The Queen's Gambit (The Wonderland Series: Book 4) Page 23

  “And a very wise one. Are you of the opinion that I should employ a cypher when writing to my friends?” Hugo asked casually.

  “Without question. It’s quite fun really. Once you get the hang of the thing, it’s ridiculously simple. Shall I show you?”

  “Please,” Hugo said, leaning forward as Henry reached for a clean sheet of paper and a quill. Hugo had wondered how he would learn the necessary cypher since the Marquis never revealed to him the method of communication. Now he realized that Henry had been instructed to teach him the intricacies of secret communication.

  “I’ve been using a simple substitution cypher in which I’ve moved the alphabet by six letters to start with. Therefore, A would be F, B would be G, and so on. Of course, if the letter is intercepted it appears to be utter gibberish, but unless anyone can break the cypher, they are in the dark. To continue using the same cypher is risky, so every month I revise the cypher, moving the corresponding alphabet by two. So, the following month, A would be H, and B would be I.”

  Henry’s eyes were now lively, and a charming blush appeared on his cheeks as he wrote out a short message to demonstrate his method. It was simple enough to code and decode if you knew the key, which was childishly simple. Hugo was tempted to point that out, but refrained, not wishing to offend Henry and imply that his cypher was simple-minded. Anyone who was able to decode the first letter would figure out the method easily enough and play with the first few words until they hit on a pattern which made sense.

  “To write more than once a month is dangerous, so I would ask you to get your report to me by the middle of every month. I will consolidate your message with other sources and send the information on to our friend the Marquis. You may write down anything you think is of importance, no matter how trivial. Sometimes minor details reveal a bigger picture. I will expect your first report just after the coronation. Oh, and I would like your report in plain writing. I will do the coding since I am the only one who knows the order of the letters on a particular month. I will burn your report as soon as I’ve transcribed it. Are we agreed?”

  “Yes, Your Grace,” Hugo replied and rose to leave.

  “I look forward to reading your intelligence,” the duke said thoughtfully. “The Marquis de Chartres has despaired of you ever honoring your end of the bargain, so he will be glad to see that you are a man of your word after all. And I am sure he will be pleased to hear that you appear to be in good health. After all, so many misfortunes might befall a man in these turbulent times, wouldn’t you agree?”

  Hugo bowed to the duke stiffly and left the library. The servants seemed to have retired, so he let himself out into the street and closed the door behind him. The last comment was a veiled threat, Hugo was sure of that, and once again he felt an unwelcome tightening in his chest. The Duke of Grafton now held all the cards, which placed Hugo in a vulnerable position. He’d heard rumors that Henry FitzRoy had thrown in his lot with William after learning of his uncle’s shameful and cowardly behavior. Either his support for William was a wise political move meant to camouflage his spying activities for James II and Louis XIV, or perhaps his loyalty had truly shifted, in which case Hugo had just walked into a trap. The only way Hugo could protect himself was to disguise his writing when composing a report, and make sure never to sign his name or use his own seal. As long as the report couldn’t be definitively traced back to him, he was safe.

  Chapter 48

  Archie came downstairs in the morning to find Hugo sitting in front of the cold hearth, twirling a chess piece in his hand. He’d come in late last night and retired to his room, but Archie heard him pacing for an hour at the very least, the floorboards groaning under his weight. Perhaps the meeting did not go as planned. Now, Hugo seemed completely preoccupied, his eyes glued to the black bishop as if all the answers could be found in the ebony depths.

  “All right?” Archie asked as he sat across from Hugo.

  “Hmm,” Hugo replied, still staring at the piece, which he deftly moved between his fingers. “Have some breakfast. I’ve already eaten.”

  “I think I’ll just purchase a pork pie,” Archie replied. Billingsley’s porridge did terrible things to his guts, forcing him to remain within close proximity of the privy for at least two hours after consumption. The old servants didn’t bother with bread, since it was too crusty to chew, so there was nothing to break the fast on except the offensive porridge.

