Dangerous Deceptions (12 page)

“Oh, I hope we will see her,” replied Mary cheerfully. “I’m dying to know what new developments her
business
has brought about.”

I can’t say I stared in disbelief. I believed what I saw far too easily. Sophy would have arranged this little scene in the hopes of drawing blood and scoring some sort of victory. Mary, on the other hand, was simply enjoying herself, like a spectator at a bearbaiting. At that moment, I truly didn’t know which was worse.

“She was gone for so long today, it was surely on
business,
don’t you think?” mused Sophy.

This remark sent Mary into a fit of giggles. “Oh, most definitely
business.
I begin to wonder whether she’ll ever be back among us. After all, so much
business
must be done behind closed doors.” Mary laughed as if this were the veriest soul of wit. Sophy smiled wanly. Neither one of them looked at me.

“And what is Sophy on about this time?”

I jumped. Molly Lepell had glided up behind me. She was not looking her best. She was clearly tired. In addition, an unusually well-aimed and fairly rotted apple had caught her gown during the public dining and left a huge smear across her skirts. She saw me taking note of this, and we both grimaced.

“Truly, there has to be a better means for the royalty to display themselves to the public,” I said. “As soon as I think of it, I will apply for a patent on the method, make myself a fortune, and never be put on show again.”

I was talking nonsense, and I knew it, but I wanted to keep Molly here. While she was talking to me, she wasn’t off deciding to hate me, after all.

Molly sighed, as if guessing what my babble meant. “Sophy was trying to cozen me today. She thinks to form an alliance with me against you, with Mary too, if she can be brought to pay attention for more than ten minutes altogether.”

I bit my lip. “Did you . . . what did you answer her?”

Molly waved in weary dismissal. “Sophy will ever be Sophy. She worries at anything she gets between her teeth. You just happen to be on hand.”

“How do you advise I deal with this latest? Shall I go down to cards tonight and draw her out, or stay away?”

Molly paused. The look she turned to me was long, and not entirely comfortable. I watched her struggle with feeling and knowledge, all of it heavy, and much of it pinned up from beneath by matters I didn’t know anything about, yet. I remembered Mary Bellenden’s little aside about Molly having fallen in love. I wondered if it could possibly be true, and if so, whether the gentleman returned the sentiment. Unrequited love could explain the weariness in Molly’s attitude, but so could the endless necessity of dealing with Sophy Howe.

“Go to bed, if you want to.” Molly gave the tiniest shrug. “I’ll let you know if Sophy does anything truly outrageous.”

I meant to ask if she was sure, but I saw this offer to watch out for my interests for one evening as what it was: an olive branch.

“Thank you, Molly,” I said, but she had already turned to walk briskly across the larger chamber, making sure she brushed close to Mary and Sophy as she mounted the stairs. Sophy made a great show of ignoring her. Mary rolled her eyes and laughed, to all appearances enjoying the show. I hesitated. I did not like this new intimacy between Mary and Sophy, especially after Mary had seen Sebastian in my room. Careless Mary had no more control over her own tongue than I did over the revolutions of the Earth. But I had more important things to attend to than one night of trading barbs with Sophy Howe.

I could make up a hand for that game at any time.

TWELVE

Fortunately, one thing I did not have to concern myself with was Olivia’s pique. It so happened that the perfect way to soothe her ruffled feelings was at my fingertips.

Saturday morning, in the brief period between Libby dragging me from my bed and then dragging me from my morning correspondence, I dashed off a note to my cousin letting her know that at three of the clock, I would be taking my dancing lesson with one Monsieur Janvier. I begged her in the strongest possible language to forgive me for my absence and to please join me for the lesson and to share supper afterward.

I did not set down any details as to where I’d been or what I’d been doing that had caused me to be so late. I had perfect faith in Olivia’s discretion, but etiquette and prudence dictate that if one must inform one’s cousin one has spied on her father, it is best done in person. I sealed the missive and trusted it to Libby’s tender care, reminding her to put the letter into the maid’s hands and on no account to be seen by Uncle Pierpont.

Neither Libby nor Olivia disappointed. When I returned from waiting at the princess’s nuncheon, it was to find Olivia sitting primly in my chair, with Guinevere in her lap. Both of them wore remarkably similar expressions of frosty indignation.

