Dangerous Deceptions (3 page)

“We need to talk, Peggy,” he said in a low, urgent voice.

I looked at the young man in front of me, at his anxious face and melting blue eyes, and I forced myself to remember. I remembered the feeling of his hot, hard fingers as he shoved them under my skirts so he could pinch my thighs. I remembered the leer on his face as he raised himself up above where I lay pinned to the ground. I remembered how he laughed at my screams and my pleading. At least, he laughed until I jammed my fan into his throat. I made myself remember that moment as well.

“I have nothing to say to you, Mr. Sandford.”

Sebastian’s jaw worked itself back and forth. For a moment, I could have sworn I saw genuine worry in his bright, blue eyes. I told myself not to be ridiculous. There was nothing genuine about this man, and there never would be.

Knowing this as I did, his next words surprised me.

“This is my fault, and I do know it,” Sebastian said. “I have begun as badly as possible, again. But you will soon understand that we must talk. Send word for me when you are ready, and I will meet you, where and when you please.”

He bowed, this time perfunctorily, and left me standing there.

THREE

Slowly, I closed the door. My heart knocked hard against my ribs. What on earth could Sebastian be playing at? What did he mean, I would understand that we must talk? We had nothing at all to say to each other.

I repeated this to myself and the closed door several times. At the same time, I looked at the porcelain jar on the mantel. It must hold a good pound of tea. My brain, which had been made mercenary by both my public and concealed duties, calculated that to be worth at least forty pounds sterling, not counting the value of the jar itself. As bribes went, it was both respectable and well considered.

“Friend of the family?” inquired Libby from the threshold of my closet. Of course she had stayed in there, where she could listen to every single word without fear of being noticed. I expected no less of her.

“Am I fit to be seen, Libby?” I asked by way of ignoring her far too personal question.

My maid narrowed her dark eyes, inspecting me like a horse at market. “You’ll do for tonight.”

“Good. Get down to the Color Court and keep watch for my uncle and his family.” With that, I snatched up the small purse from my desk and hurried out my apartment door as quickly as my constricting garments would allow.

Had we all still been in residence at Hampton Court Palace, I would have had space enough to host my dinner party in my own apartments. We might even have been warm. But as soon as autumn arrived, the royal family had transplanted themselves to the heart of London and settled beneath the turrets of St. James’s Palace. I was told this ungainly brick warren had originally been built by Henry VIII. That gentleman considered it to be a fitting home for his beloved, at the time, Anne Boleyn. If that was true, he thought her fitting home was a cramped, smoky, drafty, bewildering maze of dark corridors and dim, low-ceilinged rooms. The small salon that I had been allotted for my dinner was ten minutes’ walk, in fully rigged mantua and high heels, from my apartment, and that was without any wrong turnings.

Even a small court is a good-size village, and I was but one in a stream of richly dressed persons all hurrying to reach their designated places for the evening. I barely noticed who I passed. This neglect would cause me to be accused of snubbery later, but I could not tear my mind away from Sebastian and his abrupt return to my life.

Given the manner in which I’d left my uncle’s house and all that had happened since, it simply never occurred to me that anyone would want to enforce the betrothal contract that existed between my uncle and Sebastian’s father, Lord Augustus Sandford, Baron of Lynnfield. If I’d thought of it at all, I’d assumed that contract had been broken by my uncle’s failure to bring me to church. But now the horrible possibility that I had been wrong descended upon me. The betrothal might still be in effect. As an underage girl, I remained completely under the control of my nearest male relative, no matter where I might temporarily reside. I could, legally and properly, be dragged back to my uncle’s house. I could be given into marriage with a street sweeper or sold as an indenture to the Virginia Colony, just as he saw fit.

I will admit, given that my other choice was Sebastian, street sweepers and colonies had a certain appeal.

