The Prince of Lies (Night's Masque, #3)(38)

“Oh?”

“I need to put a spy in the Earl of Northumberland’s household, but it has to be someone completely unknown to our enemies. I therefore cannot assign any of my own men, lest Selby betrayed them, and my own presence in the vicinity of Syon House would be noted immediately.”

Lady Frances’s eyes sparkled with mischief.

“So you were hoping I might oblige, is that it?”

“I would not want you to put yourself in harm’s way, my lady. But perhaps you have connections you can use?”

Lady Frances pursed her lips, and her dark brows drew together.

“There is someone. A gardener at Richmond Palace–”

“A gardener? How is he to help us? Syon House is on the other side of the river.”

“And with it his lady-love, a maidservant in the Countess of Essex’s service. Fear not, he is a quick-witted lad with a keen memory. I shall speak with him when I next visit the Princess of Wales.”

“Thank you, my lady.”

“And whilst you are here,” she said more loudly, guiding him back towards the fireplace, “you must dine with us, so that you can tell us all about your family. I am so longing to meet Lady Catlyn; when will you bring her out of hiding, Sir Maliverny?”

“Very soon I assure you. But I need a household fit to receive her.” He gave the duchess his most charming smile. “Perhaps you ladies would advise me?”



Dinner passed slowly, for the ladies were far more intent upon giving Mal instructions on the running of his household than on consuming the food on their plates. Mal tried to pay attention whilst discreetly wolfing his own meal; the Greys were wealthy enough to eat well even in times of famine, though in deference to the Lenten season there was more fish on the table than meat.

At last the meal ended and servants brought round fingerbowls and napkins. The dower duchess excused herself, saying she customarily read her Bible in private after meals, though Mal suspected a nap was a more likely habit. He felt drowsy himself, truth be told: his belly was fuller than it had been in months, and the house’s tall glazed windows had distilled the spring sunshine into languid summer heat.

“What I wouldn’t give,” he said, as he escorted Lady Frances to the entrance hall, “for a cup of caffè right now. Just the thing for after dinner.”

“Caffè?”

“An Eastern beverage I encountered in Venice. Most stimulating, though the bitter flavour takes a little getting used to.” He ignored the pang of guilt at the memory of the equally stimulating company he had enjoyed it in. He had been a bachelor back then, entitled to his pleasures. “I wonder that the habit has not reached these shores yet.”

“I dare say it shall, soon enough. Italian fashions are still very much the vogue at court.”

The coolness of the marble-lined hall was clearing Mal’s head a little, and he recalled his other pressing problem: the identity of Jathekkil’s amayi. Surely some clue must lie within these walls, and it would be foolish to leave without at least trying to gain Lady Frances’s aid in finding it. Not here, though; the hard stone magnified the slightest whisper. He inclined his head towards the parlour opposite.

“Might I have a word in private, my lady?”

Lady Frances said nothing, only gestured gracefully for him to lead the way. He ushered her inside and closed the door. It was risking gossip, even scandal, but he dare not risk the servants overhearing.

“My lady, has Lord Grey made any further progress in his own investigations?”

“I do not think so, not beyond what you have told him.”

“Then he has not found anything useful in his father’s papers?”

She shrugged helplessly.

“An unbiased eye might help,” Mal went on. “Blaise loved his father, or at least respected him.”

“As any man should.”

“Of course. But loyalty can blind one to a loved one’s flaws, can it not?” When she nodded thoughtfully, he pressed on. “Let me take a look at the late duke’s papers, as many as we can find. Perhaps right away, before Lord Grey returns from court?”

Mal held his breath, praying that curiosity would get the better of her. He wanted to be there, to ensure that nothing incriminating was conveniently lost.

After a moment Lady Frances grinned like a naughty child. “Yes, why not? And I have an idea where to start.”

She led him through room after room of the mansion’s west wing until Mal was sure they would end up in the Thames. At last she opened a hidden door in the panelling and they went up a narrow flight of stairs to what must surely be the very top of the house. She halted at a low door and sorted through the keys on her chatelaine for a few moments. At last she found the one she was looking for, and the door creaked open into darkness.

“This is the family archive,” Lady Frances said, coughing into her sleeve as a cloud of dust rose around them. “Every letter, household bill and account book since before the Black Death, according to the steward.”

Mal stared in disbelief. Though low-ceilinged, the attic room was a good ten yards long and almost as wide, with one cobweb-festooned window at the gable end. And every square foot of floor was covered with stacks of mouldering paper, some of them as high as his waist.

“It could take a lifetime to sort through this lot, assuming the mice haven’t eaten half of it already.”