Free Palace of Spies by Sarah Zettel

she is clever and witty. Such gifts would be entirely yours. Mr. Tinderflint would receive only the salary.”
    Mr. Tinderflint fluttered again.
    “Why?” I addressed myself to Mr. Peele, as he was clearly the more efficient speaker of the two.
    The edge of Mr. Peele’s smile was refined several degrees further. “Mr. Tinderflint finds himself in . . . delicate circumstances, from which Lady Francesca’s position—and her salary—would have given him relief. Without her . . .” Mr. Peele waved his so very eloquent hand, indicating we need not say anything further on that score.
    Disappointment dug oddly deep. Mr. Tinderflint had lured me here with mention of my mother and a post at court simply for money. Perhaps I should have guessed. Many a gentleman in our troubled times found himself with a distressing shortage of funds and had to make shift to supply the lack. Make shift or flee the country.
    I could only assume it was Mr. Peele that Mr. Tinderflint owed. With those soft, unmarked hands, Mr. Peele could easily be a financier. Or possibly a tailor. Given Mr. Tinderflint’s evident passion for lace and ribbons, he could have amassed a substantial debt to London’s various stitching men.
    I covered my mouth, because I was coming dangerously close to hysterical laughter. I had to remain serious. The scheme was mad. It was also dangerous, and the threat to my neck quite real. Our Hanoverian-born sovereign lord, George, by Grace of God King of Great Britain and Ireland, was not reported to have much sense of humor. Or any at all. I could not picture an ordinary man—let alone a king—taking kindly to discovering a fraudulent upstart in his home. But how could I refuse? The way back from this house led to repentance, obedience, and Sebastian Sandford.
    It occurred to me that I might have a third option. I could play the game just long enough to find out what Mr. Tinderflint knew about my parents or any surviving family. Then, once Kitty Shaw came back to town or Honoria Dumont recovered from her measles, I could flee. I’d already gotten away once. I could do it again.
    True, it might not be easy to discover information about my friends while I lived under an assumed name in a strange house, but that was a problem that could be solved in its own time.
    Perhaps it appears I tripped rather lightly across this marsh. The truth of the matter is, I could not think about my situation too deeply. Otherwise, what remained of my senses would sink into sheer terror. I had to hold tightly to the belief that I could escape as soon as I truly tried.
    “Very well, Mr. Peele,” I said. “Mr. Tinderflint. I accept.”

CHAPTER NINE

I N WHICH MANY SORTS OF LESSONS ARE LEARNED, CONSEQUENCES INTENDED AND UNINTENDED ARE FACED, AND REALITY COMES UNCOMFORTABLY CLOSE.
    Thus began my time as lady-in-training. Had I any conception of what lay before me, I would have used that poker and made my escape, rain or no rain.
    I cannot in honesty say my situation in the house was cruel. I had an airy and well-appointed chamber, a comfortable bed, and the use of all Lady Francesca’s clothing and jewels, which were as plentiful as one might expect for a girl who had lived at court. What I did not have was even a modicum of freedom.
    Had I found my time in my uncle Pierpont’s house dull and confining? Oh, the follies of youth! That life was a whirlwind of social gaiety compared to the one I now led. There, I had Olivia as friend, my aunt as a silly but affectionate chaperone. I had but one master, and him I saw only on select occasions. Now I had no friends at all and a total of three taskmasters, who seemed determined not to leave me a moment to myself.
    Mrs. Abbot was my mistress of the robes. Not that she dressed me—oh, no. She had a whole infantry of little Dutch maids for that. Mrs. Abbott quizzed me. I must memorize all aspects of a lady’s dress: all fabrics, all trimmings, all furbelows and gewgaws, and all their gradations. I