She knew instantly that her reaction had been too dramatic. Her surprise at encountering the man who had preoccupied her thoughts since Prudence’s revelation had made her recoil as if from a dangerous animal, and her gasp had been almost theatrical. Mr. Montague’s eyes narrowed. “Lady Ashford,” he said, “I beg your pardon.”
Clemency collected herself with a powerful exertion of will. “No, sir, it is my fault, I was not looking where I was going,” she said, striving for a light tone, apologetic and yet unconcerned, as if their collision was no more than a trifle. Someone passed between her and the building to enter the shop, and she was aware she and Mr. Montague stood in the middle of the throng, but she felt incapable of stepping out of anyone’s way, irrationally afraid Mr. Montague might attack if she moved aside.
Mr. Montague’s gaze took in the bruise and the scratches. “You appear to have had more than one collision,” he said with a smile that frightened Clemency with its lack of warmth and humor. “I hope it was not serious.”
“I struck a tree while night Flying,” Clemency said with a laugh she instantly regretted for how false it sounded. All her self-possession had deserted her; she could think only of how this man had orchestrated seven bombings in the name of his terrible cause. Looking at him, at his implacable expression, she remembered what Prudence had said of him, that he delighted in causing death, and felt ill.
“A tree,” Mr. Montague said. “Was this last night? Your injuries appear new.”
“Two nights ago,” Clemency said without thinking.
Mr. Montague’s expression grew harder. “I wonder that so skilled a flier as Lady Ashford should have such an…accident.”
Warning bells rang in Clemency’s head. “Oh, it is embarrassing,” she said, again pretending to an offhanded indifference. He suspected something, she was certain of it, and she had just linked her supposed accident to the same night as the thwarted bombing. “I do not wish to speak of it further.”
“Very well,” Mr. Montague said. “May I ask how Lady Prudence fares?”
“Lady—? Oh! She is well,” Clemency said, taken aback at the sudden change of topic.
“I enjoy speaking with her. She is quite mature for her age.” Mr. Montague’s eyes never left Clemency’s. “And possessed of some radical opinions. Most intriguing.”
“Prudence is young, and does not always know what she believes,” Clemency said.
“Ah, but the young are so passionate in their beliefs. They are not afraid to act on what they believe, too. And they achieve great change.” Mr. Montague smiled. It was a predator’s smile, toothy and malicious.
“They are also easily led, don’t you agree?” Clemency’s awareness of how half their conversation was happening below the surface loosened her tongue. “And if they listen to the wrong influences, their passion can be warped to serve the wrong master.”
The smile widened. “How unfortunate for them,” Mr. Montague said, “that they will be held responsible for their action regardless of who led them to it. One does not, after all, blame the knifemaker if a woman stabs her husband in a fit of passion. It is the woman who will go to the gallows.”
His veiled threat frightened and angered Clemency all at once. Without considering, she said hotly, “But a woman manipulated into acting on behalf of another is not ultimately guilty, and it is unjust to permit that man to walk free.”
Mr. Montague tilted his head in an expression of bewilderment. “My, my, Lady Ashford, such vehemence on behalf of a nonexistent woman! It is not as if anyone could prove that a particular someone was behind that woman’s actions. Particularly if the woman was, mmm, persuaded not to speak against him.”
“Can I not?” Fear for Prudence made her heedless of her surroundings, of the men and women passing and entering and leaving the jeweler’s. “That man would do well to fear, because there are those interested in stopping him, and I intend to see justice done. And do not approach Prudence again.”
Mr. Montague’s eyes widened in feigned dismay. “You speak as if you believe I am a threat,” he said. “Why should I wish to harm Lady Prudence? She is such an enthusiastic, clever young woman. In fact, I intend to dance with her at Almack’s Wednesday next, and have an enlightening conversation.”
