Dangerous Deceptions (4 page)

“Norris, Miss Fitzroy, and Cavey.” Stout Norris jerked his spotty chin toward his companion—the smaller, stick-thin youth at the other side, who looked as if he’d as soon bolt as stand and serve. Perspiration trickled down one cheek.

“This is an important gathering,” I told Norris, emphasizing my point by dropping a pair of half-crowns into his hand. “It is vital that everything go smoothly.”

“Yes, miss. Of course.” Norris eyed Cavey and jingled his hand significantly a moment before pocketing the coins. Some of the frightened-rabbit air dispersed from about Cavey’s slender person.

“Thank you, and—” I was prevented from finishing that sentence by the door slamming open.

“Peggy!”

I had meant to bestow upon my uncle and aunt my most elegant and dignified curtsy, the one I reserved for the drawing room when everyone was watching. Instead, as Libby pushed open the door, my cousin Olivia exploded into the room, shoved a set of boxes into Libby’s hands, and ran forward with a turn of speed that would have impressed even Mary Bellenden. For the second time that evening, I found myself enfolded in a welcome embrace.

“Olivia!” I forgot everything else and hugged her back as hard as I was able.

From the day I arrived at my uncle’s house, Olivia had been my most constant companion. Perhaps it would be more accurate to say I was her companion, since she was the star of any social gathering we went to. This was in part because she looked very much the beauteous English rose, with gentle blue eyes and a blooming, creamy complexion that needed only a hint of powder and a single patch to become the envy of half the women at court. She threw off her midnight blue velvet cloak to reveal a gown of ice blue and ivory satin trimmed with silver lace that she wore with an attitude of perfect comfort.

If I had not been the recipient of Olivia’s unfailing friendship, I could have dined on my envy. Fortunately, Olivia also had a mind and imagination of diamond clarity and a nerve that could tip from brave to reckless at the least provocation. If our positions had been reversed, she would have taken to this business of court and spying like a duck to water. As it was, she hoarded up descriptions of the adventures we had already shared and stored them in her journals. One day, she swore, she would cobble them all into a play or a dramatic serial for the papers.

If my uncle ever got wind of that plan, he would die of apoplexy.

“Peggy, darling!” My aunt Pierpont glided past her husband to take both my hands. Aunt Pierpont and I had always gotten along well. She was a small, plump housewife now, but she had been a beauty in her youth, and she still remembered how to wear court regalia well. But not even her layers of carefully applied cosmetics could entirely erase the telltale nervousness that was her primary characteristic.

“How good it is to see you again,” she bubbled. “And looking so well. I adore your hair in that fashion. It suits you exactly!” Aunt Pierpont still wore a fontange with a tall lace veil to accompany her round gown of figured black velvet and ecru satin. I suspected this styling would change after tonight. “And what a lovely dress! Is our Peggy not looking well, husband?”

My uncle did not glide forward, much less bolt. He stalked, and as he did, he looked down at me from under lowered eyelids. Uncle Pierpont was a tall, thin stork of a man with narrow, calculating eyes. His nose was as pointed as any pen, and his soul matched the sharp severity of his person. His sole concession to palace formality was that he had forsaken his short-queue wig for a great, curling full-bottomed creation with two peaks above his brow that bore an unfortunate resemblance to a bull’s horns. Otherwise, he wore the black velvet and white silk that I was used to seeing on him. Even the bows on his shoes were black. All in all, he looked like a demon clergyman with severe indigestion.

I found myself deeply grateful for the past months of practice in deportment and keeping my countenance. I met Uncle Pierpont’s narrowed eyes briefly, then sank into a curtsy that, if it did not rise to stateliness, was at least steady and respectful. In acknowledgment of this filial gesture, my uncle grunted and continued his stork-stalking past me to the sideboard, where he set about examining the tags on the wine bottles.

I straightened up and felt my gaze fasten on a spot directly between his sharp shoulder blades that I knew to be a particularly vulnerable point of the human body. It was fortunate for all of us that Olivia recognized the danger signs.

