Assassin's Masque (Palace of Spies Book 3)

by Sarah Zettel

  Then there were also more interminable rehearsals of our part in the prince’s birthday masque. I mostly spent these being shouted at by the Master of the Revels for inattention to my dance steps. This was inevitably followed by enduring Sophy’s smirks and Mary’s not-so-hidden laughter as I dutifully moved through those steps on my own so that Lord Beckenstile could more thoroughly criticize me. He was lucky it was only a wet paintbrush Matthew left on his chair. Such action was, of course, childish, and I’m certain I upbraided my sweetheart soundly for it during one of our stolen moments.

  While in waiting, we maids are expected to be on duty at all hours. We are also, however, regularly allotted a half day to spend as we choose. By the time my half day arrived and I climbed into the shining new coach my father sent, I was more than ready to follow my aunt’s example and dissolve into nervous spasms.

  I’d had exactly one good piece of news in the past few days, and that had been from Olivia. Old Mother Pierpont, it seemed, had decided there was no point in wasting further money and time hanging about in “the foul smoke” and undertook for her and my aunt to leave London a full day early. This meant there was no chance at all of Aunt Pierpont and Mr. Tinderflint actually meeting.

  Which turned out well, because it seemed Mr. Tinderflint had decided to entirely ignore my instructions as to the timing of his arrival. When I reached my father’s rather sprawling half-timbered house in Lincoln’s Inn Fields, Mr. Tinderflint’s enormous blue and gilt conveyance was pulling up at the front door. My pique at being so disregarded was only a tiny bit soothed when the carriage door opened and Matthew climbed down.

  I scrambled out of my own coach, barely remembering to take Isolde’s basket with me. Bringing Isolde was a decision of the last possible moment. This was not because I had developed any sentimental attachment to the overfluffed animal, but because against all expectations, she proved to have her uses. Also, if I did leave her behind and she was harmed by any nefarious person trying to invade my rooms, Princess Anne would never forgive me.

  Matthew smiled as I hurried to his side. He limited his salutation to a bow and a regretful glance toward the stoop. Olivia stood ready to greet us all, with my father directly beside her.

  I grimaced at this overly prompt appearance of my relations and turned to curtsy at Mr. Tinderflint. “Thank you so much for bringing Matthew, sir, but you are rather earlier than I expected.”

  “Not at all, not at all.” My patron bowed. He did not, however, appear to have heard the second part of my little speech, because rather than addressing it, he brushed past me to mount the shallow stoop. There, he returned brief but polite greetings to my parent and my cousin.

  “But where is Lady Delphine?” Mr. Tinderflint peered past the open doorway as if he might catch a glimpse of my aunt in the hall. “I cannot imagine she is looking forward to renewing our acquaintance, but I was very much hoping for an opportunity to speak with her.”

  His words brought me up short. I’m sure my surprise must have showed, but he was not at this point paying any attention to me.

  “I’m afraid you’ve come too late, sir,” Father said. “Lady Delphine left yesterday.”

  “Indeed?” Mr. Tinderflint murmured. “That is . . . that is disappointing, yes. Well. Still. I do not suppose it could be helped.”

  My patron and my father were regarding each other carefully, without any blinking or shifting of weight. Matthew glanced at me in inquiry as we mounted the steps, and I in turn looked to Olivia. She just shook her head and mouthed, Must talk.

  My father’s kiss of greeting was as calm and noncommittal as his words to Mr. Tinderflint. Olivia exclaimed over Isolde, although a combination of too many biscuits and the rhythm of the carriage had put the tiny dog to sleep. For my own part, I drew myself up a little straighter and gripped my cousin’s hand as I watched Matthew make his bow to Father. They had met before, but not formally. Perhaps Father, who turned out to be rich enough to afford a house, servants, and coaches, had reconsidered the advisability of my liaison with the son of an apothecary. Perhaps he would decide to exercise paternal prerogative in my choice of companions. Perhaps . . .

  But Father just smiled and shook Matthew by the hand. I did my best to muffle my heartfelt sigh of relief. In this, I was not entirely successful.

  “Shall we go in?” Father winked and held out his arm to me. “I’ve had coffee laid in the parlor.”

