Assassin's Masque (Palace of Spies Book 3)

by Sarah Zettel

  My patron, as always, proved very quick on the uptake. “The Old Fury returned? You spoke with her?”

  I nodded. “She had letters. She said that my mother . . . that Mother was a friend of hers and that she was the one who wanted me to marry a Sandford, so I could be part of their household and . . .” I choked on the words.

  “You saw these letters?”

  I nodded. “They were not the first.” I paused, then said, “She said you poisoned my mother.”

  Had I ever seen my patron angry before? I couldn’t remember, but if I had, it surely hadn’t been like this. He jerked to his feet. He snatched up his chair and swung it high over his head. In one swift movement, he brought it crashing down against the floor. Wood splintered everywhere. I flung my arm up to cover my face and stumbled backwards.

  I doubt Mr. Tinderflint even noticed. He stood there staring at the ruin of the room’s only chair. His whole body shook and his mouth was moving, a string of silent oaths.

  The lock rattled and the door creaked open. We both looked up to see the jailer standing there, with a yeoman of the guard right behind him.

  “None of that, my lord,” said the jailer calmly. “It’ll be added to your bill.”

  “Of course,” Mr. Tinderflint replied. “I do apologize for the inconvenience.”

  This seemed to satisfy the jailer, because he pulled the door shut once more.

  Mr. Tinderflint returned to contemplating the wreckage he’d made of an innocent piece of furniture. He reached down and deliberately plucked one of the broken rails from the pile of wood.

  “I’m sorry, Peggy,” he said. “That was quite unforgivable of me.”

  “It’s all right,” I answered, because I had no idea what else to say. “I expect you’ve had a trying day.”

  “Yes, yes, I have, I’m afraid.” Mr. Tinderflint laid the broken chair rail on the windowsill. “What else has happened?

  “Sophy’s left the palace,” I told him. “Sebastian too. Lynnfield, of course, was gone days ago.”

  Mr. Tinderflint rested his hands on the sill right next to the chair rail. He stared out at the high walls and unforgiving October. The sun was setting, filling the room with twilight. There were no candles. Soon, it would be too dark to see.

  “Dear God,” he breathed. “Dear God in Heaven, it’s happening. This time it’s real.” He closed his empty fists. “And I’m in here. All these years, all my plans, all my people in place, and when the moment at last arrives, I. Am. In. Here!” He clenched those fists until they shook and the knuckles turned white. “Did Mrs. Oglethorpe say where?” The words rasped in his throat. “Did she give you any hint at all as to where the landing will take place and who is backing this?”

  I could only shake my head. “I’ll go to Their Highnesses,” I said, a little desperately. “I’ll plead your case.”

  “It would take an order from the Prince of Wales, Peggy, and he signed the warrant that brought me here.”

  I looked into his watery eyes and saw a mixture of fury and helplessness that struck straight to my heart. Cold wrapped around me like the deepening twilight. “What should I do?”

  Mr. Tinderflint looked over my shoulder again. His chins trembled. Slowly, he opened one of his fists. Just as slowly, he reached forward and took my hand. I felt a warm weight slide into my palm. The heft and shape told me I held a key.

  I closed my hand around it.

  My patron let his head droop as if in abject despair. When he spoke, it was in German and in the barest breath of a whisper. “There is a room above the Cocoa Tree in Pall Mall,” he murmured dolefully. “In the desk are some letters that must be sent at once. The directions are already in place. These will serve to remind certain highly placed gentlemen of past matters that might still affect the present situation.”

  Blackmail. I did not say the word, but Mr. Tinderflint saw it written across my expression. He nodded.

  “I have never been a nice man, Peggy. And this business we are about . . .” He sighed and evidently felt no need to finish that particular sentence. “Those letters constitute my surest route out of this cell, and it is vital that I am freed as soon as possible.”

  “I’ll do my best.” I did not forget that I had been forbidden to have anything more to do with clandestine activities. But how could I refuse?

