Palace of Spies (7 page)

But Mr. Tinderflint’s head poked around the black-clad man’s shoulder and ducked back just as quickly. A moment later, my man squelched his way back to the chair, which was slowly settling up to its rails in the mud.

“She’s to be delivered round back,” he growled. “An’ he better be payin’ for it.” The accompanying threat he uttered was physically impossible and unfit for publication.

The back garden was a square of sparse, limp grass with a threadbare lime tree doing its best to keep up appearances. The chair man wouldn’t hear of my getting out into the rain, at least not until Mr. Tinderflint had laid several coins into his hand. Then he all but tipped me from the chair before he and his companion squelched away.

“Come in, my dear, come in, come in.” Mr. Tinderflint bowed several times as I ducked into the doorway. “Just this way. Quickly now.”

He repeated this admonition several times while ushering me through the surprisingly deserted kitchen, along a dim corridor, and into a sparsely furnished parlor. There was a fire in the shining grate, and the few furnishings were as new as the house. So were the thick green curtains, which Mr. Tinderflint immediately drew shut, plunging the chamber into a gloom my imagination at once labeled “forbidding.” The young housemaid who sat in the chimney corner, quietly busy with some piece of mending, was some comfort, but not much.

“Do sit, please, Miss Fitzroy. I’m so delighted you’ve come.” Mr. Tinderflint stooped to light a fresh candle from the fireplace. “Yes, yes. Delighted.”

Between the candle and the fire, I finally was able to get a good look at Mr. Tinderflint. My impression from the previous night that he was simply stout and overdressed was proving somewhat mistaken. It is not often in life that one encounters an entirely spherical individual, but Mr. Tinderflint was apparently striving to achieve that perfection of form. This was greatly assisted by the fact that he was so short. His face was as round as his figure and covered with a solid layer of paint and powder. The equally well-powdered curls of a full-bottomed wig cascaded across his shoulders. His coat, waistcoat, and shirt were obscured by masses of braid, lace, buttons, and ribbons of all colors. Black velvet breeches and white silk stockings gleamed above high-heeled, gilt-buckled shoes. That such a very round man could balance so lightly on such stilts was impressive.

I did sit as I was bidden, taking care to rearrange my skirts so I had a moment to think. As I’d traveled here, my mind had been occupied by what I might do if I was turned away from the door or if I found myself facing some sort of ill-favored house. Now that I was in an entirely unremarkable parlor, I was at a loss to know how to speak with this man.

“You said, last night,” I began. “You said . . . you . . . knew my mother?”

“I had the honor, yes,” said Mr. Tinderflint. “You see, Miss Fitzroy, your mother, Margaret Fitzroy, nee Margaret Hollingswood, was a correspondent of mine. During some of the uncertainty and, dare I say it, the unpleasantness that preceded the ascension of our current sovereign, King George, she kept me informed of those events in which we both took an interest and that might be of use to certain others of our, my, acquaintance.”

It took me a long moment to untangle this statement, and when I did, what I saw caused my breath to come up short.

“You’re talking about the succession,” I said slowly. “About the rebellion in ’08.” In that year, the Jacobite rebels had declared that James Stuart was supposed to get the throne, instead of King George. Said and were still saying. In fact, in Scotland they had spent much of the previous winter up in arms over the dispute until the troops marshaled by our new king had put them down.

Understanding fell into place. Understanding pulled me up straight and brought out my next words in a most unbecoming shout.

“You—you’re saying my mother was a
spy!
”

CHAPTER EIGHT

“Shhh! My dear, a bit lower, if you please,” cautioned Mr. Tinderflint, even though the maid in her corner had not so much as glanced at us. “I would not call her a spy, no, no, no.”

“Then what would you call her?” Considering that I’d been dreading he would tell me he’d been what is politely known as my mother’s protector, I should have been relieved to hear she’d merely engaged in political intrigue. That, however, was not my first reaction.

“A woman of letters with whom I corresponded,” he replied. “A woman of unimpeachable character, strong loyalties, and great learning, with whom one could share an exchange of views.”

“And news?”

