Traitor and the Tunnel (19 page)

His lips twitched. “The Honourable Honoria?”

“Clearly her parents weren’t thinking.”

“Right. So you are imagining two high-born sewer rats – one of whom may be responsible for al this?

But what for?”

She sighed. “No idea. But one of them isn’t imaginary.”

“In that case, we’d better focus on her.”

She met his gaze, startled. “‘We’?”

He offered her his most winning smile. “Say no, if you like.”

The precious seconds ticked by as she struggled.

She couldn’t.

Mustn’t.

Oughtn’t.

And yet, it made sense. He had legitimate access to the sewers. He was an intel igent, entirely trustworthy partner. And there was a sense of inevitability to this newest partnership. It always seemed to come down to James. This case, which had begun so dul y, was fast becoming most complex – for her personal y, at least.

His grin turned smug. “Thought so. Now, tel me al about the Honourable Honoria.”

Eighteen

Wednesday, 15 February

Buckingham Palace

It was very late – or, more properly, rather early –

when Mary crept back into the Palace. This was just as wel : she didn’t want to risk the horror of seeing Octavius Jones in Amy’s bed. But when Mary dared enter their shared bedroom, it was quiet but for Amy’s peaceful snores. She stayed long enough only to wash off the grime, clean her boots and change into a fresh uniform before slipping downstairs, only slightly earlier than usual. She had a great deal of work to complete if she was to steal away for an hour – hopeful y with Amy covering for her.

It may have been worth missing a night’s sleep just for the expression on Mrs Shaw’s face when she came into the breakfast room to see the place-settings already laid, the napkins folded into triangles (the housekeeper specified a different shape for each day of the week), the coffee-cups arrayed like squat soldiers, their handles pointing to four o’clock.

She contented herself by sniffing and saying, “I hope those napkins have been sufficiently starched.”

Mary merely bobbed her head. Starch was not her department, and wel Mrs Shaw knew it. It was as close as she could come to acknowledging that nothing was amiss.

On her way up to Her Majesty’s private sitting room, Mary caught a glimpse of Amy at work in the Blue Room and she stopped in the doorway for half a minute to watch the girl at work. Amy was steady and neat-fingered, going about the task in an orderly fashion – quite unlike the impatient girl who gossiped with Mary or sneaked her lover into the servants’ quarters. Mary wondered what conflicting passions lay within others.

“Good morning, Mrs Jones,” she said, slipping into the room.

Amy jumped and emitted a little shriek. “Lord, how you startled me!”

“I didn’t mean to.”

“It was good of you to stay out so long last night,”

said Amy, resuming her work. “You’re a dear.”

“I hope everything went to plan.”

Amy made a face. “Close. He didn’t actual y propose. Though he did give me a present.” She plunged one hand into her chemise and drew out something shiny for inspection.

Mary blinked. It was a large, gilt-edged brooch – a crudely cut cameo of a generic Greek goddess with a large chin. “My stars,” was her honest response.

“Pretty, ain’t it? Tavvy says he chose this one because the lady looks a bit like me.”

Mary couldn’t help noticing that some of the “gold”

border was starting to flake off, but there was nothing to be gained in slighting Jones’s gift, no matter how cynical y chosen. “Wel , that’s a step in the right direction.”

“A slow one, though.”

“Think he’l propose by month’s end?”

Amy smiled at that – a broad, cheeky grin. “You want a wager, do you?”

Mary grinned back. “I’d put my money on you, anyway.”

“That’s only right and sensible, my dear. But see here, can I do aught to return the favour?”

Mary raised her eyebrows. “Wel , I have got a little project of my own to see to…”

“You never told me you had a sweetheart, you sly thing!”

“I’ve not. It’s something else. But d’you think if I slipped out after dinner for an hour or so, you could…”

Amy nodded. “Course. It’s only right, after what you done for me last night. And I’d do it anyway, you’re such a love.”

A day that began with such promise, however, became complicated in late morning when Mrs Shaw appeared in the Yel ow Room, a more than usual y pinched expression on her face.

