Dangerous Deceptions (7 page)

Dear Mr. T
(I wrote),

I am glad you are safe arrived at Dover and that the fish stew is to your liking. I hope the salt air does not spoil your blue silk, as you feared it might . 
.
 .

In addition to his love of good foods, Mr. Tinderflint had an extraordinary love of fine and elaborate clothing. The collision of these two obsessions had the unfortunate result that in person Mr. Tinderflint looked like nothing so much as a living confection of spun sugar and marzipan.

I regret to say I do not have much news from here to relate. All continue in good health. Guinevere is breeding and will soon be delivered of her children.

Given all my personal worries and the mental shadows remaining from my night visitor, composing this letter was something of a relief. Concentrating on my declensions and on turning accurate phrases to describe the previous night’s disastrous dinner party left little space in my thoughts for worry.

Then I bit my lip and slowly, with gritted teeth and clumsy hand, switched over to Greek.

Jane is still in town, and very well. She was asking rather anxiously after Baron L. You know she is acquainted with his younger son, through Sir OP. Of late, however, their business matters seem to have come to a head, and Jane finds herself very confused as to why this matter remains both unsettled and sitting on her doorstep. I told her as you were surely well acquainted with both gentlemen, you would be able to shed some light on the situation.

I underlined the
surely
for emphasis. Was it too obscure? Perhaps I should add a postscript for clarity. But then I thought about the postmaster possibly scanning my lines for any indication of treason and plot, and hesitated again.

There was one other matter of importance to bring up. For this, I switched to German, just to show him I could.

Jane also asks after that jewel you said you might find for her. While I know you will be busy with your Paris friends, I trust you will write soon with any information you have on that score.

Yr. Devoted,

Miss Mostly

That “jewel” was, of course, not a jewel any more than I was a girl named Jane. The jewel was no less a person than my long-absent father, Jonathan Fitzroy.

My father had vanished when I was still a small child. As I grew, I assumed this to be a simple, sordid case of desertion such as men of weak moral underpinnings committed every day. Of course, I remained a pious and dutiful daughter and did not harbor any bitterness toward the man who had never once written or given me any other sign as to whether he still lived. Perhaps in my tender years, I had attempted to blot out the kind memories I held of a smiling father who carried me on his shoulders, let me play with his signet ring, and called me Pretty Peggy-O. However, as a grown woman, I understood such heartfelt resentment was unfilial and unwarranted, especially as I now knew both my parents had been confidential agents to our previous monarch, Queen Anne.

Still, it must be deemed acceptable at all levels of society for a dutiful daughter to provide a delicate reminder of the commonly understood responsibilities belonging to a father. She might also ask a few discreet questions regarding the confluence of events occasioning such a long absence without a word, even after his wife had died alone in her bed.

But before I could impart any such calm and entirely rational communication, someone had to find Jonathan Fitzroy. Mr. Tinderflint had agreed to undertake this task. It was not entirely his idea, and he did not like it, but he owed me a debt. I could, and I would, exact my payment.

“Ahem! Miss,” said Libby.

“I said I was coming.”

“And is there any indication of the hour when this happy event is likely to occur?” she inquired.

“Yes, yes.” I sanded and folded my letter. “Now . . . no, wait.”

That Libby rather too visibly bit back a scream was entirely forgivable.

“Those two who waited on table . . . Norris and Cavey. Do you know them?”

“Why? Nothing’s missing.”

I tucked this statement away in my mental journal for examination later. “I may need someone who can run errands for me, some of which may be long and complex. That person needs to be one I can trust. And yes, since I know it will be asked, I would pay for time and trouble.” Between the possibility of arranging clandestine meetings with Sebastian Sandford and the unwelcome reminder from my patron that I had concerns beyond the personal, I was going to need help.

The most extraordinary change came over my maid. A moment ago, Libby had barely been able to spare the patience to listen to me; now she seemed to positively glow with the light of eager expectation. “Norris, I’d say, miss. Cavey, he’s . . . more particular. I’m sure you understand.”

