Dangerous Deceptions (23 page)

FOR YOUR HEALTH, SOPHY H.

Libby, prudently, put the jar on my mantel, out of my immediate reach.

“Dat’s id,” I growled, kicking at my counterpane, trying desperately to find a way out from under the smothering layers of wool and eiderdown. “I’b habig dis oud wid her.”

“She’s only taunting you,” Molly reminded me.

“Dat mush id obvious.” I finally got the blankets thrown back. “An’ I’b goig to trow id in her fire.” Or possibly her face. But I felt Molly might balk at this and so did not mention it. While I was struggling to find my balance on my unusually unsteady feet, Molly got between me and the door.

“Don’t, Peggy. It’s exactly what she wants.”

“Den what?” I demanded, closer to tears than my pride was comfortable with. “What do I do?”

Molly didn’t answer immediately. She looked at my twin jars of tea—those precious, thoughtful, mocking gifts from two people who wanted more than anything to see me ruined.

“Triumph,” she murmured. “Find some way to orchestrate a public triumph. Something that will cause a seven-days’ wonder and seal your consequence. She won’t be able to touch you then.”

“Yes, thank you.” I plumped back down on the edge of the bed. “Because dat’s so easy.”

“I know, believe me.” Molly sighed. “But it’s your best chance.”

I nodded. She was right. The flaw in Molly’s advice came not from her approach, but from the fact that she didn’t know what the real danger was, and I couldn’t tell her. If Sophy and Sebastian sniffed out the truth about me and mine before I did, the consequences would be disastrous. That Sophy had hired a box at my uncle’s bank told me they were already interested in the House of Pierpont. They might very well discover that my uncle’s bank was not on a sound footing or, worse, that my uncle had employed at least one Jacobite. After all, we had found out as much, and it hadn’t been so very difficult. Sophy and Sebastian would not hesitate to use what they found, whether it was a matter of money or high treason. They would certainly not spare Olivia the ravages of whatever scandal they exposed, or Matthew either.

My ghost was very busy walking the halls on those long, dark nights.

All this combined to pull me from my bed the moment I could walk across the room without breaking into a sweat. I could not wait for Sophy and Sebastian to finish their work. I must find out the truth before they could threaten those I cared for.

To this end, I shamelessly begged Molly for yet another favor. By rights, now that I was upright and not dripping like a drainpipe, I should have returned to waiting. But if I did, it would be several more days until my next afternoon off. That was not acceptable. I had to get to Olivia and my uncle’s house at once.

To avoid giving my nemesis any further aid, when Molly came to visit and drink yet more of Sebastian’s tea, I explained that my family business had taken a turn for the worse, and I now had an extremely delicate matter to broker. I also took two jewel boxes from her with the promise that I would put these into Mrs. Egan’s hands at the first opportunity. In return, Molly promised to help me delay my return to waiting by just one day.

She proved true to her word. Molly told Her Royal Highness that in my zeal to resume my place, I had overtaxed myself. Molly had personally put me back into bed and admonished me to stay there. For verisimilitude, I sent along a shakily written note assuring my mistress I would be better by tomorrow.

I tried not to picture the cool taint of suspicion coming over Her Royal Highness’s face as she read my missive or the narrow-eyed scrutiny I would receive from the Mistresses T-bourne & C-bourne when I next made my entrance. I failed in both these aims, rather miserably.

Fortunately, once the matter of my turn in waiting was settled, making my escape from the palace itself was relatively easy. There was no need for me to try to arrange coach or sedan chair. The fashionable St. James’s Square where Uncle Pierpont lived took its name from its proximity to the palace. Even a lady unescorted and on foot could be fairly sure of her safety while hurrying down the few well-appointed streets that separated the square from the royal residence. It was also one of the few times I felt entirely grateful for the vicissitudes of fashion. The deep-hooded cape and half mask hid my face from passersby in the neighborhood, who might all too easily recognize me.

My uncle’s home was one of a new row of gabled brick houses—prosperous and respectable, but nothing grand. Considering the nature of my errand, Olivia and I had decided it would be a mistake for me to enter by the front door. Instead, I circled around to the east, begrudging each extra inch. The rain had turned the streets into a swamp of well-chilled mud, and it was a struggle to avoid sinking in over the tops of my shoes, or possibly up to my neck.