  “Perhaps you’d like to purchase that pie in Cheapside,” Hugo suggested, finally setting the bishop back on the board.

  “And why would that be?” Archie asked with interest.

  “Because that’s where Gideon Warburton used to reside,” Hugo replied cryptically.

  “I don’t follow.”

  Hugo leaned back in the chair and faced Archie, his head cocked to the side as if he were deep in thought. Archie remained silent, knowing Hugo too well to rush him. He was obviously on to something, but he was still thinking the details through.

  “Gideon Warburton fell on hard times after Maximilian’s trial,” Hugo finally said. “Public opinion was against him for attempting to defend a traitor. According to Bradford Nash, Gideon fell in with a man called Julian Covington during this time, and then made the sudden decision to travel to the American Colonies. Gideon threw himself overboard shortly after leaving the shores of England, and the said Julian Covington was named in Gideon’s Last Will and Testament as his beneficiary. Covington didn’t get much money, but he did take possession of the house and all its contents,” Hugo explained.

  “And you suspect foul play,” Archie concluded.

  “I do.”

  “What’s that to do with us?”

  “Gideon Warburton suffered because of his involvement with me, Archie. I’d only met the man once, but he didn’t strike me as someone who would be easily manipulated or driven to suicide. He was analytical, practical, and emotionally detached. What would drive a man like that to throw himself overboard, especially en route to a new life? Even if he’d changed his mind, he could have returned to England in a few months. Why kill himself?” Hugo demanded, daring Archie to give him a good answer.

  “I don’t know. It does seem strange, now you mention it.”

  “See what you can learn of this Julian Covington,” Hugo said as he rose to his feet. “We can meet back here at noon.”

  “Am I permitted to ask where you’re off to, your lordship?” Archie asked as he followed Hugo outside into the foggy March morning. The fog had rolled off the Thames during the night, and figures seemed to emerge from the mist floating like apparitions. Even the usual morning sounds were muffled, giving the street a church-like hush. Archie thought that his question got swallowed up by the mist, but Hugo finally responded, his voice thoughtful.

  “I’d like to pay someone a visit, Archie.”

  “Another private assignation?” Archie quipped, but there was a note of anxiety in his voice. He was worried, and he had good reason to be, but not this morning.

  “Perhaps you can wait for me at the coffeehouse on the corner. We can get dinner and save our stomachs from another one of Mistress Billingsley’s culinary creations.”

  “You don’t have to ask me twice,” Archie responded happily.

  “And as it happens, I’m going to see Mistress James,” Hugo replied to Archie’s earlier question.

  “Right.” Hugo could hear the note of relief in Archie’s response.

  “I’ll see you at noon then,” Hugo said as he pulled on his gloves and set off on foot, keeping close to the houses for fear of getting under the wheels of some wagon that came out of the fog.

  This particular call had nothing to do with treason, at least not of the political kind. Hugo hadn’t seen Magdalen Hiddleston since she married Percy James some seven years ago. He’d been invited to the wedding and had attended, less to see Magdalen married, and more to spend time with his sister and nephew. Living alone at Everly Manor had weighed heavily on him then, his own failed marria
ge and childless state often on his mind. It had been a pleasant visit, with Jane seemingly excited by the wedding plans and probably eager to get rid of the stepdaughter she’d never particularly cared for. Ernest was in good spirits as well, although signs of illness were clearly visible, especially in retrospect.

  Magdalen and her husband lived near Bishopsgate, a part of the city known for its coaching inns used by passengers setting out on the Old North Road. Hugo knew that Percy was a prosperous merchant of some sort, and it served his business interests to be in that particular location, but he couldn’t claim to know exactly what Percy’s business was. The James’s house was just up the street from the Catherine Wheel Inn. A skinny child came toward him, her frail shoulders barely supporting the tray of oranges slung over them, her lips blue with cold. Having seen children in the twenty-first century, Hugo always felt an overwhelming pity for these poor urchins who were cold and hungry at the best of times, and freezing to death and starving at the worst. This child had probably never had a proper meal or even a bed of her own. Her parents sent her out day after day to sell oranges, an occupation that would probably be her life’s work until an untimely death. Hugo pushed his morbid thoughts aside and approached the girl.

