Palace of Spies (34 page)

Of Mrs. Abbott there was neither sign nor word.

Our confinement lasted two days before the front-door solider stepped into the parlor, where the three of us were just finishing up a breakfast of kippers and porridge, and announced I had been summoned to Her Royal Highness.

Olivia, still pale and weak, blanched more than was good for her. Matthew pressed my hand and met my gaze steadily. I brushed my skirts down and took my leave of my companions quietly and without too many words. What was there for me to say?

Resignation is a very freeing thing, and I sank into it now. I would either live or I would die. All had been done. There was nothing left but to meet my mistress and learn my fate.

I did finally get to see the back stairs, which were not, in fact, a single staircase. Rather, they were a dank, dusty, and unpainted labyrinth branching throughout the entire palace. They were also crowded with all manner of servants and courtiers racing up and down heavily shadowed corridors that reminded me far too much of that horrible night in Kensington Palace. I hadn’t slept at all well during my residence in the cottage. Robert Ballantyne had developed a disconcerting habit of turning up at the foot of my bed, his waistcoat covered in blood and his long face drawn and haggard as he looked down at me with sad, accusing eyes.

I was much relieved when my soldier opened a door in the wall, stood aside, and gestured for me to pass him. I walked, blinking, into the clear daylight that filled Her Royal Highness’s apartments.

The great room was all but empty. Two footmen I did not know stood at rigid attention beside the main doors. The only other occupant was the princess herself, sitting in the carved and gilt chair beneath the canopy of state. This woman was not my kind and clever mistress. She was Her Royal Highness Caroline, Princess of Wales, and she looked at me with cold, clear, blue eyes and waited.

The door clicked shut behind me.

I approached Her Royal Highness, because it was what I must do. I tried not to look at her hard face. I failed in that as badly as I failed to keep my legs from trembling as I made my curtsy.

Her Royal Highness gestured once for me to rise. I did so. I stood there for a long time, my gaze directed toward the floor. The parquet was scuffed. I’d never noticed that before.

“You will want to know that your Lord Tierney has been this morning to see His Royal Highness,” said the princess.

I thought to say he was not my Lord Tierney, but that would not have been true.

“That conversation has reached a satisfactory conclusion. Although my husband did say he believes it would be wise for his lordship to be absent from court for a while. It has been left to me to deal with you.” The edge to the royal voice could have cut glass. “A scandal of this nature while the king is in Hanover could very easily upset some delicately laid plans. I cannot be at all sure Mr. Walpole will be able to intercept all the . . . unfortunate letters that will be sent.”

I said nothing. What on earth could I have said?

“As regards you, Margaret Fitzroy, I had initially thought your case would be a simple one. But it turns out you have several persons pleading for you. Beginning with my daughter Anne. Although I am not sure whether it’s you or those blasted dogs she wishes to save.”

I swallowed.

“I am given to understand you speak German?”

“Yes, ma’am,” I whispered.

“
Sehr gut
,” she said. “You will use it now,” she continued in harsh and heavy German. “You are now given one chance, and one only. Tell me the truth. How do you come to be in my house?”

I told her. It took a very long time. So long, my throat and my feet began to ache, especially the one Robert had stomped on. But the princess did not allow me to sit or to have a drink of the wine that waited at the royal elbow. She just sat as still as a painted portrait, absorbing each syllable, every single intonation and tremor.

At long last, my well of words ran dry, and I stood trembling as badly as I had after my battle with Mr. Peele. I had no excuses to offer, no plea to make. I was entirely at this woman’s mercy. If she raised her hand, I would be imprisoned or transported. Hanged.

Slowly, the princess nodded. “That sorts with what his lordship has said. Now. I have one more question for you, and I urge that you think most carefully before you give your answer.” She paused, making sure I had adequately understood this. “What do you think of me?”

I hope my readers will believe me when I say there is not a more complicated question one’s sovereign lady can ask. Especially when one has been implicated in the death of two men and as fine a piece of blatant fraud as was ever committed within palace walls.

I swallowed. I knotted my fingers together. I prayed to God Most High. And I told the truth.