Eventually, however, my wandering, mincing, and occasionally hopping footsteps brought me up to the brick wall and iron gate that fenced in Uncle Pierpont’s back garden. Olivia waited on the other side of the bars, trying to peer nonchalantly through them as if waiting for the post or the fishmonger, and making a pretty poor job of it. Especially as she squealed happily when she saw me.

“There you are!” Olivia pulled me through the gate. Naturally, Guinevere was with her, and naturally, she left off digging around the roses to bark at my muddy shoes. “I was beginning to think you wouldn’t come!”

“I’m sorry. I had to make sure Her Royal Highness would accept my excuse.” I removed my mask so I could see my cousin better. “Olivia, we have to hurry. If anyone besides Molly Lepell takes it into her head to check on me, I could lose my place.” Sophy Howe’s smiling visage still loomed large in my imagination.

“Don’t worry, Peggy. I’ve arranged everything!” My cousin peered beneath my hood, rather obviously looking for signs of joy and relief at this news. I’m afraid the best I could manage was a weak smile.

Olivia shrugged, grabbed my hand, and proceeded to drag me up the garden path. “Bromley’s gone to see about a new delivery of wine. He’s taken Lewis with him. I told Cook the fish for supper was completely unacceptable and sent her to the market, and said that I would take Mother’s tray up to her myself. That’s almost half the house accounted for, and of course Templeton’s completely on our side.” Templeton was Olivia’s personal maid. I didn’t know her well, but what I did know bore out my cousin’s confidence in her. “She’ll watch the corridor, and she’s already been in to open the window.”

Olivia delivered this pronouncement as we reached the back of the house. Just as she said, one window sash had indeed been raised a good foot. Olivia beamed with pride. Guinevere darted beneath the bushes, barking furiously. “Since we know you can manage windows, I thought it would be the surest way to keep you from being seen. Now, I must go take Mother her tray and keep her occupied. Good luck!” She squeezed my hand and hurried away before I could point out that the last time I had “managed” a window, I’d been dressed as a boy, I’d had Matthew’s help, and I had been in good health, rather than recovering from more than a week in my sickbed.

I faced the window. The window faced me. The lower sill was level with my shoulders. I paused to be thankful that Guinevere had gone with her mistress. The last thing I needed now was that dog yipping out her complaints while I engaged in this latest bit of housebreaking.

I stood on my tiptoes, tried not to wince as my shoes sank into the garden loam, and pushed the sash up another inch. The soft grating sound made me freeze in place.

It took a moment, but I rallied my nerve. I reminded myself sternly that I was a veteran housebreaker and should act like it. I kicked a decorative stone a bit closer so I could clamber atop it and grip the sill with both hands. I also prayed for luck.

I believe I can safely say that what followed was as graceless a moment of heaving, scrabbling, puffing, coughing, wriggling, and frantic, muffled cursing as any known in the history of sneak-thievery. This magnificent living display of the manifold reasons why one should never attempt to burgle a home in skirts culminated in my falling to the floor of the book room in a great, silken heap.

I huddled where I landed behind the draperies, heart hammering, waiting for the door to fly open. Surely the whole house had heard that hideous, humiliating entry.

The door did not open. Nothing in that dim room stirred.

As my doom failed to arrive, I pushed myself to my feet and stepped out from behind the curtains to face the book room. The chamber was cold and dark, with neither fire nor candles lit. I ventured a few timid steps forward. The chill air smelled of dust, leather, and old paper. Silence pressed against my ears. Now that the curtains had fallen closed behind me, I could not even hear the ticking of the great case clock in the hall, much less the traffic on the square.

It all felt immensely strange. I had never been in this room when it was empty. Indeed, I’d never come into it voluntarily at all. If I was here, it was because I’d been summoned. What followed was usually an icy scolding from my uncle regarding my conduct, my expense, my heritage, and my very existence.

The memory of those encounters set my jaw and moved me forward. I had no idea what I was looking for, but there had to be something. It could not be simply spite that made Uncle Pierpont behave so oddly regarding this betrothal and my post at court. Neither could it simply be Olivia’s dramatics or my own vain and silly hopes. There was the Swedish banker, the Jacobite ’prentice, the black coach and its withered owner. Something real was happening, and I had no choice but to find out what.

