oh, bravo, all of you! Sophy, is this your new scheme? You’ve gone from winning at cards to staging high farce? Will you play in Drury Lane?”

  “Mary,” said Sophy without taking her attention from Sebastian or Matthew. “If you don’t close your prattling mouth, I will put on a show from which you will never recover.”

  Mary let her eyes and mouth go round in mock horror. “Heavens, Sophy! You know better than to mind me. Besides, it’s too cold to be standing about watching your dramas. Good morning to you, Peggy. I look forward to hearing the whole story.” She gave a skipping turn, making sure she flashed one bare shoulder toward Matthew before she disappeared back into her own rooms.

  Sebastian had finally managed to push himself away from the wall, and he looked set to start stalking toward Matthew, probably so he could more conveniently utter his threats. Matthew stood ready to receive them, implacable, immovable. Sophy, thankfully, grabbed Sebastian’s arm. The look she bestowed upon him had nothing to do with concern for his well-being, but it did successfully divert him from his planned confrontation with Matthew. Head and chin held high, Sophy all but dragged her paramour into her rooms.

  A moment later, Libby stumbled out into the gallery so fast, I realized she had been shoved from behind. My maid gathered her dignity quickly and glowered at me.
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  “She owes us for our candle she’s keeping in there,” Libby announced as she brushed past us. I saw a suspicious bulge under her skirt where her pocket hung and wondered if Sophy might find herself short a snuffbox or two.

  Matthew looked at me. I looked at Molly Lepell, who had maintained her station on her threshold throughout this exchange. I touched Matthew’s fingers in a silent request for him to remain where he was while I walked over to her.

  “Her Highness will not be happy when she hears about this,” Molly said. Her face had darkened perceptibly and I found myself wondering if she was considering the wisdom of remaining my friend. But what she said was something quite different. “Poor Sophy. She never could shield her heart as she ought.”

  I choked. “Sophy! Sophy has a heart?”

  “I rather thought you’d be surprised. But then, you haven’t seen her much except to make an enemy of her.” Molly’s mouth quirked into a melancholy smile. “Sophy falls in love with the same men she’s trying to use. Her heart has been broken more times than a parliamentarian’s word, and yet she keeps hoping that this time, this plan, this scheme, will be the one that binds Mr. or Lord Whomever to her forever.” Molly shook her head.

  “That’s . . .” Incredible. Impossible. Not the girl I know. “That’s quite sad.”

  “Yes. But predictable. We all fall in love with men we should not—for power or flattery or simply because we are so tired of having to pretend to love them all.” Molly’s gaze strayed to Matthew, who was diligently feigning interest in the details of the gallery plasterwork. “I envy you, Peggy, with your heart so occupied by your artist. Has he a brother at home, do you think?”

  “Not that I know of,” I murmured.

  “Ah, well.” Mary shook her head. “I’ll leave you, then. It would be good if one of us was on time to wait upon Her Highness.”

  Molly closed her door. I glanced at Matthew, who was gesturing that it was time to make our departure. I very much wanted to, but I did not move. More important than intelligent retreat was the chance to find out what the pair inside Sophy’s rooms was saying. I mouthed apology to Matthew, then crouched down and did that thing of which I had been so often accused—I put my ear to the keyhole.

  Matthew slapped his hand against his mouth, smothering either a laugh or an oath of frustration. Despite this, he positioned himself close by, watching over me in the most literal sense.

  Listening at keyholes is another of those techniques that works best on stage, where the participants have trained voices pitched to carry to the audience. Actors also seem to make rather less noise as they move about. Sophy and Sebastian most inconsiderately kept themselves well away from the door and spoke in croaks and whispers, and their movements all produced great creakings, rustlings, and rattlings, which meant I could catch only about one word in three.

  “. . . cannot trust the . . . her! She will use . . . danger . . .” railed Sebastian.

  “. . . simpleton . . . use her and save . . . your brother . . .” answered Sophy sternly.

  There followed a fine explosion of verbiage from Sebastian. I would have drawn back to preserve my delicate maiden’s sensibilities, had I not been afraid that my movement might be heard.

  Then there was more rustling, a bang, and a tinkling clatter. From the sound of it, Sophy was now shy a table full of shepherdesses.

  “What are we to do, then?” Sophy asked, her voice low and clearer than it had been. I could picture Sebastian as he spoke: the flush across his hollow cheeks, the cold and contemptuous light in his eyes.

  “We win at the tables, and we keep on winning. Those silken buffoons want to make use of us . . . cannot live without . . . gambling; they can pay for the privilege and keep on . . . until they have nothing . . . we will break them. Then we will have all the money we want, and we are owned by no one.”

  “How does this help us against your brother?”

  “Stop it, Sophy!” Something slammed against something. Any number of somethings rattled in response. “There’s nothing we can do except stay out of his way. Otherwise, we make targets of ourselves, and I warn you, he has very good aim.”

  “But he’s made himself vulnerable! He’s playing too high, Sebastian.”

