The Devil's Masquerade (Royal Pains Book 3)

by Nina Mason

  Had I found you at home, I would have shared two pieces of news along with my felicity on the subject of Robert’s recovery. The first is that the whole of the court, your household included, is to relocate to St. James’s Palace within a fortnight. The purpose of the move is to escape the chaos that will surely attend the refurbishments I’ve commissioned here at Whitehall. Whilst my brother spared no expense revamping the lodgings of the many royal mistresses, he sorely neglected those of the queen’s, which remain to this day in their dreadful original state. To remedy this inequity, I have ordered a complete remodel of the queen’s apartments and the upper gallery which serves them. My esteemed architect, whose expertise in such matters I trust implicitly, has only lately informed me the noise and dust arising from the work will render the neighboring apartments uninhabitable. Thus, the whole of the court must decamp for the duration of the project.

  My second piece of news is less incommoding. To keep morale high during the exodus, I shall host a masquerade ball three days hence and, with Robert blessedly himself once more, I shall expect to see both of you there.

  Before I conclude, there is one more item I wish to communicate. I require My Lord Dunwoody’s assistance in a matter of state, and request that he attend me in my bedchamber at his earliest convenience. This evening, preferably.

  Your affectionate father,

  JAMES

  “I am glad about the masquerade ball,” Maggie said as Robert plucked the letter from her hand. “But disheartened about the move. We’ve only just gotten settled and now must suffer all that distressing upheaval again so soon.”

  Turning to her husband, she found him rereading the note with a scowl upon his face. Suddenly alarmed by her father’s summons, she asked, “With what matter of state do you suppose he seeks your help?”

  “I will learn soon enough.” Looking up from the letter, Robert met her gaze with worry swimming in his gray-green eyes. “But, were I to venture a guess, I’d say ’tis almost certainly an ill wind that will blow none in the House of Stuart to good.”

  Angst tied a knot in her entrails. “Whatever do you mean?”

  “I am not as convinced of the Almighty’s endorsement of a Catholic king as your father seems to be. Nor, I should think, are the Protestants.”

  “But—he has only worn the crown a few weeks. Surely, they lack the wherewithal to stage a coup so early in his reign.”

  “Believe what you will.” He stuffed the letter into the pocket of his coat. “I, however, remain convinced they will stop at naught to knock the crown off his head—and perhaps remove his head as well—as they did his father’s.”

  His words pierced her heart and set her atremble. Headstrong as he was, her father had become dear to her father, and she could not bear the thought of having him ripped from her life. “No. You must do everything in your power to ensure that does not happen.”

  “Alas, I am only one man.” Looking woeful, he shook his head. “But I promise to do all I can to forfend his overthrow. That is why I have asked Duncan to seduce one of Princess Anne’s maids of honor. In the hopes she will show us her mistress’s letters to The Hague. For, as you know, your father is blind where his daughters are concerned, and, if I am to open his eyes to the truth, I must obtain proof of their duplicity.”

  Maggie gaped at him in astonishment. “You mean to use blackmail to acquire this proof?”

  “Aye. And resort to even more drastic measures, if I must. For we are in the devil’s domain, Maggie. Surrounded on all sides by pretenders who hide their falseness behind the mask of loyalty. Even the king’s own flesh and blood disguise themselves thusly. And I intend to expose their Janus faces by any means necessary.”

  Tears stung her eyes. She was so proud of him. So proud and so afraid—for her father as well as her husband. As he opened the door, she prayed the king was right about God being on the side of the Stuarts, and that his business with Robert was not as grave as her husband anticipated.

  “Dominus vobiscum,” she said as he took his leave. “And have faith that right will prevail.”

  * * * *

  The king, already abed when Robert was admitted to his chamber, took a deep breath and fixed his son-in-law with a weary cobalt gaze. “Tell me all you know about one Archibald Campbell.”

  Suspicion squirmed inside Robert’s brain. Why was James asking him about the Ninth Earl of Argyll? The last he’d heard of the former Lord Lorne was two years prior, when he’d escaped from his imprisonment at Edinburgh Castle with the help of his step-daughter.

