Dangerous Deceptions (17 page)

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

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.

“Good morning, Margaret.” As we entered, the princess waved me to a stool beside her. I made my curtsy and sat where indicated, back straight, hands folded. From this position of appropriate modesty before royalty, I both waited for her to speak and attempted not to panic.

Her Royal Highness reclined in an armchair. The spindly table at her elbow held a teapot and cup, and a maid hovered in the background to refresh pot or cup as required. If the Princess of Wales was taking to tea, everyone would soon be doing it, and hang the expense. Would I have to bid farewell to my beloved chocolate?

“You may all go,” Her Royal Highness said to the other maids who moved about the room. “Mrs. Titchbourne, you will close the door.”

Mrs. Titchbourne did as instructed. I noted she stayed on this side of it, however. She took a stool beside the great four-poster bed, picked up a bit of embroidery, and set about pretending not to listen.

“You were keeping some very interesting company last night, Margaret.” The princess had switched to German. “You and Mr. Walpole held some conversation, I believe?”

“We did, Your Highness.” I pressed my lips together. “Ma’am, do you trust him?”

My mistress smiled at the question. “One does not trust men such as Mr. Walpole. One may make use of them, however.”

This, I suspect, was not the ringing endorsement Mr. Walpole had been expecting. “I imagine Mr. Walpole thinks he’s making use of you.”

“I would be most shocked if he did not,” the princess replied. Then she winced.

“Ma’am?” I started to my feet, with my hands out but no idea what I actually meant to do. “Are you all right?”

“Perfectly, perfectly.” She rubbed her rounded belly. “I am sure this is a prince in here. He certainly kicks like one.”

“Perhaps I should . . .” I looked toward Mrs. Titchbourne for assistance, but she remained apparently engrossed in her embroidery.

Her Royal Highness rolled her eyes to Heaven for patience. “Margaret, I have given birth to four living children. Should something be wrong, you may trust I will be the first to know it.” She winced again. “But come, you look grave. Surely that is an unusual attitude for a young woman who was so very much in the company of a single swain all evening.”

So, Sebastian’s would-be rivals were not the only ones who took note of us. “It was not company I sought, Your Highness, I do assure you.”

“But it was company you kept,” she said evenly. “I am interested in the source of this contradiction.”

My fingers were twisting. I glowered at them, willing them to stop. They took a long time to obey. “His name’s Sebastian Sandford, ma’am. He’s a son of Lord Lynnfield’s, and . . .” I bit my lip, but it was already too late. Princess Caroline had the patience of a stone. If she thought she had not heard the whole of a story, she could wait for the rest until the palace fell apart around her.

“We’re betrothed,” I said.

Her Royal Highness reached across for her tea. She took one long, slow sip, and then another. She set the delicate cup down silently on its saucer, laid the silver strainer across its rim, and carefully refilled it from the pot. Watching all this slow, precise motion tightened every fiber in my body until I thought my bones would snap.

When my mistress had filled her cup as she liked it, she took it up in both hands. “You will tell me the whole story,” she said.

I did. By that point, I’d been wound to such a pitch that talking was a relief, which was certainly the royal plan. My words came out in a muddle of confused German and French with a syllable or two of English thrown in to bob along in the flood. Princess Caroline glowered at me, and I could not tell whether this was for my confessions or for mangling her native tongue.

When I at last ran out of breath, all Her Royal Highness did was sigh.

“Do you know, Margaret, I understand what it is for someone to attempt to browbeat you into marriage.” I must have looked surprised, because Princess Caroline smiled over the rim of her teacup. “You have not heard that story? I am surprised. I was supposed to be married to Frederick, the Holy Roman Emperor. I would have had to become a Roman Catholic, of course, but I was not to mind that. The question of my preferred religion was as nothing. Marriage to an emperor was the most desirable match to be imagined.” She shook her head. “Sadly, it does not matter how highly we women are born. When it comes to marriage, we are all the pawns of family ambition.”

“But you married His Royal Highness.”

“He visited me in disguise and was smitten. It was most romantic.” She ran her hand fondly across the swell of her belly. I thought of Mrs. Howard out in the parlor and kept my mouth shut. “At the time, he was only the son of the future Elector of Hanover. This was a rank not to be disdained, but certainly nothing so very special. Not one of us truly believed we would ever be here in London.” She sighed again. “Margaret, if you discover a way in which my word may be of assistance in this matter of your betrothal, I will speak for you. But we both have our names in the papers enough, you understand?”