by Sarah Zettel
I faced Sebastian. “Oh, dear. I do hope that wasn’t too awkward.” Then I quite deliberately snapped open my sandalwood fan.
Sebastian clearly recognized it. He swallowed, as if his Adam’s apple recognized my chosen weapon as well.
“How did you even get here?” I asked. “These evenings are by direct invitation only.”
I spoke sotto voce. Fortunately, we had our backs to the wall and a good view of the room, so no one could come up behind us or listen without being observed. We received some curious glances from the ladies of the company, and I noticed not a few of the gentlemen sizing Sebastian up, looking for some indication of his level of wealth and my level of interest.
“But you did invite me.” Sebastian pulled a folded letter from his pocket. “I received it today. I assumed you were ready to talk.”
I took it from him and did not bother to hide the gesture. There would be questions and quips about this later, but I opened it anyway.
The note inside was short and to the point.
Consider this your invitation to the gathering at St. James’s Palace this evening. I am looking forward to seeing you there,
Margaret Fitzroy
It was also in Sophy Howe’s writing. I recognized her hand perfectly. I had seen it before, on another letter also intended to deceive.
Anger robbed me of speech, but I couldn’t tell where to direct my fury first—at Sophy for luring Sebastian here, or at Mary Bellenden for telling Sophy about him. Oh, yes, there was no reason I should tell Mary to beware the Howe, as they were clearly close bedfellows.
“Oh, I must have forgotten,” I said through clenched teeth as I handed the note back to Sebastian.
Sebastian narrowed his eyes at me, and I saw there an uncomfortable glimmer of intelligence.
“Perhaps we should go somewhere we can be private?” he inquired.
“Certainly not. It would be remarked on.”
“And bring yet more scandal to your name?” There was a certain malicious satisfaction behind the remark.
“Which might find its way into the papers. Do you see that man?” I flicked my fan toward a rotund individual in short-queue wig and saffron coat. “He regularly feeds information to the various broadsheets. I would have no problem making sure your name was attached as well, which ought to please your father.”
That remark seemed to strike home. “All right, all right. I shall be meek as a lamb. But if it’s not to renew our acquaintance, exactly why am I here?”
“You were the one who said we needed to talk,” I countered.
“I did, didn’t I? It seemed like a good idea at the time.” He paused, considering. “I suppose you realize by now, we’re still . . . as we were?”
I had to give him a point for discretion. The word betrothed would be heard by every ear in this place, no matter how softly whispered. “Yes. I suppose you realize I have no intention of staying as we are.”
“There are those ready to force the issue.”
“Are you one of them?”
Sebastian did not answer for a very long time. When he did, I barely heard him above the general babble and laughter of the room.
“No.”
This was not a safe conversation. People had begun to notice I was being monopolized. Sophy was not the only one casting ever more frequent glances in our direction.
“Your new friend takes quite an interest,” I said.
“Jealous?”
“Do you intend to attack her as well? How do you fit us all into your busy day?”
Sebastian made a low and thoroughly aggravated noise. “Miss Fitzroy, let us end this. I was wrong. I was more than wrong. I am sorry I did it, and upon my honor, I will not do it again. Are we quits?”
“I wish we could be. Why in Heaven’s name does your father, who is a baron and owner of massive sugar plantations in Barbados, want to marry even his second son to such a penniless, friendless creature?”
“I rather expect it’s because he doesn’t like me.” Sebastian was trying to speak humorously, but there was a genuine bitterness in those words. “That and, well, Miss Fitzroy, it would seem my family is in trouble.”
I frowned. “What sort of trouble?”
For one of the few times since I’d come to know him, Sebastian looked abashed. “Those plantations turn out to have been a bad idea. According to my brother, Julius, we’ve lost them.”
“How?”
He shrugged. “There was a hurricane that took the ships, and there was a plague that killed most of the slaves. The foreman decided that the gold would do more good in his pockets than in my father’s. So the acres were sold, my brother came home, and here we are.”
“When did this all happen?”