  The rich scent that filled the parlor when we entered told me it was very good coffee. I noticed that Dolcy, who was setting out the bone china cups, wore a new black dress and spotless apron. I also noticed that although the sun was well up and the day remarkably fine for October, the parlor curtains remained closed.

  “Thank you, Dolcy—that will be all,” said Father as I set down Isolde’s basket by the hearth. “Peg, you won’t mind playing hostess for us?”

  “Not at all, sir.” I at once began pouring out coffee and handing around cups. They were extremely delicate, as were the dainty silver spoons for stirring in the sugar and cream, and I had not seen any of them before. There was cake as well, and a further battalion of silver utensils to eat it with.

  Whatever else had been happening these past few days, my father had been spending freely.

  Olivia, with all due ceremony and many Significant Glances, bolted the door. Only afterward did she accept her cup of sweet, milky coffee and choose a place on the new tapestry sofa beside Matthew, thus saving me from having to deliberately avoid sitting there.

  Mr. Tinderflint, by right of rank and stature, claimed the largest chair in the room. He watched my father from behind his raised coffee cup as if taking his measure for the first time. “Tell me, Fitzroy. Did Lady Delphine give any reason for her early departure?”

  “Travel preparations came to fruition a day or so early,” Father answered. “Delphine and Mrs. Pierpont decided not to delay and perhaps waste the dry weather.”

  “I did not realize this was a matter of concern to you, Mr. Tinderflint, or I would have informed you myself,” I said with a studied casualness as I poured my own coffee.

  “Oh, it’s of no matter.” My patron, equally casual, waved one hand. “No matter at all.”

  At this, Olivia rolled her eyes and made a strangled noise. “I appreciate that I am in a den of spies,” she announced. “But could we agree to speak plainly for these next five minutes? What was it you wanted to say to my mother, Mr. Tinderflint?”

  For a moment I thought Mr. Tinderflint might actually answer. So, to all appearances, did my father, for he set his coffee down in anticipation.

  Mr. Tinderflint, however, was not to be rattled, even by something so unexpected as a direct question. He sipped his coffee and then produced a lace handkerchief so large it might easily have served as a tablecloth, with which he delicately blotted his lips. “I do think that, considering our time is so very limited, we should let Peggy speak her piece.” He turned toward me. “I gather from your demeanor, my dear, that the reason you brought us together here is quite grave. Is it more to do with Lord Lynnfield?”

  Father looked as though he was about to protest. I came close to letting him. Whatever might lurk between him and my patron, I wanted it out in the open. Unfortunately, Mr. Tinderflint was right: we had a scant few hours for this meeting. I did have a great deal to explain, and I expected to hear a great deal in response.

  I took a deep breath and began recounting my conversation with Sophy, complete with her offer to reveal the name and motives of the veiled mourner.

  “Then it was her?” Father interrupted angrily. “It was definitely the Old Fury?”

  “Sophy confirmed as much.”

  Father got to his feet and strode to the window. “In my house,” he muttered to the closed draperies. “That woman had the gall to walk into my house.”

  “I understand your feeling, Fitzroy,” began Mr. Tinderflint.

  “I doubt that.” Father gripped the dark velvet as if he meant to tear the curtains down
. “I doubt that very much.”

  Mr. Tinderflint gave a seated bow in acknowledgment of this. “But perhaps we should let Peggy finish?”

  Father grunted. He did not turn around, nor did he release his stranglehold on the inoffensive drapery.

  I explained Sophy’s original proposal to use me to upset the fortunes of Clan Sandford. I glossed over how Sebastian had put an end to that conversation. Matthew rewarded me for this small discretion with a wry grin. I told of Lynnfield’s arrival and then of Sophy’s seemingly complete reversal of opinion and intention.

  That finally got Father to face our little meeting again. “What do you suspect, Peg?”

  “I believe Sophy and Sebastian are playing for the Lynnfield title.” It was the first time I had voiced this thought aloud, and it sounded even colder than it had in my mind. “If I can work that out, so can Lynnfield. What if he made them an offer in return for their mutual silence? He agrees to their marriage and promises to remain single. If Lynnfield never fathers a legitimate heir, all Sophy and Sebastian have to do is stay alive and they eventually inherit everything—land, title, and money.”

