From the commonplace book of Lady Schofield

23 August 1817

Paris

At Lady Sylvia’s house

WE TOOK OUR TIME about leaving the Lion d’Or yesterday. James was in fine spirits and in as good health as might be expected, but since the journey was to be so short, we made it a very leisurely one. Even so, by the end of the afternoon I was very glad to be settled at last in Lady Sylvia’s Paris house. It is an elegant place of considerable age, not far from the Madeleine, the new church they’re building to look like a Greek temple. However noble the architectural history that went into its design, Uncle Arthur would still be scandalized by the sight. Its stone is raw and glaringly new. In fact, everything about it looks new. Even when it is finished, I expect it will keep that jarring effect. I would not have thought I had an opinion in the matter, but I find I am not in any doubt. A Greek temple should not look new.

Lady Sylvia was as good as her word. At dinner, we were joined by her friends, Mr. Lennox and Mr. Reardon. Both men are far closer in age to Thomas and James than to any of Lady Sylvia’s friends we’ve met so far. Initially, I assumed from their names that Mr. Lennox was Scottish and Mr. Reardon was Irish, but there was nothing in their speech or manner to betray any provincial origin at all. Mr. Lennox is more wiry than Mr. Reardon, but they are of a height and share similarly nondescript coloring. Indeed, I had a difficult time remembering which was which. I finally settled myself to remember that Mr. Reardon’s neckcloth was a thought more elegant. Heaven help me when I meet them again. They will have changed clothes. I’ll have to start all over.

Both the short notice of the invitation and the state of James’s health—although he made light of the exertions of the day’s travel—made informality desirable. After dinner, we all repaired to the drawing room, where Lady Sylvia and Thomas made sure that our meeting was protected from all other eyes and ears.

When the protection spell was set, Mr. Lennox and Mr. Reardon brought forth a map of Paris and a sheaf of papers, all of which they deposited on the mahogany table in front of Lady Sylvia.

“We used the cap you sent us, Lady Sylvia,” Mr. Lennox said, “and for the first three days it worked very well.”

“Simple directional spell,” Mr. Reardon added. “Good thing it was an old cap. Plenty of sympathetic vibrations to work with.”

“By the third day we had located the owner of the cap to within a few hundred yards, at a lodging house in a down-at-heels part of town. It didn’t seem wise to press matters further. We just kept an eye on things at that distance.” Mr. Lennox tapped the map. “That night there was a disturbance.”

“Quite an embarrassment,” said Mr. Reardon. “We should have realized we weren’t the only ones keeping a watch on the place.”

“We did our best with limited resources,” Mr. Lennox told him. It sounded to me as if they’d had the same discussion several times before. “We did what we could.”

Mr. Reardon gave Mr. Lennox a small shrug that might have been agreement.

Mr. Lennox continued. “We lost all sympathetic vibrations through the cap. Fortunately, the owner of the place raised a hue and cry when he discovered the disturbance. We rushed in but it was too late. The man who owned the cap was dead. The intruders, whoever they were, got away.”

“On the floor beside our man was another corpse, a gentleman of considerable means, to judge from his clothing.” Mr. Reardon selected a sheet of paper from the sheaf on the table and held it out to Thomas. “This was in his pocket.”

Thomas took the sheet. As he read it, his jaw tightened and his eyes grew cold. “My God. Is this genuine? Do you have anything to corroborate the identification?”

Mr. Lennox looked regretful. “He’d been robbed, of course. If he had letters of credit with him, or anything else that would have identified him beyond a doubt, they were gone by the time we got there.”

Thomas held out the paper to Lady Sylvia. “It’s a letter to Sir Hilary Bedrick.” While Lady Sylvia read the letter, Thomas turned back to Lennox and Reardon. “I want to see the body.”

Mr. Reardon winced. “Ah. I thought you might. Unfortunately, the weather has been rather warm for the time of year. Both bodies were buried Friday. We’ve encountered similar situations and have found that it sometimes helps to sketch the victim as well as the crime scene. I am no hand with a pencil, but I did the best likeness I could under the circumstances.” Mr. Reardon handed Thomas another sheet of paper.