  “I’ll take the lot,” he said and handed her enough money to buy double the amount of oranges in the tray.

  “I don’t got no change, sir,” she mumbled, terrified that Hugo would change his mind and leave.

  “Not to worry. Just give me the whole tray. I don’t have anything to put the oranges into.” The girl happily took off the tray and handed it to him after removing the strap. She looked stunned by her good fortune, unable to believe that she’d made enough money in under a minute to probably last her family a whole week. She smiled at Hugo shyly, her buckteeth strangely out of place in the little face.

  “Thank ye, sir.” The girl gave an awkward curtsy and ran off before he could reconsider his impulsive purchase.

  Hugo looked at his bounty. Neve was always going on about the need for Vitamin C to avoid scurvy, and after the long winter, Magdalen’s family could probably do with a dose. Of course, they didn’t know that, but they would simply enjoy the fruit.

  Hugo knocked on the door and stood back a bit, surveying the house. Although built in the typical Tudor style, the ground floor was made of stone, which was a sure sign of prosperity, and the ornamental chimneys rose proudly from the slate-covered roof, not the usual thatch. The first floor extended over the ground floor, casting the front door in permanent shadow, but the diamond-paned windows were rather wide and gleamed in the near white light which tried to break through the morning mist, now being slowly burnt off by the weak sun.

  A young girl of about twelve opened the door and stared at Hugo, her mouth open in surprise. Perhaps it was too early in the day for visitors, or perhaps it was his appearance, which was highly at odds with the tray of oranges he held in front of him.

  “Master James is not at ‘ome, sir,” she supplied timidly.

  “I’m here to see your mistress. Please tell her Lord Everly wishes to speak with her. And take these. They are a gift for Mistress James.”

  The girl gaped at him as if he were the king himself. She didn’t have much interaction with members of the peerage, and Percy’s business associates were likely wealthy men, but not titled ones. Hugo also realized that she’d probably never even had an orange.

  “Take one for yourself,” he added.

  “Ah, aye sir. Please come in, sir,” the girl stammered as she led Hugo to a parlor and ran upstairs to get her mistress. The room was lost in shadow due to the overhanging upper floor, but it was clean and lavishly decorated with soft cushions on the wooden settles and tapestries on the walls. Hugo turned from studying the tapestry when he heard light footsteps on the flagstone floor.

  “Your lordship, what a surprise,” Magdalen said as she sailed into the room, her belly preceding her. She was clearly in the last stages of pregnancy, but it became her, giving her a healthy glow instead of a patina of exhaustion.

  “I seem to be surprising people a lot these days,” Hugo replied with a smile, glad to see that Magdalen didn’t seem put out by his visit.

  “Shall I call for some refreshments?” she asked, gazing into the dim corridor to see if the maid was there. “Or would you like an orange?” she asked with a chuckle.

  “No, thank you, and the oranges are for you. I hope you enjoy them. My wife always asks that I bring some back from London,” Hugo added by way of explanation. “Actually, I won’t take much of your time. I’m glad to see you looking so well, Magdalen,” he commented. Magdalen had always been a pretty girl, but many a pretty girl lost her looks after marriage. Magdalen wasn’t one of them. Her blonde curls artfully framed her full face, her cheeks and lips rosy with good health, and her wide blue eyes sparkling with good humor. There was nothing of her father in her features, and now that Hugo knew the truth about Ernest, he understood why. Magdalen probably wasn’t his natural daughter, but a child conceived with a handsome groom or some local man from the village. Ernest’s interests did not extend to women, as both his wives would attest to had they been alive.

  “Is this your first?” Hugo asked, nodding at her belly.

  “Oh no, my lord. ‘Tis our third. We’ve already got the two girls, so hoping for a son this time. I do think it might be,” she confided happily. “And if not, there’s always next time.”

