Palace of Spies (11 page)

Molly shut the door firmly behind Mrs. Abbott and dragged me to sit next to her on the sofa.

“Now, quickly,” she said in a voice more serious than the breathless, girlish one she’d used in the courtyard, “tell me how you left things with Sophy.”

“Sophy?” I repeated, mostly to give myself time to remember that Sophy must be Sophy Howe, one of the two remaining maids of honor, along with Mary Bellenden. “I . . . really, Molly, there’s nothing to tell.”

“Fran, this is no joking matter. When it was announced you were returning to court, she almost fainted. I overheard her later . . .” I would not have believed that heart-shaped face could take such a serious cast as Molly shook her pretty head at me.

“She’s . . . still very angry, then?” I ventured.

“Angry? Sophy’s fortunate it was I who overheard her, and not Her Royal Highness, because I don’t think either one of them would have survived the scorching from her language. So tell me, what happened? Was it over Robert?”

Robert?
Robert?
I ran my mind down the long list of names I had been forced to memorize over the past weeks, searching for the most likely Robert.

Fortunately for me, Molly misinterpreted my hesitation and rolled her eyes. “Honestly, Fran, did you think I didn’t know? Don’t worry. I’ve said nothing . . .”

Surely, I have at some time done good with my life, for it pleased Heaven at that moment to open the door and send in an angel in the unexpected form of Mrs. Abbott. Behind her trailed a new procession, this one of footmen in an array of sizes bearing an array of covered dishes.

“Hush. Not now,” I said urgently to Molly.

Molly looked mulish but gave a small nod as Mrs. Abbott directed her followers to spread the cloth and lay a table. The dishes proved to contain a lovely dinner of boiled fowl, pease pudding, and two tarts (one of onion and one of plum), as well as a gooseberry fool and a fine golden cheese.

“Well, you’d best eat that, and I’ll tell you all the news.” With these words, Molly launched into a speech that was a marvel of endurance. The girl seemed to have no need for breath as long as she had words to fill her. Names I recognized from Mr. Tinderflint’s lectures galloped past at such breakneck speed that I soon gave up trying to keep pace. Instead, I concentrated on nodding at reasonable intervals and taking enough small bites of whatever was set in front of me to keep Molly from saying “reallyyoumusteatsomethingFran” every few minutes.

Mrs. Abbott had apparently attempted to wait for Molly to take a breath, but after a full hour, gave it up as a bad job and simply interposed herself into the flood of words.

“If you please, miss. My lady must be got ready to attend Her Royal Highness.”

“Oh! Yes, of course. I’m such a ninny. I’ll see you there, Fran. It’s so wonderful to have you back again!”

I readied myself for another alarming hug, but this time received nothing more than a bracing kiss on the cheek before Molly dashed from the room.

When the latch snapped firmly shut, I let myself fall back on the sofa. “I survived,” I whispered.

“One foolish girl,” replied Mrs. Abbott in her usual encouraging manner. “On your feet.”

“Yes, but we . . . they . . . were good friends,” I said weakly as I stood and followed her into the dressing room. “Surely if she’s convinced, then others will be.”

“Pah!” This was followed by a string of French deprecations and a great deal of pulling and tugging at my person while I was stripped of my traveling clothes. “It is plain that Mademoiselle the Treasure cannot see an inch beyond her own so-adorable nose.”

I contemplated these words as I assumed my dressing position; stock-still, with arms out to the sides. Was it possible Mrs. Abbott missed the intelligence that remained steady in Molly’s eye, despite the rapid shifts of her manner? It was clear from the way Molly spoke that the Abbott was not a well-known figure here. Could she be as new to the palace as I was, and gaining her first impressions alongside mine? Or was she trying to make me doubt myself? I came back again to the idea that Mrs. Abbott did not merely believe that I would fail—she might actually be hoping for that event and doing what she could to urge it along.

What, I wondered, as she yanked back my hair to ready it for my wig, would the Messrs. T and P think of that?

CHAPTER TWELVE

It took an hour to complete the process, but eventually I was successfully stuffed into the full plumage of Lady Francesca’s best mantua: a pink watered-silk overdress with the ruffled petticoat of cream Brussels lace and Prussian blue trimmings. A split train of pink figured damask trailed behind me. If I had been laced any more tightly, I would have dropped dead of asphyxiation. As it was, I believe the only thing that kept me standing was a desire to rob Mrs. Abbott of the satisfaction of watching me expire.

