Traitor and the Tunnel (25 page)

She turned to begin her dusting – then turned back. For caution’s sake, opened one of the doors very slowly. Nothing. See? She real y was becoming overly suspicious about things like this. Even if it had been somebody closing the door, it was likely a footman about his work.

Right. Dusting. She selected a high shelf quite at random and began. The most annoying thing about dusting in the more public rooms was the sheer quantity of delicate ornaments one had to lift, wipe and replace, al in the course of a few running feet of display space. Perhaps the most astonishing thing about the thefts, al of which had been from this room, was that they’d been remarked at al . She worked her way clockwise round the room, moving from high to low as she’d been taught.

When she got to the fireplace mantel, she frowned. There was something off, here. Taking a step back, she looked at the array of treasures displayed: an Ormolu clock, a smal antique vase, an idyl ic rural scene executed in Dresden china, various bits of shining crystal… Yes. The vase was missing its mate, throwing off the symmetry of the mantelpiece display. A quick check of the surrounding area showed that it hadn’t been moved to a nearby table or ledge. Most peculiar. As she peered closer, Mary noticed a ghostly pattern in the accumulated dust of the mantel. There: a circle where the vase should stand, now partly overlaid by a tiny carved-ivory snuffbox.

Mary’s scalp prickled. Had she been seconds from seeing the Palace thief in action? She darted to the doors she’d just closed. Nothing, of course.

And the hal way offered no clues – no hastily dropped monogrammed handkerchief, for example.

Had she real y expected such a convenient giveaway? Tempting as it was, she decided against pursuit. By now, the thief might be anywhere in the Palace – perhaps even outside the Palace – and a smal vase like that could easily be carried in an overcoat or a handbag. She was only wasting time and ignoring the scene in which the theft had been carried out.

She returned to the mantel and looked again at the remaining vase. It was quite likely one of a pair, depicting as it did a classical scene: Persephone in the Underworld, clutching her fateful pomegranate.

The missing vase ought to show Persephone reunited with her mother, Demeter. Mary ought to be able to confirm that in the register of household goods. If so, it also revealed one of two possibilities about the thief: either he or she did not possess a rudimentary classical education, or he or she had been too unobservant or too hasty to see that the vase was one of a pair. They were worth more as companion pieces than separated.

Honoria Dalrymple remained an unlikely culprit.

Mary might not have considered her at al , but for the night of her subterranean adventure. Even so, there was no incentive for a rich, wel -born lady to steal such relatively paltry items. Dalrymple must be after something else entirely. But al the servants remained suspects. Al except Amy Tranter, of course. And that was the best news to come of this new theft: Amy might have lost Octavius Jones, but she could at least reclaim her job.

After a swift but comprehensive survey of the room, Mary hurried below stairs, found Mrs Shaw and laid before her a concise explanation of what she’d found. Given her history with the housekeeper, she didn’t expect praise or instant action – but even so she was startled by Mrs Shaw’s response.

“Missing, you say?” said Mrs Shaw with a thin smile. “Are you very sure, Quinn?” It wasn’t a question.

“Yes, ma’am. I searched the entire room for the vase.”

“And what makes you so certain it was missing in the first place?”

Mary bit back an impatient I’ve already told you.

“The mantelpiece arrangement was strange, ma’am.

Uneven.” A parlour-maid wouldn’t know the word symmetrical.

“And so you deduced the missing vase.”

“I think so, ma’am.” It was too far out of character to demonstrate knowledge of the story of Persephone’s rescue from the Underworld. “There was a circle on the mantel that was less dusty. It looks like the base of a vase to me.”

“And on this flimsy – I hesitate to say ‘evidence’ –

this flimsy tale, you wish me to drop everything and report yet another disgraceful episode to Her Majesty?”

Mary swal owed her temper. “Isn’t there a book, ma’am, that lists al the ornaments in each room? It would show whether there’s a vase missing. Or anything else.”

“It wil – and I shal consult it in my own good time.”

