Assassin's Masque (Palace of Spies Book 3)

by Sarah Zettel

  “Ah. That was a serious mistake on your part.”

  “So I understand.” He sighed again. “Well, what now, Peg? I’m assuming you’ve already made plans of your own?” He hoisted the doctored tankard again.

  I looked away. I sat in silence for a long moment to let my swirling thoughts settle. Then I told him. It did not take long, since he’d already heard most of what had passed between myself and the Old Fury when she and I were last together.

  When I finished, he nodded thoughtfully. “A good idea. It has every chance of success.”

  “You . . . you’re not going to try to talk us out of it?”

  He smiled. “Actually, I was planning on going along with it. It’s the best plan I’ve heard in the past few days, and that includes any number I’ve come up with myself.” I quite honestly didn’t know whether to be flattered or appalled by this statement. Was there ever such a father as mine? I had no time to decide, because my father lifted his tankard to his mouth and swallowed the entire contents in a single draft.

  “You . . . I . . . you didn’t have to drink that,” I stammered. “It was only to keep you from interfering.”

  “Verisimilitude,” he said as he slapped the tankard down. “You might be quizzed about your preparations. You need to be able to say you saw me take the whole of your potion.” He belched.

  Pride threatened. “I am an accomplished liar, you know.”

  “I do, but you’ll be doing enough of that. Trust me, it’s better if you can tell plenty of truths among the lies. But it would probably be useful if you spoke a word on my behalf to Olivia.” He gave a prodigious yawn. “Now, I seem to be mightily tired and should get myself upstairs. Verisimilitude,” he added as he got to his feet, and he staggered a moment before he crossed to me. He kissed my cheek and murmured in my ear, “Good luck, Pretty Peggy-O.”

  I watched him leave, regret and fear together closing around my thoughts.

  Staying awake while an entire household around you is preparing for sleep is no mean feat. I’m not at all sure I could have managed it without Olivia. She was full of ideas as to how to arrange my traveling box, Isolde’s basket, and my clothing. We even had a long argument about whether to take me out the front door or try the smugglers’ tunnel now that I told her I knew that Father was using it as his private bank vault.

  I did exact a promise that when Matthew came to get her, she would leave by the servants’ entrance. Someone belonging to the Oglethorpe might stay to watch the house. If it appeared we knew too much about my father’s secrets, it might destroy the façade of naiveté I was counting on to help protect me in Mrs. Oglethorpe’s company.

  Olivia was mollified by being allowed to change back into her Orlando Preston costume. Our plan, such as it was, was for Olivia and Matthew to ride to Godalming, the town nearest the Oglethorpes’ home of Westbrook. There, they would take rooms at an inn. We would then find some way to establish contact with one another, and I would pass to them all I learned from the Oglethorpes.

  This was a far less specific course of action than I was happy with, but it was the best any of us could do.

  Matthew returned once. He brought the satchel he’d retrieved from Mr. Tinderflint’s bolthole. I reasoned that my patron kept those rooms stocked for his spies, and so I was perfectly justified in making use of what he left there.

  Matthew also brought a letter written in a firm and feminine hand. It was sealed with plain blue wax and admirably brief.

  The coach will be harnessed by grays. Three of the clock.

  E.O.

  “How did she seem? What did you make of her?” demanded Olivia, but Matthew just shook his head.

  “It seems Mrs. Oglethorpe does not see mere messengers. The letters were taken in to her, the reply was brought out, and I was told to hurry off. Oh, and I was given a shilling for my pains.” He produced the coin. “I think it’s genuine.”

  After that, there was nothing to do but wait. I’m afraid I made rather a poor job of it. Between my jumping at shadows and Isolde’s insistence on checking each cubby and corner for either biscuits or threats, I resembled nothing so much as a complete near hysteric by the time we carried my trunk down to the front hall.