“You’ve brought the young princess’s favorite for a visit, I see, cousin,” I said by way of greeting. Guinevere, aware she was being talked about, gave an imperious yip, for which feat her doting guardian immediately patted her head.

“It was reasonably warm today, and I felt the danger but slight,” replied Olivia. The studied distance of her tone was meant to inform me that her displeasure was as yet undiminished. “Now, I am here as you insisted. But, good heavens, Peggy, you know how much I loathe dancing.”

I smiled at this, because at least Olivia sounded like herself again. “Ah! But this is an entirely new form of dancing come but lately to the court. You must trust me when I say you will enjoy it extremely.”

This, of course, gave rise to a barrage of questions, none of which I answered. Enjoying my cousin’s mystification more than a properly meek and charitable soul should, I led Olivia down several corridors and up several staircases to meet my dancing master.

It had been difficult to find a suitable location in St. James’s narrow confines for my particular variety of lessons. We had at last settled into a chamber on the second floor overlooking the Chair Court. The long room was entirely without carpet or furnishings, except for a table and a stool too old to be used in any other part of the palace, but this was perfect for our purposes.

Monsieur Janvier was already inside when Olivia and I arrived. His violinist, whom I knew only as Felix, stood by the window, tuning his instrument. The table was decorated with two unlit candles and a brown-paper package tied with string.

“There you are, Miss Fitzroy!” Monsieur Janvier executed a perfect bow as we entered. Naturally, he spoke in French. “And who is this you bring me today?”

I introduced Olivia. While her curtsy was scrupulously polite, my cousin did not bother to hide how she used the moment to closely inspect my instructor. Monsieur Janvier was not tall, topping my own height by a scant two inches. He had a square face whose only refinement lay in a pair of large black eyes with a curious tilt that rendered them positively arresting. To go with these, he possessed a strong frame, with thick arms and dramatically curved calves earned in the practice of his particular arts. His hands too were broad and callused, and his wrists rawboned. He wore no wig, but pulled his black hair back in a curling queue.

Her Royal Highness, being an educated woman herself, believed that ladies should spend their time in improving activities. Therefore, she had been more than ready to agree to Mr. Tinderflint’s plan to engage me a private tutor so that I might refine my skills at dancing and several related activities. What I do not know is whether Mr. Tinderflint ever told her the exact nature of the steps Monsieur Janvier taught.

“You must be a formidable instructor, Monsieur Janvier,” said Olivia, in her excellent French. “My cousin has never shown such enthusiasm for the dance.”

“It is all to do with the style of presentation, Olivia, I assure you.” I winked at Monsieur Janvier. “I think Miss Pierpont will be very much interested in learning some of your newer steps, monsieur.”

“Will she?” Monsieur Janvier smiled in the face of Olivia’s open skepticism. “Well, we shall soon see if your cousin has something like your facility with my particular lessons.”

This, apparently, was a step too far. Olivia turned on me with all the air and expression of a thwarted governess. “Margaret Fitzroy, what are you up to?”

Before I could answer, Monsieur Janvier clapped his hand to his forehead. “Ah! But I forget. I have the commission you sent Madame Rosalind.” He untied the package and held up a stomacher, beautifully embroidered with a complex pattern of gray, green, and silver.

“It is perfect!” I clapped my hands. “What do you think, Olivia? I’m to be an autumn willow for the prince’s birthday masque. This will go over my dress.”

The sound Olivia made was something between a snort and a wordless bellow. “I think it is the first time I’ve seen you excited about a stomacher, of all things. You usually refer to them as bars on your cage.”

“But this one is special, is it not, Miss Fitzroy?” Monsieur Janvier laid the stomacher on the table and deftly slipped two fingers into the concealed pocket. With a gentle tug, he removed a slender silver blade about three inches long.

I had the indescribable satisfaction of seeing Olivia’s jaw drop.

“It will be most useful in case I lose this one.” I put my hand to the front of the pink and gold stomacher I wore currently and pulled free the jeweled pin Mr. Tinderflint had given me. With a flourish, I revealed its gilded blade made in imitation of a tiny rapier, which also happened to serve nicely as a straight pin.