I did. She meant Cavey was more interested in keeping his post than in taking risks to feather his nest. This made him more intelligent, but less useful.

“Libby, we need to make sure no one knows about this. If word gets about . . . it will all be no good. Do you understand?”

At this, I saw again that hard intelligence in my maid’s eyes, and a respect that was grudging and uncertain. At last, she curtsied. “Leave it to me, miss. I’ll see it done.” Suiting deeds to words, my maid left me there, presumably to go inform Norris of his new status as assistant to Miss Margaret Fitzroy, spy of honor. We might be late, but what was that now that there were tips to be made?

I fell back into the chair at my desk. I took the key from the chain around my neck, unlocked the drawer, pulled out my purse, and counted my much diminished stack of coins. It was still another week until the Quarter Day. At that point, I could expect fifty pounds of my salary. Before then, however, I had to pay Libby, and now this Norris, enough to keep them quiet and going about my business. What’s more, bills from the provisioners of my family’s dinner waited among the letters on my desk. Notices had also come from mantua makers, glove makers, milliners, and jewelers. Then there was my upcoming release from waiting to be thought on. Her Royal Highness had so far said nothing about my staying at court all the year round. If this did not change, when the royal family moved back to Hampton Court for the summer, I would be fully expected to quit the palace, or at least stop depending on the royal household for my maintenance.

I looked at my meager supply of coins. I looked at my journal, where I tried to keep notes as to my various outlays, and thought ruefully on all the times I had seen Uncle Pierpont working at his ledger. I had always wondered what kept him so chained to that book. Now I had begun to learn.

Perhaps I should add a postscript to my letter and ask Mr. Tinderflint for money. As soon as I thought this, pride rebelled. I had been a dependent before. It galled me to think that after scarcely three months on my own, I must become dependent again. But it was not simply pride, or, at least, not only pride. Mr. Tinderflint had come into my life suddenly. He might leave it just as suddenly. I needed to be able to rely on my own resources.

I scooped my coins back into my purse. I could write my patron at any time. There were other means of increasing my income to try first.

SEVEN

My royal mistress, Caroline, Princess of Wales, is an enlightened woman. She reads much, and argues more. Very little escapes her sharp eyes and clever brain. Included in her extensive studies are the most modern ideas regarding the health of the body. These ideas include, unfortunately, a near fanatical dedication to Fresh Air and Exercise.

Under normal circumstances, nothing short of fire or flood can keep Princess Caroline from walking two or three hours through whatever park might be nearest, or riding out with her husband, who regards time on horseback as one of the greatest felicities known to man.

The current circumstances, however, were not normal. The princess was less than a month from being delivered of her latest child. The physicians and His Royal Highness had all but cornered her and ordered that the daily walks cease for the good of the baby, who might otherwise be tempted to make its entry into this world prematurely. Princess Caroline agreed, reluctantly, but she drew the line absolutely at the kind of close confinement regarded as necessary for English ladies. “Apart from the fact that I will not tolerate being shut up in a dark, smoky room for a month, we shall have no nonsense of warming pans or illegitimacy here.”

As there were those who still doubted which side of the blanket the Prince of Wales had been born on, there was sense in this. Still, I was not the only one she made nervous. It was commonly understood that if a breeding woman took in too much fresh air, it might well expose the babe to harmful and noxious vapors. I am no student of medicine, but I can state that if there is one thing that abounds in London, it is noxious vapors.

However, Her Royal Highness had relented exactly as far as she intended. If she could not have exercise, she would, by hook or by crook, have fresh air. So a series of pavilions were daily erected in St. James’s singularly plain and symmetrical gardens so that the princess might read, or sew, or argue with the learned gentlemen she frequently invited to visit, all the while imbibing the dubious benefits of the London air.

Blessedly, our mistress regarded these pavilion mornings as casual affairs. Servants waited with pots of coffee, chocolate, and baskets of the French pastries she favored, lest the breeding princess grow faint. But even better was the fact that more than one chair was placed beneath the green canopies, and we waiting maids and ladies were allowed the luxury of sitting down.