  “Don’t worry,” whispered Olivia. “The more flustered you look, the more she’ll believe your conversion to be genuine. Good luck.” She kissed my cheek. “Matthew and I will be at Godalming tomorrow at the latest.” Matthew was not with us anymore. He had left to hire a cart and horses for the journey. Coming from the family he did, Matthew had learned to drive a team but not to ride. Because Uncle Pierpont’s beliefs about education for girls had not extended toward familiarity with managing equines, Olivia could do neither.

  “You will remember to leave a message for Father?” I asked in a final burst of nerves. If I ever saw Aunt Pierpont again, I would have to apologize for never taking her attacks seriously.

  “You may depend on it.”

  I grabbed the handle of my distressingly heavy trunk with one hand and dragged it out the front door. Isolde’s basket swung on my other arm, much to my puppy’s distress.

  At this hour, no light showed in any window. The rutted road remained empty and silent. There was neither sight nor sound of any coach, harnessed by grays or otherwise.

  Had it been a ruse? No. That was not possible. What could be the purpose of leaving me standing like a jilted girl looking for her suitor? I tried to compose myself to patience, but that lasted only a handful of heartbeats.

  If she wasn’t here, what was Mrs. Oglethorpe doing? I glanced back toward the house. The only light showing was in Olivia’s window. Of course my cousin was keeping watch. I bit my lip. What if that light had made the Old Fury suspicious? What if she thought it was my father?

  A shadow moved beyond the house’s corner. It was gone in an instant. I reached into the basket where Isolde dozed and rubbed her ears until she stirred.

  Then I heard it—the soft thump of hooves and the creak and jingle of an approaching coach. I couldn’t see it clearly, but it seemed to be that same small black conveyance I had seen before, and the horses were indeed matched grays.

  The coach came to a halt, and the door swung slowly open.

  “It’s all right, Margaret,” said a voice behind my shoulder. “You’re safe now.”

  Before I could scream, a gloved hand clapped over my mouth. I was turned firmly to see a woman’s sharp face peering out from under the hood of a quite ordinary traveling cloak.

  “Mrs. Oglethorpe,” I mumbled against the glove.

  She nodded and grabbed my arm to hustle me across to the coach. She did take her hand off my mouth. This enabled me to squeak.

  “My things . . .”

  “Yes, yes.” She signaled to the boy at the back of the coach but did not pause in the process of bundling me inside. The boy jumped down to grab my box and toss it up to the driver. I had barely found my seat before Mrs. Oglethorpe pounded on the coach ceiling. “Drive on!”

  There was a crack of a whip and a shout and the coach lurched into motion. I grabbed the railing as we bounced across the ruts, gathering speed.

  “I’m sorry for startling you, Margaret.” Mrs. Oglethorpe lowered her hood. At least, I supposed that was what she did. There was no light in the carriage and the curtains were drawn, so I had to struggle to make out even the suggestion of motion. “I had to be certain you were not watched.”

  “Of course,” I said, or tried to, for the violent motion of our speeding coach caused my teeth to chatter and clack. Isolde poked her head out of her basket and uttered several sharp yips of complaint.

  “I . . . ah . . .” What did one ask at this point in a desperate escape? “I . . . ouch . . . Is it far to Godalming?”

  “Oh, Peggy, I’m sorry. We’re not going to Godalming.”

  Her words slammed against me, knocking me backwards in my seat. If I had been standing, I would have staggered, perhaps even fallen.

  “I . . . but . . . you said . . .
that you would take me to your house.”

  “I know I did, and I am sorry. Had your letter come yesterday, we would have still gone to my home. But things have proceeded too fast and there is far too much that requires my presence. No. We must go at once to Bidmarsh.”

  “Bidmarsh? Where is that?”

  “You don’t know?” Genuine surprise filled her voice. “Bidmarsh is the home of Baron Lynnfield.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  IN WHICH OUR HEROINE FINDS THAT ONE MAY BE CONFINED TO MORE PLACES THAN JUST THE TOWER.

  We arrived at Bidmarsh House in the last gray light of evening. We had traveled all night and throughout the next day, stopping only to change horses and to purchase such refreshment as could be eaten out of hand in a fast-moving carriage.

