by Sarah Zettel
I also needed to find Sebastian, and find him alive.
I did not care that this was ironic in the extreme. I’d heartily wished Sebastian to the devil any number of times, but my soul actively rebelled at the possibility that Sophy Howe was complicit in murder. Olivia might believe Lynnfield had kept the truth from Sophy, but I had nothing like so much faith in him, or her. If Sebastian had been killed, Sophy would have found out. And that meant she was deliberately keeping silent. If her silence had been bought for the money and advancement Lord Lynnfield could provide, what was to stop her from conspiring in the murder of other persons? Including me, or Matthew, or Olivia?
Including the prince himself?
“I’ll have Robbins bring the coach.” Father moved to ring the silver bell on his table.
“Oh, there’s no need, no need at all.” Mr. Tinderflint carefully wiped his fingers on his handkerchief. “I can easily accommodate our young friends in my conveyance, as well as Miss Pierpont’s luggage.” Personally, I thought it probable that Mr. Tinderflint’s coach could have accommodated us, the luggage, and any elephants that might pass by, but I did not say so. I was distracted by the way Father narrowed his dark eyes at Mr. Tinderflint’s bland and casual tone.
“I should not wish you to be put to any trouble, sir,” Father said. “There’s also some advantage in the court becoming used to seeing Peg come and go in my conveyance. That way, should she need to leave suddenly, it will be assumed she is only returning to this house.”
“A very good thought, sir. Yes, yes.” Mr. Tinderflint nodded rapidly. “Peggy, what is your opinion? Which do you think prudent?”
I thought it prudent to keep my mouth shut for a count of ten, lest I express my impatience with them both. “Thank you for your offer, Mr. Tinderflint. I’m sure we’re all grateful.” I bowed my head to hide my gritted teeth. “I think your coach will be most convenient.”
“Very well, sir,” my father said. “We will leave matters in your hands.” His tone remained entirely amiable, but his face darkened with a mixture of anger and concern.
I met my father’s gaze. I tried with all my might to convey to him that I was not choosing sides between him and Mr. Tinderflint.
But Father had already turned away.
Nothing involving Olivia could be a simple matter, especially if it necessitated any sort of packing. My cousin spent the next two hours flying upstairs and down again, remembering a dozen last-minute items that had to be stuffed into trunks already full to bursting. Isolde, of course, had to investigate everything, and she was nearly trampled underfoot. She also seemed to have forgotten every command I’d taught her, and I found myself wondering if my assessment of her elevated intelligence had been premature.
All this fuss did, however, allow me to unearth the letter from Isolde’s basket and tuck it up my sleeve with none being the wiser, not even the ever-observant Mr. Tinderflint.
At last, Olivia’s boxes were lashed to the coach; cloaks, coats, and hats were fetched, and Father stood in the entrance hall to say his farewells to us. He took Matthew’s hand first and leaned close to say something I could not make out, due to the combination of Isolde’s growling in her basket because I’d forgotten her biscuit and Olivia’s squeezing my arm eagerly, in case I missed the significance of my father and my sweetheart parting on friendly terms.
Mr. Tinderflint, from his position by the door, certainly did not miss it. In that moment, the mask slipped. I was no longer looking at the clownish sophisticate who fluttered and stuttered and charmed. This was the calculating man who would risk any life to achieve his ends. Including his own.
Including mine.
“Now, Peg, you needn’t look so grave.” My father smiled as he stepped up to me. “I’ve been on my own before.”
“I know.” I took both his hands and pressed them earnestly. “But I shall miss you.”
It is difficult to pass a paper from a sleeve to one’s own hand and from one’s own hand to another’s hand without it being seen. It may be managed, however, if one has sufficient practice. My father’s fingers closed over the paper as it slid from my hand to his.
“You will write to me?” I said as I moved back. I did not glance toward Mr. Tinderflint to see if he had noticed the surreptitious exchange.
“Of course I will write, you goose.” Father pinched my chin. “We are in this business together, after all, and we need to see it through.”