Clemency took a step nearer. Mr. Montague was somewhat taller than she, but she bore down on him as if she towered over him. “You will not be in a position to dance with anyone Wednesday next. The Catterwell does not, to my knowledge, permit for much of a social life.”
To her surprise, Mr. Montague smiled as if she had just given him a great gift. Then he staggered backward, crying out loudly, “Lady Ashford, why do you attack me?”
Clemency took an involuntary step back, startled at his reaction. Two men passing stopped and turned at his exclamation. Then they shouted as a large, dark shape that screamed in terror hurtled at them and Clemency. Reflexively, Clemency caught the thing and Moved it up and away from the men before realizing it was a carriage, and the screams came from inside as well as from the horse still harnessed to it that now hung head-down, jerking against Clemency’s hold.
“Lady Ashford has gone mad!” Mr. Montague shouted. “She attacked me!”
“I, mad?” Clemency exclaimed. “You attacked me!”
The screams were growing louder, and the lady inside the carriage, unimpeded by either Clemency or Mr. Montague’s Moving, clung to the seat and kicked at the door. Mr. Montague shouted, “I won’t stay to be killed!” and ran.
Clemency made a grab for him with her Moving. Mr. Montague stumbled, caught himself on hands and knees, and wrenched away from her. Clemency tried to hold him again, feeling as if she were trying to contain wet sand that slid and slipped through her fingers. The carriage swayed wildly, and the lady inside shrieked and fainted. In Clemency’s moment of distraction, Mr. Montague twisted out of her grip once more. He caught her eye, laughing, and then turned and fled.
The fainting woman, whom Clemency had not been able to restrain, slid toward the front of the carriage. Clemency caught her now inert body and felt the carriage shift as her Moving balance altered. Cursing inwardly, she gently lowered the carriage to the ground, laid the woman to rest on its floor, and then righted the horse, holding it still so it would not injure itself in its panic. She now saw, beyond the carriage, a man in coachman’s garb lying very still where he had fallen and two other men crouching over him.
“Help!” she shouted. “I need help containing this horse!”
There was quite a crowd now, drawn by the commotion. One of the men rose from where he knelt and hurried to the horse’s head. The animal’s eyes were wild and white-ringed, and its head jerked in panic. The man put out a hand to touch the horse. “What should I do?” he asked.
“Be ready to calm him—in fact, there should be three of you,” Clemency said. “I have done this in the field—the horse is panicked, but if you soothe it, I will be able to release it and it will not run mad. But someone should release it from the carriage so the horse will not drag anything away if this goes wrong. Please, we need more men here!”
A few other men emerged tentatively from the crowd and joined the first, surrounding the frightened horse. Clemency eased her grip on it so she only held its legs with her Moving. Moving animals was only difficult in how panicked they became; they had no will to oppose hers, and she might Move the horse anywhere she chose, but if she was incautious in releasing it, it would hurt itself.
Gradually, under the calming influence of the men, the horse’s frightened movements subsided until it was only trembling. One of her helpers had worked the harness free, and Clemency gently Moved the carriage a few feet from the horse. She was peripherally aware of men and women gathering near the carriage door, but the horse was now her primary concern. She steadied its legs, holding them with the lightest touch of Moving, and watched the animal closely, observing its rapid breathing and the occasional toss of its head.
“Hold it steady now,” she said, and released her hold.
The horse took a few awkward steps as it regained its balance, but otherwise did not move. Clemency let out the breath she had been holding and shook out her hands, which were as tense as if she had held the horse in place with them instead of with Moving.
A surge of motion drew her attention back to the carriage. The gathered crowd had drawn the fainting woman out and laid her on the street, and as Clemency approached, the woman’s eyelids fluttered, and she tried to sit. Clemency considered restraining her with Moving, decided that was a bad idea, and instead knelt beside her. “Are you hurt? I see no obvious injuries.”
The woman’s eyes widened, and she shied away. “Why did you attack me?” she said in a hoarse whisper, as if she wished to shout but could not manage it. “I might have died!”