We all craned forward to see. I perceived Mr. Reardon had underestimated his artistic abilities. Though rough, the unfinished likeness was unmistakably that of Sir Hilary. A grim silence fell over the room as we absorbed this news.

Sir Hilary Bedrick had caused Lady Sylvia and Thomas great grief. He had intended further misdeeds. He’d planned to murder James and to send Cecy mad. He was a man of ability, authority, strength, and learning. He had misused all of that in every possible way. Because he was stripped of his magic and sent into exile, perhaps it was inevitable he would come to a bad end. Still, that made it no less shocking to be presented with evidence of his involvement in our current puzzle.

Cecy was the first to break the silence. “How on earth did Sir Hilary reach Paris so quickly? Mr. Brummell said he hadn’t arrived in Calais.”

“There are other Channel ports.” Lady Sylvia folded the letter and put it back. “Sir Hilary’s correspondent, who signs his letter most discreetly with the mere letter X, promises help in a project of Sir Hilary’s, and urges him to make haste to the room he’d hired for him. A room where he met our attacker, presumably. I assume the address is the same?”

Mr. Lennox nodded. “No one remembers who engaged the room. It’s the sort of place no one remembers anything unless they are compelled to.”

“Not that we didn’t try to compel them.” Mr. Reardon unfolded his sketch of the crime scene. “The table had been overturned, but from the number of broken mugs and the position of the freshest stains on the table, four men sat around having drinks.”

“How do you know they were men?” Cecy asked.

Slowly Mr. Reardon’s ears turned a deep yet delicate shade of pink. “I… I…”

Mr. Lennox attempted a rescue. “We surmise that they were men, as the nature of the place makes it unlikely that any of the women who might frequent the premises would be invited to—” Confronted by Cecy’s expression of candid interest, Mr. Lennox cleared his throat and fell silent.

“They are fallen women, you mean? Soiled doves?” Cecy prompted. “I know just what you mean—”

James had mercy on Mr. Lennox and interrupted her. “He means, I gather, that it is most likely to have been a man who sat at that table to talk on terms of equality with Sir Hilary and our subject.”

“More likely, perhaps—” Cecy broke off. “James, you look so tired. Are you quite sure you are not—”

James was gentle, yet firm. “I am entirely positive. I’m quite all right.”

Cecy subsided.

“Neatly phrased, James, but Sir Hilary never deemed anyone to be on terms of equality with him,” said Thomas. “If we accept this reading of the situation, it wasn’t a straightforward attack, was it?”

“By no means,” Mr. Lennox answered. “More likely a case of thieves falling out. From the injuries inflicted on our subject, we believe that Sir Hilary had a knife. Someone else had a blunt instrument, but he took it away with him once he used it on Sir Hilary.”

“Four men, you said.” James looked thoughtful. “Sir Hilary killed our footpad, possibly in self-defense. Someone else killed Sir Hilary. What of the fourth?”

“From the nature of Sir Hilary’s injuries,” said Mr. Lennox, “the fourth man was involved in rendering him immobile.”

“One held him down,” Mr. Reardon summed up, “while the other killed him.”

The blunt words rendered us all silent for some time. I would not dare to guess what was going through anyone else’s mind. To me, however, it seemed not unjust that Sir Hilary, who had sacrificed so many to his thirst for power, had died like an animal in the slaughterhouse.

Mr. Lennox broke the mood at last. “By the time we arrived, there were no valuables of any kind at the scene. The Sainte Ampoule was gone.”

“If it was ever there to begin with,” said Cecy.

“Oh, I think it was.” Lady Sylvia wore her most thoughtful look. “I think it must have been. That is why the thieves fell out, I think.”

“You think Sir Hilary was the one to hire the men who attacked us?” Thomas asked. “But how could he have known we had the chrism?”

