“Any leads, my lord?”

“All we know so far is this mark isn’t from any blacksmith in London. We’ll have to check with other cities.”

That would take weeks. Far too long to be helpful, I thought. But Lord Ashcombe pointed out that the mark told us something, regardless. If the killer—or killers, no reason to assume there was only one—got their weapons outside the city, they very likely came from somewhere else, as well.

When he was finished with the daggers, I showed him the letter I’d found in my house.

He frowned as he read it. “No idea who it’s from?”

I shook my head. “Tom and I have been trying to decipher the code at the bottom. That might give us a clue. But we haven’t been able to figure it out.”

Lord Ashcombe looked pensive. “Someone may be able to help with that.”

“Who, my lord?”

“You’ll meet him tomorrow. For now, get some sleep. The king rises early, and he wants to speak with you in the morning.”

Sleep well before a private meeting with the king? Not likely. I spent the night dreaming of angry, black-feathered birds.

THURSDAY, MARCH 4, 1666

Who cannot be crushed with a plot?

CHAPTER 10

I WASN’T EXPECTING SO MANY spaniels.

Tom and I shuffled nervously as Lord Ashcombe ushered us into the king’s private study, on the second floor of the palace. It was bright and spacious, the rounded window providing a fantastic view of London over the Thames. We could even see the Tower of London’s turrets from here, all the way across the city, peeking through the faint morning mist.

Near the window was a grand desk of mahogany, where a servant stood rearranging several papers into neat piles. By the coal fire were four chairs upholstered in velvet, a second servant waiting behind them with a bottle of wine on a tray. The king sat in front of the fire, looking with bemusement at a letter.

And everywhere, everywhere, were dogs. A dozen spaniels romped about the room, snuffling through the rugs. One pup lay on his back in Charles’s lap, squirming happily and gnawing at the king’s fingers as he scratched idly at the dog’s belly. The others came running from all corners of the room as we entered, tails wagging, weaving playfully through our feet.

“Boys! Welcome. Join me,” the king said, sounding in a pleasant mood indeed.

We hesitated. As commoners, we weren’t allowed to sit in the king’s presence.

Charles waved away our worries. “Sit, sit,” he commanded. “No one will see you but Richard here, and he knows how to keep a secret.”

Tom and I exchanged a glance. The king hadn’t considered the servants, even as the man behind him stepped forward to place glasses of wine on the small tables between the chairs. No one ever pays attention to servants, Sally had said once, a fact that had nearly spelled our doom in Paris.

But we did as he wished. The chairs were awfully comfortable. Two of the spaniels immediately sprang up, front paws on Tom’s thighs; he ruffled their ears in delight. An older dog placed her graying muzzle on my leg and looked at me with hopeful eyes.