I told myself I must not panic. I was hardly alone or friendless. It was not possible Her Royal Highness would permit me to be removed from her service by so trivial a person as a lurking bridegroom. Besides, I had planned this evening well. If my personal charms failed to win my uncle over (a very probable outcome), I had laid out a second route by which I might retain my personal place and see my cousin, Olivia, again. It was admittedly riskier, because it hinged on the whims and generosity of a small girl. I sincerely hoped I would not have to depend on either, but given the way the evening had gone thus far, I felt very glad I’d planned for the contingency.

The farther I went down those dark and busy corridors, the deeper the fear piled around my thoughts. This pessimism readily infected the whole of my mind, causing it to conjure a world of evils waiting for me. Despite Libby’s assurances, I was positive the fire had not been lit and the salon was stone cold—or perhaps the fire had been lit but the chimney did not draw, so smoke was filling the room. Perhaps the servants I had been promised had not arrived to lay the table. If those servants had arrived, they might well have stolen the silver spoons and gone to the tavern. If they had not stolen the spoons, it was only because they had stolen the wine and were lounging about on the chairs, drunk as lords, which, I had reason to know, was very drunk indeed.

So it was that by the time I arrived at the correct door, my hand actually trembled as I reached forward to push it open.

The fragrance of tallow and wax laced with an acrid hint of coal wafted out to greet me. I stepped into a plain, warm, well-lit chamber. A tapestry-covered table took up much of the space and was fully laid out. The wine bottles with their silver tags indicating variety and vintage stood in ordered rows on the sideboard. Two youths with serious faces and neat green coats stood sentry on either side.

So powerful was my relief, I failed to notice they were not alone in the room. Then someone cleared his throat.

I jumped. I might have screeched. I definitely turned, poised, perhaps, to run. But then my bewildered eyes made out that it was Matthew Reade who rose from a stool by the fire.

“Hello, Peggy,” he said. “I thought you could use the sight of a friendly face.”

He spread his arms wide, and I rushed into them.

Matthew’s embrace folded around me and I felt, as I always did, that here I had come home at last. Storm wrack, tempest, flood, revolution, all might come crashing down and none of it matter. As long as Matthew held me, I was safe. I tipped my head up so I could feast my gaze on the brilliance of his smile and his shining gray eyes. At that moment, I hated my cosmetics with a fury hot enough to burn the palace down. My face, neck, and any exposed portion of bosom had been slathered with enough paint to cover a good-size canvas and glued with patches of assorted shape, color, and symbolic significance. It might be all well and good to allow the world a peep at one’s actual hair, but the Great Rules of Fashion would never be bent enough to permit one to show her actual face. The truth was, I spent most of my glittering evenings surrounded by the powerful and the beautiful, and trying not to expire from the itching.

But far worse than any itch was the fact that while I had my court face on, I couldn’t indulge in what had become one of the chief joys of my existence—kissing Matthew. I had to settle for brushing my fingertips along the corners of his mouth and watching his smile broaden.

“Thank you,” I breathed. Matthew generally did not wear a wig. One lock of dark copper hair had escaped his short queue to trail along his temple. I fingered that loose tendril of hair and tucked it back behind his ear, slowly, carefully, taking an extra moment to smooth it into place just for the delight of being able to touch him.

In answer, Matthew took up my hand and pressed my knuckles to his mouth. He also moved slowly, allowing us both to savor the gesture. All the while, he bestowed upon me a lingering, welcome, and very warm glance. As little patience as I have for the exaggerations of our more long-winded romantic poets, I can say with complete honesty that lightning shot through me. Matthew knew it too, and he grinned. I grinned in return, not like the sophisticated maid of honor, but like simple, besotted Peggy Fitzroy.

“That’s better.” Matthew lowered my hand, but did not bother to release his other arm from around my waist. “When you walked in, you looked like there’d been a death.”

I truly wished he had not said that, because it brought all my attendant fears crowding back.

“Matthew, this is going to be a disaster.”