“Just so.” Mr. Tinderflint got to his feet. “I understand that you have questions, many questions, but there is someone I must fetch before we go further. It would be best if you thought of him as my partner. Yes. Yes. Now, rest yourself and . . . when my partner arrives, my dear, it is not at all necessary to mention your mother.” Mr. Tinderflint attempted to wink at me, but all he managed was a nervous twitch of one eye before he bustled out, leaving me alone with the maid.

I sat still, clutching my hands together and trying to make some sense of what I had just been told.

History taught us that in the life of Great Britain, there had been many points when the succession to the throne was in dispute. Compared to the Wars of the Roses or the great Civil War, the transition from Queen Anne of the House of Stuart to King George of the House of Hanover was scarcely worth mentioning. Nor was it surprising that there should have been some dispute. After all, King James II had had a legitimate son. Admittedly, James II had been dethroned years ago by the nobles of Britain, with the help of his daughters, Mary and Anne. But he had been king, and he had had a son, and that son, James Edward Stuart, was alive. When Queen Anne died without a living child to her name, it might have been readily assumed that James Stuart would be recalled to ascend the throne as James III.

Yet there remained the tiny matter of religion. Officially, England is a Protestant nation. Queen Anne was a Protestant queen. James Stuart remained stubbornly Roman Catholic. So, the queen and lords were forced by various carefully written laws to find some Protestant relative to take the throne. The nearest such person was George Louis of Hanover, now King George of Great Britain.

That was meant to be the last word upon the subject. But James Stuart, now called the Pretender, was not prepared to let the matter rest. He’d tried to forcibly change the succession decision in ’08 and again just last winter. Naturally, where there is rebellion, there are spies. And a spy, one supposed, should be such a person as could pass easily in a variety of company without being suspected. A pleasant, witty lady of good birth, for instance.

Could it possibly be true that the mother who had sung me to sleep and taught me my letters and taken me on walks was a
spy?
It would explain what my uncle saw that caused him to say my mother was “going about with men.” She was gathering information. It was exciting. It was dramatic. It was also ridiculous beyond imagining, because it meant that the beribboned, fluttery figure who had just left the room was himself a spy, possibly even a spy master.

What would such a man want with
me?

I looked to the maid, still busy at her mending.

“Have you worked here long?” I asked. She did not even raise her head. I repeated my question. This time she did glance up. She also smiled and shrugged and returned to her needle and thread.

So much for gaining information from the servant. I took a deep breath. I looked toward the door and the window. If I meant to flee, now was the time. But where would I go? And how? I had no cloak to keep off the rain I could hear drumming against the windowpanes and no money to pay my way. I could pawn my pins and kerchief again, and my earrings, and my ribbons, but there was a limit to how far what I wore on my back would take me.

As fleeing did not seem the most practical option yet, I settled for lifting the poker off its stand and laying it on the floor behind my heels so my skirts would hide it from immediate view. The maid did not once look up from her needlework, and I began to wonder whether she was deaf or just well practiced at not noticing what the masters of the house did. Neither possibility made me feel any easier.

The door opened again. I rose reflexively as Mr. Tinderflint entered, followed by two much thinner, much more soberly dressed persons.

“My dear miss, my very dear Miss Margaret Fitzroy . . . allow me to present my partner, Mr. Peele. And this is Mrs. Abbott.”

Mr. Peele had evidently taken the view that as his friend wore enough ornamentation for the entire district, he need not trouble himself with any at all. His coat and breeches were unrelieved black velvet, and his shirt a plain and perfect white. The only colors about him anywhere were the silver buckles on his shoes and knees and the startling scarlet ribbon tying the short queue of his wig. Mr. Peele’s eyes were dark and deeply shadowed by his overhanging brow. His general build was an angular one with a square jaw, square shoulders, and sharp elbows. By way of contrast, his hands were long, narrow, and immaculately kept.

Mrs. Abbott was taller than either of the men, though not by much. She also seemed to feel that severity was in order on this day. Her black dress was so plain, and her white cap tied so tightly under her chin, all I could think was that she was either a highly proper upper servant, or an adherent to some strict Calvinist sect. Her hair, what showed of it from under the sharp edge of her starched cap, was iron gray streaked with black. Although her face was deeply lined and its skin drawn tight, one could see that she had been a beauty. Her eyes stood out large and bright above her cheekbones, but they were red-rimmed and deeply shadowed, as if she had not slept in far too long. I wondered if that accounted for the measure of anger and distaste which seasoned the way in which she looked down her long nose at me.