“Early last year. I found out about it shortly before I was told about my . . . our . . . situation.”
This news was going to take some time getting used to. Sebastian surveyed the room vaguely. Clearly his attention was still focused on his run of troubles. I noted his coat was not a new one, and the lace was beginning to fray around the edges. At the same time, I thought on the jar of tea in my room. I could not believe Sebastian would spend a small fortune on a bribe for me when his clothing needed mending.
“But wouldn’t that indicate you were destined for a rich bride?” In fact, it would have made more sense to betroth him to Olivia, who actually had a dowry. “If your family needs—”
“Oh, we need,” said Sebastian quickly before I could say the word money. “And yes, I would have thought so. Unless you’ve a secret fortune of some sort?”
“Not unless my uncle’s hiding something. Which, I grant, is not out of the question.”
The truth was, I’d never considered this. Then I wondered why I had not. The one thing I knew for certain about my father was that he’d spent some years adventuring for the crown. Such adventuring could be a profitable affair. Was it possible that my father, living or dead, had money and had intended that I should as well? Was it further possible that my uncle and my would-be father-in-law were in collusion to get their hands on it?
But that would mean that Uncle Pierpont had some idea where my father was and whether he still lived. It would also mean my uncle had known about any potential fortune since my mother died. I was only an eight-year-old child at that time. No one would have thought to tell me directly of any inheritance of money or property. They would, however, have told my guardian.
Was it possible? Could I be an heiress and not know it?
The possibility rendered me speechless, a fact that Sebastian failed to notice. “And thus, Miss Fitzroy, absent any fortune on your part, I find myself forced to ask for a favor.” Sebastian spoke without looking at me. He was engrossed in watching Sophy Howe, who stood laughing with a Mr. Beresford. To all appearances, she had forgotten poor Sebastian, but then she turned her head, as if suddenly feeling the touch of his gaze.
It was an astounding spectacle, and I was tempted to laugh out loud. Here they were, a pair of fortune hunters sizing up each other, neither knowing the other was penniless. They were lucky I was not the malicious sort; otherwise I might have considered throwing them together, just to watch the show.
“You want to ask me a favor?” I said, more loudly than necessary, but it did make Sebastian turn his attention from the fascinating and flirtatious Howe.
“Yes.” Somewhere between gazing at Sophy and gazing at me, Sebastian’s suavity had dimmed perceptibly. In fact, he now appeared positively sulky. “I’ll make a bargain with you. I’ll do everything in my power to get my brother to break off things—”
I blinked at him. “Your brother? You mean your father, surely.”
“Of course, of course, I meant Father.” Sebastian waved his hand impatiently. “You, in return, will get me a post at court.”
Sebastian’s brother was becoming quite the figure in this conversation. It occurred to me I’d never met the baron’s heir apparent. Which set me wondering about another member of Sebastian�
�s family.
“What does your mother have to say to all this?” I asked.
“My mother’s opinion is neither here nor there,” answered Sebastian sharply. “What do you say to the post? It has to be a good one, no assistant clerk to an assistant clerk. It must be something worthy of a baron’s son, with a salary.”
“Those don’t grow on trees.”
“That’s my price.”
“Why? You don’t want this either.”
Sebastian smiled as if he’d just scored a palpable hit. “But you want it a great deal less.” His eyes roved the room, and he nodded coolly, even in friendly fashion to the assorted gentlemen watching us together. “For myself, I don’t particularly care. I’m to be married off someday, and you’ll do as well as any other.”
If my palm pressed flat over my little pin-knife just then, it was purely coincidence.
“Why do I suspect that your father and your brother know nothing about this conversation?”
Sebastian shrugged. “First I was packed off to Barbados and then I was packed off to Cambridge. Now they can’t meet the price of keeping me out of the way and so are determined to make use of me. Well, I won’t have it.”
He wasn’t talking to me. He was speaking to figments in his mind. I’d never caught Sebastian unguarded before. It changed his face entirely. He looked younger, and he lost his rogue’s charm. This Sebastian knew hatred, and seeing him thus exposed made me shiver.