“He couldn’t have known.” Lady Sylvia looked as stern as I have ever seen her. “He had been stripped of his magic. He blamed us for that, quite rightly, I’m pleased to say. In his impotent rage, he hired footpads. I think the project Sir Hilary enlisted X’s help with must have been the attack upon us.”

“That would explain the illness that incapacitated the three of us,” said Cecy. “Sir Hilary would have known he couldn’t send footpads to attack wizards without doing something about the wizards first.”

“Sir Hilary could not have cast that spell, nor any other,” I said. “Not if he’d been stripped of his power.”

“X seems mighty confident he could help Sir Hilary in his project,” said Thomas. “Perhaps we have X to thank for that nasty bit of magic.”

“To be quite sure of that, first we must find X,” said Cecy.

“But how?” James sounded fatigued by the very thought of the search for such a needle in a haystack, and I could not help but sympathize.

Cecy unfolded the letter and offered it to Lady Sylvia.

“How odd are the harmonics in this, I wonder? It may be able to tell us something about X.”

Lady Sylvia took the letter and looked at it appraisingly, then held it out to Lennox and Reardon. “Gentlemen? Will you work with us on this matter?”

Mr. Reardon merely nodded, but Mr. Lennox said, “It will be our pleasure, only I must warn you, the process will take some time.”

“That’s good,” said Cecy, “because we will need to stay here in Paris for some time. Now that we’re finally here, we have several important things to do. But the most important thing right now is to prevent James from overexerting himself. May we meet again tomorrow? First thing in the morning, perhaps?”

Mr. Lennox seemed amused by James’s faint air of discomfiture. “By all means. For now, we shall adjourn. Lady Sylvia, I’ll leave the documents in your care.”

24 August 1817

Paris

At Lady Sylvia’s house

Yesterday morning I left Thomas sleeping and came down to breakfast at the same time Cecy did. I tried to think how long it had been since the two of us had been given the chance of a quiet moment together. It seemed like years.

“How is James?” I asked, as soon as we’d been brought our breakfast and left to ourselves.

“Much better. He made his valet sharpen the razor twice when he was being shaved this morning. He’s much more like himself.” Cecy stirred sugar into her tea, buttered half her croissant, and set to with a will. You’d never guess it from her trim figure, but Cecy heartily appreciates her meals. “I think Paris agrees with him.”

I said, “It’s lovely to be settled for a bit. We can all use the rest.”

Cecy’s mouth was full, so she just nodded. As soon she could, she said, “It is lovely here. But we won’t have a chance to rest long. We have things to do. For one thing, we must find maids. We can’t go on borrowing Lady Sylvia’s servants forever and ever.”

Maids. My heart sank at the thought. “Oh, dear. I suppose so.”

“And we simply must do some shopping. We can’t pay calls and collect gossip wearing London modes—not in Paris! And in the matter of gossip, have Mr. Reardon and Mr. Lennox called yet?”

Sometimes I forget that I was the one who had a London Season, not Cecy. “Of course not. It’s hours and hours until anyone would dream of calling on us here.”

Cecy looked puzzled. “Mr. Lennox did say first thing in the morning, didn’t he?”

“You and I are used to first thing in the morning in the country. First thing in the morning in the city is a very different pair of shoes,” I explained. “That’s one reason we’re having breakfast by ourselves.”

“Indeed? I thought it a trifle odd.” Cecy finished her tea. “I hope they don’t waste half the day getting here. Though they did leave the letter with Lady Sylvia. That might be lucky. I suppose if they’re dreadfully late, we could start without them.”

“I don’t know how much useful information they’ll be able to get out of an anonymous letter.” I poured us each another cup.

“Of course you don’t. Neither do I. But Lady Sylvia’s experienced in these matters, and she seemed to think it was well worth a try. Mr. Lennox and Mr. Reardon did very well with that cap.”

“They seem quite young to be friends of Lady Sylvia’s,” I observed.