  Silence fell as my audience considered this unpleasant possibility for several long moments.

  Mr. Tinderflint cleared his throat. “Forgive me, Peggy, but why should Lynnfield bother keeping Sophy quiet at all? Her only connection to the business is Sebastian, and Lynnfield can control him without resorting to outside help.”

  “Because Lynnfield’s afraid of Peggy,” said Matthew. “He knows if Sophy brings Peggy into the matter, she stands a good chance of overturning his plans.”

  Absurdly, I felt a blush of pride rising in my cheeks at this.

  “Yes, yes.” Mr. Tinderflint nodded with his usual vigor. “That would make excellent sense. Peggy has proved to be such an obstacle to his plans before this . . .”

  “Afraid!” cried Father. “Have you lost your mind, Tierney? This whole thing, it’s sloppy. Careless. Worse: it’s obvious!” He spat the word like a curse. “Can’t any of you see? Peg is being used!”

  Apparently, we did not see, or at least not sufficiently. Father threw out his hands, appealing to Heaven for patience. “Lynnfield could have spoken to Sophy at any time, but he made sure Peg saw him do it. He had to know she’d come straight to me—to us—with anything she learned. I’ve seen what Lynnfield gets up to in his own country. It’s impossible he could be so thoughtless. He wanted her to tell us what she’d seen.”

  “I wonder, Uncle Fitzroy”—Olivia turned her mildest expression on my father—“what it is that Lord Lynnfield gets up to in his own country. You’ve quite neglected to mention it.”

  Father paused, clearly considering how much he should say. I watched his hesitation with a growing mix of anger and concern.

  “The barony of Lynnfield includes a stretch of the Great Romney Marsh,” he said finally. “In addition to being a home for disease and a graveyard for the unwary, vast marshes have always been the haunt of smugglers.”

  “What do they smuggle?” asked Olivia eagerly. “Weapons for the Jacobites? Secret messages? Or spies?”

  Father smiled. “Tea, mostly.”

  “Oh.” Olivia flopped back. “How dull.”

  “Dull, but profitable.” Tea was abominably expensive stuff and carried high tariffs as well. “In the past, Lynnfield’s barons have allowed the smugglers to pass unmolested across their lands, as long as they receive a share of the money, of course.”

  “What’s changed?” asked Matthew.

  Father’s mouth twisted. “The late baron, old Augustus, and his eldest son are more ambitious than their Sandford predecessors. They started pressing the individual smugglers into a larger gang. Better organization means more contraband can be moved and more money can be made. And, of course, a higher percentage of that money can be skimmed off by Lynnfield.”

  “It’s a wonder the smugglers tolerate the interference,” said Matthew, which just made Father shake his head.

  “You know that I lived for some time in disguise as a servant in that house. I saw Lynnfield’s recruiting tactics. If someone doesn’t want to work directly for the baron, boats are smashed and men are beaten. Some have simply vanished.”

  “So whatever it is the Sandfords plan to get up to at the masque, it might have nothing to do with the Jacobites,” I said. “It might be related to their smuggling ring.”

  “But the two things are tightly linked—yes, tightly.” Mr. Tinderflint shook his head. “It has long been known, for instance, that the Oglethorpes use the smugglers in the Romney Marsh to carry letters, or people, to and from France. If Lynnfield is indeed taking over the Romney Marsh smuggling trade, the Oglethorpes must now deal with him directly.”

  I was glad Father chose this moment to peer out at the street from around the edge of the curtain. I did not want him to see my face as I considered a very unpleasant confluence of facts.

  It was Olivia who broke our mutual reverie. “So with the Sandfords, it’s all about the money. They don’t care who is actually on the throne.”

  Mr. Tinderflint smiled at this display of charming innocence. “Perhaps, perhaps not. Under one king, a family might be simple country barons. Under another, they might rise to be marquises, or dukes, even. They might be given offices in the Inland Revenue, where the pickings are lush and friendship and patronage are richly rewarded. If Lord Lynnfield helps Prince George now, the Lynnfields might stand to gain when the prince becomes King George.”