  I folded my hands together and twisted my fingers nervously, which, incidentally, provided some covering motion for the fact that I tucked the key into my sleeve. “What will happen to you while I’m gone?” I then slowly asked another question, hating myself for doing it. “Is . . . is there anyone to whom I should write? A Lady Tierney, perhaps?” A Mrs. Tinderflint. “You never said . . .”

  His smile was faint. “Alas, there is no Lady Tierney. My sisters are dead, as is my mother, and to her eternal sorrow, I never entered the married state.” He shook his head. “Therefore, no. But if things stay . . . as they are . . . we may safely assume we have a few days at least before anything drastic occurs. I am still Earl Tierney, after all, and it takes time to try and convict such a man as myself. In the meantime, we must make use of those lessons you have learned so well.” He wagged his chins at me. “Appearances, Peggy, must be preserved.”

  I met his solemn gaze. His eyes flickered once toward the door, with its listening jailer on the other side. He took a deep breath. I understood and let him see that I was ready.

  Mr. Tinderflint gave me the faintest ghost of a smile. Then I took my own deep breath and leapt backwards.

  “I will not hear you, sir!” I shouted at the top of my lungs, in good plain English. “I will not listen to another word!”

  Mr. Tinderflint surged toward me. “Ungrateful slattern! After all that I have done for you!”

  “Done for me! You have done nothing from the first but lie and deceive!”

  “Have a care! I put you in your place—I can remove you from it just as easily!”

  I drew myself up. My cheeks flushed, which was convenient in case we were being watched as well as overheard. “I am maid of honor to Her Royal Highness Caroline, Princess of Wales. I serve at her pleasure, not yours!”

  “Think again, my fine miss!” Mr. Tinderflint pointed one fat finger at me and shook it vigorously.

  “I have thought again, sir! Our association is done—done! I will not be drawn into your plots. I wash my hands of you and all your friends!”

  Mr. Tinderflint looked at me. I looked at him. I bit my tongue and then spat on the floor at his feet.

  I turned away, drawing my skirts in close to my body, as if I wanted to be certain my hems would not brush against him. I thought, perhaps, I saw a twinkle of approval in Mr. Tinderflint’s eye as I sailed to the door in the haughtiest of fashions and banged on it with my fist. “Jailer!” I cried, and did not have to force the break into my voice. “Jailer!”

  The man arrived with suspicious speed to open that portal to let me out. I was in no way surprised, especially not when I saw the corner of a book peeking from the pocket of his black coat. He’d not only been listening, he’d been taking notes.

  I found I was not surprised about that, either.

  I said not a word to my father when I emerged from the Tower. He was still in his coachman’s coat, of course, and he seemed determined to keep up the part. He touched his hat brim to me as he held open the door so I could climb inside the conveyance. As he closed the door, I peered up at the Tower walls. I could not see over them to tell if there were lights showing inside. I could not tell if the jailer had remembered to bring Mr. Tinderflint a candle or if he still sat in the dark, waiting for me to free him.

  Father climbed onto the box and touched up the horses. The coach rocked as they started forward. It was now far too dark to see well, so I listened to the creak and the jingle of the harnesses, the clop of hooves, and all the other sounds of travel. Even if I succeeded in freeing Mr. Tinderflint, my mistress was right. Matters had all gone far, far beyond me.

  The coach slowed and
stopped. My head jerked up. I looked past the curtains but saw mostly darkness and a few looming shapes, nothing like the illumination of the palace. From outside came the clatter and thump of Father climbing off the box. Somewhat absurdly, he knocked at the coach door. I undid the latch and let him clamber inside.

  “It’s best we talk before there’s anyone to overhear,” he told me. “How is Lord Tierney?”

  I wanted to cry. I wanted to beg my father to turn the horses’ heads away from the city and take us someplace, anyplace, where we would never hear the words spy and Jacobite again.

  “Did he say how he came to be imprisoned?” Father asked. He spoke the words carefully, almost hesitantly, and I felt a strange sensation, as if I’d caught an odor I could not identify.

  “He said an incriminating letter was found in his desk.” I meant to go on to tell the story of how it got there, but something made my tongue stumble over the words. “It had the seal of the House of Orléans on it,” I said finally.