Mr. Peele folded his immaculate hands behind his back and began walking around me in a circle, as if I was but recently come on the market and he did not quite trust the seller.

My heart tried to squeeze itself far enough to hide behind my spine.

“
Parlez-vous français?
” inquired Mr. Peele. Do you speak French?

“
Sprechen sie Deutsch?
” added Mr. Tinderflint. Do you speak German?

“And Latin,” I told them both, in that most ancient language. The last thing I had expected to feel today was gratitude toward Uncle Pierpont. But my uncle had a particular distaste for “empty-headed females,” so Olivia had been educated with a rigor my aunt feared would spoil her looks. While not an official pupil, I’d sat in at her lessons, where I turned out to be hopeless at drawing and composition, but much better at mathematics and languages. For good measure, and perhaps to hide my nerves, I switched over to the tongue of the Athenians: “But the tutor of my cousin says my Greek requires much work.”

Mr. Peele raised his heavy eyebrows toward Mr. Tinderflint, and the two men shared a look full of Meaning and Import. He said nothing, however, and merely resumed his thoughtful orbiting and ogling of my person.

“Perhaps you wish to inspect my soundness of wind?” I muttered. “I can produce a certificate swearing my teeth are my own.”

To my surprise, Mr. Peele let out a bark of laughter. “Very good, miss!”

“Yes, very good, very good!” Mr. Tinderflint clapped his hands. “And her appearance, you see, Peele, is quite perfect.”

“Yes, and who will look for her?” Mrs. Abbott still had not moved from the doorway. Her voice was taut around a heavy French accent. “She is clearly of quality. When she disappears, who comes asking questions?”

Disappears? My body stiffened, and I nudged my heel back against the poker. If I swung for Mr. Peele first, I could probably catch Mr. Tinderflint second. But that left Mrs. Abbott blocking the door. Perhaps I ought to try smashing the window first? Oh, why wasn’t Olivia here? She’d seen more dramas than I had. She’d know what to do.

“Well, Miss Fitzroy?” Mr. Peele smiled as if he enjoyed my discomfort. “It is an excellent question.”

But it was Mr. Tinderflint who answered. “Surely Miss Fitzroy deserves to hear the proposition in full first. Then she can provide whatever additional information we might require.”

Mr. Peele shrugged, as if it was of no matter to him, but Mrs. Abbott responded with a stream of French so rapid I caught only one word in three. Mr. Tinderflint stood his ground at this sudden Gallic bombardment with admirable, and wholly unexpected, courage.

“She is exactly the one we need,” he answered, also in French. “Exactly.”

It was very clear Mrs. Abbott did not agree. The look she leveled against Messrs. Tinderflint and Peele would have done murder even without a poker’s assistance. Mr. Peele responded by walking her out into the dim hallway, where they stood whispering and casting glances through the doorway in my direction. I felt suddenly quite cold, despite the pleasant fire flickering in its tidy hearth.

Mr. Tinderflint sidled up to me and opened his mouth.

“Sir,” I said, “if you intend to tell me she is not as bad as she seems—”

“Oh, no, oh, no. She is at least that bad,” replied Mr. Tinderflint. “I wished only to ask if you’d care to take a little wine to refresh you after your trying day?”

“Yes, thank you.”

He said a few words I didn’t understand to the servant girl, who laid by her needlework, curtsied, and hurried out.

“Dutch,” he said when he saw my surprise. “All servants here are Dutch. No English among ’em. No English at all.”

“Very well, Mr. Peele.” From the hallway, Mrs. Abbott raised her voice. “But only for my lady’s sake. You understand me?”

“You’ve made your point, Mrs. Abbott,” replied Mr. Peele firmly. “As I have made mine.”

Mrs. Abbott gave him another withering glower, turned her back, and stalked away.

Mr. Tinderflint let out a gusty sigh, and I realized he’d been holding his breath. “Oh, do let us sit. Yes, my good Peele, sit, sit.” He availed himself of one of the room’s armchairs while Mr. Peele took the other. I lowered myself slowly back onto my own seat.