“I think, madame, you are a very intelligent woman who watches over her husband and loves her daughters, and I would not have your place for all the gold in Spain.”

She was silent for a long time.

“You may sit down, Margaret Fitzroy.” She gestured, and one of the waiting men brought a chair forward.

I did sit. Actually, I plumped. Because all the strength in my knees gave way at once.

“You knew,” I breathed. “Your Highness,” I added quickly. “This whole time. You knew I wasn’t Francesca.”

She did not answer, not directly. “I was not happy to come to England, you know. The idea of my husband being heir to a disputed throne in a country that saw us as outsiders, if not actual invaders . . .” She shook her head. “It did not calculate to please. But now that we are here, it is my work to make that throne secure and to see that it passes smoothly from my father-in-law, to my husband, to our heirs. That is the whole of my business, you understand this?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“It is good. It is known, of course, there are Jacobite spies at court. They have many reasons to justify their treason. Loyalty and religion, these might be laudable, but they can also be very dangerous because they are hard to change. Greed or caprice or revenge, these are dangerous because they may arise in an instant, but those who hold them may also be more easily persuaded to change sides.

“I have been watching you carefully since you came to us. I believe you to be an intelligent young woman and one who understands the ways of the world, far beyond the immediate rewards of the card table and the gossip’s feast. I put it to you now, Margaret Fitzroy, that it is best for all concerned that we find who this Robert Ballantyne worked for and with, in order that these persons be brought before the bar of His Majesty’s justice to pay the full price for what they have done.”

“Yes, madame.” It occurred to me I was not to die. It occurred to me that I might, in fact, be allowed to live.

“I put it to you that you are uniquely situated to aid in this endeavor.”

“Madame?”

There has never in my life occurred anything so wholly unexpected as that moment when Her Royal Highness looked at me, Peggy Fitzroy, and smiled.

“Will you aid me in this, Miss Margaret Fitzroy? Will you be my eyes and ears among the courtiers and find who leads this plot within my own house?”

It was a royal command. A commission for king and country of the sort given only to great heroines. As a loyal subject of the Crown, I answered in the only way I could.

“I . . . but . . . but . . .”

My mistress rolled her eyes. “But what?”

I bit my lip. In flagrant violation of courtesy, decorum, and good sense, I met the gaze royal. “But I will require the help of my friend, and my cousin.”

Mr. Tinderflint was waiting in the antechamber when I emerged from my audience. He leaped to his feet from the velvet cushioned bench and bustled forward, lace and ribbons fluttering madly.

“Well? Well?”

“I am to be maid of honor,” I told him. “Maid Margaret Fitzroy at a salary of two hundred a year. She will speak to Mr. Thornhill about Matthew’s place. She . . . I . . .” I swallowed against the joyous riot of confusion and remembered I still had business with this man. But it was not only that. When I looked at him now, I remembered that sharp, clear snapping sound I had heard as Mr. Tinderflint, Lord Tierney, bent over Mr. Peele. And now Mr. Peele’s hold over him was finished. I’d thought this ugly act over very carefully during the past couple of days.

He must have seen something of this in my eyes, because he kept his distance. “I think, perhaps, we should talk.”

Mr. Tinderflint had clearly anticipated the conflict between my desire to speak with him and my reluctance to do so. He walked us down to the riverbank, where we came upon two conveniently placed chairs but also a cluster of soldiers and a pair of maids stationed a discreet distance away. This was obviously for my benefit. He wanted me to trust him. He was always so very good at getting me to trust him.

“Now, Peggy.” He sat and folded his hands over his ribboned walking stick. “I may call you Peggy, mayn’t I? Ask your questions.” He spoke quietly and in Latin—I presume to keep the witnesses from comprehending our conversation.

“My lord—”

“Tush, Peggy.” He smiled. “You may call me Tinderflint. I’ve grown rather accustomed to the name and find I like it.”

“Mr. Tinderflint.” He enjoined me to ask my questions, this man who had planned an enterprise that had nearly gotten me, and my cousin, killed. He had tracked me down, ruthlessly placed me in danger, and killed a murderous, blackmailing traitor with his bare, fat, many-ringed hands.