  “I know only that the Earl of Argyll is a fugitive from justice, sire.” Though he spoke with confidence, he felt humbled by his surroundings, which, little changed since the death of Charles, were flamboyant to the point of offense. “And that he is almost surely in Holland planning some form of revolt with the Duke of Monmouth.”

  Familial relationship aside, one did not question the king. One simply answered his inquiries to the best of one’s abilities and trusted His Majesty to confide his reasons if and when he saw fit to do so.

  With some hesitation, he added, “I also know the acorn did not fall far from the tree.”

  Lord Argyll’s father, the eighth earl, was executed for high treason at the command of Charles II, moments after the monarch’s restoration twenty-five years ago. The son, long a closet Covenanter, had survived the Cromwellian interregnum by keeping one foot in both camps, but was trusted by neither. Back when the Duke of York was made high commissioner of Scotland, Lord Argyll swore fealty, only to prove his falseness when he refused to take the oath of allegiance disavowing the Covenant.

  For his betrayal, Argyll was tried before a jury composed of his enemies, but refused to defend himself. After he was found guilty, King Charles decreed he be sentenced to death and all his property confiscated.

  All of Scotland knew the rest of the story. Whilst awaiting execution in Edinburgh Castle, Argyll’s step-daughter visited him, accompanied by a man impersonating a servant. After the page and prisoner exchanged clothes, Argyll left with his guest. At the gate, the earl stepped up behind the lady’s coach and, upon reaching the custom-house, slipped stealthily into the wind.

  King James cleared his throat, reclaiming Robert’s attention. “A se’nnight ago, I received an alarming report of Argyll’s activities from one of my agents abroad.”

  Robert, seated in a bedside chair, folded his hands and waited for his father-in-law to continue, curious but still puzzled by what Lord Argyll’s activities might have to do with him.

  Reaching to the bedside table, His Majesty picked up a small stack of papers and, propping himself on one elbow, held them out to Robert. “These are deciphers of the report, courtesy of Lord Mulgrave.”

  So astonished was Robert by the mention of Lord All-Pride in connection with the document, he forgot himself. “Since when has Lord Mulgrave been made privy to state secrets?”

  “Since I appointed him Lord Chamberlain of the Household.”

  Robert struggled to keep his outrage from overboiling. The Lord Chamberlain was the senior office of the Royal Household, a cabinet-level post overseeing all the departments that supported and advised the king. The appointment could only mean the new monarch yet wore thick blinders where Mulgrave was concerned.

  Though it nearly killed Robert to keep still, he bit his tongue against further inquiry or comment on the subject of Lord All-Pride’s ill-advised appointment as he took the offered papers from the royal hand. Returning to his chair, he began to read with a mixture of interest and foreboding the words scrawled upon the sheets in Mulgrave’s bombastic penmanship.

  After fleeing imprisonment, Argyll rode to the alehouse near the mansion of George Pringle of Torwoodlee, who met him there before sending him to the house of William Veitch in Northumberland, who in turn brought him to London under the name of Hope…

  From his stint on the Scottish Privy Council, Robert knew Pringle to be a zealous Covenanter who’d offered sanctuary to numerous re
bels. He was one of those named by William Carstares, a Presbyterian minister suspected of spying for Prince William of Orange, as being connected to the Rye House Plot. Under the Privy Council’s orders, Carstares had been tortured with the thumbikens and boot to extract the names of the conspirators.

  When those he gave up were arrested, letters found among their papers implicated Argyll in a Whig conspiracy to start a revolt in Scotland on the Duke of Monmouth’s behalf. More suspected conspirators were then arrested, including Lord Argyll’s personal secretary, William Spence.

  Spence was interrogated in England, but would say naught against his employer, after which he was sent to Scotland, where torture was legal.

  Robert shuddered as the memories of the Privy Council’s interrogation of Spence rose from the deep-down place he kept them locked away. In addition to being subjected to the thumbscrews and boot, Spence was deprived of sleep until the surgeon attending his torture sessions warned he’d go mad if the brutal interrogations continued.

