by Sarah Zettel
Let him, I told myself. Let him see I am not afraid. But I was afraid. Not only did this Sandford have none of his brother’s charm, he had none of Sebastian’s hot blood. Julius’s cruelty was winter cold. Now I knew why his brother wanted so badly to escape.
“All right, my boy.” Lord Lynnfield patted his son’s shoulder, an indulgent gesture that sent a wave of nausea sweeping through me. “You’ve made your point. Let’s leave the little gels alone. We’ve more pressing business.”
“We have no business at all,” said Uncle Pierpont. “You will both leave here.”
“Oh, now, there you’re wrong, Sir Oliver. We’ve plenty of business left. And if you’ll take a moment to think on it, you’ll remember that.” Sebastian’s father smiled, and I saw every bit of Sebastian’s malice in it, but aged, warmed, and strengthened. Lord Lynnfield was enjoying himself. The nausea returned and redoubled. I waited for my uncle to reply with scorn, to order them out again. But he subsided, slowly slouching and turning the anger inward so it showed only in his eyes.
“Get that dog out of here,” he said to Olivia, and to me. “I’ll not have it in this house.”
Guinevere whimpered again. Olivia stood, holding the small creature. All the murder I had glimpsed before had returned to her pale face.
I put my arm around Olivia’s shoulders and turned her away. “Keep quiet, keep quiet,” I whispered urgently in her ear. “We can’t fight this here. Let me get you out.”
Taking her silence as assent, I led Olivia into the dim hallway. Aunt Pierpont had been waiting for us at the foot of the stairs, and she scurried up to us at once. She saw the dog lying listlessly in her daughter’s arms and the look of anguish on Olivia’s face, and pressed her kerchief to her mouth.
“Oh, my dear,” Aunt Pierpont murmured, “I tried to warn you! I tried!”
“She’s alive,” I said. I did not take my arm from Olivia’s shoulders. “But I think she’s hurt.”
Finally, Olivia spoke, her normally lilting voice made thick and rough by fury. “How could he permit this? How?”
I looked at Aunt Pierpont. I waited for her to ask what had happened. When she did not, I understood my earlier assessment had been wrong. She had not been waiting for us at the foot of the stairs. She had been listening at the door. She knew exactly what had happened in that room, and she’d done nothing. Nothing at all.
“Do you know, Aunt?” I asked her. “How could he?”
But she did not answer me, not directly, anyway. Instead, she lifted Guinevere out of Olivia’s arms and deposited her in mine.
“You’d best take the dog, Peggy,” said Aunt Pierpont. “Come, Olivia.” She tried to grasp her daughter’s elbow, but Olivia did not even look at her.
“You remember your plan in the garden?”
I nodded. She meant my plan for her to come and stay with me.
“I’ve changed my mind,” said Olivia. “The answer is yes.”
She turned and walked slow and straight-backed away from me and her mother, leaving us to face each other in mutual confusion and disappointment. Guinevere lifted her little head and gave a soft whine of regret. Olivia must not have heard, because she kept walking.
“I’ll have your cloak brought,” said Aunt Pierpont.
“Aunt,” I said, “tell me what’s going on. Whatever it is, I will do my best to help you and Olivia. I swear it.”
“Just take the dog away,” said Aunt Pierpont. “There’s nothing else that can be done. Not now.”
TWENTY-FOUR
IN WHICH OUR HEROINE BECOMES THOROUGHLY TIRED OF UNEXPECTED ENCOUNTERS IN DARK PLACES.
My velvet cloak was brought. I bundled it about myself and Guinevere and walked out the front door. I did not look back. I did not dare. I had just seen Uncle Oliver defend his daughter and then be quickly overwhelmed by a few brief words. Whatever business existed between him and Lord Lynnfield was not some mundane matter of trade and bills of exchange and a warehouse. Nothing so small could have defeated a man of such iron and unforgiving will as Uncle Pierpont.
I was so occupied with these thoughts that I was halfway down the steps before I noticed that I’d been right about one thing at least. The black coach was waiting in front of my uncle’s home, as it had waited in front of the bank. As before, a half dozen ruffians waited with it, and every single one of those battered, tattered, armed men swiveled his eyes to look at me. This included the driver, who sat on his high board and held the horses’ reins in his grimy hands.