Mary stopped her dusting. “Yes, Mrs Shaw?” She looked the housekeeper ful in the face and saw, with real surprise, turmoil in those normal y dul eyes.

“I have received another highly irregular request from the Prince of Wales. I am duty-bound to warn you, Quinn: this behaviour is utterly inadvisable.”

Mary blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

“This intrigue with the Prince of Wales. It doesn’t make you special. It doesn’t make you unique. And it’s certainly not a way of gaining promotion. Not in my household.”

Mary took a deep breath. “Mrs Shaw, I don’t understand your accusations. I’m not carrying on an intrigue with the Prince of Wales.”

“Then why has he asked for you?”

“Now?”

“Yes, now.”

“Is

it

possible

that

there’s

been

a

misunderstanding?”

Mrs Shaw’s eyes narrowed. “Playing the innocent doesn’t become you, Quinn. I know what you’re about. I suppose you think yourself very clever, skirting round the rules like this. But you mark my words—” She shook a bony finger at Mary. “One misstep…”

Mary suppressed a sigh. Bit her tongue to keep from reminding her, You said this yesterday. There was nothing she could say to persuade Mrs Shaw that, far from this being her ambition, she wanted none of the Prince’s attentions. The housekeeper had already made up her mind and she was a woman who prided herself on never changing it.

Mary’s remaining time at the Palace was to be even more closely monitored.

And she was further than ever from finding answers.

The kitchen staff were sour when Mary asked them to make up a last-minute breakfast tray for the Prince of Wales. Natural y, Mrs Shaw was unwil ing to intervene in this instance and so Lizzie, the most senior cook-maid, had her way with a curt “We’ve enough to do without that lazy young gent.”

Mary loitered, half impatient and half unwil ing, until the tray was ready: nearly half an hour. She’d no desire to ingratiate herself with the Prince, and was rather afraid of what she might be forced to do if his interest in her continued as predictably as it promised. Was it possible that he only wanted to talk some more, or were Mrs Shaw’s suspicions correct? And if so, how did one refuse royalty?

Mary’s confidence sagged as she left the servants’ corridor – until she caught Mrs Shaw’s vinegary look. At that, her spine straightened, her shoulders dropped and she inclined her chin with frosty grace at the housekeeper, borrowing from the manner of touring royalty. One spoilt man-child was not going to upset her investigation. The person most likely to ruin that was Mary herself, through stubbornness and impetuous action – both traits she’d learned to temper over the past year and a half.

The Prince’s equerries were, supposedly, wel -

born companions of the wise and sober sort, a few years older than he. They were charged with giving the Prince timely doses of advice. In practice, however, these were the same attendants who’d managed to lose the Prince on that now infamous night in Limehouse – rather a dubious testament to their good judgement and desirable influence on the Prince.

As she arrived at the Prince of Wales’s apartments, Mary was unsurprised to see a pair of them lounging just outside the door. They leaned against the wal with a negligent air, staring rudely at Mary as she drew nearer. They neither spoke nor moved, although she nearly grazed one of them with the edge of the enormous tray. Natural y, they didn’t bestir themselves to open the door for her.

Mary kept her gaze low, unwil ing to draw even more attention to herself. She didn’t like the expressions in their eyes. They were looking at her as they might a mildly interesting piece of horseflesh: not good for much, but perhaps worth having anyway. More than ever, she felt she was walking into a trap.

She shifted the tray, considering the pint or so of steaming coffee balanced thereon. That was certainly her best bet, if one of them made a grab at her. She didn’t know what the consequences of scalding a dishonourable honourable might be. Her tension was high enough that she didn’t much care.

Yet they didn’t move, as she turned the door handle and the heavy mahogany door slowly swung open.

Like yesterday, Prince Bertie was stationed at the far end of the room, half-reclined in his favourite easy chair.

Like yesterday, he wore a silk dressing-gown.