  Even at the brink of lunacy, the ever-loyal Spence would not implicate Argyll.

  Blinking the disturbing recollection away, Robert finished reading the report, which went on to say that Lord Argyll was on his way to Scotland at this very moment with plans to raise an army.

  “With all due respect, Your Majesty,” Robert said, looking up from the page, “why have you shared this intelligence with me?”

  “Because the agent who supplied the cyphered report was stabbed to death in his berth whilst sailing back from The Hague last week.”

  “I still fail to see what my role in all of this might be.”

  “Your role, as you put it, will be to take the agent’s place. For I require someone utterly trustworthy in Lord Argyll’s service.”

  Robert swallowed his shock over being asked to act as a royal spy. “But, sire—I have no qualifications for doing espionage.”

  “You have all the qualifications I require,” the king replied. “Discretion, loyalty, intelligence, courage, and cunning. You also are a Catholic and conveniently familiar with torture tactics—which may prove useful in the commission of your duties.”

  “Which will be what, exactly?”

  “You are to join Argyll’s army—and send daily reports of his activities back from Scotland.”

  “But, Your Majesty—”

  James held up his hand, cutting Robert off. “My mind is made up on this matter. You will away the morning following the masquerade ball, and leave your family’s relocation to St. James’s Palace in the capable hands of myself and Lord Mulgrave, who takes an admirable interest in the duchess’s welfare.”

  Outrage surged through Robert’s bloodstream. He could not let this happen, could not leave Maggie in the care of Lord All-Pride, who clearly had designs on her. “But—”

  The king’s heated glare silenced him. “Raise another objection, Dunwoody, and I shall begin to question my faith in you. Now, go and spend what precious little time you have left with your wife and son instead of squandering it on an argument you have no chance of winning.”

  All the way back to his apartments, Robert stewed in his own juices. The assignment seemed impossible, given his lack of experience, and he could not believe the king had chosen him for it on the basis of his loyalty alone. Aye, he was the only genuinely faithful ally James had here at court, but he doubted the king saw that truth with aught approaching clarity. Nay, he obviously saw Mulgrave as trustworthy, which was hardly the case. Numps was in cahoots with Anne, and Anne with Mary and William in The Hague. He was now quite convinced all three were eagerly plotting the monarch’s overthrow with Argyll and Monmouth.

  All the king’s trusted advisers were merely devils in disguise and James, who viewed the world through lenses clouded by his own entitlement, would never see through their masks without proof. And now, there was naught Robert could do to open his father-in-law’s eyes, as he would be safely out of the way in Scotland, where he’d also be powerless to shield Maggie from Mulgrave’s lechery.

  How convenient were these arrangements where Lord Mulgrave’s goals were concerned.

  Too convenient, by half, which made Robert suspect Lord All-Pride somehow had a hand in all of this. Had Numps persuaded the king to send his son-in-law abroad whilst promising to protect his daughter and grandson? Was the mission a deliberate ruse to get Maggie’s husband out of the way? Or did Mulgrave someone suspect Robert had seen through the veil of deceit he donned in the presence of the king?

  He would not put it past Mulgrave, who’d once been the dupe of a similar scheme himself. After expelling Numps from court, King Charles sent the pompous arse to Tangier in a leaky boat, hoping he might never return to England. For Mulgrave had an eye for more forbidden flesh than the Lady Anne’s. Once, on some royal trip or other, his uninvited advances toward the royal mistresses got him exiled to a skiff, which was towed behind the king’s ship for the remainder of the voyage.

  Och! Now it seemed quite certain Mulgrave was the catalyst for the perilous assignment. Would that he could make the king see reason—or, better yet, obtain proof of the earl’s complicity with the Protestant conspirators in Holland. But how the devil was he to accomplish such a challenging task when he had so little time before setting off for Scotland?

  Unless…

  Chapter Nine

  Maggie was in the parlor with wee Jamie asleep in her arms when Robert returned from his meeting with her father. “What did he want with you?”

  “He is sending me back to Scotland on royal business.”

  The vagueness of his answer, together with the sharpness of his tone, aroused her concern. Looking up from her child, she found her husband wearing a worrisome frown. “What sort of business?”

