Dangerous Deceptions (6 page)

“What? Are you worried about Mama?” Princess Anne said. “Don’t be. I’m sure she’ll agree.”

“While that is excellent news, I’m afraid I will need my father’s permission to visit here on such a regular basis.” Olivia’s expression of humble piety would have done credit to a cloistered nun.

“Oh.” Princess Anne stopped her bouncing, and we were all treated to the sight of that minuscule personage carefully mustering her dignity. Then she folded her hands and scooted up to my uncle, four or five of the dogs traveling with her as a disorderly honor guard.

My uncle watched her approach as one might watch the fall of the headsman’s ax.

“Sir Oliver,” said Princess Anne, “it is my express wish that your daughter, Olivia, wait on me with updates as to Guinevere’s health. Will that be acceptable to you?”

I watched Uncle Pierpont want to refuse. I watched him search frantically for some hint of a way out of this cul-de-sac of etiquette and obedience. I watched Olivia looking down at Guinevere in her arms and saw her face twitch as if she’d contracted some terrible palsy.

Slowly, stiffly, like the most ancient and arthritic of men, my uncle bowed to this miniature specimen of royalty and her attendant puppies.

“It is entirely acceptable, Your Highness.”

Princess Anne nodded in stately acknowledgment. “Thank you. I will mention you particularly to Mama as a good friend to me.”

Lady Portland, it seemed, could stand this drama no longer. “And now it is time you were in bed, Your Highness,” she said.

The sigh with which Princess Anne answered this was long, loud, and gusting. “In a minute. It is too late for Guinevere to travel tonight, don’t you think?” she said to Olivia. “There could be rising damps. Or falling.”

“Just so, Your Highness,” my cousin agreed. “With permission, I will come for her tomorrow and bring her traveling basket and blanket.”

“I’ll give orders that you’re to be admitted.”

“Thank you, Your Highness.” Olivia, showing only slight regret, set Guinevere down to make her curtsy.

“And now we must be going, Your Highness.” The false sociable gaiety in the Portland’s voice barely concealed the warning note.

The princess rolled her eyes and shook her curls. “ArthurLancelotGawainTristanGarethGuinevere, come along.” Princess Anne was especially generous in the matter of sharing cakes and cream and such treats. As a result the entire flock yipped at the sound of their names and followed in a tight knot when she trotted out of the room. We all made our respective bows again.

“I’m sorry,” I said to my uncle as I straightened up to meet his poisoned glower. “I told Her Highness I would be busy this evening, but you know how it is with little girls, even princesses.” I shrugged.

“Spare me your prattle,” he snapped. “You have demonstrated your native cunning and your pride in it. Very well. Olivia will visit. But nothing else has changed, Margaret Fitzroy.”

He cast a glance back at Olivia and his wife. This time, Olivia made a great show of modesty, with folded hands and lowered eyes, and followed her father as he stalked out the door Norris held open.

It was my aunt who paused and hissed in my ear, “Peggy, you must stop this game. If he gets truly angry, it will not go well for anyone.”

I pulled back, startled. But Aunt Pierpont had already turned away to follow husband and daughter.

Norris closed the door behind them all. I stared at the ruins of my dinner and pressed my hand against my stays, suddenly very afraid.

Why would my uncle insist on this marriage? What was it all for? If Uncle did not think I was any good to him when I had the ear of the Princess of Wales, what on earth did he think he would gain if I was married to the second son of a baron from some obscure county in the southeast?

If only . . . I drew up short and had to clap my hand to my mouth to stifle a laugh. For I had been about to think,
If only there were some way I could find out.

“You seem to be forgetting, Peggy Fitzroy,” I murmured. “You not only know people in high places, you have royal permission to spy on them all.”

SIX

That night, Robert Ballantyne returned. It was only in my dreams, of course. At least, I prayed that it was only a dream.

