by Sarah Zettel
I had not taken more than one step into the pavilion before he glanced up and saw me. Mr. Tinderflint needed no sign or signal. He did not even bother to set down his wine bottle; with many bows and grand gestures, he made his way to my side. In my turn, I brought out the letter with its blue seal.
Mr. Tinderflint met my gaze, nodded once, and gestured for me to lead on, which I did as swiftly as I could.
In my rooms, Olivia and Matthew had divested themselves of masks and hats and, in Olivia’s case, her dress sword. Libby was brewing a fresh pot from my precious stash of tea. Norris stood stiffly by the door. I suspected that Norris and Libby had been enjoying the quiet together before being so rudely interrupted, but there was neither time nor reason to remark on this.
Mr. Tinderflint certainly did not seem to find anything untoward in the scene. Quite the opposite, in fact.
“Excellent! Excellent!” he cried. “Libby and Norris, the very persons. I have a particular task for you. You are to take this bottle”—he handed Norris the wine bottle he’d carried all this way—“and go to the juncture of the gallery. You are not to drink, mind you, but pass it back and forth as if you were. Should anyone—and I do mean any man, woman, or child—come by, drop the bottle. You may take a scolding, but be sure, it will be worth your while.”
Libby was eyeing the velvet that trimmed my patron’s robe and the rings that sparkled on every plump finger. Norris was probably doing the same, but he managed to be less obvious about it. They did both make their bows and slip away into the gallery. This time, I was the one who bolted the door.
“Now then, Peggy, may I see this letter?” Mr. Tinderflint lowered himself into the chair by my writing desk. It creaked ominously. “How did you come by it?”
“Another letter?” cried Olivia. “Peggy! You never tell me anything!”
I laid the sealed paper in front of Mr. Tinderflint and described my adventure in the darkened palace. Mr. Tinderflint rubbed the paper between his blunt fingers and ran them over the ribbon. He carefully held the letter up to a candle and peered at it. He brought it to his bulbous nose and sniffed the sealing wax.
“Hmm. Hmm. Interesting. Yes. Well. I think we need to have this opened.” He held the letter again to the light, so close, in fact, that I had to restrain myself from crying out that he would surely burn it.
“Yes,” he said again, finally. “Have you paper and pen in this desk, Peggy, my dear?”
“I have something.” Matthew dug into the inner pocket of his coat and pulled out a small notebook, along with several sharpened pencils.
“Excellent, Mr. Reade!” cried Mr. Tinderflint. “And you, Miss Pierpont—I believe your cousin says you are a great writer? Yes? We’ll require your help as well.”
I got out a blank piece of paper for Olivia and found a book she could use as a writing surface. Thus armed, Matthew and Olivia flanked Mr. Tinderflint.
“Once I’ve removed ribbon and seal, Peggy will open the letter. Then you, Mr. Reade and Miss Pierpont, will note down what you read as quickly as possible.” While he spoke, Mr. Tinderflint folded another sheet of paper until it was the exact size of the sealed letter. Then he brought out a slender knife sheath. From this, he drew the thinnest, most delicate blade I had ever seen and held it over the candle flame. “Mr. Reade, if there are any sigils, signs, or drawings, it will be your task to reproduce them while Miss Pierpont concentrates on whatever text there may be. Is that understood?” We nodded. Mr. Tinderflint nodded back and turned the blade over to make sure it was evenly heated.
“This is an operation much beloved of our finer playwrights,” he went on in a calm and conversational tone. “I fear it is seldom as simple as they make it out to be. If not done with care and precision, the seal is marred and traces of the tampering are left on the paper. Those who write secret letters are ever alert for these little signs. Yes.” He gently touched one side of the blade. “Now.”
Mr. Tinderflint’s fingers were built on a scale with the rest of him—that is to say, they were noticeably short and thick. This made the delicacy with which they now moved astounding. Ignoring the insistent tick of the mantelpiece clock telling us time was flying on, he patiently worked that thin, hot knife beneath the blue seal. With infinite care, he lifted the blade and the seal. His free hand teased the letter out from its loop of ribbon. He handed the note to me. “Now,” he said again.
