Dangerous Deceptions (11 page)

“Perhaps not.” Matthew hung his head. “But I don’t like it.”

“Neither do I, you may be sure.”

We stayed like that for a moment, with me twisting my fingers together, and him examining the stained and splintered floorboards.

“Are you worried my feelings for you are going to change over this?” he asked finally.

The palest ghost of a smile formed on my mouth. “
Worried
is not the word I’d choose. I think perhaps
terrified
touches closer to the mark.”

Matthew lifted his head so that I could see the light had returned to his gray eyes. “Flatterer.”

“That is my profession, after all,” I replied, with all the grave dignity at my command.

Matthew laughed, and I knew we were friends again, even before he perched once more on the stool and pressed his palms together, an attitude he assumed when he was thinking. “What is it you plan to do?” he asked.

“I will write to Sebastian and ask him to come to the drawing room next Tuesday. No one is likely to notice my talking to him in the crush.” Except Mary Bellenden, of course, but that couldn’t be helped. Trying to meet with Sebastian outside of an ordinary court function would arouse far more suspicion than meeting him apparently by accident at a drawing room.

“You’re sure there’s no other way?”

“I wish there were. I will be enlisting Olivia’s help, of course . . .” From the way his face twisted, I could tell this statement did not reassure Matthew. “How else am I to find out my uncle’s side of the story? I can’t ask him.”

“I know, I know, but, you’ve said it yourself, your cousin loves drama too much for her own good, or yours.”

“That’s when the drama’s at a distance,” I said, mostly because I felt I should defend Olivia, even if that meant defending her from Matthew. “When it’s real and involves her own family, she’ll prove steady.”

“I’m sure you’re right,” replied Matthew and we both chose to believe him. “But if this Sebastian Sandford is to be at the next drawing room, then I shall be there as well.”

I had anticipated this declaration, and I took one of his hands between both of mine. Then I had to allow for a minute for the inevitable little flutters to calm themselves. Maiden’s first love is a wonderful thing, but its side effects can become both awkward and time-consuming. “There is no good way to say this, Matthew,” I told him when I was once more sure of my voice. “But I have to get Sebastian to talk. He doesn’t think much of me, but if you’re there . . .”

“Assuming a stern and manly demeanor, he might take umbrage and resolve to keep his secrets to himself.”

I pulled a face. “I told you there was no good way to say it. You have only proven my point.”

“What if I promised I would not interfere? Took my oath there would be no challenges or other imposition of my masculinity on the conversation while you are exercising your feminine wiles?”

“Then why be there?”

Matthew looked at me as if I’d begun to speak Arabic. “You just told me Sandford attacked you, and you still ask that question? I will be there because I could not stand to be anywhere else.”

I kissed him. It was the only answer available to me. And he returned that kiss with the warmth and gladness that so delighted me. In this moment, resolve formed in my soul as unyielding as London’s paving stones. I would break this betrothal to Sebastian. I would use whatever means were necessary to that end, and any man who got in my way would find out just how far those means reached.

ELEVEN

Was that all, miss?” inquired Libby, pointedly covering her yawn as I climbed back into the coach.

I deposited the box containing the gift for His Royal Highness in Libby’s lap and lifted up my mask. I didn’t put it on, I just stared at it. Until a moment ago, I had truly meant to return to the palace. This was not, after all, one of my days off. Tonight, the Prince of Wales and his family dined “in public,” as they did weekly. I needed to be in attendance at table, which meant I needed to allow time for yet another change of clothing. Olivia would also be at the palace with her basket to fetch Guinevere. If I tarried, I’d miss a chance to speak with her, and it was almost as important that I speak to Olivia as it was that I speak with Matthew.

But my silent resolve in Matthew’s arms left me restless. I was frantic to know what turning of my uncle’s mind made him so insistent on my marriage. I had to discover the means that would allow me to smash his plan to pieces. Surely it was to do with business. Business and his bank were the driving factors in my uncle’s life.

Now I did replace my mask and lean out the coach window.