“Do not mistake me, Miss Fitzroy.” Sebastian leaned sideways to whisper into my ear. His breath smelled sour and felt damp and warm against my cheek. “I can hurry our matters rather than stall them, or I could tell that gentleman with the newspaper connections you so helpfully pointed out a few interesting tidbits about the behavior of Her Royal Highness’s most recent and most dubious maid of honor, and you might find yourself thrown out of this house as well.”
I wanted to cringe, but I dared not let him see weakness. I pressed my hand more tightly against my jeweled pin. If he touched me, I would use it in front of Her Royal Highness and all the world.
Sebastian smiled and pulled away, every inch the smooth and charming son of the aristocracy. “Well, Miss Fitzroy?”
I had to wait until I was certain my voice would hold steady. “I’ll look into matters.”
“I can give you until the next drawing room for the task. After that, I may be forced to make other arrangements.” Sebastian’s gaze drifted once more to seek out Sophy. She was just settling down at a card table with three other gentlemen.
Merciful Heaven, I thought. He really is smitten.
“A word to the wise, Mr. Sandford. The lovely, friendly Miss Howe is also penniless.”
Without hesitation, I turned and walked away. But any satisfaction for this small triumph was swallowed up by an inescapable fact. As fanciful as the notion seemed, an inheritance could explain the matter of my betrothal. But to discover the truth of this possibility, I’d have to do what Olivia wanted. I’d have to search my uncle’s house.
SIXTEEN
IN WHICH OUR HEROINE MUST ACCOUNT FOR HER ACTIONS.
I did not sleep much that night. My thoughts lurched from the possibility that an inheritance from my father might be hidden somewhere to wondering how in the name of Heaven I was going to find Sebastian a post by the next drawing room. It was six days away. That was barely enough time to find out to whom I might apply. But I had to be able to tell him something by then. I had to stall him long enough to make some effective use of his family’s ruin, or break into my uncle’s bank so I could make effective use of whatever ruin he might face.
Or break into his book room to find out what truths he’d been hiding from me about the state of my family and my finances.
Eventually, I did fall into a doze, but my ghost returned almost as soon as my eyes closed. His boot heels drummed against the floor, and his eyes glowed blue and gray in the dark as he circled the bed. I saw the blood spattered on his hollow cheeks, across his withered hands, and over his sunken chest. I felt certain this time he would speak. He would finally tell me what he wanted. But he merely backed away, fading into darkness and leaving only the sound of footsteps. I cried out and woke with tears streaming down my cheeks.
When at last Libby came in bearing a tray with my roll and chocolate and, thankfully, a lit candle, she found me awake in bed with my knees drawn up to my chin and Flossie clutched in my arms. I had no idea how long I’d been sitting in the dark, but it had left me stiff, and with a headache. A flicker of actual concern crossed my maid’s face as she poured my cup of chocolate. I drank it down like it was the draft of life itself.
Libby, for a wonder, did not ask any questions. She just brought me my blue silk wrapper to put over my nightdress, and a fresh cap for my head, then went to the closet to lay out my clothes for Sunday services.
Left alone, I devoured the warm roll and poured myself a second cup of chocolate. But even that was not enough to clear the cobwebs from my mind. I had heard too much, seen too much, and gathered too many new questions. I wanted to know why Molly lost at cards to Lady Bristol. I wanted to know what “stirrings” Mr. Walpole heard, and why he made sure to point out that they had begun since Mr. Tinderflint left. I wanted to know how much truth there was in what Sebastian had told me. I wanted to find Mary Bellenden and tell her exactly what I thought of her willingness to betray my private business to Sophy Howe.
I wanted to know why this absurd notion that I might be an heiress still clung to me.