  My father shook his head slowly. My father, who had spent all those years in France, spying on the courts at Saint-Germain and Versailles. “It happens. The best and most careful of men can make that little mistake at the wrong time. Did he ask anything of you? Give you any instructions?”

  My father, who could disguise himself as any lowly person. Who could, I had reason to know, slip in and out of the palace unnoticed. Who had been absent from the masquerade even though he had promised me faithfully he would attend.

  Who had served the Sandfords and who distrusted Lord Tierney.

  My father, who’d supposedly been in prison for years, and in service after that, and yet still had money enough to set himself up in a fine house, one with a smugglers’ tunnel. He’d left his money with friends, he said. Despite all such forethought on his own behalf, he’d never bothered to make arrangements with any such friend to watch over my situation, or to pass on any sum for my use, or indeed to make any provision for his family while he was gone.

  That seemed odd for such a careful man, one who had known his life was in real danger.

  I had been trying to sort out loyalties and grand schemes. Mrs. Oglethorpe did what she did out of the belief that God had somehow decided He wanted James on the throne after all. Mr. Tinderflint did his work out of belief as well, although his belief was that he knew which of the available kings was best for him, and us. But belief was not the only thing that motivated the confidential agent. The smuggling Sandfords were, to all appearances, in the game for wealth and power.

  Spies could also become quite wealthy. They could be paid well for their work. They could be paid better to change sides, and to change them back. Or not.

  My father had a fine house, and a coach, horses, and servants, all since he’d come back from France.

  “Peg?” Father’s voice broke my reverie. “Did Tierney ask anything of you? Are you to get him anything or to take any sort of message? You’re supposed to be back for the drawing room and we haven’t much time.”

  “No,” I said. “There was nothing.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  IN WHICH DISGUISES ARE ONCE MORE DONNED AND MISTAKES, AS WELL AS DISCOVERIES, ARE MADE.

  I had been ordered to be in place for the drawing room. I had further been ordered to cease my clandestine activities. Therefore, I had only one choice.

  I would have to sneak out.

  Olivia wanted me to dress as a boy for this particular enterprise. I refused. My cousin might have developed an enthusiasm for it, but I did not favor male clothing. Besides, I had no wish to be mistaken for Orlando Preston by the still-fuming Lord Blakeney. As a result, Olivia had to be content with my borrowing Libby’s second dress, apron, and cap. I, of course, paid for that privilege.

  Olivia also had to be content with sitting up in my rooms with Isolde, in order to tell anyone who might appear at my door that I had a headache and could not be disturbed, rather than coming along to the Cocoa Tree. This took rather more persuading, but I gained the day by pointing out that if anyone tried to come into our rooms at this time of night, we very much needed to know about it.

  I did not mention that if I got caught at this, the last of my credibility with Their Highnesses would fly away, and we would be shipped back to whatever welcome waited in my father’s house.

  Leaving Olivia on watch at the palace did not mean I planned to go out alone. Even at my most daring I was not prepared to wander the streets of London without an escort. I took Matthew with me. Despite my patron’s warnings about the need for secrecy, I was sure Mr. Tinderflint would not have minded my sweetheart’s inclusion. Besides, Matthew, rather unexpectedly, knew where the Cocoa Tree was.

  My departure from the palace proceeded smoothly. Her Highness had kept me at her side throughout the course of the drawing room, but she grew fatigued rather more early than usual and had the bedchamber women take her to her rooms. This engendered a great deal of speculation about her time being upon her, which I did not stay to listen to. Instead, I slipped back to my own rooms and let Olivia help me out of my court clothes and into my maid’s disguise. With Libby once more playing the guide, I navigated the crowded back stairs down to the Ambassador Court. From there, I crept out into Cleveland Row, where Matthew waited, lounging against the side of a house and whistling in fine imitation of a lazy wastrel up to no good.