We smiled at each other. He kissed my brow and I kissed his cheek. Then I took Olivia’s arm and together we paraded out past both Matthew and Mr. Tinderflint without so much as a backwards glance.
I had never been in such a conveyance as Mr. Tinderflint’s coach. Pulled by a team of no fewer than six horses, it moved as ponderously as a whale through the streets. At the same time, it was so well sprung that all of the usual jolting from the London cobbles was reduced to a gentle roll. There were shelves, storage boxes, and all manner of appurtenances, and Mr. Tinderflint himself direct us all on how to make ourselves most comfortable.
“Now, Mr. Reade, my good sir, if you’ll just help Peggy adjust her rug. Miss Pierpont, is that foot warmer still hot? Excellent. If you would be so kind as to hand me that muff you’ll find at the bottom of the box, we will all be quite snug.” He tucked his plump arms up to the elbows into an enormous draping of rabbit fur. “Are you all warm enough?” he asked, every inch the anxious host.
“Very, thank you.” In fact, I was near to perspiring.
“Excellent. Excellent.” Mr. Tinderflint nodded several times. “I do confess, Mr. Reade, Miss Pierpont, I am very glad—yes, very—you are in the palace to help look after Peggy. Especially you, Mr. Reade, as you have proved yourself so many times to be the gallant chevalier. The extent and nature of this conspiracy is grave, yes, most grave.”
Matthew inclined his head in acknowledgment of this flattery. Whatever mood gripped Mr. Tinderflint, it had not engendered subtlety. I wondered if he imagined Matthew to be naive, a thought that left me as out of sorts as Isolde deprived of a biscuit.
Olivia had taken Isolde’s travel basket on her own lap and now rubbed my puppy’s ears thoughtfully. “My question is, who is the true master of this conspiracy? Is it really Lord Lynnfield? Or could it be Mrs. Oglethorpe? I saw her only for a moment, of course, but she struck me as the sort who could direct whole armies.”
“She certainly has that reputation,” Mr. Tinderflint agreed. “Still, we must consider that the Sandfords have been involved in this particular aspect of Jacobite affairs since the beginning, but the Oglethorpes—while venerable conspirators in their own right—are only now making their presence known. That speaks not to long involvement but to a recent alliance, if an alliance there is.”
Having the Oglethorpes and the Sandfords plotting separately did not make me feel any easier. Rather, it was like being caught in the jaws of an unpleasant and dramatic sort of vise.
“But Mr. Fitzroy was servant and spy in the Sandfords’ country house,” Matthew reminded Mr. Tinderflint. “He surely knows who Lord Lynnfield’s friends are, and he believes their alliance with the Oglethorpes to be of long standing.”
Mr. Tinderflint watched the crowds outside the window picking their way across the cobbles and stone walkways and, incidentally, all traveling more quickly than his coach. “I have the greatest respect for Fitzroy and his abilities—yes, yes, I do,” he said softly. “But I must also ask myself how I would feel if I returned from prison only to discover that my beloved wife had died. Then there comes into my home this woman who perhaps knew my wife, who perhaps caused me to be imprisoned while my wife languished and died and my daughter was left to the indifferent care of virtual strangers.” His words trickled through my mind, as cold and slow as melting ice. “It could interfere with a man’s thinking. It could make him wish for revenge, no matter what else might be happening around him.”
He spoke softly and with deep sympathy in his voice. Despite the heat of the coach, understand
ing left me chilled. My father was a man of passions. He had lived among ruffians and was ready and able to do violence. I had seen it. If he believed his wife had been wronged, could he leave the matter unaddressed? Even if those responsible had nothing to do with the conspiracies nesting in the palace?
“You think Father wants an excuse to go after Mrs. Oglethorpe directly.”
“It would take one of the Almighty’s saints not to long for revenge under such circumstances as Fitzroy finds himself in. Even should it . . . distract from more pressing business.”
“Do you suggest, sir, that my father would act independently and against the interests of his king or his country?” I demanded. “After all he has been through on their behalf?”
