Palace of Spies (26 page)

“Have you gone mad!” Mrs. Abbott reasserted her strength and yanked her arm back so I was forced to spin and face her.

“I know what you’re doing, Mrs. Abbott! I—”

She smacked me straight across the cheek with the back of her work-hardened hand. Before I could recover from this outrage, she yanked me farther away from Sophy’s door. Off the gallery there was a blue chamber hung with a broad tapestry of great antiquity portraying a hunting scene. Mrs. Abbott shoved me inside, hard enough to set me stumbling. She shut the door and looked for a bolt to shoot home. Finding none, she strode so close that our noses almost touched as she loomed over me.

“What are you talking about?” she whispered hoarsely.

“You think Sophy Howe’s responsible for Francesca’s death,” I whispered back. “You mean to poison her for it, with belladonna.”

I don’t know what sort of reaction I expected, but it was certainly something more than Mrs. Abbott pulling her nose back a bare half inch from mine. “Belladonna? What’s given you such an idiotic idea?”

“There’s none on the dressing table.” I spoke the words slowly. They were, after all, my coup de grace. “Of all the cosmetics,
that’s
the one you’ve taken with you.”

Mrs. Abbott reeled backward. Her head bowed, jerkily, until her brow rested against her palm. For a moment I knew a cold and bitter triumph. She meant to do murder. She always had, to revenge her lost Francesca, and I had prevented her.

Then, slowly, rustily, Mrs. Abbott began to laugh.

I looked to the door, wondering what I would do if, in her hysteria at being discovered, she attacked me. Once again, I had failed to position myself near the fireplace irons at a critical moment.

I was just about to begin sidling toward them when Mrs. Abbott lifted her streaming eyes. “There is none on the dressing table because I don’t use it, you little fool! The stuff discolors the white of the eye.”

My throat made a strange little hiccoughing noise.

“
Peste!
” Mrs. Abbott hurried to the door and listened there for a minute before returning to me. “Why are you even still here? Mr. Peele has been and gone.”

I did not even bother to ask how she knew that. “You thought he’d take me away,” I croaked.

“Why else would I notify Tinderflint of your foolishness? You are only a danger to yourself and should be gotten away from here.”

Of all the things she’d said yet, this was the one that awoke the full depths of my confusion. “Why would you care what happens to me?”

Mrs. Abbott stared, her eyebrows drawing tightly together to form one wrinkled, dark line across her forehead. “You truly believe me to be such a monster? I would endanger one girl, I would murder another, for my vengeance? Good God, I would not have your heart for all the world. Go away.” She pushed me backwards. “I am done with you.”

“But . . .” I could manage nothing more. I had been wrong about Mrs. Abbott. Entirely, completely, fatally wrong. It had never once occurred to me that the reason she so opposed my every move might be to try to protect me. But now I could see it plainly. If she could derail the schemes of Messrs. Tinderflint and Peele, no other girl would be in jeopardy, as her daughter had been. When that had failed, she thought if I stumbled early in my impersonation, I might just be sent away before I did something truly dangerous. Like gamble too deeply. Like lie through my teeth to the Princess of Wales. And when that failed, she took service with Sophy Howe so she could stay to unravel her mystery while I was taken safely out of here.

“Abbott? I trust there is no problem?”

Sophy stood framed in the doorway and spoke in her most composed voice. I could not see her clearly, thanks to the belladonna in my eyes, but I could picture the lift of her brow and her pert nose that would come with the question.

“But no, Miss Howe,” replied Mrs. Abbott. “There is no problem here. I thank you for your offer, my lady.” This she said to me, not bothering with the curtsy. “I am most contented with my new place.”

Sophy stepped aside so Abbott could leave and moved to follow.

“And what do you want, Sophy?” I said to her back. I wasn’t even aware I had spoken aloud, until Sophy turned her head to look over her shoulder at me. I could more than picture the smile of victory on her face—I could hear it in her voice.

“What on earth are you talking about, Fran?”

I should have remained cool and coy. I should have wrapped my meaning in layers of innuendo and obscurity. But standing there amid the ashes of my own failed perception, I found I could not stomach such evasions. “You’ve stolen my maid, and you’re trying to steal Robert. Why? Do you think I’ll forgive your debt in order to buy them back?”