Olivia goggled. She gaped. I clapped my hand over my mouth, a gesture that did little to cover the laugh.

“Peggy Fitzroy, I’m going to
murder
you!” cried Olivia. “What is going on here?”

“Monsieur Janvier is an actor at the Drury Lane Theatre,” I said, and Monsieur Janvier bowed once more in acknowledgment of this fact. “He teaches dancing to the other actors, as well as card tricks. And fighting,” I added.

“Fighting?”
Olivia whispered in tones young women normally reserve for speaking of their latest infatuation.

“Shall we demonstrate, Miss Fitzroy?” Monsieur Janvier doffed his sky-blue jacket to stand before us in a plain buff waistcoat and spotless white shirt.

“I am entirely ready, Monsieur Janvier.” I curtsied. My instructor signaled to Felix to draw the drapes and motioned for Olivia to stand back. For once, my cousin obeyed without question. When both Olivia and the candles were safely out of the way, the fiddler struck up a sprightly country tune.

Monsieur Janvier advanced and bowed. I curtsied and retreated, careful to take note of the distance between myself and the door. Monsieur Janvier straightened—and charged. In an eyeblink, he had hold of both my wrists. He did not pretend during our lessons. The grip that captured me was both tight and painful. The first time he’d done this, I all but panicked. This time, I twisted both wrists hard and yanked down. As soon as I felt his grip give, I danced sideways. My skirts swayed around me so I felt like a clapper in a bell, and my high heels rendered my balance precarious, but I was getting used to them. With each lesson, I learned a little better how they felt when I moved quickly, so that I could slip myself in any direction without losing breath or balance, even as I once more yanked my jeweled straight pin free of my stomacher. I held the little blade down at my side as I’d been taught. A knife brandished at the eyes will keep an opponent at bay, but it can be more easily taken away.

Monsieur Janvier feinted left and right. Olivia gasped. I backed away, and backed again, angling for the door. My blood was up, and my heart beat hard. I took small dancing steps, so my feet would not tangle in my skirts and my breath would not be shortened by my corsets. I was frightened, I was thrilled. I felt daring and dangerous and deadly earnest all at once. No one,
no one,
would ever render me helpless again. No one would be able to hold me down, or hold me at bay because I did not know what to do.

My tutor charged again. I dodged, but was not quick enough. This time, Monsieur Janvier grabbed my free hand and twisted my arm up tight behind me. In response, I let my knees buckle sharply, using the whole of my weight (and incidentally the weight of my hoop and skirts) to drag him off balance before I swung about. The swift and violent motion sent him stumbling, and I was able to pull free. I ran for the door again, but he was there before me, blocking the exit. Now my blade came up, and without permitting myself an instant’s hesitation, I drove the tip right into his waistcoat.

Olivia screamed. Felix’s playing halted abruptly.

“Sacre bleu!”
Monsieur Janvier laughed. “You did not warn her!”

I hastily stowed away my blade and hurried to my cousin’s side. “I’m sorry, Olivia, truly. He’s padded. I can’t touch him with that little thing.”

I laid my hand on her shoulder, but Olivia shook me off. Without casting a single glance in my direction, she advanced on my tutor, slowly, as if she were now the one intending violence. Monsieur Janvier held his ground, quite unperturbed, and let Olivia poke her fingers into the fresh slash in his buff waistcoat. The waistcoat itself, as well as the vest beneath the white linen shirt, were both padded with horsehair, which kept him safe from any blow of mine and also accounted for at least some of the perspiration dotting his brow.

Olivia pulled some of that horsehair out now. She looked from the tangle in her fingers to my instructor’s square, laughing visage. Then she rounded on me, her hair all but standing on end with the force of her own individual variant of righteous indignation.

“Peggy Fitzroy, I am never going to forgive you for not telling me about this! And
you!
” She jabbed a finger at Monsieur Janvier. “You fraud! You . . . you . . . you’re a
WOMAN!
”

Monsieur Janvier laughed and clapped “his” broad hands heavily together. “Bravo! You have a quickness of perception, Miss Pierpont. Trust it well. Most will not believe what they see is an illusion, even after such close inspection.”