My fan was more creamy Belgian lace with gilded staves, and my silk gloves had been embroidered over with lilies of the valley, which probably signaled something important or provocative. I couldn’t think what, my mind being fully occupied with preventing my hands from clawing at my itching face. Mrs. Abbott had painted my visage into a pure white mask livened only by pink paint to indicate where my cheeks ought to be and adorned with no fewer than three stiff black patches: a diamond at the corner of my eye, a heart on my right cheek, and a circle by the left corner of my mouth. I suppose I should have been thankful that Mrs. Abbott preferred white talc rather than the mix of white lead and rice powder Olivia’s mother considered the most estimable cosmetic for young ladies, because in the quantities my attendant lavished on me, I think it would have pulled the skin clean off my face.

I was about to present myself to royalty, and I felt like a cross between a piece of lady’s china and a high street mountebank. My hands were shaking yet again. I clenched every muscle tight against my bones to stop the tremors. I could do this. I must do this.

All this while, the Abbott circled me slowly, searching for a flaw or signs of weakness. Much to my surprise, she nodded.

“
C’est bon
.” Did I see the tiniest glimmer of approval in her eyes? I dismissed that as a figment of my terrified imagination. “Her Royal Highness is expecting you in her private apartments. You know the way, of course?”

“Of course.” The words were still warm on my breath when I regretted them, but I could not take them back any more than I could fail to sense the blade of Mrs. Abbott’s smile as I attempted to sail past her out the door.

She closed that door behind me, and I was alone in the gallery.

Did I mention that palaces are poorly lit places? Or that they are cold? It was the height of summer outside, but as I moved, my skin prickled with goose bumps. Where had all the people gone? Hampton Court had seemed full to bursting with life and motion when I entered it. Now I walked through shadowed galleries without encountering a soul to keep me company or, more important, point the way to the princess’s private apartment. I struggled to call up the floor plans of Hampton Court that Mr. Tinderflint had so diligently tutored me in. Why, oh, why had I spent so much time wishing to be elsewhere when I should have been committing every line and notation of that map to memory?

In the midst of these bitter reflections, I heard a new sound, a ferocious and suppressed hissing and grunting, like someone cursing through clenched teeth. I froze in place, my heart hammering, but only until I heard a violent ripping, as if someone was tearing cloth. Visions of Sebastian’s attack in the greenhouse propelled me to action. I snatched up the poker from the hearth that stood nearby. I meant to charge forward, but swaying hoops and suffocating stays permitted only a quick waddle.

Despite this, I rounded the corner into the darkened chamber, brandishing my weapon before me. Ahead, I could just make out a man’s form wrestling with something unseen. Suppressed curses and groans sounded in the cool, still palace air.

“Stop!” I shouted.

Somewhat to my surprise, the shadow did stop. Buoyed by this success, I ventured a further utterance. “What are you doing?”

Slowly, the shadow turned. I stood my ground, lace fan in one hand, poker in the other. As my eyes adjusted to that deeper darkness, I saw the shadow was a young man. He wore a plain linen smock covered with stains in a variety of shades and thicknesses. Crumpled lumps of paper lay scattered all about him. Both his hands clutched yet more paper that he had plainly been in the act of tearing in half. He stared at me. I stared back. Understanding came late and reluctantly to my fevered mind and, I realized, to his.

The shadow bowed. In return, I curtsied. He looked down at the scattered, ruined papers. I looked at those same papers. I nudged one with the tip of my poker.

“I do not believe they present any further threat,” I said.

“I would tend to agree.” The shadow had a light, cultured voice, although the burr of the north country hung about the
r
’s and
e
’s. Something in it made me want to see him more clearly, but I stayed where I was.

“Perhaps they were not quite so dangerous as originally supposed?” I suggested.

“There you are wrong, mademoiselle,” the shadow replied gravely. “They were far worse. Veritable demons from the seventh circle.”

“Then you have saved us all. I thank you, sir.” I curtsied once more.

“It was the least I could do.” The shadow bowed with becoming modesty. Our eyes met, and I thought I saw that shadow smile. A blush crept up my throat, and I became acutely conscious of the poker. I am not proud of what I did next, but in the interests of laying down a faithful memoir, I will report: I hid it behind my skirts and scooted backwards.