“It could not have been this lady,” one of the bystanders said. “She would hardly have flung your carriage through the air with Moving and then stayed to repair the damage and save the horse.”
Clemency had, in her haste, temporarily forgotten Mr. Montague’s odd behavior. “That was—” she began, then thought better of announcing Mr. Montague’s secret identity in public. That would cause more of a panic than the flying carriage had. And she did not believe she could tell even part of the truth without entangling herself in explanations that would prevent her making her rendezvous. Capturing Mr. Montague now was likely out of the question, after so many delays.
“I do not know why that man pretended I was the one attacking,” she declared, “but it is certainly true that he was the one who Moved the carriage. I caught it when he flung it at me and those gentlemen.”
“But he claimed you attacked him,” a weedy little man said. “I heard his words myself.”
“Perhaps he believed I was someone else,” Clemency said. “Or he is mad. Really, I must go.”
“A madman? Unlikely,” said the weedy little man. “I say you attacked him.”
“Don’t be a fool,” said the first bystander. “That makes no sense. An Extraordinary, attacking another Mover on a public street? It’s absurd.”
“Thank you,” Clemency said. She stood and brushed off her divided skirts. “Madam, are you well? I fear I cannot stay to see you to a hospital, or to your home.”
“I won’t be touched by you,” the woman said as several people helped her to her feet. Most of them got in the way of the others, and ultimately the woman had to fight her way free of the crowd to stand unsupported. “I am not certain you did not have something to do with this attack. Perhaps you did not Move my carriage, but if not, that other Mover must have had a reason to attack you.”
Clemency’s gratitude faded, replaced by irritation. “I have said I do not know what motivated him,” she said, as politely as she could manage. “Perhaps you might consider what would have happened to your horse and carriage, as well as to yourself, had I not been present when he Moved you.”
The woman shrugged. “He would not have Moved us had he not wished to hurt you. So it is ultimately on your head.”
Clemency felt the seconds slipping away from her and made a decision. “Madam,” she said, walking slowly toward the woman, “I am Lady Ashford, and while I sympathize with your justifiable anger, I refuse to permit you to place the blame on me. You have suffered a tremendous shock and I believe you should return home to rest.” She gestured at the carriage and to the driver, standing next to it now. He had been the fallen man, she realized, and was relieved that he, too, seemed not seriously injured.
“Your carriage is undamaged,” she continued, “your horse unhurt, and in all I daresay this is the best conclusion to a terrible ordeal that anyone might expect. Now, if you don’t mind, I believe I should find the man who is responsible and see that he is brought to justice.”
She glared at the woman and was pleased to see her duck her head away from Clemency’s gaze. Then she leapt into the air and Flew straight up, wishing to put as much distance between herself and the crowd as possible.
It was unlikely Mr. Montague had remained on the streets to be captured, but Clemency Flew along the path he had taken, surveying the ground. Almost immediately, the street outside Harrell’s jeweler’s shop crossed another, broader street, one crowded with pedestrians, carriages, and horses. Clemency swept a wide circle over the intersection, but it was no use. Frustrated, she Flew toward the Rutledges’ house.
With nothing to do but remember the confrontation, Clemency became increasingly angry—with Mr. Montague, of course, but also with herself. Had she not given herself away, had she not given her anger free rein and revealed that she knew Mr. Montague’s secret identity, she might have manipulated him into giving away information she could use—no, that she could give to Mr. Rutledge. Now, not only did Mr. Montague know that his secret was revealed, he had escaped and might be anywhere in London. Clemency silently berated herself for her foolishness.
She alit in front of the Rutledges’ door at three minutes and seventeen seconds to eleven o’clock and stood for a moment, pretending to herself she needed to regain her breath. She was alone on the street, and everything was so still she might have imagined herself in a distant land, far from the bustle of London.