“They do, don’t they? Perhaps they’re related to someone she knew in her youth, back when she and the Bishop of Amiens were having adventures.” Cecy helped herself to another croissant. “Do you suppose it will seem as peculiar to our children, years from now, to think of us having adventures?”

I thought it over. “It doesn’t seem at all peculiar that Lady Sylvia had adventures in her youth. She’s having them now, after all. But I admit I don’t see how it could possibly seem as peculiar as the idea that the Bishop of Amiens had adventures in his youth.”

Cecy laughed. “It’s hard to imagine the youth, let alone the adventures. But I’m sure we’ll seem just as sedate and dignified in years to come, when we’re having breakfast with children as old as we are now.”

I thought of my parents, long dead, and of Cecy’s Mama, whom she scarcely remembered, and I wondered what it would be like to sit at breakfast with them. I couldn’t imagine it. “I’m sure you’ll seem sedate and dignified to them. I doubt anyone will ever find me either one.”

“Oh, Kate. Don’t be so sure. After all, there will be Thomas’s influence at work.” Cecy’s eyes danced as she said this, for Thomas had entered the room as I was speaking.

“What’s this about my influence?” Thomas asked as he was served with coffee and croissants. “Ever a force for good, I assure you.”

“We were just wondering if we’d ever seem as sedate and dignified as the Bishop of Amiens,” I explained.

Thomas gave a great crack of laughter. “Don’t let the odor of sanctity deceive you. I think there’s a good bit of mischief left in the old boy yet. If anyone can bring it out, it will be Mother. I wonder how many more of the League we’ll meet before we’re done? Probably a good many of them are still right here in the city.”

Cecy said, “I thought the League of the Pimpernel existed only to save victims from the guillotine during the Terror.”

“That’s how it began,” said Thomas. “Once the Terror was over, the members were able to rest in safety. Yet the need to defend the innocent never ends. There will always be work for those of us who wish to use our wits against the enemy.”

“Napoleon Bonaparte, I take it, was the most recent enemy?” I inquired.

“One of many,” Thomas replied. “As the shape of the world has changed, the demands upon the League changed, too. There isn’t always agreement among the members concerning who the enemy is. But there is always an enemy somewhere.”

“Do Mr. Reardon and Mr. Lennox have any connection to the League?” I asked. “I was wondering how your Mother came to call upon them for help.”

“Mother’s social circle has always been wide.” Thomas went through his first croissant with as much speed and enthusiasm as Cecy. “She keeps her eyes open for competency, particularly in magic.”

“Will they be back soon, do you think?” asked Cecy. “They did say first thing in the morning.”

“Oh, they’ve been and gone already,” said Thomas.

Cecy gave me a look and I felt my fine air of sophistication about my London Season droop and fade. I felt slightly better when Thomas continued.

“Unaccountable, coming around so early. Mother said she didn’t think they’d been to bed at all. She dealt with them and sent them on their way before I was up. Don’t worry. They’ll be back. This will be a long process.” Thomas handed me a note. “Mr. Reardon left this for you, Kate. Mother mentioned you were hoping to engage a maid while you were here. It seems Mr. Reardon has a cousin.”

I read the note while Thomas demolished his second croissant. It was from someone named Emily Reardon, who begged me for the privilege of calling upon me to apply for a position as my maid. I felt my spirits sink. “Oh, dear.”

Thomas patted my hand. “Take heart, my tea cake. She speaks perfect French, Mr. Reardon says, but she was born in Gloucestershire. You won’t need to speak anything but English to her.”

Cecy looked horrified. “Kate, you can’t. You simply cannot travel all the way to Paris to engage a maid from Gloucestershire. It won’t do.”

“Kate must do precisely as she pleases,” Thomas reminded Cecy, as he divided the last croissant with her.

Cecy said, “Well, of course she must. But it’s such a waste. Do pass the butter.”