“Wait,” said the shadow. “If I might . . . perhaps escort mademoiselle to her destination? The streets are not safe at this time of night.”

“Demons?” I suggested.

“Just so.” He aimed a swift kick at the nearest paper lump. “And that for your impudence, sirrah!”

I laughed. Now that he had come closer, I was able to gain a clearer impression of this young blade. He was tall. I’m far from petite, but my eyes were only level with his chin. That chin, I can report, had a cleft in it that lent a jaunty air to a face that might otherwise have been too sharp and lean. The stains on his smock appeared to be paint, and more stains covered his hands and wrists. Several locks of his unpowdered hair had escaped his queue, and there was just enough light for me to see they were a dramatic dark copper color. I could not make out the shade of his eyes, and I realized this disappointed me. That realization, in its turn, brought on the rapid and most unwelcome return of my blush, and I wished I had some way to retreat without tripping over my train.

“But we’ve not been introduced,” I said, my voice oddly tight.

“A thousand apologies. Matthew Reade, at your service.” He bowed again.

“M—” I caught myself just in time. “Lady Francesca Wallingham.”

“
Lady Francesca?
” Matthew Reade stiffened. “Ah. Yes. I should have seen. Well, Lady Francesca, if you’re prepared to bear a shabby cavalier company, where might he escort you?”

“To Her Royal Highness, my good cavalier,” I said loftily. “Before the miscreants recover themselves.” I jabbed my poker at a crumpled page.

“Then if I may?” He took the poker. He wasn’t wearing gloves, and his fingertips brushed mine. A thrill ran up my arm, only to collide with memory. I’d been touched like this before in the dark. By Sebastian. I didn’t know whether to laugh or curse. What a wonderful thing a fan is. I snapped it open and peeked over the edge of that most welcome shield. Mr. Reade, oblivious to the warring impressions he had set off in me, shouldered the poker like a musket, positioned himself in front of me, and set off at the march.

I picked up the nearest lump of paper and tucked it hastily into my décolletage before I followed.

Matthew Reade moved more slowly than Molly Lepell but still had a good stride, as a man who has never had to contend with stays and light-soled slippers will. Still, he navigated the chambers and galleries with certainty, and I was grateful to follow his lead, even though I struggled to keep up. At last he turned us down a broad flight of stairs and descended to the first landing. There he stopped and bowed yet again. “Your door, my lady.”

The corridor below was brightly lit from sconces and chandeliers that flickered in the drafts and lent the illusion of motion to the many paintings decorating the red walls. A pair of carved and gilded doors was flanked by two footmen, one of whom had his eyes rigidly fixed ahead of him, and the other of whom was staring directly up at me in a way that made me want to pat my wig to make sure it was on straight.

Instead, I curtsied to Matthew Reade. “I thank you, sir.” Feeling greatly daring, I added, “I hope we may meet again. Perhaps without the demons?”

Mr. Reade took longer to answer than was strictly comfortable, as if he were considering whether to answer at all. “I will look forward to it, my lady,” he said at last, in a tone of utter neutrality. He took my hand and bowed over it, turned, and vanished up the stairs.

I faced the doors below and snapped open my fan. It was time. I would either succeed now, or I would fail. I wished there were some third option, but none occurred to me in the all too brief time it took me to descend the remaining stairs.

The portly footman on the left cleared his throat, reminding his compatriot they were on duty. How the right-hand man could have forgotten, I don’t know, because his eyes were fixed on my approach. The footman on the right was twenty years or so younger than the one on the left, much trimmer, and might have been handsome if his face hadn’t been so pale and sickly-looking at that moment. Together, this mismatched pair heaved open the gilded doors. Light and heat rolled over me, and I stood blinking like a mooncalf in the flood.

This was no simple chamber such as I was accustomed to. The apartment of a princess was a vast series of rooms leading one into the other. Every light blazed. Every surface glittered. And now I knew what had happened to all the people I had seen previously. The entire population of Hampton Court was crammed into these rooms. The myriad shimmering colors of coats and mantuas made it look as if a rainbow had met some terrible accident and been scattered across the room. Some pieces of it stood in knots or sprawled in armchairs. Other bits sat at small tables, cards in hand. Others clustered around a table decorated with an array of bottles and decanters, while still others helped themselves to dainties heaped upon little round tables.