  “That I cannot tell you.”

  Dissatisfied with his evasiveness, she pressed, “Why not?”

  “To protect you.”

  “From what?”

  “Slips of the tongue and ill-meaning meddlers.”

  “You make it sounds as if you are going to Scotland to do espionage.”

  “I cannot discuss my reasons for going,” he said crossly as he removed his coat, “and thank you not to speculate.”

  She would not be so easily dismissed. “Does it have to do with the Covenanters?”

  “No more inquiries, Maggie. I beg of you.”

  Heaving a sigh of resignation, she rearranged the baby, who’d grown uncomfortably warm in her arms. “When will you depart? Not before tomorrow night, I hope. And, oh—please tell me you will not away until after the ball.”

  “I will remain for the ball, but must take my leave the morning after.” Averting his gaze, he added, “And cannot say when I shall be at liberty to return.”

  To her annoyance, his gaze proved as evasive as a fly trapped indoors. “Because the date of your return is part of the secret?”

  “Because I know not when I might return.” Expression gravening all the more, he muttered, “Or indeed if I shall be able to come back at all.”

  Alarm reverberated inside her. “Whatever do you mean? Is the assignment of a dangerous nature?”

  “’Tis indeed. But I must say no more upon the subject. And you must burden me no more with your questions. I will away to Scotland the morning after the ball and return to you if and when I am able. And there is an end to it.”

  “But…what about the move to the other palace? And what about our visit to your governess?”

  He heaved a sigh and compressed his lips. “Much as it afflicts me, your father has asked Lord Mulgrave to help you with the move. He’s been made Lord Chamberlain of the Household, if you can believe as much. For I could not, despite hearing the news from the king’s own lips. Speaking of which…have you seen my valet of late?”

  “Yes,” she said, feigning good spirits. “He’s in your dressing room—readying your costume for the ball.”

  As Robert went through to his bedchamber, Maggie let the angst she’d suppressed for his sake come to the f
ore. She disliked his leaving under a cloud of secrecy and abhorred the possibility he might not return. How could her father do this to her? Did he really have so little regard for her feelings? He must, for he could not dispatch her husband on so perilous a consignment unless he cared not a jot about her happiness.

  And what of Lord Mulgrave? What might he hold over the king’s head to earn him the post of Lord Chamberlain? For she did not believe her father foolish enough to reward that finagling whoreson on his own merits. Ergo, Mulgrave must know something damaging. That was the only logical explanation. But what? And, if her father knew Mulgrave to be a blackmailer, why had he entrusted a meschant with her wellbeing? Not to mention, the welfare of the entire royal household.

  No, her reason could not make sense of the king's motives.

  Unless—and pray, let it not be so—her father meant to kill Robert off so he could marry her to Mulgrave. The mere thought caused her heart to flap about in the manner of a partridge caught in a gamekeeper’s net.

  Taking a breath to steady her nerves, she summoned her fortitude. She was a person, not a pawn in their game. She would refuse to play along. That was all there was to it. For no one, not even the king, could force her to marry against her will. Though he could imprison her for defying his wishes, she’d much rather spend the rest of her days locked in the Tower of London than married to an arrogant buffoon the likes of Mulgrave.

  Oh—but what of wee Jamie? As her angst spiked anew, tears of desperation stormed her eyes. She could not rear her son in prison—nor sentence him to the same motherless upbringing she’d been forced to endure.

  No, she must speak to her father. Even though she could not stop him from sending her husband away, she could let him know—in no uncertain terms—that, should her Robert meet with an untimely end, she would honor his memory by remaining as celibate as a nun until God, in His good time, called her home.

  * * * *

  Though Robert did not enjoy being cagey with Maggie, he could not see that he had another choice. Already, in hindsight, he regretted being truthful with her with regard to his destination. She was no William Spence. If they tortured her, she’d fold in the manner of a lady’s fan. And he would not put it past the Covenanters to use the thumbikens on a woman, especially the wife of a former privy councilor who’d been a party to no less where they were concerned.