As ever, I heard his approach long before I saw him. The hard heels of his boots clacked against the floorboards, circling my bed and circling it again. When my eyes finally pried themselves open, he stood at the bed’s foot, washed in the cold corpse light that always accompanied him. Old blood spread over his shirt and waistcoat, and his head lolled against his shoulder at an unnatural angle that he seemed unable to rectify. In life, Robert had been a handsome young man. Now his shade’s lean face was a mottled gray, and his hollow, colorless eyes were sad and staring. His sword dripped black blood as he leveled the blade at me.

I could not move. I could not make a sound. He spoke, but I could not hear. I screamed silently, crying for help, unable to move, unable to even look away.

I woke to unbroken darkness and a throat burning from the force of my screams. It took a long moment for the thunderous beating of my heart to slow. It took a longer moment to understand that I was pressed back on the bolsters. Apparently, in my sleep I’d tried to climb the headboard to escape. I eased myself down, but gingerly, as if I thought the ghost might suddenly return to visit my waking self. May Heaven help me, but that was closer to the truth than I would have wished.

Gradually, I became aware of the night noises of the palace—the creaking of wood, the faint sound of the wind beyond the walls, a patter of entirely earthly footsteps. There were no boot heels, no corpse lights. I laid myself down, as stiff and uneasy as an old dame with rheumatism, and for a long time blinked uselessly at the dark, fighting to stifle my sobs. When my groping hand finally brushed Flossie’s ruffled skirts, I curled around my doll like a child and squeezed my eyes shut in a desperate attempt not to see my nightmare return.

No matter how late my nights might be, all mornings were early ones when I was in waiting. Libby was under strict instruction to pull the curtains back, or—in the case of my windowless rooms at St. James’s—light the candles, at six of the clock. This was to be done rain or shine, desperate pleading and bribery attempts notwithstanding.

That Friday morning was no different. Once Libby had driven me from my bed, a breakfast in the form of chocolate and a roll was consumed, usually at my writing desk. An increased correspondence was but one of the many changes that had taken hold in my life since becoming a maid of honor. Uncle Pierpont might have forbidden me to write Olivia, but I had other friends whose families were not nearly so fastidious, to say nothing of the new acquaintances I had made since my arrival. These were in addition to the letters from my patron, Mr. Tinderflint.

Mr. Tinderflint was not that gentleman’s given name. That was Hugh Thurlow Flintcross Gainsford, Earl Tierney. The Earls Tierney were among the oldest peers in England. If my particular earl was to be believed, they had also been intimately involved in a number of the more, shall we say, abrupt changes regarding which elevated individual’s posterior had the right to seat itself upon the throne of England. After the exploits of the summer, I was quite prepared to believe this.

Those exploits, and the Jacobite conspirators they had helped unmask, led not just to my joining the court, but to Mr. Tinderflint’s hastily arranged exit from the country. The Prince of Wales had decided it might be prudent if he was away until the worst of the furor died down. Fortunately, an excellent and timely excuse to send Mr. Tinderflint to Paris had arisen.

His Most Christian Majesty, Louis XIV, the Sun King, had finally died.

As almost no one living had ever known any other king of France, the whole of Europe had spent much of the past year in something of a dither. The nature and extent of that dither was among the things Mr. Tinderflint was meant to clarify for the Prince of Wales. But most importantly and urgently, he was to try to discover whether the new regent of France, Philippe, duc d’Orléans, really meant to honor the late king’s promise to give aid and comfort to James Edward Stuart.

James E. Stuart was the only legitimate son of James Stuart Sr. (I have never understood this rationing of names among royalty. One would think they’d want to be told apart). J. Stuart Sr., in his turn, had once been King James II and VI of England and Scotland. This was, of course, some years ago, before James Sr. so angered the nobles of our fair isle that they sent him a letter informing him that if he did not surrender the throne to his daughter Mary, her husband, William, and William’s army of Dutchmen, they would cut off his head. Those nobles thought this would be a permanent change of power. James Sr. apparently considered it a temporary inconvenience and spent the rest of his life, and a number of other people’s lives, trying to reverse his circumstances. Thus the Jacobites were born.