Where on earth could I possibly begin?

“How did you find me?”

“I’d a missive from Her Royal Highness summoning me back to court.” He smiled at my surprise. “Yes, yes, my dear, I am also employed by the Crown. But it was Mrs. Abbott who told me where you’d gone. I made shift to follow as quickly as I could. I’m only sorry I was not faster.” I could have sworn he meant it, too.

“You must have seen the letter of succession,” I said. “You must have taken it. Was it genuine? Did Queen Anne write it?”

Mr. Tinderflint lifted his brows and dipped his chin. It was a surprisingly owlish look. “What would you do if I said yes? Turn on your mistress? Abandon your new post?”

“I don’t know what I would do,” I said to the river at his back. “But I want to know, all the same.”

The smile he gave me then was a gentle one and filled with understanding. “You have a good heart, Peggy Fitzroy, and a clear head. I don’t know why I should be surprised to find how good and how clear. So I will tell you the truth.” He took a deep breath. “No. The letter was not genuine. It was a very good forgery that the Jacobites were originally planning to ‘discover’ as soon as they’d received certain promises of men and arms from France and Spain.”

“But . . . wasn’t that the northern uprising? They failed.”

“I can only assume they mean to try again, and to keep on trying until they have their way, and damn the consequences to their nation or her people.” He colored a bit under his face paint. “I should beg your pardon for my language.”

I had heard and used much worse, but now was not the time for digressions. “That’s what Her Highness thinks.”

“Her Highness is a very intelligent woman,” he replied. “But then, you know that.”

“Why did you send Francesca to court in the first place?”

“Poor Francesca.” This was another moment when I was sure I glimpsed the man beneath the ribbons and posturing, and that man was filled with regret. “Another sin for which I will surely have to answer when all is said and done. Her story was much as Mrs. Abbott related to you. I did take her as my ward after one of my visits to Saint-Germaine.”

“Mrs. Abbott said she was Francesca’s mother.”

“And so she is. It is the common tale. Pretty words and a turned head, and a man who took what he wanted and left it to his lady fair to pay the price. She’s gone home, by the way,” he said. “Back to Paris. She thought it best to leave before too many questions could be asked.”

I nodded. It made perfect sense, but I was sorry not to have a chance to say farewell. She had done her best in so many ways. I owed her a great deal.

“It was truly my intent to give Francesca some security and a place in society, where the circumstances of her birth might be conveniently buried under fashion and fortune,” Mr. Tinderflint was saying. “That it might one day become useful for me to have a pair of eyes and ears among the ladies was something I considered by the way, and did not even mention to her.” He shook his head until his chin wagged. “Now, Peggy, I must interrupt your questions for one of my own. What happened to her? To Francesca? Exactly what had she become involved in?”

I told him, both what I had learned and what I guessed, of Francesca’s plotting, of her intent to use Robert and Peele to return in triumph to Saint-Germaine, to present the proof of kingship to the Pretender, and from there to work her wiles upon him.

Mr. Tinderflint listened in absolute silence. When I finished, he looked into the distance for a long time. His eyes were brighter than they had been. I held my peace and gave him time to find his voice again.

“When she turned up on the doorstep, I thought little of it,” he murmured. “I thought perhaps she had been disappointed in a love affair or had simply wearied of the rigors and confinement of court life. It wasn’t until Peele came to me with his proof that Fran had been a courier for the Jacobite faction that I even suspected she had been murdered.” His voice grew bitter, and he wiped at his eyes. “At least I was able to pay Peele back for that much.”

I swallowed and looked at my hands. I did not know what to think of this revelation. I wished I did not have to think of it at all.

“We searched her rooms for hints as to what she’d been up to at court,” said Mr. Tinderflint in a more conversational tone. “We uncovered nothing. Where did you find that extraordinary drawing?”

“Sewn into the curtain.”

“Very clever, very clever. Ah, me. Perhaps I am too old a dog for these tricks.” He shook his head once more.

“But who are you?” I asked him. “What is your part in this, Mr. Tinderflint?”