Mr. Tinderflint paused, seemingly uncertain. I could not tell whether this was genuine feeling or yet more play-acting. “Peggy, we have not talked much about your mother.” He said this in such a low voice I had to lean closer to hear him over the creak and rattle of the carriage. “That has been a mistake on my part, I think. She was so very talented, so adept at what she did. And magnificent. I’d never seen a woman who could walk into a room and catch every eye as she did . . .” He stopped. “You see, that’s my problem. I knew Elizabeth as a talented agent who did great good service to . . . well . . . various causes, and to her queen, of course. But to your father, she was his world.” Mr. Tinderflint let his gaze touch each of us in turn. “I think it is very important we are mindful of this as we confer about our actions, and Fitzroy’s actions, from here on after.”
I had no name for the feeling that rushed through me at these words. This man, my patron, had saved me from the worst possible assault. He had brought me into a life where I had friends, rank, and purpose. Now, for the best and most urgent reasons, of course, he asked me to inform against my father. My father, who might, perfectly understandably—yes, yes, quite understandably—have become confused between his duty to his country and his desire for vengeance. Of course, I would do this without letting my father know who had urged me to find the information. All in the best interests of myself, and my father, and my friends, and my king and country, of course. Yes, yes, of course.
Mr. Tinderflint wanted this of me, and he didn’t even show me the respect of asking me directly.
“You may be assured, Mr. Tinderflint,” I said without blinking, “I will do all that I can.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
IN WHICH BOTH IDENTITIES AND LOYALTIES ARE SERIOUSLY QUESTIONED AND CERTAIN IRREVOCABLE WORDS ARE SPOKEN.
Despite the coach’s stately progress, we did eventually reach the palace and the Color Court. As Matthew helped me down, the cold wind whipped hard into my eyes and I had to grab my cloak’s hood to keep it from being blown back.
Mr. Tinderflint busied himself with giving orders—not only to his men, but to several passing porters as well—on the disposition of Olivia’s trunks. Olivia, of course, could not be left out of a task with which she was so intimately connected. She shoved Isolde’s basket into my hands, hiked up her hems, and waded into the fray.
This left me facing Matthew. My sweetheart sighed and jammed his hands into his coat pockets. “I should get down to the hall,” he said. “I’ve been gone too long already, and Lord Beckenstile wants more cherubs for the Arch of Prosperity.”
We were back on our manners. One day, I promised myself, we would end this. One day, I would be able to take his hand and kiss his cheek and not care who saw. That this change of circumstance would necessarily involve the two of us making an extra visit to church one morning was something I decided not to think about too much.
Instead, I returned what I knew to be a weak smile. “I would never choose for you to endure more cherubs, not even for my sake.”
“Duty requires so many sacrifices from us all.” He smiled and bowed. “I’ll come find you later,” he breathed.
I nodded my acknowledgment as I curtsied. We already had a great deal to talk about, and I suspected Olivia would furnish yet more subjects for conversation as soon as we were alone.
Her attitude from the instant I entered my rooms certainly appeared to bear this out. She stopped her work of pawing through an open trunk to grab me by both hands and drag me to sit beside her on the bed.
“Oh, Peggy, you can’t imagine what I’ve seen since you’ve been gone! I’m bursting to tell you!”
Unfortunately for us both, this breathless prologue was followed by a knock at the door. Not the scratch of a maid, but a firm knock.
“Matthew?” I jumped up and hurried to answer it ahead of Libby. But instead of Matthew, there was a bearded man wearing a long white smock and worn boots. He held a corded trunk in his gnarled hands. It wasn’t until he lifted his face and allowed me a glimpse beneath the brim of his slouch hat that I recognized my father.
“Last box for the lady,” he said gruffly.
There are times when my cousin proves her inherent worth. While I stepped back, struck absolutely dumb, Olivia leapt to her feet and snatched up her purse. “Libby, take this down to Mr. Tinderflint’s coach and make sure the porters have all gotten their tips. Then go find Mr. Reade in the lower hall and tell him he needs to come up here as soon as may be. Oh, and then you can wait for the cart and my maid Templeton to arrive and show her up.”
