by Sarah Zettel
“It’s not the men. You don’t give a fig for any of those popinjays, much less . . . Sandford. But do you think I could forget for a moment what happened to us at Kensington Palace?” I’d never seen a man so close to weeping. Those fractures in my heart shuddered again. “You think I don’t see it every night before I fall asleep—those men with their swords and you with blood on your hands and that mad desperation in your eyes? Every time I see you, I think how I almost lost you forever, and sometimes I want to rip out my own heart, because I can’t stand the pain!”
There are moments when we are made aware of what is real. It is clear as glass and hard as flint, unmistakable and unclouded. I took a step toward Matthew. I took another. I raised my hand and laid it against his cheek. I felt the shape of his bones beneath the warm skin. I felt the stirring of my blood and the rasp of his fresh stubble against the softness of my palm. I felt the life of him and, yes, the love in him. He didn’t have to speak the word. Not now. I was close enough to breathe in his breath, and I did breathe, deep and slow.
I did not dare make any other move. I wanted so much. I wanted to pull him close and fall into one of those wild, condemned embraces, giving him all and taking all he had to give. I wanted to hold perfectly still and spend the rest of my life standing in this place, touching Matthew and letting Matthew touch me.
“I’m trying,” I said, aware that once again I was making no sense. “But there are too many problems and they keep piling up. I’m running from one to the next, hoping to get them sorted out, but no one will give me any answers, and everything I do seems to make things worse. I just . . . I just need more time,” I said. “And you. If I know you are there, nothing else will really matter.”
“Oh,” he said softly. “Well, if you’d just said that in the first place, we could have avoided all this unpleasantness, couldn’t we?”
I felt myself staring. I felt my jaw drop open. It was not my most attractive expression, and certainly not one I ever meant to show Matthew, but I couldn’t seem to help myself. “Are you forgiving me?”
“Is there something to forgive?” he asked, and that wonderful cheeky, mischievous grin spread across his delightful, infuriating face.
I grabbed him. I kissed him. I would have wrapped my whole self around him if it weren’t for the maddening and inescapable fact of my skirts and hoops.
“One day, Matthew Reade,” I said when we were both gasping for breath, “I’m going to push you too far.”
“But not today.” He touched his fingertips to my swollen, tender lips. “And I suspect not tomorrow, either.”
There was a great deal more kissing and holding to follow. There might even have been some tears. Definitely there was laughter, which confused Mr. Taylor—the bandy-legged, tobacco-chewing Master of the Hounds—when he at last stumped across my threshold.
In the end, Guinevere gave birth to six puppies, all living. This effectively doubled the population of fluffy white dogs at court. I decided that I would not think about what Lady Portland was going to do when she found out about the new additions. Princess Anne would, of course, be ecstatic.
I had intended to ask Master Taylor to take the puppies to Princess Anne, or at least to the kennels, but Guinevere had turned savage and snarled at anyone who came near her towel in a manner that was rather less amusing than it might have been, considering her size. Master Taylor assured me this was normal, and that the new mother’s wishes should be respected. He then—and this was something I noted most particularly—made a hasty retreat.
Much to my regret, I had to ask Matthew to go away with him. It was bad enough that he had come to my rooms alone, but if anyone saw him also leaving alone, it would give rise to all sorts of speculation, and I needed no extra helpings of scandal. Matthew agreed with me, if only because he needed to be on hand to help open the academy in the morning. I promised to send him a letter by Norris to let him know how I did and was rewarded with another kiss.
It wasn’t until I closed the door behind him that I realized it was near to midnight, and that I was not only exhausted and had a freshly dripping nose, but I was also famished past endurance. I sent Libby down to the kitchens to see what might still be had for dinner and then I sat in my chair by the hearth, watching Guinevere wash and organize her squirming puppies, any one of which could have fit into my teacup. All the while, I tried to sort out what I myself needed to do.
For one thing, I would have to find a way to explain my absence to Her Royal Highness. A way that could not lead to me being dismissed. In fact, it would have to buy me enough goodwill that my mistress would not be put out by the news that I intended to bring my cousin to live with me.
Then I would have to find the means to lodge Olivia and some way to convince her mother not to come and drag her back home. Given the fact that Aunt Pierpont knew all about what had occurred between Olivia, her father, and the Sandfords, this might not prove as difficult as it would have once.
Then there was my uncle. I remembered the way he had shrunk in on himself when he failed to order Lord Lynnfield from his house, as well as the disdain and disgust he’d showed for the baron and his son. There was something else, too. Something I had seen or had not seen. Possibly several somethings. I felt them in the back of my mind, like pebbles making ripples in the stream of my thoughts. If I could pluck out those pebbles, I’d know what to say to my uncle. I’d watched Lord Lynnfield bring him to heel. I could do the same.
The true problem there was that it was not only my uncle who must be brought under control. It was merry, cruel Lord Lynnfield and calm, cruel Mr. Julius Sandford. I twisted my hands in my lap. Whatever I had expected of the Sandford family, it was not that Sebastian would be the best of them.