I ducked my head and tried to hurry down the rest of the steps, but I needed both hands to hold Guinevere and so had none free to help manage my hems. I stumbled, hard, first down to the curb and then onto the cobbles.
Some man sniggered. Another pushed himself away from the coach and sauntered toward me, his cudgel cradled in his arms, much the way I cradled Guinevere. I was already turning away, goading my feet to hurry. I heard boot heels picking up their own pace behind me.
SNAP!
The explosion of sound froze me in place and jerked my head up. It had also frozen my would-be pursuer.
It took a moment to see that the coach’s driver had moved. He now held the horsewhip in his right hand, pointed directly at his fellow ruffian. That sound had been him cracking the whip over that man’s head. The implication in his face was plain, though he spoke not a word. I also could not fail to notice that his free hand rested on the pistol at his belt.
I had no idea why this man chose to come to my rescue, but I felt I should not waste this moment he’d bought me. Therefore, to demonstrate my grateful sensibility, I took to my heels and ran.
My mask still dangled from its chain beneath my cloak, and anyone at all might recognize me. I did not dare reach for it, lest I drop Guinevere. I just made as straight a line as I could for the sanctuary of the palace. In time with my stumbling footsteps, Guinevere began an anxious, unsteady whining. I tried to convince myself this was a good sign. Surely, if she could make noise, she could not be too very hurt.
I crossed from the square to the Mall. As broad as that street was, it was full to the brim with all sorts of traffic. I’d completely forgotten it was Friday and therefore the night of the public dining. All manner of people had crammed themselves through the great arched gateway that led to the Color Court to try to gain a place to view their royalty while those august personages slurped soup and devoured roast fowls. The noise of massed humanity, horses, and conveyances was deafening. I could barely hear the bells ringing overhead, let alone tell what hour they signaled.
Not that it mattered. My absence had by now been discovered, and I would be dismissed from my post. Matthew would already be gone, and I faced the very real possibility that the beloved royal lap dog was expiring in my arms. I would have asked what more could possibly go wrong, but I feared that Heaven might answer the question.
I told myself I must not let what I had seen or all my fears get the better of me. I might not be able to save my post or the dog by hurrying, but perhaps I could get back inside before Matthew gave up on me entirely. If I hurried, if I kept my wits, I could reach my rooms and his arms. Then I could fall apart. Matthew would wrap me in his embrace. Matthew would listen to all that had happened. I had to see him, to be with him, to be reminded that there was a person who cared.
“Just a little farther,” I said to the dog and myself, and made myself hurry with tiny, quick dancing steps, just like I’d been taught.
The gardens of St. James’s Palace faced the Mall, and tonight those gardens were nearly as full as the streets with merrymakers. I ducked between crowds of gentry, cits, and women with their personal goods on sale and on full display. Once again my hooded cloak worked in my favor, since it prevented the crowd from noticing the presence of a maid of honor. Guinevere’s unsteady whine had turned to unsteady panting, which worried me extremely. I told myself such rapid breathing might very well be normal for such a small dog. It was not as if I’d ever paid attention to her habits.
&nb
sp; When I finally reached the doors, a yeoman lowered his long arm to bar the way. I tipped my face up and lifted Guinevere, who’d begun to wriggle uneasily, a little higher. I don’t know whether the man recognized me or the dog, but he shoved the door open and stood aside, touching his cap to us.
For once, the dim, chill interior of the palace felt like a haven. I found the stairs and climbed them, not entirely sure of my way, but I kept moving nonetheless. I could see lights up ahead, which meant an inhabited corridor and a chance to get my bearings. I’d go to my room. I’d send a note to Molly for Her Royal Highness. I’d say that Guinevere had taken ill unexpectedly, and Olivia had gotten worried. I’d apologize profusely. Maybe I’d offer to resign. I’d ask Matthew what he thought. Because he was surely still here. He had not left me yet.