“The House of Pierpont, in Threadneedle Street,” I called up to the driver.

I pulled my head back in. Libby huffed, set the box to one side, and picked up her mending, which she resumed peevishly. I tried not to be concerned that one or more of those seams might be designed to fail at a critical moment and instead spent the jouncing, creaking journey telling myself that this was a good idea. It was just the sort of thing a confidential agent should do.

As it transpired, the House of Pierpont was just that—a house. It was one in a row of newish red brick buildings. A sign swinging on chains above the black door showed a gilded cup and plate, still gleaming despite the generous coating of the black soot that attached itself to all things hung out in the London air.

Like many private bankers, my uncle’s family had once upon a time been goldsmiths. Men looking for a secure place to store coin, plate, and other valuables came to them and rented out a share of their strong room. Such worthies were then able to withdraw their coinage as needed for their expenses or write letters authorizing deputies to withdraw it on their behalf. Eventually, these enterprising gentlemen concocted a scheme whereby one smith would agree to lend another money against the value of the gold in their vaults. Over time, this engendered the mystical alchemy of debts, promises, interest, and alliances that had become the lifeblood of the city.

This knowledge had largely come to me as I stood unnoticed and listening while various men who wanted the flow of those promises controlled (or expedited) explained things earnestly to Her Royal Highness. But I still had next to no idea what Uncle Pierpont actually did with himself within the confines of his bank. He had never encouraged visits there from the distaff members of his family. Perhaps I could go in now. I amused myself for a short moment by picturing the goggle-eyed look on my uncle’s face if I skipped in Bellenden-style and asked to deposit my money and jewels with the House of Pierpont or, even better, asked for a loan against them.

Clearly the house did not lack for custom. In the time I sat trying the patience of both coachmen and maid, I saw three gentlemen enter the door. All were dressed in clothes of good quality, with plenty of gilt embroidery edging their hats and lace flowing from their coat sleeves. I tried to memorize their walks and faces while peeking out from the corner of the curtained window, as I imagined a first-rate spy should be able to do. This attempt failed. I would not know any of those men if they walked up and made their bow, with the possible exception of one heavy-jowled gentleman, but that was mainly because he wore a plain black coat of the sort favored by Quakers and certain foreign dignitaries, along with an exceedingly full and old-fashioned three-part wig.

At one point, a monstrous, heavy coach bearing no fewer than six rough-looking men creaked up to the bank. Once the great shire horses pulling their conveyance had been halted, these grim, hairy, and bedraggled individuals ranged themselves around the coach with stout staffs ready in their hands. A withered man in good, plain clothes, with a black walking stick in hand, climbed down from the coach and paused to speak with the driver before he entered the bank. The driver, who remained in his seat and held the reins, looked as if he had never seen a barber in all his born days. Despite the cold, he wore no coat, so I could see the pistol roughly the length of my forearm that hung at his side.

Whatever their master was taking away from my uncle’s vaults, he clearly meant to keep hold of it. Unfortunately, the bulk of their coach blocked my view of the bank entirely. In my frustration over this point, I uttered several (soft and entirely ladylike) curses.

Eventually, the ruffians clambered back onto the coach, to sit on the roof or to cling to the rails behind. The driver touched up the horses, and the coach lumbered away. After it was gone, the man I’d seen in full wig and black coat came out carrying a leather-wrapped package bound with red ribbons and sealed with red wax. This startled and annoyed me, because I realized I hadn’t even noticed he must still be inside the bank. This, I told myself sternly, was an unpardonable lapse.

Libby yawned, and I ignored her. She snapped off her sewing thread in her teeth, and I ignored her again. She coughed hard, just before the church bells rang over the cries of the clothing sellers and scissor grinders who passed us in the street. Privately I was beginning to understand this exercise was not only dull, it was futile. How on earth was I to make anything of these comings and goings? What did I honestly think I’d learn during this narrow window of time? If something mysterious was happening within the confines of the House of Pierpont, I’d have to watch day and night to catch a glimpse of it, or worse, I’d have to get inside the bank itself without being recognized.

