Traitor and the Tunnel (20 page)

“Did she sack the stil room maid?”

Sadie bit her lip. “Aye. But it’s worse. She were scolding the maid, cal ing her names, and our Amy, she were in the background, and Amy rol ed her eyes, like, only like joking, y’know, and Mrs S went proper mad: foaming at the mouth, like. And she grabbed at Amy, and was shaking her, and this little trinket fel out of Amy’s dress, and landed on the floor, and then—” Sadie paused to draw breath.

Mary closed her eyes. She already knew how this was going to end.

“Mrs S – she went dead quiet. And then she smiled, evil-like. And she said now she had the answer, and that Amy was sacked for thieving. Amy were spitting mad, at first, but when Mrs S said that bit about thieving, she went dead quiet – like she was real y scared.”

“Where are they now?”

Sadie gestured with her chin. “Attic. Mrs S’s watching Amy pack her things, and then I guess she’l get the boot.”

Mary thought of Mrs Shaw standing over Amy, enjoying herself, while Amy was losing her livelihood, lodging and reputation. “Did Amy deny she was a thief?”

Sadie snorted. “She ain’t no thief, our Amy.”

“Yes, but did she say anything to Mrs S?”

“No … she didn’t say no more after that.”

“She was probably too frightened,” said Mary quickly. “She’s losing everything.”

“I suppose she’s got her gentleman friend.”

Mary didn’t think Octavius Jones represented much consolation, but said only, “Thanks,” and began to walk swiftly towards the staircase.

“Where are you going?” cal ed Sadie, bewildered.

“To see Amy and Mrs S.”

“You can’t do no good that way. Mrs S ain’t like to listen to you.”

Privately, Mary agreed. But she couldn’t keep herself from trying.

A terrible near-silence prevailed in their attic bedroom. Mary paused in the open doorway and watched as Mrs Shaw supervised Amy’s packing, arms folded and mouth curved in a smile of grim satisfaction. Amy moved quietly, folding and stacking her possessions with hands that trembled only slightly. She paused now and then to swipe away a stray tear, but her face was set like a mask.

“Mrs Shaw,” said Mary, slightly breathless from her climb. “Amy didn’t steal that brooch.”

The housekeeper spun round to look at her, surprised that any minion should have the temerity to speak to her. “This is none of your affair, Quinn.”

Amy’s expression remained fixed.

“But I’ve seen the brooch. Amy showed it me this morning. It’s a present from her admirer.”

Mrs Shaw’s face grew fierce. “I warn you, Quinn.

No more of your insolence.”

“Has anybody even complained of missing a brooch?” persisted Mary. “And if not, how do you know it’s stolen?”

“I am not in the habit of justifying myself to il -bred sluts,” snapped Mrs Shaw in a tone that made Amy flinch. “But if you’d a fraction of the brains necessary to do your job wel , you’d know that Amy could have stolen other items and sold them in order to buy herself such a trashy trinket.”

Now she was getting somewhere. “Other things have been stolen? From the Palace?”

Mrs Shaw’s cheeks flushed brick-red. “That was merely an example. Now, wil you return to your work, or are you asking to be dismissed along with Amy?”

“Because, again, if nothing’s been stolen, I don’t see why anybody should accuse Amy—”

It was Amy herself who halted the stand-off. She pushed past Mrs Shaw, who stared at her with furious surprise, and enveloped Mary in a hug.

“You’re a darling,” she said quietly. “But this ain’t helping. Keep your job, my dear. Don’t argue no more.”

Mary stared at her. “But … where wil you go?”

Amy mustered an approximation of her usual cheeky grin. “I’l land on my feet, my dear – you see if I don’t.” And with a gentle but firm shove, she pushed Mary from the room and resumed her packing without even a glance at Mrs Shaw.

Nineteen

The servants’ dinner was a grim feast that day. It was impossible not to look at the two vacant places at table – Amy’s and the stil room maid’s – and Mrs Shaw’s angry surveil ance became a constant accusation aimed at the entire staff. Even the footmen, who were not subject to her discipline, seemed sobered by the morning’s ugliness. Mary missed Amy already, for her giddy good humour and company, and also – selfishly – because her departure made it impossible for Mary to slip out after dinner.