Unfortunately, it seemed Guinevere had become annoyed by my inexpert handling. Her uneasy wriggle became a sudden squirm, and I lost my hold. The dog plopped heavily to the floor, but heaved herself up again. She attempted to scamper away, but was hampered by her own belly, which she could not seem to quite lift off the floor. Considering that a moment ago I’d feared for her life, I should have been delighted. Instead, I said some things I would regret extremely later and lunged after her, but found myself as hampered by skirts, stomacher, and dim light as the pregnant dog was by her bloated belly. I missed and lunged again. So intent was I on the dog that I barely saw the pair of red shoes with gilded buckles. When I did, it was too late. I collided with their owner and bounced back.
The man I bounced off was, as it happened, the Prince of Wales.
“Now then, now then, what’s this? What, eh?”
The curtsy I executed then was my fastest and my most clumsy. I wobbled so violently on the way down that His Royal Highness put out a hand and caught me by the elbow.
“I’m so sorry, Your Highness!” I gasped as he lifted me up. He had the strong and steady grip of a good horseman and held me smoothly, even as he peered uncertainly at my face.
“Miss Fitzroy, ain’t it?” His Royal Highness said. “What’re you doing out of bed, then, eh?”
“I’m sorry, Your Highness.” An annoyed yip startled me back into my lost wits, almost. “I . . . it . . . the dog got away—”
“Ah, that would explain everything.” Unhampered by corsets and skirts, Prince George reached down his surprisingly long arms and scooped Guinevere up. “Have you been leading your people in a dance, then, little one?”
Guinevere gave an angry yip, and I bit my knuckle. Images of blood flowing from the royal hand filled my mind. But the prince just chuckled and peered more closely at her. “Something wrong with you, eh?”
“She’s not . . . well, sir,” I said, thinking of broken bones, injured spines, a chill, a cold, and how on earth was I going to explain this to anyone at all?
“No, I think she’s quite well.” He tipped her into the crook of his arm and cupped one broad hand over her belly. “She is whelping, though.”
Whelping? My cousin’s beloved, the royal lap dog, was having her puppies now? It was too much. Wit, will, and all good sense fled screaming down the corridors of my soul and left me standing there to give out a single cry.
“OH!”
“Now, don’t panic, Miss Fitzroy.” His Royal Highness deposited Guinevere into my arms. “Take her to your rooms. She knows what she’s about. I’ll send the Master of the Hounds up, just to have a look, eh? Off with you.” He gave me a gentle push to urge me along. I was so terrified, I forgot to curtsy. I also forgot to wonder why the Prince of Wales on the night of the public dining was wandering about the corridors of St. James’s entirely unattended, which, like Guinevere giving birth in my arms, was not something that should have been allowed to happen.
I’m not certain how I found my way back to my room, but I did. Guinevere’s distress was almost as great as my own by the time I shouldered the door open.
“Libby! Bring a blanket! Libby!”
“Peggy! What the holy hell’s happened!”
Matthew! I swung around, still holding Guinevere at arm’s length. This was not, I will admit, the best position in which to be carrying a dog about to drop her puppies, but I couldn’t seem to make myself do anything else. Matthew had just leapt out from behind my writing desk. He’d been pacing, I thought. Pacing and waiting for me.
“You stayed—you’re wonderful!” I told him before whirling myself and Guinevere back around to Libby, who threw open the closet door. “She’s giving birth! We need a blanket!”
Libby screamed and retreated. Matthew stripped my cloak off my shoulders. I think he meant to lay it down, but then he caught sight of my disheveled dress.
“What have you been doing!” Just then he sounded far more like Uncle Pierpont than was good for any of us.
Guinevere lifted her head and howled. I ignored Matthew and hated both myself and the dog for doing so. Holding Guinevere in one hand, I grabbed the cloak from Matthew and tossed it to the ground. I dropped to my knees as if in desperate prayer. Just then, Libby emerged from the closet, a ragged length of cloth in her hands. She shrieked as she saw me holding Guinevere over the extraordinarily expensive velvet and dove forward to throw the towel down. Guinevere growled and tried to nip my fingers. I set her down hurriedly, and she whined and circled and flopped onto the towel. Libby hugged my gray velvet to her chest, shot me a glower that could have blistered paint, and retreated to the closet, banging the door shut behind her.
“Peggy . . .” Matthew loomed over me.