I feared, however, this was the one answer I already possessed. If my father really had left me money—even a shilling, even a sixpence—it was a sign that he had cared. He had not deliberately abandoned me and my mother. It would not be his fault if I had been deceived and imposed upon by my uncle. In the secret chambers of my soul, there lived a little girl who wanted to know her father loved her. She was willing to take any risk for that proof, even if it meant getting arrested by that same uncle for housebreaking and theft, or having to swallow her pride in front of her cousin.
I was contemplating this, and the bottom of my chocolate cup, when a knock sounded on the door. I frowned and waited for Libby to emerge from the closet, but either she did not hear or did not choose to respond. With a sigh, I set down my cup and stood to answer for myself.
There, in the gloomy corridor, stood Mrs. Titchbourne.
“Her Royal Highness is asking for you, Miss Fitzroy.”
I swallowed, although my mouth was quite empty. “Yes of course. Just let me . . . Libby!”
Libby appeared, took in the situation at a glance, and proceeded to hustle me into the closet so she could wrestle me into stays, a relatively modest hoop with a cream lace petticoat, and ice blue sacque gown, then pin back my hair into some semblance of order.
For her part, Mrs. Titchbourne walked uninvited into my room. She looked about like one who already carried her disapproval and was just searching for a place to lay it down.
“Mrs. Claybourne and I have been hoping for a chance to speak with you, Miss Fitzroy.”
We’d left the closet door open. I could see Mrs. Titchbourne pick up my mother’s fan from the table. My temper tried to rear its head, but I swatted it down and limited myself to the reply I was certain I could make polite.
“Oh?”
“Perhaps you could see your way to joining us for a dish of tea some afternoon.” Mrs. T-bourne turned the jar on the mantel so she could inspect its painted sides. “I see you are yourself a tea drinker. So much finer than chocolate, don’t you agree?”
She also surely saw the chocolate pot on the tray. This was a test. She was waiting to see if I would try to flatter her by agreeing.
“Actually, I myself prefer chocolate. That tea was a gift.”
“Well. A very fine gift. Whoever gave it must admire you greatly.”
I decided it would be better for us both if I declined to be drawn out on that subject. Libby stepped back, indicating I was at least presentable, and I
gathered my skirts. “Shouldn’t we be going, Mrs. Titchbourne? I would hate to keep Her Royal Highness waiting any longer.”
“Of course. If you’re quite ready.” She was looking at my hair. I did not wince, at least not visibly.
Mrs. Titchbourne set a brisk pace through the St. James’s maze. If those we passed were of a rank to be noticed, she nodded to them without breaking stride.
“Did the princess say what she wished to speak about?” I asked.
“That is for Her Royal Highness to tell you,” replied Mrs. Titchbourne.
This was all the conversation I had from her until we reached the doors to Princess Caroline’s apartments.
All royal apartments follow the same basic pattern. There is an antechamber where those seeking an audience can wait. This is followed by a larger drawing room for social gatherings. After this comes a series of private rooms, each open to fewer and fewer people, until one reaches the “closet,” which is to say, the royal bedroom.
At this hour, and because it was Sunday, the antechamber was empty. The drawing room likewise. Mrs. Titchbourne’s slippers padded neatly across its bare floorboards while mine shuffled and skipped. Monsieur Janvier would have scolded me sharply for not managing my movements better. The footman on duty opened the door to the parlor, releasing a wave of coal-scented warmth. This room was shrouded in tapestry, its floor piled deep with Turkey carpets, and there was a fire of a size that reminded one that the princess did not have to worry about her allowance. It was also most decidedly not empty.
I had in my life been stared at by cits, royals, puppies, and my uncle. All these were as nothing when compared to walking into that room and being stared at by these most senior of Her Royal Highness’s waiting women.
Not one of them stood, much less offered a curtsy. Lady Cowper looked dyspeptic. Lady Bristol looked as if my coming this close meant she would need to wash her hands. Mrs. Claybourne exchanged a narrowed and knowing glance with her sister lioness, Mrs. Titchbourne. The closest to a friendly glance I got came from Mrs. Howard, who looked up from the prayer book she was reading as Mrs. Titchbourne swept past to knock softly at the next door.