Once the meal ended, instead of fulfil ing the task that had haunted her for days, Mary col ected a pot of brass polish, a pungent paste made up of vinegar, salt and flour, and set off for the Blue Room. It was the largest of the reception rooms, formerly Amy’s responsibility. Now it was hers until another maid could be engaged – part punishment, Mary supposed, for her having questioned Mrs Shaw’s actions.

It wasn’t entirely punishment, however. This was the room from which the ornaments had been stolen.

That fact, combined with Amy’s uncharacteristic meekness when she’d been accused of theft, had Mary’s suspicions aflame. Much as she liked Amy, al that had happened today played into her theories about Octavius Jones. Al that was missing, of course, was evidence. But she could send word to the Agency. They could have Jones tailed. They could even search his home. She assumed they were stil able, even if they’d not yet replied to her queries about Honoria Dalrymple, about the tunnel, about Jones.

Mary applied a thin layer of brass polish to the doorknobs and window-catches, mul ing over new possibilities. While Jones was her primary suspect, she couldn’t yet declare the matter resolved. There was stil the problem of Honoria Dalrymple, of course. Between creeping through secret tunnels and trying to seduce the Prince of Wales, the lady-in-waiting was clearly up to no good. And it was stil unclear whether hers was an il egal, to-be-stopped malignancy, or mere mischief-making, in which case she was beneath the Agency’s notice. Mary wished she and James had agreed a more precise plan the night before. They’d left things open, each seeking to glean what they could in the course of the day. But she’d feel better knowing what James was doing, and why.

“There you are.”

Mary started and turned. Surveying her from the doorway, a stiff, quizzical smile on her lips, was the second-last person in the Palace she wanted to see. She bobbed stiffly. “Mrs Dalrymple.” Mary was unsurprised when Honoria walked into the room and closed the door behind her. She was surprised, however, by the hints of uncertainty that hovered beneath the surface of Honoria’s neutral expression.

And she was downright startled when Honoria began to speak.

“This morning’s turn of events was unfortunate for al present,” said the lady-in-waiting in cordial, businesslike tones.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“I bear no grudge against you, Quinn, for what you saw. You were simply doing your duty.” Her tone was magnanimous – and perhaps rightly so. Although she was only being reasonable, wounded pride was difficult to overcome.

“Thank you, ma’am,” said Mary, when it became clear that some response was expected.

Honoria frowned and began to pace back and forth – signs of discomfort that surprised Mary even more. “I am not too blind to see things as they real y are,” began Honoria. “Although, as you heard the gentleman say, I’m rather too mature for his tastes, it’s evident that you are not.” At this, she wheeled about and fixed Mary with a hard look.

“Ma’am?”

“Don’t trifle with me, Quinn. It’s plain that Bertie fancies you. It’s not every new parlour-maid who’s ordered to fetch him breakfast, and he in his dressing-gown.”

Mary felt herself begin to blush in response. “It’s not like that, ma’am. Truly, I don’t want that sort of attention.”

Honoria’s perfectly shaped eyebrows shot up.

“You surprise me, dear girl. Most young women in your position would give their eye teeth for such an opportunity.”

So she was now Honoria’s “dear girl”? “You may think it strange, ma’am, but I do not find the idea appealing.”

Honoria sat down on the nearest chair and crossed her ankles – a relaxed posture that failed to fool Mary. “So you prefer anonymous drudgery to life as the royal favourite?”

Mary was taken aback. “There’s no saying I’d be the favourite, ma’am. A young man’s passing fancy would be the ruin of me.”

“Pff! Such melodramatic words. Young women these days are al such timid things, ful of shuddering prudery.”

Mary permitted herself the faintest of smiles. “Are you suggesting that I try my luck, ma’am?”

Honoria sat up very straight, looked Mary in the eye and said, “I’ve a proposition for you, young lady.

It wil make your future, if you’ve the stomach for it.”

Mary put down her polishing rag and assumed a listening posture. Final y, things were becoming interesting.