The rows of houses lining the street looked perfectly ordinary until one noticed how broad their faces were, with the doors set so widely apart one might have fit two average houses in the space between. Ornamental lintels of grey stone decorated the windows, preventing the street from seeming a canyon of blank stone, featureless and dull.
Each door had its own Grecian-style porch, complete with ornate carvings of men and women draped in Greek robes. Clemency glanced at a handful of them, curious: indeed, every porch was unique. She was wealthy enough, and Emeraude House was beautiful, but this was the sort of understated beauty that declared its owners were accustomed to true wealth.
She approached the door and rang the bell, then composed herself to wait. One could tell so much about a person by how she answered her door. Sending the butler immediately put oneself in a subservient, eager position; making the guest wait suggested indifference, or a desire to maintain the upper hand. Clemency had sometimes considered whether there was a limit to how long one might make a guest wait, and what it did to the balance of power, so to speak, if one overshot the mark. She did not take out her pocket watch; the door would open when Mrs. Rutledge chose, and Clemency had no power over her.
The door opened—not so soon as to be eager, not too delayed as to be arrogant—and an elderly man, somewhat stoop-shouldered and with thick white hair, peered out at Clemency. “Lady Ashford,” he said, his voice stronger than she would have guessed from his appearance. “Pray, enter.”
Clemency entered and immediately had to restrain an impulse to gasp. She had never seen a house so elegant and finely constructed as this that was not a royal holding. Only two windows illuminated the foyer, and that not well due to the wan sunlight fighting the overcast, but that light was enough to show rich mahogany paneling and a pillared first story balcony. A broad, curved freestanding staircase, a marvel of engineering, swept up to that balcony, suggesting grand entrances and women in archaic full skirts descending. The stillness of the street had penetrated to this room, and Clemency breathed lightly, not wishing to disturb the quiet.
“Mrs. Rutledge will see you in the Eastern drawing room,” the butler said. Clemency followed his halting steps across the black and white tiled floor and tried not to become impatient at his slow pace. Unlit halls led away from the foyer, but the butler ascended the beautiful staircase instead.
Clemency had plenty of time to look about her. She knew very little of architecture, but she could compare this to Emeraude House and conclude that the Rutledges’ home was very new, surely no more than ten years old; it lacked the small details that said the architect had restored an older house but left earlier elements in place. Again, Clemency was impressed at the probable size of the Rutledges’ fortune. An Extraordinary Seer was likely very wealthy in any case, but to have a home such as this required a great deal more than “very wealthy.”
The first floor hall was more brightly lit than the foyer, lined with lamps in sconces that shed their light over paintings lining the hall. Again, the butler’s pace was such that Clemency had plenty of leisure to examine the paintings. Some were portraits done by masters; others were oils depicting, not pastoral landscapes, but classical subjects, mostly famous battles. Clemency did not know what to make of those decorating choices. Certainly these were valuable paintings, but from what little she knew of Mr. Rutledge, she did not believe he would choose art at random simply because it was expensive. And she had no reason to believe Mrs. Rutledge less canny than her husband.
Her soft Flying boots made little sound on the carpet, and the butler’s tread was only a little louder, so when he opened a door on the right, the snick of the latch sounded like rifle fire in the stillness. “Mrs. Rutledge,” he said, “Lady Ashford.”
Clemency entered the room and paused just past the threshold. Technically, Mrs. Rutledge should be introduced to her, however wealthy and talented she was, but Clemency had never been one to stand on ceremony when it did not benefit her. And she remembered Mrs. Rutledge, in any case: the woman just rising from the settee was familiar, her ruddy hair seeming darker in the pale light from the windows, her gaze as intent as Clemency recalled. She had put on weight since the last time Clemency had seen her, and her movements were more contained, less gawky.
“Lady Ashford,” Mrs. Rutledge said. “Pray, have a seat. Mr. Rutledge will join us shortly.”