It was then my uncle emerged. I ducked back behind the coach’s curtains before I remembered I was masked. When I looked again, I noted he had under his arm a leather envelope similar to the one the Quakerish gentleman had carried. I also noted, somewhat to my surprise, that Uncle Pierpont had been spending some of the money he usually counted out with great reluctance. A new ebony walking stick with a silver tip swung in his free hand.

I found myself wondering if there could be any significance to those matching envelopes. Was my uncle in some illicit trade with the Quaker dissenters? They were supposedly great ones for banking, as well as heavily involved in this new business of trading “shares” in business enterprises, something that I confess I did not at all understand. I did know the broadsheets and pamphlets hawked on the streets regularly decried their predations on honest Church of England members.

“Miss,” said Libby severely, “my feet’s cold, and you’re going to be later than usual if we don’t shift. If you please.”

Unfortunately, she was right again. Whatever I imagined my uncle might be doing, I could hardly be directing my coachmen to follow him through the teeming streets. I nodded to Libby so she in turn could shout the direction to the palace up to the coachmen. In the meantime, I slumped back in my seat and pretended not to hear the cursing as the men attempted to get the traffic to make way, or the cursing as they were ordered to stop cursing, or the cursing in response to the orders about cursing.

“I suppose there’s a reason for this,” remarked Libby as she moved on to another section of stitching.

“You may ask, if you choose,” I answered absently. “But before you do, no, I will not say what it is.”

“As you please,” Libby replied to her mending. “My feet’s still cold.”

I was not, however, going to be able to maintain my silence with Libby. If I continued to sneak out and to spy on my relatives, she would notice, and if I didn’t give her some kind of convincing argument to the contrary, she would talk. She might talk anyway, so at the very least I should concoct a covering story. This fact rankled me, even more than the note Olivia had left on my desk. It had obviously been written in a fit of pique and demanded to know where in the
world
I had taken myself. This rankling continued all the while, as I carried dishes back and forth during the public dining.

The public dining is one of the oddest of all royal affairs. It has its origins in the idea of the play, or perhaps the tableau vivant. Once every se’en night, a high table is set up on its dais in the largest hall the current royal residence offered. The table is laid with tapestry, plate, and crystal of the finest quality. All the royal family are decked out in silk, lace, velvet, and golden trim. Then the doors are thrown open to admit whosoever can cram themselves into the galleries, be they gentlefolk or simple citizen. While all these worthies gaze upon them, the royal family and their attendants process in, sit in the designated chairs, and eat dinner.

For the length of this performance, we maids must wait on the princess, carrying dishes and bobbing curtsies as we serve, dressed in our most unwieldy court clothes. For once, our male counterparts have the worst of it, because they must kneel to the prince with each dish they present.

I didn’t mind being on display. What I minded was the witty citizens in the galleries who did not confine themselves to shouts and jeers. These merry “cits” amused themselves by spitting pips and tobacco, sometimes making target practice of us. Fortunately, they were usually so full of cider and bad wine, their aim tended to be very poor.

Eventually, our performance came to its natural close, and we were all able to leave the stage for the dim and blessedly quiet confines of the palace. Princess Caroline declared herself too tired to attend the evening’s private gathering and card playing, and I could not believe my luck, for this meant that if we chose, we maids could also retire early. I fully intended to do so. I had letters to write and arrangements to make, and more seemed to be suggesting themselves to me with each moment. But as I started up the corridor toward the stairs, the most unwelcome voice of Sophy Howe stopped me dead.

“Do you think we’ll be seeing our Peggy anymore tonight, Mary?” Sophy asked, loudly, just in case there was anyone about to hear. She and Mary Bellenden posed together at the foot of the grand staircase. Or rather, Sophy was posed; Mary Bellenden was just leaning her forearms on the banister and grinning. The light from the flambeaux on the walls sparkled on the bracelet I had lent her.