Sophy laughed. It was a brittle sound, gliding like glass shards against my skin. “That fever truly did addle your brain, didn’t it? Pretty little Francesca.” She grew darkly serious all in a moment. “One of the Sparkling
Three
. Did you hope I’d just let you go on as if nothing had happened? Frankly, I’m astounded you had the courage to come back.” She reached out one hand to pat my cheek. Her hand smelled of rosewater, and her breath smelled of almonds and wine as she leaned in close to whisper. “Let me speak plainly, Fran. Nothing has changed. Cozy up to a thousand princesses, if you will. Flirt with a thousand apprentices to try to make Robert jealous. I still know all about you and your lover, and so, my dear little Fran, I own you forever.”

“Fran? Sophy?” said another voice from the doorway. “What’s going on here?”

Molly had found us, and she was standing in the doorway, her hands on her hips. “Sophy, what are you doing to poor Fran?”

“Oh, yes, poor Fran,” sneered Sophy. “Did you fix her hair this morning, Molly? With your usual skill, I see.” She adjusted the curl on my shoulder. “I’ll just leave you two to finish up. I know it takes Fran such a long time to get anything right—everything right, I mean, of course.”

Sophy sailed past Molly. I stood there, numb, wondering how I’d ever find the courage to move again. Those ashes of perception had reformed themselves, and the new picture that filled me now was as disturbing as the last. It was also one I should have seen before. Indeed, I should have uncovered the possibility the moment Mr. Peele started talking blackmail. Because while Mr. Peele might or might not be blackmailing Mr. Tinderflint, Sophy Howe was most definitely blackmailing Francesca.

Somehow, Sophy had discovered Robert Ballantyne was a Jacobite. She had extorted money from Francesca in return for her silence on the subject of Robert’s loyalties. Francesca had paid Sophy whatever she asked. Possibly because she was good and sweet, and loved Robert. Possibly because she understood that if Robert was exposed as a traitor to the Crown, she risked being brought down with him. She had his promise they would be fleeing to join their friends. She had gone home in order to make ready, but the rebellion had been put down, and no flight was possible.

I had been afraid all this time that Francesca had been murdered. But as Molly took my arm to steer me back to my room and the breakfast she had arranged, it began to occur to me that, faced with debt, exposure, the failure of her plans, and a faithless man for whom she had sacrificed so much, Lady Francesca Wallingham might not have needed assistance to end her life. She might have done it all herself.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

The remainder of that day passed in relative quiet. I walked with the princess. I stood with my sister maids and waited as she argued with Dean Swift and some other gentlemen whose names escaped me. For once I was relieved that custom did not permit conversation on the part of us maids. For one thing, it kept the amount of playacting I had to do to a minimum. For another, it kept Sophy’s mouth shut. Not that she didn’t try her best to be communicative. It was truly astounding to see how many variations on the theme of “smug” one young woman could settle on her features.

Molly kept her eyes rigidly ahead, attempting to ignore us both. Mary glanced from me to Sophy and back again. I had the feeling she was laying wagers within herself as to which of us would be the first to explode from so much suppressed feeling.

At nuncheon, His Royal Highness joined his wife and her maids and ladies for venison pasties, potatoes, and greens, as well as a huge trifle with blueberries and a rich custard redolent with vanilla and cinnamon. Afterward, there came more standing and waiting as the princess met with several lords of parliament to hear the status of some dense bill being put forth involving, I think, corn, or possibly the colony of Virginia. Or possibly both.

To say that my mind was not fully diverted by these important and improving matters would be to state the case mildly indeed. Even as I seethed under variation number 683 of Sophy’s smug gaze, my heart was wrung out imagining a thousand dramatic scenes involving Lady Francesca. I saw Mr. Tinderflint sobbing that Francesca had ruined them all. I saw her fond and secret mother trying in vain to suppress her anger that Francesca had bankrupted them trying to keep Sophy Howe silent. I saw Francesca with a brown bottle in her hand such as Molly resorted to for the brightening of my eyes. Any apothecary could have supplied the poison, and none would have questioned a young lady’s desire for it. Did she put it into some wine, or did she drink it straight from the bottle? Did it hurt?