  I had fully intended to spend my time in the coach with Mrs. Oglethorpe making light conversation and, incidentally, discovering as much about her and her plans that I could. After she revealed our true destination, however, it was a long time before I was able to say anything at all. My thoughts had become fixed on a single point and could not be shifted.

  How on earth had I been so terribly, terribly stupid?

  I told myself I had faced far worse situations and gotten out of them. This time, for instance, no one was pointing a pistol or sword at me. The coach houses where we stopped to change horses would be filled with disinterested parties who would respond to a scream or a cry for help. I’d stashed a purse of coins in Isolde’s traveling basket, so I was not without means if I needed to make an escape while we were still on the road.

  Despite these preparations, I kept my seat during that mad ride. Because if I did try to run, what then? Would I creep home to go to whatever hiding place my father chose and wait for the coming invasion to play itself out?

  No. My hand was dealt. I must play it through.

  The mansion housing those I feared most looked quite normal. I had conjured vague images of a ruined abbey or cavernous Norman fortress where I would be greeted by hooded monks or masked men. I could blame these fanciful images on my association with Olivia, but that would not be entirely fair or truthful.

  In point of fact, Bidmarsh House proved to be a sound edifice of pale brick shaped like a squared-off letter U. A small, neat court nestled between its two projecting arms. It looked like recent construction to me, although I was given to understand from Mrs. Oglethorpe—who evidently felt that an unbroken stream of small talk was the best way to keep me calm and in good spirits—that there had been a manor house here since the Middle Ages. At least, I think that’s what she said. I had stopped listening to her at some point. I fear this was rude of me, and possibly a little incautious, but I was still too amazed and alarmed by my predicament, not to mention the constant jolting and tipping of the coach, to pay much heed to her attempts at soothing the daughter of her “best and dearest friend.”

  Mrs. Oglethorpe had stepped down from the coach after me, and now she took my arm. “I understand this is difficult for you, Margaret, truly I do.” She sounded so much like Mr. Tinderflint as she said this that I’m afraid I stared. “But you must trust me. I would not have brought you here if it were not the best and safest place for you to be.”

  I nodded and let her lead me inside. If my hand stole beneath my cloak to touch my sapphire straight pin—at the ready on my stomacher—I can hardly be blamed.

  Our arrival had evidently been anticipated. A butler directed a pair of porters to take my box while he led us through the house. It was indeed modern inside, with the current fashions in marble and blue paint, not to mention curving foyers and staircases, all well represented. The paintings on the walls of the first-floor gallery were a jumble of ancestors and landscapes. I wished Matthew were here to comment on them and say whether they were any good.

  In truth, I just wished Matthew were here.

  The second-floor corridors were lined with painted wood and green silk. We passed several white doors but nowhere did we meet a single Sandford, much less a Lord or Lady Lynnfield. Mrs. Oglethorpe appeared entirely unconcerned by this lack of attention from any host or hostess. Indeed, she moved through the hallways as comfortably as if the house were her own. Certainly the servants obeyed her as if she were their mistress.

  We reached a closed door at the very end of the long corridor. Mrs. Oglethorpe pushed it open to reveal a small, tidy bedroom.

  “Here is where you will stay, Margaret.” She directed the men to bring my box inside. She used her candle to light the fresh one that stood on the table by the door. “I will send Hannah up with some supper on a tray. She can help you with your unpacking. We will speak more about your position here and how we may help each other in the morning. Is there anything that you need?”

  Training and etiquette came to my aid. I curtsied. “Thank you, Mrs. Oglethorpe. I’m sure I shall do very well.”

  She left me then and closed the door behind her. I set Isolde’s basket down beside the bed. My puppy scrambled out from under her blanket and plopped onto the small carpet. I ignored her, listening instead for a most particular noise. I was not disappointed, for a moment later, I detected the click and scrape of a key turning in the lock.

  I ran to the door and checked the keyhole, although I did not truly expect Mrs. Oglethorpe to be so careless as to leave the key in the lock. In this I was also not disappointed.