I flipped the letter open and jumped back. Olivia and Matthew bent over the page, eyes darting back and forth, pencils scribbling madly. While they worked, Mr. Tinderflint occupied himself by sliding the folded blank paper into the ribbon loop and lowering the seal onto it.
I opened my mouth to question this, but Mr. Tinderflint held one finger to his lips and nodded toward the copyists.
“I have it, I think,” said Olivia. “But what—”
“Mr. Reade?” Mr. Tinderflint cut her off.
“A moment . . . Finished.”
“Excellent.” Mr. Tinderflint now reversed the previous procedure, reheating the knife, lifting the seal again, teasing out the blank page.
“The blank helps preserve the integrity of the sealing wax,” he said, anticipating my question. “It also ensures no telltale stain is left on the ribbon. Again, it is these little things that are the difference between success and failure for such an operation. The letter, please, Peggy.”
I had it ready, folded again along the original lines. Mr. Tinderflint slid the letter back into the ribbon. Taking his lower lip between his teeth, he turned the blade ever so slightly, lining the seal up precisely with the stain on the paper.
“There,” he said with a sigh of satisfaction, as if he’d just finished an excellent meal. “We will let that cool and hopefully return it to its place with no man being the wiser. Matthew, Olivia, may I see the copies, please . . . Thank you.”
Mr. Tinderflint claimed Matthew’s notebook and Olivia’s paper and laid them out side by side on my desk. Neither of them watched him. Both stared at me. In answer, my throat tightened. Wishing I could simply avert my eyes, I tiptoed closer and peered over Mr. Tinderflint’s round, red-clad shoulder.
Olivia’s paper contained nothing but long strings of numbers and dashes.
891241 3773-25 89-5624 12-12-97 85 . . . and on. Six lines of number sets formed a perfect square in the center of the page.
“Is it a cipher?” she asked.
“It certainly appears to be,” said Mr. Tinderflint. It was as well he was busy examining the copies in front of him. That way he didn’t see me struggle to keep my countenance under Olivia’s steady regard. She was waiting for me to speak. I must be the one to decide whether to inform Mr. Tinderflint we’d seen numbers like this before, in those other letters signed “Mrs. Tinderflint” that I had failed to tell him about.
“This, Mr. Reade, is very good work.” Mr. Tinderflint raised Matthew’s notebook closer to his eyes. “Unfortunately, it tells us we should be concerned about what we’ve found—yes, very concerned.”
Matthew had also copied out the numbers, but a corner of his copy was decorated with a sketch of three fleurs-de-lis on a dark shield. This shield was surmounted by a crown, and the whole image surrounded by a chain of some sort.
“It’s a seal?” I guessed. “A French seal?”
“That, my dear Peggy, is the seal of the House of Orléans, the house of the current Regent—that is to say, the ruler—of France.”
A coded letter from the Regent of France? Sealed in Jacobite blue and hidden in the palace? I felt the blood drain from my face.
Since this latest phase of my adventures had begun, I had imagined many dire conclusions—from disgrace for Olivia all the way up to assassination attempts. Until this moment, however, I had also been able to tell myself these were mere imaginings. That comfort was now stripped away. The ruler of France had sent a coded message into the Sandfords’ hands. The Sandfords’, and Sophy Howe’s. With this letter I could finish them all.
Triumph, I was fair
ly certain, should not make one feel ill. Nonetheless, I found myself pressing my hand against my stomach. Because if this letter did come from Versailles, what did that say about Aunt Pierpont, who had letters bearing a similar cipher in her possession?
And she was not the only one. I thought of the letter that had been sent so surreptitiously to me and was even now in my father’s hands, wherever my father’s hands had gone.
“Now, we must not be hasty.” Mr. Tinderflint patted my shoulder. “Seals, like so many other things, can be forged. We know from your previous encounters that Miss Howe is a keen amateur in that line. But there are other details . . .” He pursed his lips, considering. “I think, Peggy, that you and I will need to go visit my very good friend Mr. Willis.”
“Willis? But—” I clamped my mouth shut, but it was too late. Mr. Tinderflint turned. The chair creaked. Olivia pressed her hand over her mouth.