But what worried me most was the thing I’d pulled from the pile of letters Libby had laid out on my writing desk. Mr. Tinderflint had written again. He had also sent a cake of French chocolate with instructions on how it should be grated and mixed with my brandy as an infallible remedy for my cold.
My Dear,
I am sorry indeed to hear that you and Jane have not been well. These autumn days are treacherous, and you must take extra care of yourself.
Your last letter has left me most anxious. Word of the quarrels between Mr. G and his son has begun to spread. Not only that, but I’m afraid the elder Mr. G has received word that his son is having the town house redecorated and the staff reorganized to suit himself, and is growing increasingly angry. It is distressing to think that there are those, like Mr. W, who would seek to take advantage of this familial discord. I feel positive this is what the Mr. Waters you mentioned plans to do as well. He is a poor man and a fortune hunter. I have learned for a certainty that if JW was relying on his rich and well-connected uncle in this city to help him, those hopes are doomed to disappointment. Therefore, he will be seeking his fortune elsewhere.
“So the Regent of France means to break his promises,” I muttered to the page. “Why should he be any different from the rest of you?”
As to Mr. S, the reports on that family remain mixed. They are much beloved in their own country, and the folk there are entirely loyal to them, but men do not always appear in the city the same as they do in the country. Has Jane spoken to Mrs. PG on that score? You did not mention it.
Regarding that other business I was sent here to pursue, I’m afraid I have bad news. It begins to appear that the jewel we seek has been sent overseas, and those merchants with whom I am familiar are being unusually closed about where it might be now.
Write to me soon, my dear. I find myself thinking of you a great deal, and I am anxious to hear how you and Jane do.
Yr. Obedient,
Mr. T
My obedient Mr. T. Before I realized what I was doing, I had crushed the letter into a ball. How he must have chuckled to himself when he wrote those words.
Until the disaster at my uncle’s house, I had not only been on the cusp of trust with Mr. Tinderflint, but a fair way toward falling
over into it. But now that was done. I could not allow this man to use me anymore, though I had no idea how to end our deceitful relationship. The truth of the matter was, I was trapped. I could not leave my court post in any sort of huff. I had nowhere to go, and there was the not inconsiderable fact that Her Royal Highness now counted on me. Mr. Tinderflint surely had realized that. He understood such things very well.
I tried to think, but nothing came. Thought and reason had fled; all that remained was my simmering anger. Mr. Tinderflint, Lord Tierney, had used me. He had used my mother, he had known my father. Now I got to add my uncle to the growing list of Tinderflint victims. I wondered in what way Uncle Pierpont had failed Mr. Tinderflint. It must have been quite serious to make that gentleman take a personal interest in his undoing.
I wondered if Mr. Tinderflint had been surprised when Uncle Pierpont rebuilt his bank. I wondered why it had been permitted. Perhaps he thought my uncle would be useful at some future date. I could not understand how, though. It was not as if Uncle Pierpont was much seen with the power players at court. Why would he come into this society where his formal disgrace would be constantly picked over? My uncle was no fool. He’d know that it was better to stay outside and work his will, and his business, from a distance. Possibly even through an intermediary.
Was that the tie that bound Uncle Pierpont to the Sandfords and the Sandfords to me? Did my uncle need someone who could move freely among the aristocracy to do his work?
I turned this over and looked at it from every side I could find. Mr. Tinderflint had let me believe I was here because I was my mother’s daughter. What if I was really here because I was Sir Oliver Pierpont’s niece?
I raised my head. But in front of me I did not see the hearth with its fire or Guinevere with her puppies. I saw the pattern of waves and islands on the silver-gilt walking stick Mr. Sandford carried.
James Stuart was known as the King Over the Water. My uncle had a Jacobite clerk in his employ who openly toasted James the Would-Be King in a Jacobite tavern located quite near his bank. The Jacobite lords needed a sympathetic banker with whom to do business, to gather money and get it to the right persons, to hold their lands in trust so they could not be seized by the Crown. By, say, a prince who was looking to flex his power and gather his own friends about him in order to secure his eventual succession.
“Oh, Olivia,” I breathed. “Oh, I’m sorry.”
Because if this was true, Uncle Pierpont was guilty of high treason. This time ruin would be irrevocable. He would be hanged, and all his property would be seized—house, money, movables, all of it. Olivia and her mother would be left disgraced and destitute. I might not be allowed to bring them to stay with me, even if I could find a way to support us all.
I looked at the crumpled letter where I’d dropped it onto the floor, and all at once I hated Mr. Tinderflint. It was a pure, clean hatred. I had been lied to and led on; I’d had my heart’s desire used against me. No more. This would end, and I would end it. I would not allow Olivia to be harmed by the actions of her parents. Not like I had been.
In a single moment of clarity, I knew what I would do, and I knew how it could be done. The solution lay not through my uncle, but through the Sandfords, all three of them. And, of course, through the duplicitous, overdecorated Mr. Tinderflint himself. The best part of it was, if it worked, I would be following Molly Lepell’s calm and excellent advice. I was about to create a sensation.