Normally, Libby would have hesitated, but she had a good eye and could tell by my unguarded expression that our new arrival was nothing so simple as a porter.
“Yes, miss.” My maid hurried from the room, and Olivia, true to her dramatic instincts as well as her intelligence, bolted the door.
“Why are you here, sir?” I cried. “You said you cannot be seen at court.”
“As myself, it’s unwise. But as some anonymous porter, I think I may be safe.” Father set the box down on top of a stack of similar crates. Isolde scampered up to his boots and nosed at them. Displeased with what she saw, she growled. Father nudged her aside gently so he would not tread upon her as he came over to me.
“This letter, Peg.” He pulled out the much-folded paper I had passed him. “Where did you get this?”
“Letter!” cried Olivia. “You had a letter and did not tell me!”
I ignored her. “It was delivered here anonymously. I saw the signature, the Mrs. Tinderflint . . .” Olivia gasped. I ignored her again. “Do you know what it means, sir?”
“No,” Father croaked. “Not entirely. I . . . I do know this is Elizabeth’s—your mother’s—handwriting.”
Olivia, evidently deciding she had been left out of the conversation long enough, snatched the letter out of Father’s hands. He started. I squeaked. Olivia paid us no attention but flipped open the fragile paper and scanned its contents. Father shrugged, resigning himself to the inevitable, as one tended to do with Olivia. “Have there been any others?” he asked me.
“No.”
“Yes,” said Olivia.
My father and I both stared at her.
“I haven’t received them, but . . .” Olivia swallowed, suddenly hesitant as she refolded the paper. Hesitation, however, seldom lasted with my cousin. She dropped the letter onto my desk, hurried to one of her many boxes, and began wrestling with the cordage.
Father tossed his hat aside and drew a wicked-looking knife from his belt. Swiftly and efficiently, he sliced the ropes. This allowed Olivia to snap the trunk’s latches. She raised the lid, lifted out several trays, laid several skirts on the bed, and rummaged so deeply in the bottom I feared she might fall in like a child into a well. Eventually, however, she came up for air, clutching a badly embroidered pink workbag. This she dumped out unceremoniously onto the bed to reveal, among other things, a battered notebook. I was all but ready to scream as she flipped through the pages. It is fortunate for us all that in that moment, she apparently found the correct memorandum.
“‘My Dear Mrs. Righthandwall,’” Olivia read. “‘I received your description of the proposed outing with great attention. Needless to say, I am overjoyed with the scheme! It is perfe
ct in every detail. I have discussed it with our friends here, and you may be sure we will be able to make the journey to Godalming in good time so that we may all together travel on to the Firth of Forth for the fifteenth. I can only pray the weather remains kind to us and all our good friends!’ It was signed ‘Mrs. Tinderflint,’ and then there were these numbers.” She held it out to Father. “Just like on Peggy’s letter.”
Father all but tore the book from her hands. “Olivia, where did you get this?”
“The letter was in Mother’s papers,” said Olivia, without a trace of shame or apology. “I was helping her pack and I, well, I found a great box full of letters that I’m sure I’d never seen before.” She stared at both of us, as if daring us to challenge this version of events. “I would have copied more, if I’d had the time. Those numbers are a code, aren’t they?”
“A cipher, yes.” Father peered closely at the page. “Yes, they most certainly are.”
“Mother is a spy.” Olivia spoke the words gingerly, as if something might break if she said them too loudly. “My. Mother. Is. A. Spy. She’s Mrs. Righthandwall!”
“You’re jumping to conclusions,” muttered Father.
“What other explanation is there?” Olivia demanded. When Father did not answer, she turned to me. “We know your mother and mine were close friends when they were younger. We also know my mother spoke with Mr. Tinderflint when he found out Father worked for the Jacobites during the first uprising. Maybe that meeting wasn’t really about Father’s affairs. Maybe it was about hers.”
“It can’t be,” I said. Surely it was against the laws of nature and nature’s God that my foolish, nervous, quivering aunt was a member of Mr. Tinderflint’s harem of drawing-room spies.