“May I take it you’ve heard the name, Peggy?” inquired Mr. Tinderflint mildly.
“Yes. Perhaps.” I twisted my fingers together and tried to think of some covering story, but my wits were far too disordered. “Father told me he was going to Oxford to speak with a man named Willis.”
Mr. Tinderflint’s eyebrows lifted. “Did he indeed? Do you know why?”
“He did not say.”
Mr. Tinderflint held my gaze for rather longer than was necessary. “I fear your father has wasted a journey,” he said finally. “Mr. Willis, if indeed we mean the same man, is not in Oxford just now. He’s come down to London, at my particular request.”
My heart constricted underneath my ribs. If this Mr. Willis was in London, where was my father? He surely would not have lingered in Oxford once he knew his man was no longer there. He would have turned right around and come home. Wouldn’t he?
“Who is this Willis fellow?” asked Matthew, probably because he saw I had passed beyond rational speech.
My patron paused before replying. “Mr. Willis is one of our foremost code breakers. If there’s anyone in England who can determine whether this”—he waved his hand at the papers in front of him—“is the genuine article and decipher its meaning, Willis—”
Outside there was a muffled crash. A dropped bottle, broken glass.
Someone was coming.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
IN WHICH OUR HEROINE IS DISCOVERED IN COMPROMISING CIRCUMSTANCES AND A CERTAIN GENTLEMAN MAY BE SEEN TO FAIL IN HIS AIMS.
Mr. Tinderflint froze. So did the rest of us. Together, we listened to the mumbles of apology out in the gallery, and then a man’s angry reply.
“Matthew.” I grabbed his arm. Matthew dropped his pencil into his pocket and followed closely. At the door I turned quickly to face him, grabbed both his hands, and shoved his fingers into my hair. At almost the same moment, I went onto my toes and kissed him, hard.
As aware as I was that I was being stared at and that I must hurry, the intensity with which Matthew answered that kiss caused me to linger perhaps a little longer than was wise. I broke away as quickly as I could manage. Even so, I had only a heartbeat to see the confusion and delight in Matthew’s face before I turned, undid the bolt, and eased the door open the narrowest crack.
“Well. Half the world is looking for you and this is all you’re up to,” said Sebastian from the other side. His grin was odious, and I fairly itched to wipe it off his face. I also noted, however, that his cavalier’s hat was askew and he had abandoned his black mask at some point, which made it easy to see that his face was red, as if he was angry, or drunk.
Or simply in some tremendous hurry.
“Hello, Miss Fitzroy,” Sebastian continued, with that particular sneering amiability at which he was so expert. Matthew crowded close behind me, effectively blocking what little view Sebastian might have otherwise had of the room. “I thought I might find you hiding here. Aren’t you supposed to be downstairs waiting on things?” He gestured down the gallery.
“What business is it of yours where I am?” I snapped, largely to cover the rustling behind me as Mr. Tinderflint and Olivia cleared away evidence of our recent clerical activities.
“None at all.” He shrugged. “But you should know, your absence has been remarked upon.”
“By you and Sophy, yes, I’m sure it was.” I attempted to sound utterly bored by this, but inside, fresh worry blossomed.
“Not just by us. I’m deadly serious about this, Margaret Fitzroy.” Sebastian stepped closer until only the width of the door separated us. He had whiskey on his breath and a wild, worried glint in his blue eyes. “You need to come with me, or there will be trouble.”
Matthew closed his hand around mine. I did not move. “Trouble for me or for you?” I asked Sebastian.
“For you. There is someone very particular looking for you. Very particular.”
The rustling behind us had stopped. Matthew squeezed my hand. I chose to take it as a signal that the various papers had been appropriately concealed and we could put an end to this strange and uncomfortable scene. There were, however, one or two points yet to be covered. “If we are to speak of persons who are missing, Mr. Sandford, I might ask where you’ve been. And what of your brother?”
Sebastian sighed sharply. “Oh, Julius is somewhere about his business. As you should be about yours.”