  “He isn’t . . . at all, don’t you see that? This isn’t too high for him . . . doesn’t stand a chance. This . . .” Sebastian’s next words were lost under yet more rustling and rattling. Now it was my turn to curse. I did so within the privacy of my thoughts as I pressed closer to the keyhole, which seemed to have developed some unpleasant ridges that dug into my ear and cheek.

  Matthew laid his hand on my shoulder. This touch brought to me no warmth, for it was not for comfort or reassurance. This was a warning.

  I felt it then—an actual pricking in my thumbs, or at least in my fingers’ ends. My skin crept across my bones. I turned. I knew who would be there before my eyes lifted.

  Julius Sandford, Lord Lynnfield, stood behind us.

  I got to my feet as smoothly as I could manage. Matthew did not move. He was taking the man’s measure, carefully, thoroughly.

  “Have you some business here?” Matthew inquired. “My lord?”

  Lynnfield ignored him. His attention remained fixed entirely on me. “By your presence here, Miss Fitzroy, may I assume I have found Miss Howe’s door, and my brother’s current whereabouts?”

  “I could not say, sir,” I replied calmly, although my heart hammered so hard it set my ribs aching. “Whatever games your brother and Miss Howe may be getting up to do not interest me in the slightest.”

  “Strange to hear you say so, considering you have in the past won those games quite handily.” The admiration in his voice was entirely unfeigned, and it raised goose bumps all down my back. “You’ve done great credit to your family, especially your late mother.”

  Anger rushed through me, carrying away all my paralysis and a certain amount of my good sense. “You have no right to even mention my mother.”

  This made him smile, but his eyes remained terribly cold. He hadn’t blinked, I realized. Not even once. “There you are wrong. But you will have ample opportunity to discover that for yourself in these coming days.”

  “Speak plainly, sir!”

  “You would not believe me even if I did. Oh.” He held up one hand to forestall comment. “I do not blame you, considering how badly all things have gone between us. Therefore, I shall leave the plain speaking to other voices and other pens. As you have demonstrated, you are astoundingly clever; you may yet be brought to understand the truth of your position and your parentage. Now, if you will excuse me, I must go speak with my brother.”

  He bowed, walked past us quite coolly, and turned Sophy’s doorknob. Evidently, in her agitation, she had neglected to close the bolt. As the door opened, I had a fine glimpse of both Sophy and Sebastian turning to stare in shock before Lord Lynnfield calmly shut the door behind him.

  I stood, my fists and teeth clenched in fury, and one terrible part of my brain thinking I should again crouch at the keyhole.

  Matthew took hold of my arm. “Let’s get out of here, Peggy.”

  We returned to my rooms, and I did remember to lock the door behind us. Libby was in the dressing closet. I knew this not because she had left the door open, but because of the ostentatious banging and thudding that she made, attempting to remind me of the lateness of the hour and my current state of unreadiness to assume my post.

  Matthew slumped beside the hearth. “Should I even ask if you’re all right?”

  “Should I say that you were entirely right, and thank you for being there?”

  This drew a small smile from him. “I think that you should, yes.”

  “Then do consider it said. Add that I am sorry and I hope . . . I hope . . .” I couldn’t finish my thought. My mind and wits were far too disordered by all I had seen and heard.

  “What did Sophy say to you?” Matthew asked. “Does she know anything?”

  “She does . . . she
knows . . .” I made myself stop and take as deep a breath as allowed by corsetry. Slowly, I was able to set aside the sight of Lord Lynnfield and concentrate on all that Sophy had said and all that had happened afterward.

  “Sophy Howe said more than she realized,” I told him, with a certain grim satisfaction. “She has handed us the Sandfords, and this time we’re going to finish them off.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  IN WHICH THERE IS AN UNFORESEEN AND INCONVENIENT REVERSAL.

  Molly, as usual, was right in every important particular: Her Royal Highness did find out about the Drama of the Maid’s Gallery, and she was very much less than pleased.

  My summons to Her Highness’s closet—the chamber that for more ordinary persons is known as the bedroom—came during the time set aside for nuncheon. It was served up by hand by Mrs. Howard, who, unusually, would not give me the least hint as to the princess’s mood or purpose. This in and of itself spoke volumes, and by the time I made my curtsy to the princess in her close and well-appointed bedchamber, my knees were trembling.

  Princess Caroline sat in her favorite chair with her feet up on the padded stool and her chambermaid hovering close behind. Her two sternest and closest ladies, Mrs. Titchbourne and Mrs. Claybourne, were on duty, but Mrs. Howard stopped at the threshold of the antechamber. This did nothing to ease the sinking sensation under my ribs. Nor did the fact that Princess Caroline looked more worn and tired than I had seen her previously. I tried to tell myself this was surely the fatigue of her approaching accouchement, but that effort did not survive longer than the time it took her to look me over in protracted and disapproving silence.

  “I hope, Margaret, that this scene involving a duel between your paramour and Mr. Sandford in a gallery of my home was to some good purpose?” She spoke in German, something she did when we needed to be as private as possible. I was one of the few maids at court who was fluent in the language.