“Come see what I’ve brought you.” Olivia threaded her arm through mine and steered me toward Libby. My maid still held the boxes she’d been so unceremoniously given. She also eyed me from over their tops in a manner both impatient and impudent. My cousin did not seem to notice, however, and took up the entire pile so she could open them and lay out the contents on the table.

“Oh, Olivia!” She had brought me my mother’s sandalwood fan, and her sapphire necklace. These were my only legacy from her, and I had not been sure whether I’d ever see them again. Best of all, however, was when Olivia opened the largest box to display Flossie. Flossie was a porcelain doll my cousin had given me. Aside from Olivia, I’d always regarded Flossie as my one true companion. Although I was of course far too old for dolls, the sight of her affected me so, I had to touch the corner of my eye to stop a tear from streaking my cosmetics.

I closed the boxes carefully. “Libby, take these back to the room, please. Thank you, Olivia.” I embraced her again. This time I whispered in her ear. “When the time comes, remember to ask about arrangements for Guinevere’s confinement.” Before Olivia could stare blankly at me for too long, I turned to my aunt. “And thank you, Aunt, as well, for coming. It is so good to see you again.”

Uncle Pierpont had evidently finished his examination of the bottles.

“This one,” he grunted to Norris, indicating his choice. “And then this.” He turned to me. “I thought we were here to dine.”

I trust my reader will fully appreciate the heretofore unplumbed wellsprings of familial feeling and dedication to duty demonstrated by the fact that I here managed to confine my immediate reply to a charming smile. “Indeed we are. You may bring in the first course,” I told Norris. “Uncle, won’t you please sit here?” I indicated the chair at the foot of the table, the place of second rank. As this was my dinner in what was nominally my home, protocol and etiquette dictated that I sit at the table’s head, and there was nothing at all he could do about it.

Uncle Pierpont sat and gulped the wine that Norris poured. I hoped it was the chianti. It might have been vinegar for all that it relaxed his expression. I was not surprised. Indeed everything about him, from his beady-eyed glower to his frozen indifference to all changes in my status, was exactly as I had expected. This was, however, the one contingency I felt entirely prepared for. I called forth my training as maid of honor, fixed on my most winning smile, and started talking.

I talked with Olivia about our mutual acquaintances. I asked who she had seen recently and how they did. I talked with Aunt Pierpont about fashion and asked about her annual summer trip to Bath. I spooned out generous helpings of the tamer court gossip so she could share it with the ladies of her set.

Both Aunt Pierpont and Olivia understood exactly what I was doing, and they were more than ready to keep up their end of the conversation. I heard that my friend Kitty Shaw had recently gotten engaged to Raphael Swinton and was hoping I’d be at the wedding. Lady Clarenda Newbank—another acquaintance, although most definitely not a friend—had apparently been discommoded by the marriage, as she’d been angling for Mr. Swinton herself. I asked Olivia to convey to Lady Clarenda the depth of my sympathies and tell Kitty my direction for the invitation. She could also deliver my promise to invite Kitty and her fiancé to court for a visit as soon as possible. I heard that Mrs. Quint had decided to remain in Bath, probably for good, and taken all her nieces with her. I privately thought those nieces must be the reason for the removal. I did not, however, mention that I’d seen the youngest at a recent masque, without her sisters or any male relative I knew, but most definitely not alone. Instead, I speculated on the latest rumors that the ladies of Versailles had moved on from overturning all accepted hair stylings to adopting a flatter, wider style of skirt hoop. This, naturally, threatened to send as great a shock through our world as the removal of the fontange
.
The idea of having to acquire a whole new set of fashionable cages for underneath my gowns filled me with horror, but it appeared to delight my aunt.

This conversation and more like it managed to occupy us through the first two courses, with their sole in oyster sauce, the roasted partridges, the ham, the joint of beef, the spinach and ragout of root vegetables, and the savory tarts. As the third course of venison, jugged hares, macaroni in mushroom sauce, and crème Française arrived, I casually turned my conversation to those matters that I had selected especially for my uncle’s ears.

I made sure to detail my daily routine, as it brought me into contact with Their Royal Highnesses. I regaled them with the very funny thing the First Lord of the Treasury said, and the excellent question Mr. Robert Walpole had posed, and how I had danced with the Foreign Secretary for the Southern Department. I did not omit to mention how gracious the king himself had been when I first arrived at court, although I glossed over some of the finer points, since he had thought I was Lady Francesca at the time.