For a heartbeat, I actually considered going with him, in hopes of finding out who had sent him and why. But the most likely reason for his presence was that he was to take me on a wild-goose chase about the grounds while some confederate attempted to retrieve the Jacobite letter. Find me when you know the favor I’ve done you, Sophy had said. It hit me she might very well be playing a double game, taking whatever Lynnfield offered with the one hand while attempting to expose his treasons with the other.
“Do thank whoever sent you for their concern,” I told Sebastian. “You may assure them that I will rejoin the celebrations shortly.”
With this, I shut the door. I was pleased to note that I had, for once, come away from an encounter with Sebastian without the slightest tremor in my hands.
“You are to be congratulated, my dear.” Mr. Tinderflint climbed ponderously to his feet. “That was excellent work, and very quick thinking, very quick indeed.”
His words warmed me, but not enough to take away the chill of what had just happened.
“They know the letter’s missing,” said Olivia. “And they know we’ve got it.”
“Yes, I’m afraid that may well be the case.” Mr. Tinderflint shook his head with gentle sorrow, as if he’d just heard it would rain on a day when he had an excursion planned.
“It also means it’s genuine,” said Matthew. “Whatever else it is, that letter really is from Versailles and the Regent.”
“It increases the probability,” admitted Mr. Tinderflint. “But we can say nothing for certain until Willis has had a look at it.”
“But if it is genuine . . .” I couldn’t finish. If it was genuine, it meant invasion by the French, maybe with the Spanish thrown in for good measure. It meant war and conquest and vengeance. I reached out and found Matthew’s hand.
Olivia had drifted to the hearth. She lifted a lump of coal from the scuttle, turned it over in her fingers, and tossed it into the flames. It fell with a loud crackle, and a fresh flame leapt up. Her expression was entirely still and closed, but I knew what she was thinking. She was thinking how the letter’s authenticity could also show some direct and unmistakable connection between her mother and the Jacobites.
When she turned around again, her features were set in her most terrifyingly determined expression. “Peggy, you have to tell the princess, and you have to tell her everything.”
I bit my lip. No. It was not my duty to condemn my aunt to a traitor’s fate and my cousin to disgrace and poverty. It could not be. France, Spain, Stuart, and Hanover could all go hang themselves. Nothing was worth the loss of those I held dearest.
“I see your feeling, Peggy,” said Mr. Tinderflint. “And I understand it, yes, I
do. But Olivia is correct. We have reached one of those rare moments when the truth is what will serve us best.”
He didn’t understand, though. Not really, because he didn’t know about the connection between the enciphered letters and Aunt Pierpont. Because I hadn’t told him.
“I can’t do it tonight.” I hated that I sounded like I was pleading. “There will be no way to speak to Her Highness alone. In fact, she might have already retired. It will have to be in the morning.”
Olivia hadn’t moved from her spot in front of the fireplace. I suddenly wished Isolde were here. Then my cousin would have something to hold on to, something that wasn’t about to destroy what little of her family she had left.
It was Matthew who went to her. He put a hand on her arm, as a brother might. She glanced up with a look of sorrow and gratitude.
I couldn’t move. My mind was awash with a thousand different feelings, none of them clear or easy.
“You are not without friends, my dear,” said Mr. Tinderflint to Olivia. “You will be protected, whatever comes of this.”
My cousin shrugged with one shoulder and said nothing.
Faced with Olivia’s most unusual silence, Mr. Tinderflint turned brisk. “Now, I am sorry to leave you in such a moment, but I have preparations and inquiries of my own to make.” He picked up the letter and tucked it into his judge’s robe. “As it has already been discovered missing, I will keep the original of this letter. It will need to be examined carefully. After you have spoken to the princess, Peggy, please send for me. We will go together to see Willis. Assuming that I am left in charge of this matter, which I think I can arrange. Yes, yes, yes.”
I made my curtsy to Mr. Tinderflint without looking up at him. I did not want to risk him seeing the hard and hated questions in my gaze. Why me? Why us? Was this—the exposure of Aunt Pierpont, along with her husband, the Oglethorpes, and the Sandfords—the result Mr. Tinderflint had desired from the first?
He paused for a minute in his bow, as if there was something more to add. He never spoke, however—only let himself out of the room and closed the door.