I alternated these scenes with firm reminders that I had no business conjuring any of them. I listed my own proven inadequacies as a reasoner, and that list was depressingly long. For example, I had been patently mistaken about Mrs. Abbott. I had been almost as entirely mistaken about Mr. Peele. I could not even begin to decide what to believe about Mr. Tinderflint.

How long did I have before Mr. Peele played his next card and exposed me? There was no way of knowing. Could I write to Mr. Tinderflint and warn him what had happened? But that would do no good. I already knew Mr. Peele was intercepting his partner’s letters. Even if a letter did reach Mr. Tinderflint, I had little expectation that he would raise a hand against Peele. I had already seen how Mr. Tinderflint responded to threats against my person by that estimable gentleman.

The only support I had left during that whole long, agonizing day was the hope that Matthew would be assigned the commission to fetch Mr. Thornhill’s supplies from town. A water taxi such as had brought me here could accomplish the trip in two or three hours, if the weather was fair. My message might reach Olivia today. She would understand it at once. But even if Matthew did not succeed today, tomorrow would be soon enough. Surely it would be. Mr. Peele could not expect me to leave tonight. He said I should have Olivia help me. He would at least wait until she arrived. I still had time. I must have time.

I fear that hope of Mr. Reade’s speed and efficacy felt very frail, drowning as I was under the weight of my mistakes, accompanied by visions that alternated murder with self-murder. So crowded and distracted was my mind, in fact, that I almost failed to notice when we were dismissed to rest and change for that evening’s gathering. By then, my head was aching in truth and I was ready to claw out my blurred and itching eyes. If ever I found the opportunity to speak again with Mrs. Abbott, I would thank her for sparing me belladonna’s ravages.

Mary Bellenden left our fine flock first when we maids of honor reached the top of the grand staircase. She strode into her room calling ostentatiously for her maid. “Bring me a powder, Mellon.
Something
has soured my stomach terribly!”

“So delicate, our Mary,” remarked Sophy. “I should send Abbott to her. The woman brews the most wonderful tisanes. Oh, I’m sorry. Was that indiscreet?” She smiled and picked up her skirts to skip quickly away, which was probably just as well. I’d been aching to kick something all day, and her ankles were a tempting target.

“Don’t worry, Fran.” Molly laid a hand on my arm. “I’ll bring Jessop to you. Have you seen her yet? She’s very keen. I’ve often thought she would be an excellent lady’s maid for someone. She’ll make sure you’re beautiful this evening.” She hugged me and whispered in my ear. “And for God’s sake,
don’t
let Sophy tease you anymore. You’ll get a crease in your forehead if you keep looking like that.”

I murmured back something that I hoped would pass for a promise and went into my room. There was clean water in the ewer on the dresser, and a towel beside it. I bent over the basin and bathed my eyes quickly and lavishly until the itching eased.

I was still dripping when I heard a soft scratching at the door. I almost asked Mrs. Abbott to open it, before I remembered she was not there and I must shift for myself. But I had no time to start forward, because the person on the other side took it upon himself to open the door and walk in.

It was Robert.

“This is for you,” he announced brusquely, and thrust his silver tray at me. A tiny scrap of paper lay in its center.

I unfolded it. A brief note had been written out in a firm hand I did not recognize.
On my way. Will return tonight
.

“It’s from that ’prentice, isn’t it?” Robert demanded.

“How should I know?” I answered back, in no mood to coquette. “It’s unsigned. Where did you find it?”

“I passed by your door in hopes of stealing a word with you, and it was tucked into the latch.”

You read
my
note!
Anger flared bright and innervating.

“What are you doing with that fellow, Fran?” Robert was asking.

“What are you doing with the Howe behind the timber pile?” I snapped in answer.

I expected vociferous denial. What I received was an impatient sigh that was flavored most distinctly with regret.
He should go on the stage
, I thought as I watched Robert hang his head.
I’ve never seen such a performance
.

“I wondered if we were going to come to that,” he said, much more to the toes of his buckled shoes than to me. “Fran, how many times have I told you? You are not to mind anything I do with the Howe. I have to keep her quiet, that’s all.”