My uncle glared quietly through the first course.

He glowered ominously through the second.

By the third, he was silently seething.

It was when the dessert had been achieved and I held out the dish of sugared almonds to invite him to help himself that his hand crashed down on the table.

“Enough! I did not come here to watch you bask in the spoils of your whoring!”

I held my face quite still. I set the almonds down. “Well, then, tell me, Uncle Pierpont. Why did you come here?”

Uncle Pierpont’s eyes glittered in anger and challenge. I met his gaze without fear. Oh, I was reckless. I was doomed. I was throwing away everything I had gained. I did not for a moment forget that I needed to garner Uncle Pierpont’s goodwill, but I would not, I could not, back down. Not to this man, and not ever again.

Then, slowly, incredibly, my uncle put a bridle on his temper. He lowered his shoulders and drew his head back. It was something of the effect of a snapping turtle drawing back into its shell. He picked up the wine at his elbow and drained the glass in a single gulp.

“I came,” he said slowly, “for the same reason I took you into my house in the first place. Because your aunt insisted.”

“That is not entirely fair, you know, husband,” said Aunt Pierpont quickly. “You did say you wished to know how Peggy did. You said you were concerned.”

“And exactly when, madame, did you hear me say this?” Uncle Pierpont’s voice and face were equally icy as he spoke. That cold had its intended effect and set my aunt trembling.

“I can’t remember exactly. I—”

“Then you had best say no more about it.”

At this, Aunt Pierpont dropped her gaze and began to knot her fingers into her napkin. If I had not already disliked my uncle to the extreme of my ability, that would have done it. I had almost forgotten how infuriating it was to see him so ruthlessly put down my harmless aunt.

This was, may I add, a feat he had never come close to managing with Olivia. “Father, what does staying angry bring you, or any of us?” my cousin inquired. “Having Peggy in favor at court is a stroke of tremendous fortune for the whole family. Any man in the city would envy you.”

Before he could answer this, I rallied my wits. “Sir, I recognize that I am indebted to you for the years of my upbringing.” The words tasted sour in my mouth, but this was the strongest card I had to play. I would not waste it by appearing reluctant. “It is my hope that I will be able to use my post at court to pay you back, at least in part. You are a clear-eyed and practical man and always have been.” The most vital aspect of the flatterer’s art is to know how to compliment each person in his own special way. My uncle had always been proud of his hard head. “I am sure you will agree that there are advantages to be gained for your banking house and its business.”

“And I’m sure you will agree, miss, that hanging my future on your ability to wheedle and connive among a crowd of jaded sophisticates is hanging it on a weak hook indeed.” The languor and disdain with which he spoke chilled me bone deep. Unfortunately, that chill also got hold of my fragile good sense and snapped it in two.

“Then, Uncle, you may write me off. I am no longer your concern and may make my own way in the world.” My aunt pressed her fingers to her lips as it sank in that I had just declared my perfect willingness to live without protection. “All I ask is that you allow me to keep some sort of contact with my aunt and cousin. Agree to this, and I shall trouble you no more.”

All manner of calculations passed behind my uncle’s hard eyes. He very much wanted to be able to wash his hands of his sister’s branch of the family. Despite this, he hesitated, and I read the refusal in his expression before the words left his mouth.

“Olivia is to have nothing to do with you.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Father,” said Olivia. “I’m to marry into a title and power so I can help advance the family, and we all know it. What could be better than for me to start making friends at court?” Being a banker, my uncle was not happily admitted to the company of the blue-blood aristocrats. My patronage could open that door for Olivia in ways my uncle’s could not. I was certain we all felt the irony of this fact most keenly.

Uncle Pierpont did not even look at Olivia. His gaze remained fixed on me. I had looked into a murderer’s eyes. I knew when a man had found his own sticking point. This was where the games ended and, even between enemies, there was only honesty left.

“What do you want from me?” I asked him.

My uncle’s thin lips twitched. “Honor the contract with your name on it. Marry Sebastian Sandford.”