Clemency sat on a nearby chair and made herself as comfortable as her nerves would permit. She immediately saw why the butler had referred to the room as the “Eastern drawing room;” the furniture, wall hangings, and rugs showed the influence of the Orient in their design and arrangement. It reminded Clemency of Jane Pilgrim’s father’s house, and she suppressed a pang of sadness at the memory.
“I appreciate your generosity,” she said. “I realize my request is odd.”
“Indeed,” Mrs. Rutledge said with a smile. “But I assumed you would not have approached me so openly if you were interested in an illicit liaison with my husband.”
Her directness startled and embarrassed Clemency. She nearly protested when she registered the gleam in the woman’s eyes and realized Mrs. Rutledge had made that indelicate remark as a test. “I seek only for information,” she said. “But were I so lost to decency, I hope I would not be so foolish.”
Mrs. Rutledge’s smile broadened. “No, you would not,” she said. “How long have you been home from your War Office service?”
“These two months.”
“And they have been tumultuous months, I expect.” Mrs. Rutledge leaned back against the settee, her gaze never leaving Clemency’s face. “I have heard of your troubles. An illicit, Coerced affair. A challenge to your title. But that is not why you requested this audience.”
“I should speak only to Mr. Rutledge,” Clemency said. “I beg your pardon, but it is a private matter—”
“And you do not know how much I know of my husband’s affairs,” Mrs. Rutledge said. “I understand perfectly. And I do not expect you to change your mind, even if I tell you I am deep in Mr. Rutledge’s confidences. I might be lying to gain your confidence.”
“I would not call you a liar.”
“And I would not be offended if you did.” Mrs. Rutledge’s smile faded. “I imagine,” she went on in a slow, contemplative manner, “you never expected to be forced to defend your rights a second time.”
“Nor the first time,” Clemency said. “My father believed he had arranged things to everyone’s satisfaction. We did not imagine my brother would not be satisfied.”
“I followed your suit with great interest. After my first husband’s death, I inherited his property, but there was a distant relation who wished to lay claim to it. My case was not as dramatic as yours—an Extraordinary Seer has more clout than an Extraordinary Mover, you know—but I felt sympathy for you nonetheless.”
“Thank you,” Clemency said, feeling awkward. She would prefer not to speak of her past or even her present woes when her worry over Prudence and Mr. Montague was so much more immediate. But it occurred to her that enlisting Mrs. Rutledge on her side might benefit her with Mr. Rutledge, if the Extraordinary Seer was actually in his confidences as she claimed.
“I don’t suppose—that is, are you familiar with a Captain Falconer?” she asked, feeling inspired. “He was with the 95th Rifles before selling his commission.”
Mrs. Rutledge’s eyes narrowed. “I am not,” she said. “Is he someone of importance?”
“Only to myself,” Clemency replied. “He and his wife know the facts of my case and would be invaluable witnesses on my behalf.”
“I see,” Mrs. Rutledge said. “It sickens me that you should be forced to defend yourself against vile calumny. You were Coerced; that should be the end of it.” One hand closed into a fist as if Clemency’s accusers were present for her to beat. “But to men, such doings are either unthinkable and therefore a lie, or unconnected to them and therefore unimportant. I imagine they would not be so quick to believe the worst of a woman if they were vulnerable to the same attack.”
Clemency did not know what to say to that. She ducked her head and hoped she was not too red with embarrassment.
“I apologize,” Mrs. Rutledge said. “I am often too direct for other people’s comfort. Forgive my bluntness—I mean only to express my support.”
“I understand.” Clemency still could not bring herself to meet Mrs. Rutledge’s eyes.
The door opened again, and as Clemency turned to see Mr. Rutledge standing in the doorway, Mrs. Rutledge said, “Ah, there you are. I never expect you to be so punctual, sir. Have you that much interest in Lady Ashford’s information?”
Mr. Rutledge took a step forward so he loomed over Clemency. “Not as much,” he said, “as I have in discovering why she persists in interfering in my investigation.”