I was the last of the maids of honor to arrive in the royal presence. The moment I walked into the pavilion, every eye turned toward me, or almost every eye. Molly Lepell, the person I most wanted to see, sat embroidering a handkerchief and studiously not looking about her. Mary Bellenden, on the other hand, actually smothered a giggle, and Sophy Howe showed her sharp smile. I knew at once I was about to receive the finest sallies of wit that the assembled ladies could muster.

Unfortunately, this appeared to include Her Royal Highness.

“Ah, here you are at last, Margaret,” she said, marking with one finger her place in the book she was looking over. Princess Caroline spoke entirely without rancor. When you possess royalty and wit, rancor is seldom required. Not to mention the fact that my mistress would have remained a commanding presence even without the help of her royal status. In appearance, she was a clear-complected, sturdy, and well-curved woman whose poise made her stand out even among the proud and sophisticated ladies who surrounded her. Her advanced state of pregnancy only enhanced these attributes. On this morning, she was clad in a pale green and white sacque gown, rather plainer than her usual style. The Mistress of Robes had been tearing her hair out for months trying to acquire suitable clothing for a woman who could not be tightly corseted and yet refused to hide the fact.

“Tell me, Margaret, do we blame your new maid for your dawdling this morning?”

I felt my cheeks heating. “No, Your Highness,” I murmured. “I’m afraid she should be blaming me. I was delayed over my correspondence.”

“Ah. Well, that is good.” For a moment, I dared hope that I would be let off lightly. Unfortunately, this hope was as false as the smile on Sophy Howe’s painted face. “In truth, we were beginning to wonder if you had left us in search of more exciting company.”

And thus were the floodgates opened. Unfortunately, Mary Bellenden was the first to leap through.

“Oh, our Peggy’s far too organized for that!” She laughed as she took up a dainty from the pastry table.

“What makes you say so, Mary?” inquired Sophy Howe before I could get my mouth open. Sophy was a tall, golden beauty. Among her other noteworthy accomplishments, she had elevated the art of the sly smile to an exact science. The one she turned on me now, for example, was a perfect witch’s brew of hollow cheer and sugared poison.

“Why, when she wants excitement, it’s brought to her, fresh and piping hot!” Mary doubled over in her laughter as far as corsets and stomacher allowed.

“And does she share?” inquired Sophy.

“Oh, no indeed, greedy thing.” Mary licked the crumbs off her finger. “She keeps her hot excitement all to herself.”

“Whereas everyone knows there’s plenty of Mary Bellenden to go around,” I shot back and immediately regretted it. Not only was the princess frowning at me, but Mary’s eyes glittered in a dangerously cheerful fashion. Careless she might be, but Mary was proud of her wit and never willingly let anyone else get the last word.

“And what, one wonders, is the flavor of this excitement?” said Sophy. “Is it highly spiced, one wonders?”

“Or exotic?” inquired Mrs. Titchbourne, with an arch look at her friend and companion, Mrs. Claybourne. “Perhaps imported from France?”

The Mistresses T-bourne & C-bourne were determinedly grand ladies who shared a set of fine apartments in whatever palace the court happened to be resident. The princess depended on them a great deal, and invitations to their parties were as sought after as those to any event hosted by the royal family. They did not quite know what to make of me yet. For my part, I respected them the way one should respect any creature with sharp teeth and the willingness to use them.

“France,” agreed Mrs. C-bourne. “Or Spain.”

“Do you imply Miss Fitzroy has Catholic tastes?” inquired Lady Cowper, with only the briefest glance up from the letter she perused. Part of me wanted to like Lady Cowper. She was possessed of a strong personality and lively wit. She, however, was not inclined to take part in my plan. I knew she had relatives among the Jacobite factions, some of whom had recently been tried and convicted for their treason. Sometimes I caught her looking at me out of the corner of her eye, and wondered just how much she knew about my recent adventures.