“The master appears uninjured,” the postillion at the carriage said, temporarily abandoning his pulling at the door to peer through the carriage window. “And I believe John Coachman is not seriously hurt.”
“Not them, you imbecile, my chestnuts!” the infuriated driver cried. “Robert—”
“I would be happy to help you, George, but I can hardly leave my horses, can I?” Robert said, half turning without taking his attention from his restive greys. His voice and the outline of his face came together in Kim’s mind, and she recognized him as one of the druids she and Mairelon had spied on. George’s voice was familiar, too; he was probably another of them. Kim started to roll her eyes, only to be brought up short.
“Who, exactly, is responsible for this outrage?” said a cold, hard voice authoritatively.
Every drop of Kim’s blood seemed to congeal into ice. She knew that voice; she had fled from London to get away from its owner. First Jack Stower, now Dan Laverham, she thought in despair. She would never get away from them. She wanted to dive for the ditch and the hedge beyond, but she could not make her muscles obey her. It was all she could do to force her head to turn in the direction of the speaker. When she did, she suffered a second shock.
The tall man who was in the act of climbing out of the ruined coach was not Dan Laverham. He had the same narrow jaw and sharp eyes as Dan, and the same long nose, but his dark hair had less grey in it. Under the superfine coat he wore, his shoulders were broader and more muscular than Dan’s. He could have passed as Laverham’s brother, if Laverham had had one who dressed like a toff, but he was not Dan Laverham. Relief made Kim’s knees feel weak.
“Accident, not outrage,” Robert said politely. “I am Robert Choiniet, and my friend with the unspeakable chestnuts is George Dashville.”
“I take it you were racing on a public thoroughfare,” the man from the coach snapped. “You should be horse whipped for such carelessness.”
“Possibly,” Robert said with unimpaired calm. “I doubt that anyone will do so, however. May I take a message to someone for you, sir? I must go by Stavely Farm first, but after that I am at your disposal.”
“Robert, you traitor!” George had finally succeeded in getting his animals under control, but his angry cry startled them into another round of sidling and head-tossing. “You can’t mean to go back to Austen and claim you won!”
“Why not? Just because your driving was so bad that you overturned instead of merely losing by an inch or two?”
“Enough.” The man from the coach spoke with a quiet deadliness. “I have no interest in your disagreements, and you will oblige me by saving them for another time and place.” He turned to Robert Choiniet. “You will go by Bramingham Place and inform them that Lord St. Clair has met with an accident on the road. I trust you are capable of giving them sufficient directions. Beyond that, all I require of you is that you do not return.”
“I understand perfectly, sir,” Robert said coldly. “Give you good day.”
He raised his hands a quarter of an inch. His horses sprang forward, eager to be away, and the phaeton swept off down the road. George Dashville stared after it, spluttering incoherently, while the Baron straightened his cravat and brushed at his coat and breeches. Kim shook herself out of her daze and eased herself farther down the slope of the ditch. A low stone wall ran along the far side; if she could get over it, she had a good chance of getting around the entire muddle of men and carriages without being seen.
Her luck held. The chestnut horses took exception to the Baron’s abrupt movements, and George’s efforts to keep them from bolting occupied both his attention and St. Clair’s while Kim slid over the wall unnoticed. She bent over and crept along it, keeping her head low despite her curiosity. She didn’t want St. Clair to catch her, even if he wasn’t Dan Laverham. From the way Mairelon acted, St. Clair was as bad as Dan. She didn’t straighten up until the Baron’s caustic observations regarding George’s horsemanship began to fade with distance.
15
Kim’s back was sore and stiff from her long, crouched-over walk to avoid Baron St. Clair, so she took things easier on the last mile to Bramingham Place. Once she reached the drive leading up to the house, she slowed even further. She enjoyed looking about at the bushes through which she and Mairelon had dodged the night before, though the manicured lawn and meticulous placement of the trees made her nervous. Besides, she was in no real hurry to complete her errand.
Slow as she went, the house drew inexorably nearer. Kim sighed and straightened her jacket. She had better get this over with before her nerve failed her. She went up to the door and knocked.