If Uncle Pierpont loved anything in this world, it was order. His correspondence had been stacked neatly on his massive desk, with the piles separated according to the recipient or sender. Each pile was flanked with any official documents related to the letters. It was the work of but a few moments to find correspondence bearing the name of Augustus Sandford, Baron of Lynnfield.

From the sheer height of the stack, it appeared that Lord Lynnfield did a great deal of business with my uncle. It also became quickly apparent that business was as dull as the gray October skies. Many of the documents in the stack were not even proper letters. Rather, they were bills of exchange for goods or for currency. There was certainly no mention of any grand conspiracy to defraud me of my inheritance. The most exciting thing I found was one large elaborate document that it took me longer than it should have to understand was the deed to a warehouse Uncle Pierpont and Lord Lynnfield had purchased jointly.

“Because of course one would need someplace to store seven thousand barrels of oatmeal,” I muttered as I stowed the deed back in its place.

Disappointment wrapped itself around my thoughts. It was beginning to look as if I had been wrong. Not only was there no unusual reason for my betrothal, there was nothing here from my father. No inheritance, no property, no token of care and love held back by my wicked uncle. That had all been the manufacture of the lost child inside my soul telling fairy stories. My eyes prickled, and I squeezed them shut. The fact that I was standing there in the shadows of my uncle’s deserted book room, on the brink of bursting into tears, felt unbearably ridiculous. As ridiculous as my shocked stammering had been the day I was told of my betrothal. I’d been on the edge of tears then, too. In fact, I’d been in such a state of agitation that I hadn’t even picked up the contract spelling out my future. I’d left it here and retreated to cry about the unfairness of life.

I’d left it here.

My eyes opened themselves, and I turned in place, staring at the whole of the paper-filled room. What if it was still here? What if I found
that?
That contract was a real document, not an imagined will or incriminating letter. If I found my betrothal contract, if I took it . . . A moment alone with that one paper and a hot fire could end this whole affair. If Uncle Pierpont couldn’t produce the contract, he couldn’t prove the betrothal had ever been arranged.

I glanced at the door. I strained my ears to hear any sound. How long had I stood here? I had no way to tell. I bit my lip and recommenced my search in earnest. That I had no fire nor the immediate means to make one could prove problematic when it came to swiftly burning the thing, but I was confident I could sort that out.

How much paper could one room hold? There were boxes within drawers within cabinets. There were folios within bound ledgers and whole legions of scrolls tucked into pigeonholes in other cabinets. So many were bound and sealed in blue and black and red, I imagined the ribbon makers of London rubbing their hands together in delight over the thought of gaining my uncle’s extensive custom. My heart was hammering. My mouth had gone dry. The betrothal contract had to be here. It was clear my uncle never discarded anything. If I could but lay my hands on it, this would all be over. I would be free.

I suppose in the back of my mind I knew there would be a copy somewhere, probably with Lord Lynnfield, but that seemed a trivial matter. In the rush of the search, in the hope and the fear of my circumstance, and the disappointment at failing to find any sign of concern from my father, that contract had taken on the strength of a talisman. If I could but hold it, its power would be mine—not Uncle Pierpont’s, not Lord Lynnfield’s. Mine.

It was then I heard the patter of footfalls. I jumped and clapped my hand over my mouth to stifle the scream. Keys rattled outside the room, and I had just time enough to duck behind the curtains before the door flew open.

TWENTY-ONE

As it happens, several distinct disadvantages await any person seeking to conceal herself behind draperies, especially when she is recovering from nine days’ worth of cold. The first is that any person so concealed is enveloped in both darkness and the pervasive smell of dust and polish. Second come the united problems of motion and sound. The slightest stirring of fabric will alert any personage on the other side to one’s presence, likewise the faintest of noises. Therefore the persistent tickling of velveteen and dust against one’s already aggravated nose becomes actively dangerous. Finally, the concealed person quickly finds she has no way to see just who has come to discover her. The result is a long, heart-pounding period during which said Concealed Person has no idea of exactly how much danger she might be in.