  “Or if James Stuart makes a successful return to the throne, and if the Lynnfields helped him on his way, they stand to gain from that . . .” I paused, amazed by the audacity. “They’re playing both sides against each other. They win no matter which way the cards fall.”

  “Exactly, Peg, and you’ve just proved my point.” My father cast the most significant sort of glower at Mr. Tinderflint. “A man like Lynnfield, who is capable of playing such a double game, is never careless. Lynnfield wanted Peg to see what he was doing, and he wanted it because Mrs. Oglethorpe wanted it. There is one explanation: she is using Lynnfield to get to Peggy, and to me. She hopes to drive me to some rash action to save my daughter.”

  This seemed like a further leap than the facts warranted, but Matthew spoke before I could.

  “Then, Mr. Fitzroy, you think Sophy’s request for Peggy’s help was all part of the Sandfords’ game?”

  “Oglethorpe’s game,” Father corrected him firmly. “And I certainly think it’s more likely than Miss Howe’s coming up with the idea of using her sworn enemy on her own.”

  “But you’re wrong, Uncle Fitzroy,” said Olivia.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “There’s nothing simpler and more natural than Sophy taking Lord Lynnfield’s part.” Olivia looked about at all our stunned expressions. “Good gracious, do none of you see it? It’s as obvious as the reason no one has seen nor heard from Sebastian Sandford.”

  “And what reason might that be, Miss Pierpont?” inquired Mr. Tinderflint.

  Olivia rolled her eyes. “Because, Mr. Tinderflint, Sebastian Sandford is dead!”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  IN WHICH OUR HEROINE DISCOVERS THAT ALLIANCES ARE—BY THEIR TRAGIC NATURES—FRAGILE THINGS.

  As accustomed as I was to my cousin’s outrageous pronouncements, this one stunned me into silence for a full minute. And not just me. The only noises in the parlor came from Matthew choking on a mouthful of coffee and Father thumping him hard between the shoulders.

  Even when I found my voice again, I could do little more than sputter. “You don’t mean . . . you can’t possibly think . . . that Sophy . . .”

  “Good gracious, no, Peggy!” cried Olivia. “Lynnfield did the actual deed, probably somewhere in the marshes. Sophy only keeps the secret.” She paused, considering. “I am surprised they didn’t send a few letters in Sebastian’s hand for Libby to find and throw you off the scent. Now, that was indeed careless.”

  “It’s impossible!” I
cried. “I know it sounds preposterous, but Sophy does love Sebastian.”

  “Peggy,” said Olivia with exaggerated patience, “Sophy wants to make an advantageous marriage. Why should she bother with the younger son if the older makes himself available?”

  My jaw dropped.

  “Lynnfield proposed marriage to Sophy Howe, in return for her promise to keep silent about the fate of his younger brother?” said Matthew slowly.

  Olivia spread her hands, indicating the simplicity of the plan. “Sebastian is a liability to any subtle plan, because his pride and his temper are at odds with his reason. Lynnfield knows that. The deeper the game, the greater a drag Sebastian would be. Therefore comes the necessity that he should be disposed of. Lynnfield wouldn’t need to extract any promise of silence from Sophy either. Her self-interest will ensure her silence as soon as the marriage occurs. Of course, Lynnfield probably hasn’t told Sophy he’s already murdered Sebastian. That might be a bit much for even Sophy’s level of sang-froid. He probably just said Sebastian was being packed off to Barbados in an attempt to recover the family fortunes there.”

  “But Miss Howe is surely intelligent enough to realize Lord Lynnfield is not the most reliable of patrons,” murmured Mr. Tinderflint. “Would she trust his proposal?”

  I wished profoundly my friends would stop talking. I’d been so sure I knew what was happening. Now my head was spinning to the point where I could barely remember my own name.

  Was it possible Olivia was correct? Could Lynnfield have murdered Sebastian and then kept Sophy from asking questions by proposing marriage?

  “I need to get back to the palace.” I blurted the words out. Never mind my mysterious letter. Never mind the attempted burglary. I needed to find proof, whatever it might be, of Lynnfield’s treasonous intent before he had the prince too tightly ensnared.