“I’m sorry,” I gasped from my position at his feet. “I’m so, so sorry. I cannot tell you how sorry I am. I never meant . . . I didn’t—”
Then Matthew was on his knees as well, gripping my shoulders tightly. “Peggy. Stop it,” he commanded. “I need you to make sense.”
“I want to! And if my life would make sense for ten seconds altogether, maybe I could! But I have just learned that Mr. Tinderflint helped ruin my uncle some ten years ago, Lord Lynnfield is somehow blackmailing my uncle, and now the royal lap dog is giving birth in my room and His Royal Highness is very kindly sending the Master of the Hounds to deal with it, and they’ve left me with no time to explain to my beau why he shouldn’t be angry at me!”
Matthew lifted his hands off my shoulders and clapped them to his head. Staring at me, blank faced and pale, he settled back onto his heels. I reached out. I had to find something to say, to erase that look on his face. His fear and distrust were too much to bear. I had to make them go away at once. Because if I didn’t, I would lose Matthew, the one person I could not live without.
It was in this moment, a knock sounded at the door.
TWENTY-FIVE
IN WHICH IT BECOMES ABUNDANTLY CLEAR THAT DRASTIC AND DECISIVE ACTION IS REQUIRED.
I think I may have screamed. I certainly did stagger to my feet. Likewise, I stumbled across the floor and ripped open my door with such violence that Molly Lepell—who stood on the other side—jumped backwards.
“Oh, Peggy,” said Molly, recovering from her surprise with professional speed. “I came to make sure you were all right—” Guinevere howled over the end of her sentence. “What is the matter with that dog?”
“She’s whelping. I thought you were the Master of the Hounds.”
From the way Molly furrowed her brow, this was evidently not explanation enough. At that moment, however, I did not particularly care.
“Oh,” she said. “Perhaps I should come back later.”
“Perhaps you should,” I agreed.
Guinevere howled again. “You’re certain you’re all right?” Molly’s glance traveled from the dog to Matthew. “I brought one more . . . for that matter we talked about.” She held out a slim jewel case.
“Of course. I’ll take care of it. Goodbye.”
I closed the door in my friend’s face. I told myself I would apologize later, that she really didn’t want to know anything about the disaster that was currently occurring in this chamber, and that it had a
lready been a very bad day.
I faced Matthew. His brow was puckered up even more tightly with consternation and confusion than Molly’s had been.
“Dare I ask?”
“No.”
I crossed to my closet door. I opened it to find Libby standing right at the threshold, as expected. It was, after all, the best place to hear what occurred in the outer room. I handed her Molly’s jewel box and shut the door again. I looked at Guinevere. She was panting once more. How long did it take to give birth to puppies? Was there something I should be doing? Perhaps boiling water or writing announcements? I shouldn’t just be standing here with my arms at my side and my beau watching me as I watched the panting dog, with my so-faithful maid listening at her door.
“What should I do?” asked Matthew, echoing my own thoughts.
“I don’t know,” I whispered without looking up from the fluffy white heap that was Guinevere. “Truly. I don’t know.”
I heard Matthew’s shoes sound against the floorboards as he moved toward me. He put his hands on my shoulders and turned me around.
“Should I go?” he asked.
I looked up at him, struck absolutely dumb by the question. I heard myself answer yes. I heard myself weeping no. I heard myself laughing at the awful ludicrousness of our farcical quartet of maid of honor, swain, servant, and birthing dog. In the end, I asked the only question I could.
“What do you want to do?”
Matthew drew back, slowly, carefully, as if he feared one of us might break. I was breaking anyway. I could feel it. The slow fractures had begun deep inside, like river ice when spring finally comes.
“What do I want?” said Matthew. “I want you to be safe, Peggy. I want to keep you safe beside me, always.” He was breathing hard now, so deep and ragged that his shoulders shook with it.
I was shaking as well. He could see that I was shaking, but he made no move to come close again. “You shouldn’t be worried about me,” I said. “You should be angry and jealous.” It would be so much easier if he were. Then I could get angry back at him. I could endure the pure pettiness of my own anger, and his. But his concern, his deep care for me during what I knew was only the most recent disaster, how should I endure that? “You should think me shameless for lying and scheming and flirting with a man you know I have reason to hate.”