The door opened at once, and Kim thought she saw a faint, fleeting expression of surprise on the face of the butler who had opened the door. “Message for Miss D’Auber,” Kim said, touching her cap respectfully.
“Very good.” The butler held out his hand.
“The master said I was to give it only to her.”
The butler’s features stiffened into cold disapproval, but all he said was, “I will see that she is informed. Wait here.”
The door closed, leaving Kim standing on the step outside. Kim frowned at it. She had a vague idea that there was something not quite right about the butler’s action, but her knowledge of gentry kens was limited to the most likely location of the silver. She shrugged. Wait, the man had said; well, she would wait, then. She sat on the step and stared out across the drive.
Several minutes later, Kim heard the door behind her open. She could practically feel the butler’s disapproving stare digging into her spine, and smiled to herself. She twisted her head and shoulders around without rising and looked up with an expression of hopeful inquiry.
“Miss D’Auber will see you,” the butler said. His mouth was turned down at the corners and he was standing rigidly erect, as if to make up for Kim’s informality.
“Good,” Kim said cheerfully, and scrambled to her feet. “How soon will she get here?”
The butler winced. “She will see you in the green saloon. I would not presume to say how soon. This way.”
Kim tried to suppress a grin as she followed the butler. She was only partially successful, but as the man’s back was toward her it did not really matter. He led her down a short hall and showed her into a large room with pale green walls and spindly-legged chairs covered in green-and-gold-striped silk. There were two gilded pier tables between the windows, each with a large gold-rimmed mirror hanging on the wall above it, and at the far side of the room stood a small writing desk.
As the door clicked shut behind her, Kim eyed the chairs dubiously. They did not look as if they were meant to be sat on, but the two footstools did not look any sturdier and she couldn’t sit on the pier tables. She finally settled herself on a footstool, reasoning that if it collapsed under her she would be closer to the floor. She had hardly sat down before the door latch clicked again, and Renée D’Auber walked into the room.
“I am Mademoiselle Renée D’Auber,” she announced, frowning at Kim. “You have a message for me, yes?” Her auburn hair shone in the sunlight and her figured muslin morning dress was the height of elegance. Looking at her made Kim feel small and rumpled and unpleasantly aware of the dust and grass stains her clothes had acquired on her walk to Bramingham Place.
“Yes,” Kim said shortly. She rose and reached into her jacket for the letter Mairelon had given her. As she did, she saw Renée’s eyes widen.
“But what is this? You are a girl! Of what is it that Monsieur Merrill is thinking?”
“You ask him, if you want to know,” Kim said. French or not, this woman was altogether too fly for comfort. Kim scowled and tapped Mairelon’s letter with her forefinger. “And how’d you know this was from him?”
“It is of all things the most likely,” Mademoiselle D’Auber replied. “Who else would know I was here? Also, I have been asking for him, and he would of course hear of it. It is unimportant. Give me the message.”
Relu
ctantly Kim held the letter out to her. Mademoiselle D’Auber took it and tore it open at once without stopping to look at the seal. She turned away as she began reading; a moment later Kim heard a brief exclamation in what was presumably French. Kim had no idea what the words meant, but the tone in which they were spoken was one of surprise rather than anger or annoyance.
Renée D’Auber glanced over her shoulder at Kim, then returned to the letter, this time studying it with evident care. Kim wondered what Mairelon had said about her and what this Mademoiselle D’Auber thought of it. She shifted uncomfortably, wishing she could sit down again but not daring to do so for fear of offending Mademoiselle D’Auber.
Mademoiselle D’Auber finished reading and turned back to face Kim. “Of a certainty, this is not at all good,” she said, waving the letter.
“That’s what we thought,” Kim said, emphasizing the “we” slightly.
“To find the real platter becomes a thing most necessary,” the Frenchwoman went on as if she had not heard. “I do not at all see how we are to go about it.”
“We?” Kim said.
“But of course! It is why I am here, to help.”