25 August 1817

Paris

At Lady Sylvia’s house

Miss Emily Reardon called upon me yesterday. She is a few years older than I, a young woman of the most reserved demeanor. According to her cousin Mr. Reardon, her father (that is, Mr. Reardon’s uncle) was under the authority of Monsieur Champollion when that distinguished scholar was in Egypt to record and study the cryptic inscriptions of the ancients. Unfortunately, his constitution was unequal to the rigors of the Egyptian climate. He died before he could return to France. Miss Reardon has been in service ever since the small inheritance he left her was exhausted. She is, by any reckoning, an experienced lady’s maid.

After the opening pleasantries had been concluded, I dared to ask, “Forgive me for my impertinence, but you seem to dress very simply yourself. Is that your preference?” Or was it financial necessity? I left the words unsaid but they hung in the air between us. I had to ask, for everything about Emily Reardon was the model of severity, from her pelisse to her unornamented gown to the slippers she wore, plain and well worn.

Miss Emily Reardon was entirely composed. “I assure you, I am expert in achieving the dress and hairstyles favored by ladies of fashion, though I do not affect such things myself.”

I liked the way she looked me in the eye. She seemed not the least impressed by the grandeur of Lady Sylvia’s house, though her manners were unexceptionable. It was clear that she wanted and needed the position, but she would do nothing to make it seem she was pleading for it. There was a fine stoicism about her. I found myself wishing I had a turn for stoicism myself. Perhaps it can be learned.

It seemed a tempting proposition, engaging Emily Reardon. In addition to her own qualifications, she would spare me the onerous task of meeting other prospective maids.

“When would you be able to start?” I asked.

Emily Reardon’s eyes lit up. “At once, Lady Schofield.”

I stated the terms of employment (bless Lady Sylvia for going over the finer points with me before I arranged the interview), and Emily Reardon consented to them with every sign of pleasure. I decided she might not be as stoic as I had assumed.

I have engaged her to start tomorrow morning, for I do not feel I can go immediately into the happy state of having a maid. I need a few hours to get used to the idea first.

When Emily Reardon was gone, I did a brief dance across the drawing room and went to find Cecy.

“I suppose it will have to do,” Cecy decided, when I’d recounted my ordeal to her. “Reardon’s only your first maid, after all. You can always hire a French maid next time.”

“You can show me how it’s done,” I said, while privately promising myself I would stick to Emily Reardon even if she were as unaccountable as Thomas’s man Piers.

From the deposition of Mrs. James Tarleton, &c.

As soon as I was able, I cornered Lady Sylvia regarding shopping. This was not immediately possible, as a number of business and household matters had arisen during her long absence from Paris, which required her attention. It was not until early afternoon, the day after Kate had engaged her maid, that the three of us had a chance to consult. We had just begun discussing the best time to visit the modiste, when a footman entered to announce a visitor.

“Captain Reginald Winters,” the footman said.

We all rose and curtseyed acknowledgment of the sandy-haired man in his twenties, in full dress uniform including a neat military mustache, who entered on the footman’s words.

“Captain,” Lady Sylvia said, “I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure of your acquaintance.”

“I am certainly the loser by it, Madam,” the Captain said, bowing over her hand with stiff formality. “But I am afraid I am not here on a social call. The Duke was much disturbed to hear of your encounter; he has been at some trouble to see the roads around the city made safe. He sent me to make certain you have suffered no ill effects from your unfortunate adventure, and to assure you that everything possible is being done to apprehend the miscreants.”

“His Grace is all consideration,” Lady Sylvia murmured. She studied him a moment, and I thought her eyes twinkled. “No doubt you wish the particulars.”

Captain Winters seemed taken aback by this forthright comment. “I do not wish to distress you, ladies,” he said uncertainly.

“So you shan’t,” Lady Sylvia responded. “Raoul, ask the gentlemen to join us, please.”

The footman bowed and left. Lady Sylvia presented Kate and me, and we resumed our seats. The Captain seemed relieved by this return to social normality, but his relief did not last long. Lady Sylvia apparently had a large acquaintance among the Army of Occupation and the poor man was hard-pressed to keep up with her queries about the current activities of all of them.