  “When do you start your confinement?” Hugo asked.

  “Not for another month at least, and thank the Lord for that. I do so want to see the coronation procession. I would be that heartbroken if I had to be shut away in a dark room and miss all the fun.”

  “So, you approve of your new king then?” Hugo asked with a grin. Her good humor was infectious.

  “‘Tis not for me to approve or disapprove, but I’m always keen on a good celebration. ‘Twill be a day to remember, I’m sure.”

  Magdalen settled herself by the hearth and invited Hugo to sit down across from her. Her hand rested on her belly as she sighed with pleasure. “I don’t get to sit much during the day, not with two little ones. They do keep me busy, so thank you for this welcome break.”

  Hugo realized that Magdalen was too polite to ask what brought him to her door, so it was for him to broach the subject. He almost dreaded talking of what happened, but at this stage, Magdalen was the only person who could shed any light on what was going on with Clarence.

  “Magdalen,” Hugo began, “I’ve written to Clarence from France several times over the past few years, and once since returning to England, but although he was polite enough to respond, he seems reluctant to see me in person.”

  Magdalen shifted in her seat, her eyes thoughtful as she considered her response. Hugo knew she didn’t wish to offend him, but she wasn’t the type of girl to moderate her answers, which was something he’d always liked about her. Neve would say that Magdalen was “real,” and he agreed.

  “Clarence was torn up when his mother died. It would have been bad enough had she passed as a result of an illness, but going the way she had nearly destroyed him. He was in shock, and probably still is. Clarence wanted more than anything to believe that his mother hadn’t chosen to take her own life; that she’d been driven to it,” Magdalen said, her eyes sliding away toward the fire.

  “So, he blamed me,” Hugo supplied.

  “Yes, he did. Clarence needed to excuse his mother’s actions, and blaming you for driving her to suicide allowed him to do that.”

  “But I didn’t actually do anything,” Hugo protested.

  “I know you didn’t, but by the time Jane died, her mind was so twisted, she could explain away anything. I do believe that her suicide was a form of self-punishment. She believed that she didn’t deserve the glory of Heaven and everlasting life, so she made sure she’d be damned for eternity. Clarence wanted to believe that his mother killed herself because she couldn’t live with the guilt, but I think the truth is quite different
.”

  “How so?” Hugo asked, curious to hear Magdalen’s take on Jane’s fatal decision.

  “I suppose Jane felt some guilt over what she did to your lady, but she believed she was doing it to protect her son’s future, so her remorse was fleeting. What Jane really dreaded was the prolonged illness, which would leave her incapable of caring for herself and would rob her of all reason. She’d seen what it had done to my father and to his secretary, John Spencer, whom she’d had a liaison with. She didn’t think I knew of their trysts, but I was a very observant child, and they weren’t all that careful. I hope that doesn’t shock you,” Magdalen said, suddenly realizing that Hugo might not want to know such intimate things about the sister he’d loved.

  “No, I was aware of her relationship with Spencer. She told me of it herself the last time we met.”

  “Jane had nursed the man during his last months, believing it to be her Christian duty, but I think there was a part of her that still loved him, despite the fact that he probably gave her the illness,” Magdalen said, her voice sad as she contemplated the broken lives of the people who surrounded her during her childhood.

  “The idea of wasting away in both body and mind was more than she could bear, so she decided to die on her own terms, believing herself to be damned already for her infidelity.”

  “Is there any advice you could give me about Clarence?” Hugo asked wistfully. “I would like to see him and talk to him in person. I can understand his anger and resentment, but I refuse to be held accountable for my sister’s death.”

  “Forgive me for saying this, your lordship, but Clarence has always been a spiteful, irrational boy. He was filled with venom while he stayed here after his mother’s death, and truth be told, I was glad to see the back of him, as was Percy. You can force a reconciliation and hope for the best, but I would just let him stew for a time. He needs to see for himself that you are not to blame and that he has no right to your estate, which he sees as having been snatched away from him.”