“It’s going to be fine, Peggy Mostly.” I kept meaning to inform Matthew that he could not get away with attaching this most undignified cant name to an important person such as myself, but somehow the opportunity never arose. “Even you can play the dutiful for the length of one dinner. When it’s over, you’ll release your relations into the drawing room, and they’ll be so busy making their bows, they won’t have time to pester you.”

“No, you don’t understand, it’s more than that. It’s—” I froze, the whole tangle of words in my mouth stopped up by a sudden, terrible realization.

I could not tell Matthew what had just happened between myself and Sebastian.

I had shared with Matthew many details about my life. He had even assisted with my spying. But I had somehow entirely failed to mention my status as a betrothed woman. I’m certain there were many excellent reasons for this omission. Given time, I might even have been able to sort through the fear and embarrassment tumbling down upon me to remember what they were.

But I did not have time. Matthew had taken full note of my confusion. He cocked his head in what I’d come to think of as his artistic way—the one that allowed him to break down whatever he saw into its component portions of light and shadow. “Is something wrong?”

I rallied. I could not reveal the existence of Sebastian Sandford with only a few minutes and limited privacy. Explaining the existence of a fiancé to one’s paramour required seclusion, time, and a supply of strong drink. Possibly smelling salts as well.

“It’s just so strange, meeting my relatives as, well, equals,” I told him, which was true, just not the truth I’d almost let slip. “I’m afraid the moment they walk in I’ll turn back into the little orphan I used to be.”

Matthew’s response to this pretty speech was to frown and step back. “Yes, and there’s something more. What is it?”

Becoming infatuated with a keen-eyed artist, it seemed, had distinct drawbacks, especially when one needed to practice some small social deception.

“I can’t tell you now.” I shot a glance at the waiting men. Both Matthew and I knew they’d talk about anything they heard. I made a note to myself that I must take time later to feel guilty about being glad of their attentive presence. “Matthew, thank you for being here, but you’d best go.”

Matthew hesitated, and I watched him try to keep the suspicion from his features. My heart sank. I had deceived Matthew before. I prayed that he had forgiven me, but neither of us had had anything like enough time to forget.

“Peggy, are you in trouble again? Is it . . . Tinderflint business?”

“No. Not this time.” We both spoke seriously. Mr. Tinderflint’s business was the spying, as Matthew knew full well. “I will tell you everything as soon as I can.”
And as soon as I can work out how,
I added to myself. As it was, I was silently thanking my stars that protocol did not allow me to invite Matthew to this family dinner. I had no idea which way the conversation would turn. It was unacceptable that Matthew should learn about my betrothal casually between dinner courses.

“All right.” Matthew kissed my hand again. “A promise against later, when you’re wearing your own face.”

He took his leave then, and one of the servers closed the door behind him. I faced a room grown several degrees colder by Matthew’s absence, and far more lonely.

I had believed this dinner would allow me to show both success and contrition to Uncle Pierpont. But with Sebastian’s reappearance, everything became much more serious. If I hoped to retain my freedom, I must show Uncle Pierpont that I could be useful to him. I must make it clear that I was not just another hanger-on at court. As maid of honor, I was sought out and cultivated by the wealthy and powerful because of my proximity to our future sovereign. Removing me into a marriage would be a waste of resources.

Tonight, I must look up into the eyes of my flint-hearted uncle and make him change his mind.

FOUR

Unfortunately, the small salon offered very few options to soothe a fluttering of nerves that had ambitions to become a full-fledged attack. I tried to distract myself by inspecting all aspects of both table and sideboard. The two serving youths in their green coats watched my every movement from their posts. I pretended to ignore them. There was a protocol between the servants and the served for even a small dinner. As this was my first chance to play hostess at my own table, I was determined to get it right. I will say that their eyes lingered a bit more on the leather purse I carried than on any other detail of the room.

I stopped in front of the servants. The taller of the two had already begun to turn stout, and his face had been badly pockmarked, which left him with a sinister appearance, but there was intelligence in his brown eyes.

“And your name is?” I addressed the stout, scarred youth as the senior of the pair.