I moved to my writing desk, uncapped the ink, and took up my quill. I made sure it was neatly trimmed. I laid out a fresh sheet of writing paper, and began.
My Dear Mr. T,
I am afraid I have no news for you. Things have been very dull here. Jane has gone to the country. I miss her terribly.
Yrs.,
Miss Mostly
TWENTY-SIX
PREPARATION.
There was one absolute certainty regarding my plan: I was done trying to sneak about. What I did now, I would do in the open, or mostly so. Unfortunately, openness itself does not equal simplicity. My open actions would necessarily involve all the Sandfords, Sophy Howe, and the majority of the royal family with whom I had a personal acquaintance.
This, as one may expect, caused me some small concern. Enough, in fact, that sleep proved elusive for what was left of that night. I had at last managed an uneasy doze, when a massive thundering shook my room. I shot upright in bed in time to see the door slam open. A tiny, manic sunbeam of a girl with a candle clutched in her hand bolted through.
“Puppies!” cried Princess Anne. “They’re here! They’re here!”
The princess skidded to her knees beside her lap dog—somehow managing not to drop the candle or set the room on fire. For my part, I shrieked and kicked my way out from under the covers, trying to curtsy, push my hair out of my face, and sputter warnings all at the same time.
Fortunately, Guinevere, like all courtiers, proved to have an excellent understanding as to which side her bread was buttered on. While the princess squealed over the wriggly creatures, Guinevere simply lifted her head and assumed her most smug air.
Lady Portland, bearing her own candle, sailed in behind her little mistress.
“Good morning, Lady Portland.” I ducked out of Libby’s way as she stumbled about the room trying to get more candles and the fire lit.
“We have some new members of the household, I see,” the governess replied, looking down at Princess Anne, who was cooing over each new pup.
“All healthy,” I admitted.
“How fortunate. You must be very pleased.”
“Lady Portland, you may believe me when I say I am every bit as pleased about these new dependents as you are.”
“You will forgive me, Miss Fitzroy, if I say I very much doubt that.” I searched her sour face to see if this remark was made in sympathy or challenge. I found I could not tell at all.
“Peggy?”
Princess Anne had lifted one of the puppies from its improvised bed. “Peggy, you have been such a good friend to me and Guinevere, I want you to have her firstborn.” She laid the tiny thing carefully in my cupped hands.
I stared at it. The initial comparisons that came to mind when I looked at the warm, bald, damp, and blind thing were not at all complimentary. But the creature stirred fretfully against my cold palms and gave a small whine. Something, reluctantly, began to thaw in me. Perhaps it was the natural sympathy we must have when encountering something else that is confused at finding itself in a strange place full of very strange noises.
“Your Highness . . . I don’t know what to say.”
Lady Portland smiled and folded her hands in a show of smug triumph that rivaled Guinevere’s own.
“She’s too little to be away from her mother, of course.” The princess removed the pup from my hands with equal care and placed it among the others so its mother could nose it back into place. “And you will have to bring her to play with her brothers and sisters every day.”
I was about to give my solemn promise that it would be so, but I was interrupted. There was a single knock at the door, but before Libby could react, the footman on the other side pushed it open to reveal the Prince of Wales in his stout morning coat and hunting breeches.
“Well, well. And how’s the little mother?”
“Papa!” Princess Anne leaped to her feet while I was trying to drop an appropriate curtsy. “Come see!”
His Royal Highness chuckled and let himself be pulled along. He also let himself be sat on the floor and listened patiently while his daughter explained all that she had thus far divined about the nature, courage, and intelligence of each individual new puppy.
No one familiar with the habits of small children will be surprised to hear that this took a while. Eventually, however, the prince got himself to his feet and gave his daughter a nudge toward Lady Portland.
“Off you go, my dear, dressed and breakfasted. That’s the thing.” He kissed his daughter, patted her head, and shooed her and her governe
ss gently away before turning to me. “A word, if I may, Miss Fitzroy.”
“Of course, sir,” I said. Not that there was any other answer I could make. Lady Portland shot me one more malicious glance before the door was closed behind her. Libby, thankfully, retreated to the closet.
His Royal Highness folded royal hands behind the royal back. “Been watching you, you know, Miss Fitzroy,” he said. Somewhat to my surprise, he said it in English. “Wife’s quite taken with you. Says we’ve got a good friend in you, but it might be prudent to speak a word or three. You’ve been gone from waiting rather a lot lately. It’s been noticed.”
The blood drained from my cheeks and took all possibility of intelligent reply with it.
“Now, now, no need to look that way. You’re not being dismissed. It’s not come to that, or anything like it quite yet. So, buck up, eh?” He patted my shoulder. I think it was in a fatherly way. I was too busy wrapping my thoughts around the words “you’re not being dismissed” and “quite yet” for more nuanced reasoning.
“But we’re in an important time, Miss Fitzroy, and we must all keep up appearances.” Prince George tapped the side of his nose. “It’s all about appearances. My father, he appears to care more about Hanover than Britain. Doesn’t improve his standing among the lords of the land, you begin to see?”