Kim’s frown returned. “Hold on! I thought you was the one that nicked the real platter. Mairelon said nobody else could of got to it before we did.”
“Monsieur Merrill is not altogether right,” Mademoiselle D’Auber replied. “I looked at Monsieur Bramingham’s so-remarkable platter yesterday afternoon, yes, but at once I saw that it was only a copy. I thought, me, that Monsieur Merrill had been very clever, but now I find that it was not him at all, but someone else. It is most annoying. This business is not well arranged, I think.”
“It ain’t no fault of ours,” Kim muttered.
Renée had crossed to the writing desk and did not hear. “I shall write something for you to carry back to Monsieur Merrill,” she said, taking out a sheet of heavy, cream-colored paper. “And you must take his letter with you as well. I will allow Madame Bramingham to persuade me to stay here for another day or two.” She made a face as she spoke, then shrugged and bent over the page.
“Why do you want me to take Mairelon’s message away again?” Kim asked.
“But it would be most awkward if it were found!” Mademoiselle D’Auber said, writing busily. “Monsieur Bramingham would of a certainty call the Bow Street Runners. He has already spoken of it. It was very foolish of Monsieur Merrill to take the copy of the platter, I think.”
So Mairelon’s letter had not included all the details of the previous night’s events! Kim considered the implications of that while Renée finished her letter, and she began to feel more cheerful. “Why did you come—”
“A moment.” Mademoiselle D’Auber sanded her letter, then folded it neatly and sealed it with a blob of wax, muttering under her breath as she did. Her voice was too soft for Kim to hear what she was saying, but each word had a sharp, crystalline quality that distance and muttering could not disguise. Kim remembered the spell that Mairelon had cast to test her truthfulness, and backed up a pace.
Mademoiselle D’Auber finished and straightened up with a smothered sigh. She studied the paper for a moment, then turned and held it out to Kim along with Mairelon’s unfolded letter. “Here; take this to Monsieur Merrill and tell him that I will be at the inn down in the village tomorrow morning at, oh, ten o’clock precisely.”
Kim nodded and took the letters, doing her best to hide her reluctance. Renée D’Auber had put some sort of spell on that letter, Kim was sure of it. And she, Kim, was going to have to carry the thing all the way back to Ranton Hill at least, and maybe farther, if Mairelon had given up waiting at the inn and gone back to the wagon. Kim wasn’t normally squeamish, not even about magic, but she didn’t like not knowing what kind of spell she was carrying.
Mademoiselle D’Auber watched closely as Kim stowed the letters away beneath her jacket, which did nothing to improve the state of Kim’s nerves. “There is one thing more,” the Frenchwoman said. She fixed her eyes on Kim’s face and said with great seriousness, “It is of all things the most important that Monsieur Merrill not leave before I see him. You understand? So if he thinks to go, you must try to stop him. I think he will listen.”
“Be the first time, if he did,” Kim said, shrugging. “I’ll tell him, though.”
“Good.” Renée D’Auber gave Kim a long, measuring look, and Kim found herself wondering once again just what Mairelon had said about her in his letter. Then the Frenchwoman went to a long, embroidered bellpull and gave it a vigorous tug. A few moments later, the door opened and a footman stepped into the room. “Mademoiselle?”
“See this . . . boy out,” Mademoiselle D’Auber said.
“Mademoiselle.” The footman bowed. With a single, sidelong look at the enigmatic Frenchwoman, Kim followed him out of the room and down the hall to the door of Bramingham Place.
When Kim arrived back at the inn late that afternoon, she found Mairelon in the public room playing cards with Freddy Meredith. They were the room’s only occupants, and judging from the litter of coins near Mairelon’s left elbow, they had been at it for some time. An empty wine bottle lay on the floor beside the table; a second bottle, barely a third full, stood next to the pile of coins that had been wagered on the current hand.
Kim paused in the doorway, wondering what the magician could want with a cloth-head like Meredith. Her eyes flicked from one to the other, and she frowned. Both men were impeccably turned out, from the stiff folds of their cravats to their gleaming Hessian boots; they looked the perfect picture of a pair of gentry. That, Kim realized, was what was bothering her. She had seen Mairelon in his gentry togs before, but she had never realized how well they suited him. No, not quite that, either. She had never realized how well the whole role suited him.