  My status as prisoner confirmed, I hurried to my box and fumbled with my own keys and locks. I dug under my clothing for the leather satchel Matthew had retrieved from Mr. Tinderflint’s bolthole. I hesitated, looking about for a place to conceal this most important item. A soft creaking sounded from the floorboards outside, telling me I was out of time. I resorted at once to the most obvious measure and stuffed the satchel underneath the bolsters.

  There was a knock, which I acknowledged. The key turned and a maid, whom I presumed to be Hannah, entered. She was a woman of hard musculature and a rectangular face. Her eyes, by contrast, were large and round, giving her a look like a rabbit startled out of some unpleasant meditation. She had with her a tray of stew and fresh bread, a country cheese, a jam tart, and a carafe of red wine. She set these on the round table that waited under the window and advised me to eat while the food was still hot.

  The room was provided with a slat-backed chair. I sat and picked up my spoon. Isolde decided, most unexpectedly, that investigating the maid’s shoes and hems, and afterward the rest of the room, was more important than receiving a share of my supper.

  I was oddly glad of this. Given how I had left my father, it was perhaps natural that thoughts of poison and sleeping powders crossed my mind. I dismissed these, in part because I was genuinely hungry and in part because I was already locked in. Proceeding to drug me seemed a bit much, even for a cautious spy. Mrs. Oglethorpe was, after all, doing her best to convince me she was my friend as she had been my mother’s.

  I broke the bread, spread the cheese, and ate my supper. It was all excellent.

  While I ate, I looked out the darkened window. The glass provided a remarkably clear reflection of Hannah’s movements. She was spare and thorough. She laid out my few, plain dresses to smooth down before she hung them on their pegs in the room’s small closet. She unfolded and refolded my chemises and stockings and shook out my stays before laying them in the room’s dressing table. This was surely to prevent creasing. It had, of course, nothing to do with the possibility of shaking out anything I might have concealed among my clothing, such as letters or picklocks or anything of that kind.

  It was difficult to avoid wincing every time she walked past the bed and the bolsters.

  At last my trunk was empty and Hannah seemed satisfied with what she had found, or had not found. I polished off my dinner without noticing myself to be more than ordinarily tired. A little less so, in fact, because my nerves were very much on edge. Nonetheless, I let Hannah help me into my nightclothes and cap and then into bed.

  She took the room’s one candle with her as she left.


  I waited and I listened. The key turned in the lock. The candle’s light moved away from the door. The darkness was complete.

  I slipped my hand under my bolsters and pulled out my satchel. I rolled toward the wall, straining to hear any sound of approach from the corridor outside. All I heard was the wind rushing beneath the eaves. I didn’t like it. It sounded too much like the rising of floodwaters.

  I forced myself to dismiss this thought. I had work to do. Firstly, I had to hide the contents of my satchel more securely. I pulled back the window draperies to allow in what little light the moon afforded, and considered my accommodations. Isolde was more than ready to help, of course, nosing into each corner and scrabbling at the baseboards. I hoped Bidmarsh’s mice were very small.

  The difficult question when seeking to conceal any item in a strange house is how diligent are the servants? A slovenly maid is a spy’s best ally. She does not turn mattresses regularly or air pillows and bolsters, let alone move the rugs to sweep underneath them, so any items concealed beneath these articles remain safe and secure. I could not, however, picture Lord Lynnfield permitting any such useful creatures in his establishment.

  The spare candles and tinderbox went into the bottom of my work basket. If discovered, I could say they were a precaution against dim coach-house rooms. I bundled my spare clothes onto a shelf in the very bottom of the closet where I could deny ever having seen them at all. As they were a laborer’s breeches, smock, and stockings, this would not be as far-fetched as one might think.

  If anyone happened upon the rope ladder, however, explanations would prove far more difficult. I cast about helplessly for a long minute. The bed was comfortable but lacked a canopy that I could have secreted it on top of. The closet was shallow, and adding a rope ladder to the roll of old clothes would make that previously innocuous bundle decidedly suspicious. There was no hearth, and so no convenient chimney to tuck anything up. I wondered if I was going to have to risk lighting one of the candles to better assess the room.