Mrs Shaw looked down her nose at Mary. “Not when an irresponsible, half-wild, would-be parlour-maid tel s me to.”

Those adjectives weren’t entirely inaccurate, Mary conceded, considering her role from Mrs Shaw’s perspective. Al the same, she didn’t understand the housekeeper’s frosty hostility towards her. And as she would carry that reputation whether she earned it or not, she’d nothing to lose in pushing the woman a bit further. “With respect, ma’am, if the vase was stolen, you’d want to report it straight away.”

“But that’s a large if, Quinn – especial y as I suspect your eagerness for action is because you have your own agenda.”

This was half surprising, half entirely too predictable for words. “Ma’am?”

“The simplest and stupidest thing in the world for you to do would be to hide a vase and claim it was stolen, thus exonerating your little friend Tranter.”

“I give you my word, Mrs Shaw. I never even thought of it. Please. Search my room, if you don’t believe me.”

“A very good idea, Quinn. But it wouldn’t be in your room, if you’d taken it.” Mrs Shaw smiled, very unpleasantly indeed. “You’re rather deep, and very sly. I’l not find anything there. But watch your step, my girl: when I sack you, it’l be for very clear reasons. And you’l never work as a domestic again.” And with that, the housekeeper swept from the room.

Mary shook her head in disbelief. What ought she to do now? If the theft were later discovered, Mrs Shaw would be certain to put the blame on her.

Going over the housekeeper’s head was the only way to protect herself from a future accusation of deficiency. But would an ordinary parlour-maid have the courage to do so? And if so, whom would she tel ? Such an act of mutiny would certainly make its way back to Mrs Shaw – and how could Mary protect her place then?

The only course open to her was to notify the Agency. They would get word to the right person.

They could investigate Mrs Shaw’s background, at the same time, to shed some light on her hostile behaviour. Yes. That was the best course of action.

And yet, thought Mary, as she went up to her room for paper and pen, she’d not yet heard back from Anne or Felicity on any of her earlier queries, whether to do with Honoria Dalrymple, Octavius Jones or the purpose of the secret tunnel. Without their help, she was as alone here as any ordinary parlour-maid. And at the moment, she’d no particular confidence that her training would help her at al .

There were stil too many things she didn’t understand. There was too much for her to do. She hadn’t a clue where things stood in relation to one another. And tonight, Honoria Dalrymple expected her to seduce Prince Bertie for the greater glory of the Dishonourable Ralph Beaulieu-Buckworth’s reputation.

Mary thought of Lang Jin Hai, imprisoned in Cradle Tower. He, at least, was secure in his fate.

The thought was only half-formed, however, when a wave of shame and self-loathing turned her stomach.

No: she certainly didn’t envy her father. But perhaps this was part of her desire to help him escape, too –

to flee this sordid confusion. Living like happy wanderers was certainly impossible. But she couldn’t help a deep throb of longing for an uncomplicated existence. A happy life. If such a thing actual y existed.

She rather suspected it did not.

Twenty-five

When the summons came from the Prince of Wales, she was woeful y unprepared. She’d had her thoughts fixed so firmly on tonight – after dinner, after the staff were dismissed for the day – that his timing thoroughly rattled her.

It was the beginning of the post-luncheon lul , when the servants had an hour’s free time. On her way up to her room, Mary paused at the housekeeper’s room to check for a return message from the Agency. Nothing. She frowned. She’d not given them much time, it was true, but Anne Treleaven was general y so efficient. Perhaps in another hour. She turned down the corridor towards the staircase and, rounding a corner, met one of the smirking, thin-lipped equerries of the previous morning.

“You’re a lucky girl.”

She cursed silently. “Are you speaking to me, sir?”

He glanced about elaborately. “Who else?” It was true: they were quite alone in the hal way. “His Highness wants a word with you.”

“A word?”

That smirk again. “Perhaps more than one. But I doubt you’l be doing much talking.”