The sitting room door swung open at last, and James and Thomas came in. The Captain rose and turned.

“Reggie!” James said. “Haven’t you sold out yet?”

“Obviously not,” Thomas said. “And someone appears to have had the bad taste to promote him.”

“Bad taste?” Captain Winters responded with mock indignation. “No such thing! This is purely a matter of ability.”

“Primarily your ability to find excellent wine for your commanding officers, even on bivouac, I expect,” James said. “Don’t you agree, Thomas?”

“Undoubtedly.” Thomas studied Captain Winters. “Which puts me in mind of the fact that you still owe me that dozen bottles you promised after that dice game in Le Havre. And I’m sure you’ve been in Paris long enough to have found the best sources.”

I believe they would have continued in this vein for some time had Lady Sylvia not called them to order. “While it is pleasant to observe the reunion of old friends, Captain Winters is here on business,” she informed Thomas.

“Business?” James said to the Captain.

“Investigating the attack on your carriage is my responsibility, for my sins,” Captain Winters said, raking a hand through his hair. “The army has officially turned that sort of thing over to the new French government, of course, but unofficially we’re still the ones everyone looks to when it’s a matter of public safety. And I’m the liaison for the City of Paris and environs, which puts this squarely in my lap.”

“You are supposed to find out who shot James?” Thomas said skeptically.

“Among other things. There’s been a rash of murders down in the Rue St. Roch; bad area, mostly fallings-out among thieves, but we still have to make sure there’s nothing more in it than that. There are at least two groups of Bonapartists plotting to take advantage of the split in the government—one lot seems to be preparing to assassinate the Duc de Berry; the other looks like it’s trying to suborn the leader of the Estates-Generale. Someone broke into the Sainte Chapelle two nights ago. And with the London Haut Ton flocking back to Paris, I have at least three ladies a day fluttering into my office to complain about something that isn’t satisfactory—the noise, the way the coach traffic was handled before their grande soirée, something.” He gave James a fulminating look. “If you’d had the least consideration, you’d have got yourself shot just outside Amiens and dropped this in someone else’s lap.”

“It does sound as if you are very busy, Captain,” Lady Sylvia said composedly. “And with such a variety of things, too. Murders and assassinations certainly sound much more pressing than a mere holdup or a break-in.”

I did not consider the shooting of my husband to be a mere anything, and I was about to say so when Thomas shifted slightly. Both Kate and James stiffened in reaction, and Kate gave me a warning glance. I swallowed the remark I had been about to make, just as Thomas said, “Yes, what was that about the Sainte Chapelle?”

“Bonapartists, most likely,” the Captain replied. “There are still plenty of people who aren’t happy with the restoration, particularly the way the Bourbon has been running it, and the Sainte Chapelle used to be the royal chapel.”

“Used to be?” Kate said.

“It’s been used for storage since the Terror, and the new court hasn’t had it cleared out yet.”

“Sounds like a prime bait for thieves,” James commented.

Captain Winters shrugged. “You’d think so, but all this lot did was shove some crates around and make a mess. That’s why I think it was some of those—lunatics.”

“A mess?” I said. “It doesn’t sound as if it was very tidy to begin with. How could you tell?”

“Hah! You couldn’t miss it. Ashes and wax all over everything, and that awful stale smell you get from old incense.”

“Some sort of ceremony?” Lady Sylvia mused. “I trust your wizards have been over the area carefully. If the chapel was associated with the monarch, someone may have been attempting a spell to interfere with them.”

“We thought of that, my lady,” the Captain said. “But the wizards say there’s no significant magical residue.”

Thomas pounced on the phrasing. “No significant residue?”

Captain Winters rolled his eyes. “Oh, come, Thomas, you remember what these people are like. Most of them don’t have any training—half of ’em can’t even read their native tongue, let alone Latin or Greek. There are a few kitchen magicians and hedge wizards around, but the real wizards were murdered in the Terror, or left the country to escape Madame la Guillotine. The ones who are left have about as much ability as James here. They were probably trying to cast some sort of spell, but they didn’t succeed.”