Unlike yesterday, however, there was a woman in the room. A tal woman dressed in the height of fashion, her bil owing skirts trailing over the arm of Prince Bertie’s chair. She drooped over the Prince’s form, one hand resting lightly on his chest, murmuring something intimate. She was graceful, intent, predatory. She was Honoria Dalrymple. And so focused was she that she failed to notice the door swing open, or the entry of a third party.

“Such an arrangement could be to our mutual benefit, don’t you think, dear Prince?” she murmured, her voice al honey and smoke.

“I – er. Hm. I – I’m afraid I don’t know what to say, er, Mrs D-Dalrymple.”

A husky laugh. “You should say yes. I assure you, you shan’t be disappointed.”

“But – but Mrs Dalrymple…” He was nearly panting – whether with excitement or anxiety, it was unclear. Probably both.

“But what, darling boy?”

“But you’re … you’re old!” The last word was wrenched from the Princely throat, a half-shriek of horror.

Behind Mary, the equerries burst into raucous laughter. Honoria’s and Prince Bertie’s heads swivel ed round, as they were alerted for the first time to their audience of three. Honoria blanched and toppled from her perch. He jumped up, uttering loud incoherencies and trying to help her up. She swatted away his fumbling grasp, pul ed herself up with remarkable dignity (al things considered) and swept past Mary with her chin held high.

A pair of sharp slaps, flesh on flesh, echoed in the corridor and Mary smiled. The louts had got a little of what they deserved, at least. Prince Bertie’s entire head was the colour of beetroot, his mouth slack and open as he goggled at Mary, at the tray she carried, at his stil -tittering attendants in the doorway. “My God. I – I – I don’t know what to say.” He col apsed into the easy chair, then sprang up again as though it had burnt him. Re-seated himself in a different, more upright chair. Cleared his throat. “Wel . Thank God you’re not my mother.”

His Highness was too discomposed to do much apart from drink his coffee and wonder at Honoria Dalrymple’s behaviour. This was a relief to Mary –

today would not be the day she had to fight off the Prince of Wales – but also a source of additional anxiety. How might Honoria retaliate against those who had witnessed her humiliation? Her influence over the equerries was dubious – louts they may have been, but they were wel -born louts. But she could certainly exact her revenge on a hapless parlour-maid, especial y with Mrs Shaw’s silent connivance. Mary’s prospects at the Palace were shrinking fast. And there was nothing to be gained in enlisting the Prince’s help. Even if she could make him understand her position, even if she paid his price, the young man was too weak to be of use. The only people who could help her, Anne and Felicity, were peculiarly, unusual y silent.

It was with a different but equal mingling of dread and impatience that she cleared away the royal breakfast remains and hastened back to the kitchens. Prince Bertie was a late riser, and it was nearly time for the royal family’s luncheon. By this time, Mrs Shaw would be squinting at the poached fish for stray scales, reviewing the particular garnishes for each serving dish and inspecting the platters of fruit and walnuts for perfect symmetry.

With luck, Mary would be able to finish the dusting that Prince Bertie’s breakfast had interrupted.

As she returned to the servants’ quarters, however, there was a different mood in the air.

Instead of the customary buzz of activity produced by a staff of hundreds, each quietly at work, there was a sense of waiting. Of listening. Footmen strol ed past, rol ing their eyes expressively. Maids performed furtive dashes of work, fal ing stil between times.

It was unnerving, and when Mary spotted Sadie, she didn’t bother with a sideways approach. “What’s happening?” she whispered.

The red-headed maid, normal y so cheerful, was dusting an already spotless sideboard with quick, nervous strokes. “Mrs S’s on a right tear. There’s trouble in the stil room – some of the preserves ain’t right, and she’s like to go mad.” It was a genuine domestic crisis: jams, jel ies and pickles were laboriously made at summer’s end, sealed under wax or stored in crocks, and kept in the stil room. If some were spoilt, that meant a flaw in the process –

and a shortage as the season wore on. It was a terrible blow to any housekeeper’s pride, and especial y to one as meticulous as Mrs Shaw.