Still frowning, Kim stepped into the room. As she did, Meredith looked up and saw her. He blinked blearily in her direction. He was, Kim saw, more than a little bit on the go. “Who’s this, Merrill?”
Mairelon turned. “Kim! What news?”
“Message for you, sir,” Kim said, remembering just in time that she was still playing the part of an errand boy.
“Can it wait?”
Kim hesitated. What on earth was she supposed to say to that? “I think you should look at it, sir,” she answered at last.
“Ah, well. Let’s have it, then.” Mairelon held out a hand expectantly.
Kim froze. “Uh—” She couldn’t tell him straight out that Renée D’Auber had set a spell on the letter, not with Freddy Meredith sitting there, but she couldn’t let him open it without warning him, either. “Sir, I, um—”
“Bailey didn’t write it down? I see.” Mairelon shoved his chair away from the table and rose, tossing his cards faceup as he did. Kim was relieved to see that there was nothing wrong with his balance or his speech; she had been afraid that he would be as bosky as his companion. “Sorry, Meredith, but duty calls.”
Meredith muttered something and began gathering up the coins from the center of the table. Mairelon scooped his own winnings into his hand and thrust them into one of his pockets, then turned and followed Kim out of the room.
“That’s a relief!” he said as the door shut behind him. “I was wondering how to get out of there without winning too much from him. You caught on very quickly. Where’s Renée’s message?”
“Here.” Kim took the sealed paper out of her jacket. “She put a spell on it.”
“What? Nonsense! There’s no reason for her to do that.” Mairelon twitched the note out of Kim’s hand and reached for the seal. He stopped, frowning, and set his forefinger gently against the dull red wax. “You’re right, though,” he said after a moment’s concentration.
Kim let out her breath in a soundless sigh of relief. “Can you do anything about it?”
“Not here. We’ll have to take it back to the wagon.”
“You sure we should?”
Mairelon looked irritated. “There’s no other way to
find out what she’s done. I’d also like to read whatever she’s written; that is why you went to Bramingham Place, after all.”
“I was just askin’.”
Mairelon tucked the note into his breast pocket and started for the door. “There’s no point in waiting. You can tell me what happened on the walk back. Come along.”
Kim rolled her eyes, shook her head, and followed.
Between Kim’s desire to include every detail of her journey to Bramingham Place and Mairelon’s periodic interruptions, Kim’s tale took up most of the walk to the wagon. Mairelon commended Kim for avoiding the Baron St. Clair and frowned over his strong resemblance to Dan Laverham, but Kim could see that he was not giving her his full attention. When she began to speak of Bramingham Place and Renée D’Auber, however, the magician’s preoccupation vanished. Kim found this extremely annoying until she noticed Mairelon’s right hand rise to touch his breast pocket from time to time. He was more worried about that spell than he wanted to let on.
As soon as they reached the wagon, Mairelon began rummaging in the large chest. Kim sat on the floor beside the door and hugged her knees, watching with great interest. She was cold, tired, and very hungry, but she did not mention it. She was, after all, used to being cold, tired, and hungry, and if she said anything, Mairelon might remember she was there and send her away while he read Renée’s letter.
Mairelon laid a white silk scarf and a small crystal globe on the counter and closed the lid of the trunk. He turned and spread the scarf out, smoothing it carefully until not a wrinkle remained. He drew Renée D’Auber’s letter from his pocket and set it in the exact center of the scarf, with the blob of sealing wax facing him. Then he lifted the crystal globe with the tips of his fingers and set it on top of the letter. It showed a strong tendency to roll off the lumpy surface of the wax, but he got it positioned at last.
Finally he was satisfied. He raised his hands slowly and extended them, cupping them around the precariously balanced globe without touching it. He bent his head and began to whisper. The words hissed and sizzled in the confined space of the wagon, rough and saw-edged. Kim held her breath.