“A woman who beds a man holds a great deal of power over him. He is often unaware of this, which makes it even more potent. She may ask him questions that nobody else dares, or compel him to do things he would never otherwise consider. Do you fol ow me?”

“I think so, ma’am.”

“This

gentleman

has

knowledge

I

want;

information that wil make a great deal of difference to me. You may be the young woman who can dig out that knowledge.”

Mary’s eyes widened. “You’re asking me…”

“To bed him,” said Honoria. She seemed to enjoy the phrase, uttering it with crisp relish. “He’s a young man. Almost certainly a virgin. And he desires you. It is for you to choose whether this stroke of good fortune wil change your life, or whether you’l continue toiling in obscurity for a pittance.” She paused. “Think how easy life could be: no more work. A townhouse and a carriage. Servants of your own. Frocks and jewels and furs. These are the rewards of the best paramours.”

Mary al owed her expression to glaze over with impressionable wonder. Honoria was an effective advocate for the courtesan’s life, if a highly biased one. Cal ow, uneducated housemaids didn’t reap the sorts of rewards she described; they were much more likely to end up pregnant, discarded and in the poorhouse. However, Quinn-the-parlour-maid wasn’t meant to understand that. “Al that, just for…?”

A frosty smile.

“But what if he doesn’t like me, after a little while?”

Honoria leaned in for the kil . “I wil look after you myself. There wil be a generous reward and a letter of character. Al you must do is get the information I require.”

Mary made a show of mul ing this over – slowly enough that she saw a flicker of impatience in Honoria’s eyes. “You’re very kind, Mrs Dalrymple,”

she said with exaggerated slowness. “But … I just don’t know.”

Honoria smiled again, and this time there was more than a hint of cruelty in her lovely face. “Let me put this to you differently: you wil use al your meagre charms to coax the information I require from the gentleman. The instant you cease to comply, I shal have you sacked for immorality.”

Mary gaped. “But … I ain’t never … I’m a good girl, Mrs Dalrymple.”

“But who would ever believe that?” Honoria’s smile grew wider. “Certainly not Mrs Shaw, once I tel her that I caught you in the Prince of Wales’s bed this morning.”

The two women stared at each other – one openly triumphant, the other privately so. A minute ticked past. And then another.

“I’l do it,” said Mary. “On two conditions.”

“As I thought,” said Honoria with a smirk. “Finer mettle than first appears.”

“I want this afternoon free. Wil you arrange that with Mrs Shaw?”

“I’l tel her I need you to do some sewing.”

“And I can’t start tonight.”

Honoria’s frown was instantaneous. “Why not?”

“It’s my time of the moon.”

“Oh, for pity’s sake. Very wel , then. When –

tomorrow?”

“Perhaps,” said Mary cautiously. This ruse would certainly be short-lived, but the more time she could buy herself, the better.

“Very wel , then.” Honoria stood up to sweep from the room, but Mary stopped her with a slight gesture.

“What is it?”

“What is it I’m to find out for you?”

Honoria hovered a moment – the first sign of uncertainty Mary had noticed – before sitting down again. “What I tel you is in complete confidence. If you repeat this to anybody, not only wil I deny this entire conversation but I’l destroy you. Do you understand?”

Mary nodded. There was something admirable about the woman’s ruthlessness.

“A few days ago, a relation of mine was murdered in uncertain circumstances. The gentleman of whom we speak witnessed the murder. It is claimed by his physician that he cannot recol ect the details. Of course, that is untrue. False and malicious rumours are now circulating about the manner of my relation’s death. These must stop. Your task is to convince the gentleman of his duty to clear the record – or, at the very least, to learn what real y happened.”

Mary blinked. This was nothing short of a revelation: Honoria Dalrymple was not only a relation of Ralph Beaulieu-Buckworth, but was so persuaded of his virtue that she was wil ing to prostitute herself to clear Beaulieu-Buckworth’s name. Having failed in that endeavour, she hadn’t hesitated to blackmail a bystander into doing the work for her. Had Mary real y just thought such ruthlessness admirable?