Now, like King Louis, J. Stuart Sr. was dead as any doornail. But rather than a crown, he had bequeathed to his son a court in exile, a crowd of dissatisfied nobles, rebellious Scots, restless Irishmen, and a burning desire to kick all scions of Hanover off of English soil and restore the British Crown to the storied House of Stuart—meaning himself.

Discerning the extent of the Jacobite support in France was an important assignment. Of course, our king had his ambassadors and ministers working on this very project. There was not, however, any guarantee that those ministers would acquaint the Prince of Wales with the relevant facts, or even tell him the truth. Royals might share names between father and son, but it seemed they did not necessarily share goals. So it was that while King George was away, our prince and princess were creating their own court not simply for entertainment, but also to control politics and power.

Mr. Tinderflint’s assignment was a sign that the prince placed a great deal of trust in him. I tried very hard to stop wishing this mark of faith had fallen on somebody else. Which was nothing short of ridiculous. I did not entirely trust Mr. Tinderflint. I had seen firsthand that he was ruthless. I knew for a fact that he was an accomplished liar. But he liked me, and against my better judgment, I liked him.

So it was with a sense of dread and anticipation that I broke the plain seal on his latest letter and unfolded it to decipher as I sipped my chocolate. Mr. Tinderflint wrote his letters in a series of alternating languages, under the guise of giving me lessons. In truth, this was meant to flummox any unauthorized pair of eyes that might catch a glimpse of our correspondence.

My Dear
(he wrote, in Latin),

I hope that these few poor lines find you well. The weather keeps me stranded at my inn at Dover, but the captain informs me he expects it will clear tomorrow, so that we may at last be off across the channel. I did receive your letter. Alas, while very pleasant and diverting, it chiefly served to remind me how much I already miss your conversation!

Do not be charmed,
I instructed myself.
Do not be flattered.

The inn is snug and the food is good, but it is very dull and I’m more hungry for news than for the admittedly excellent fish stew my landlady sets in front of me . 
.
 .

I snorted. Mr. Tinderflint was as close to a perfect sphere as it was possible for one human being to become, so the delights of the table were of no small moment to him.

I am, of course, particularly anxious to hear how our Jane is doing. You said nothing about her in your previous letter. Before I left, it was being bruited about that she might find herself noticed by some persons of importance. I trust you will exercise your good sense and guide our young friend away from the most reckless of such beaus. I am thinking particularly of Mr. W, but also Mr. T.

“I am delighted you think so much of my powers of perception, sir,” I muttered. “But you could give me more than one letter to work with.”

Jane was, of course, myself. Among his other complex rules of correspondence, Mr. Tinderflint forbade me to set down anyone’s real name.

For the next paragraph, Mr. Tinderflint switched to being enigmatic in Greek, which he seemed to write with even more flourishes than he did his Latin, let alone his English.

Any letter addressed to M. Gainsford, the Sign of the Little Pig in the street of St. Denis, will find its way to me. Write soon, so I may know you translated this passage properly, and tell me Jane’s news.

Remember, my dear, that I remain, as ever,

Yr. Srvt.,

Mr. T

I dropped the letter into my skirt and rubbed my eyes. He wanted all Jane’s news. What on earth had Jane to tell him? I’d been too wrapped up in my own affairs to go tiptoeing about looking for Jacobites. Should I tell him about Sebastian’s reappearance? Mr. Tinderflint surely knew of my betrothal. It was the sort of thing he kept himself informed of. Perhaps he even knew something of my uncle’s business, or better yet, of Sebastian’s father, Lord Lynnfield. He might even be able to give me some hint as to why Sir Oliver and Lord Lynnfield between them insisted on this marriage.

I grabbed up a fresh sheet of paper and prepared to muster every Latin verb I possessed.

“Ahem,” announced Libby from her post at the closet door.

“Yes, yes, coming,” I said, dipping my quill into the ink pot.

“You’re not. You’re starting another letter, which will make you late for the princess, and then you’ll blame me for it.”

“Nonsense, Libby,” I said as I began to write. “I’d never think of blaming you.”