  The Cocoa Tree might be a coffee and chocolate house, but we arrived to find its environs as loud and frenetic as any tavern. Even in the small hours of that wintery night, the place was so full its patrons spilled out into the streets. Apparently oblivious to the first flakes of snow drifting down around them, they sat on benches waving pipes at one another and arguing. Some, for variety’s sake, crowded up to the newspapers posted on the walls and argued. Some of them even held cups of what I supposed to be coffee, pointing and gesticulating hard enough to splash the beverages over the sides.

  Fortunately, the men were so engrossed in the arguments, their papers, their pipes, and their drinks that I in my cap and plain skirt was scarcely noticed. One lively wit did wink at me and slap his knee in the universal language that invited me to sit down. Matthew stepped between us, ready to take umbrage as needed, but the fellow just grinned and went back to his argument.

  We ducked into the narrow, dingy doorway on the side of the house to find ourselves at the foot of an equally narrow, dingy stairway. Other than a little torch light filtering in from outside, the only illumination was the candlelight that glimmered under and around a few of the doors.

  The stairs creaked dangerously as we climbed. The smells of coffee and bitter chocolate mixed with those of mildew and filth. I tried to imagine my fastidious, spherical patron mounting this staircase, and failed.

  One door at the far end of the hall had neither light nor noise coming from behind it and therefore seemed our best choice. After a certain amount of groping about, I was able to fit the key into the lock. It took a nervous moment of rattling and heartfelt pleading with the world at large before key and lock agreed to cooperate. The door’s rusted hinges groaned in protest, but at last we stepped into Mr. Tinderflint’s rooms.

  Room and hearth were both as cold as his cell had been. By this time our vision had adapted to the dark, and we were able to make out the candle and tinderbox that had been placed in readiness on a rickety table by the door. While I shut the door and struggled once more with the lock, Matthew struck a spark and kindled us a light.

  The chamber itself was much cleaner than the hallway outside. The walls looked as though they’d been whitewashed at some point in the past few years. Two armchairs of antique vintage but considerable width and depth had been drawn up in front of the dark fireplace, where the hearthstones were swept clean, the coal scuttle filled, and sticks laid in the grate, ready to be lit. A dusty bottle and a pair of glasses waited on the mantel. There was even a thin rug on the floor.

  “Should we risk a fire?” asked Matthew, and his breath steamed white.

  Reluct
antly, I shook my head. “We’ve no time.”

  A plain writing desk stood underneath the window. It had two drawers on the side and one at the center, which proved to be locked. I admit to uttering a few mild curses at this. The side drawers contained leather-bound books filled with so many columns of closely written numbers that they might have been ledgers. I thought of the enciphered letter that had been Mr. Tinderflint’s downfall. What codes were these, and who waited at the end of them?

  I couldn’t afford to linger over the question. There were no sealed letters in either of the drawers, and no amount of leafing through or shaking of the ledger-style books produced any. Which meant they had to be in the locked drawer.

  “You might have provided a key,” I muttered to my absent patron.

  “I think he did,” said Matthew.

  Matthew stood by the hearth. He’d put the candle on the mantel and now held a wooden box. Inside lay a jeweled pin—a beautiful little bauble of silver and sapphires suitable to decorate a lady’s stomacher. At least, it might have been taken for a mere bauble until one realized its straight pin resembled a tiny rapier and had surprisingly keen edges. I lifted the decoration, feeling something between wonder and a pang. Until recently, I had owned a similar bauble, one that had helped save my life.

  “He knew,” I said. “He knew this might happen.”

  “I expect when you’re Mr. Tinderflint, you get ready for this sort of thing.” Matthew did not sound impressed.

  I ignored this and returned to the desk. I stuck the little blade into the narrow space between drawer and desk, sliding it along until it clicked against the latch of the lock. I batted at the latch, once, twice, harder. There was a small click, and the lock’s tongue snapped sideways. I slid the drawer open to see a stack of foolscap, several untrimmed quills, bricks of indigo and ink bottles, and a penknife, but no letters. I squeezed my lips shut around any further exclamation and made myself think. I picked up the stack of writing paper and saw nothing. Nothing under the quills, nothing among the penknives or empty ink bottles or sticks of sealing wax. No sign of a false bottom to the drawer, not even when I plied my pin to the corners.