In any other circumstances, she would have kicked him in the groin and fled. The prospect remained tempting, in her situation: while defying Prince Bertie’s wishes would certainly get her the sack, so would complying with them, once Mrs Shaw could secure proof of her immoral behaviour.

Between these two, her continued employment was extremely precarious. For now, she elected to obey the equerry, as she stood more of a chance of influencing the Prince than she did Mrs Shaw. With a grim look, she turned on her heel and stalked towards the Prince of Wales’s apartments. It would be a long walk; she was now at the furthest end of the Palace from his rooms.

The equerry – they were so alike she’d never attempted to tel them one from another – tagged along behind her. “I say, are you going just like that?”

She ignored him.

“I mean, oughtn’t you, er, perform your toilette, or some such?”

She looked down her nose at the lumpish attendant – not difficult, despite the fact that he towered over her. “I haven’t the faintest idea what you mean.”

He crimsoned, then scowled. “Hoity-toity for a common little bit of skirt, ain’t you? Just because you caught the Prince’s eye.”

She kept walking.

“You ain’t even that pretty.”

Mary thought, The next thing he says will be: Dunno what he sees—

“Don’t know what he sees in you, myself.”

As they crossed through the portrait gal ery, Mary hoped for somebody – one of the princes or princesses, a visiting dignitary, even the Prince Consort himself – to appear. No such luck: they came upon only an occasional domestic who, in the equerry’s presence, instantly turned to face the wal .

Mary’s mood darkened. There would be witnesses capable of bearing a tale, but nobody capable of stopping this nightmare.

As they exited the Long Gal ery, the young man drew near and said in an ugly tone, “Don’t you dare behave as though I’m invisible.” A few moments later, he was so close she felt his breath, hot and wine-sour, on her neck. “Or I’l make you sorry.”

Mary’s pulse roared. She swal owed hard and checked the desire to utter a smart retort. She couldn’t walk faster without breaking into a run, but three long corridors lay between her and the Prince of Wales’s apartments. She’d no idea which place was safer.

The answer came a moment later when thick fingers bit into her upper arm and she was dragged towards a doorway. “Too daft to listen,” he sneered, shoving her against the wal , rattling the door handle.

His face was dul red, his breathing hoarse.

Mary glanced about, trying not to show her panic.

They were the only two souls in the corridor.

“No one’s coming to save you, you worthless jade.” His free hand rummaged her skirts and she knocked it away with a swift blow that made him howl. She twisted away but even as she began to run, he grabbed her by the hair and slammed her into the door so hard her shoulder crunched and bounced off it again. “You like a scrap, eh? I’l give it to you rough.”

The door was locked but that didn’t deter him. He pul ed her tight against him, her back against his chest, his breath loud and moist in her ear. His arm was locked about her waist – he was surprisingly strong, despite his doughy appearance – and he fumbled her skirts again.

He wanted her to struggle.

He wanted her to cry, to beg, to be terrified.

He hadn’t the first clue with whom he was dealing.

“You stupid little boy,” she said, in a clear, acidic voice. “What d’you think Bertie’s going to say when I tel him what you’re trying to do?”

Instantly, he went stil .

“Do you real y think the Prince of Wales wil al ow you to molest me and go unpunished?” Silence. She swung about to face him, trying not to flinch as the movement jarred her shoulder. “I’m about to become the new favourite. If you ruin me, he’l raise hel .” She ticked off the points on her fingers. “You’l lose your post, of course. But also there’l be the cost of paying me off. Do you have that sort of ready money? And there’s the scandal: you’l have to explain things to your father. D’you real y want to tel him that your entire family lost favour with the future king, al because you couldn’t keep your mitts off a parlour-maid?”

He stared at her, hatred glittering in his eyes. But though his hands were curled with rage, they remained by his sides. A sudden globule of saliva gushed from the corner of his mouth and he swiped it away. Swal owed hard. “Devil take you,” he growled. But despite the curse, his voice was hoarse. “Get out of my sight.”