“And a good thing, too, I am sure,” Lady Sylvia put in. “But we must not keep you from your duties, Captain, however pleasant the discussion. I believe you wanted to know more about our little holdup?”

“If you please, my lady,” Captain Winters said.

Lady Sylvia nodded and embarked on a severely edited summary of our adventure. She made no mention of the Sainte Ampoule, nor of the suspiciously convenient disability suffered by all of the wizards in our party, nor of the cap the last fleeing ruffian had left behind, nor of Sir Hilary Bedrick, nor of any of Mr. Lennox and Mr. Reardon’s discoveries, and she contrived to give the impression that we had been set upon by quite ordinary highwaymen.

Captain Winters paid close attention to Lady Sylvia during this recitation, which was a very good thing. If he had glanced at Kate, he would surely have realized that he was not getting the whole story. Kate’s face was a study. I don’t believe she’d ever had to cope with someone else telling bouncers—Georgina and I always left that to her, because she is so very good at it. So Kate had never before had to listen and nod with a straight face, and she was caught completely unawares.

Fortunately, by the time Lady Sylvia finished, Kate had schooled her expression. Naturally, we all confirmed what Lady Sylvia had said, and then Thomas and James made arrangements to meet with Captain Winters the following afternoon to discuss wine and reminisce. The Captain departed at last, and we were left alone.

“I can see where Thomas gets his tendency to withhold information,” James commented at last. “That was a masterful rearrangement of the facts, Lady Sylvia. I don’t think I’ve seen a better spur-of-the-moment job.”

“That’s only because you haven’t heard Kate when she’s in top form,” Thomas said. “Mother, what are you up to?”

“I should think that was obvious, Thomas. If there is any connection between the Sainte Ampoule and this incident at the Sainte Chapelle, the situation could be far more serious than your friend is capable of dealing with.” Lady Sylvia tapped her fingers thoughtfully against her teacup.

“But I thought, from what Captain Winters said, that even if someone did a spell at Sainte Chapelle, it couldn’t have been successful,” I said. “Wouldn’t the army wizards have been able to tell if it was?”

“If it was an ordinary spell, most certainly,” Lady Sylvia said. “But there are some ceremonies that do not leave a normal magical residue yet still have profound consequences.”

“Coronation ceremonies, for example?” Thomas said.

“That is certainly one example,” Lady Sylvia replied with unimpaired calm. “I do not think a coronation was the reason for the unpleasantness at the Sainte Chapelle, however.”

“Why not?” I asked. “With the Sainte Ampoule missing…”

“A coronation ceremony of the sort I had in mind requires considerably more than holy oil to be effective,” Lady Sylvia said.

“So there would be no point in using the Sainte Ampoule alone,” Thomas said.

“None whatever,” Lady Sylvia answered.

“Which leaves us with the question of what the vandals were up to,” I said.

“Leaves us?” James put in pointedly.

“Leaves you and Thomas, at least,” Lady Sylvia said serenely. “I expect that there will be opportunities for you to discuss his job with Captain Winters tomorrow, and perhaps you can discover some additional details. It would be extremely reassuring if we could be certain that whatever occurred in the Sainte Chapelle did not involve the Sainte Ampoule.”

“If you want an investigation, it would be better to ask Reggie,” James said, though he sounded a bit doubtful. “He is the official in charge.”

Thomas shook his head. “Nonsense. Reggie Winters hasn’t the slightest notion how to handle things quietly.”

“And you do?”

“I have a much better notion of it than Reggie.”

James frowned. “I don’t like it. This should be dealt with by the proper authorities.”

“I entirely agree,” Lady Sylvia said. “But I doubt that Captain Winters has quite enough authority to be proper, in these circumstances.”

“Who would you consider—” Thomas stopped short. “Mother, you wouldn’t. Not even you—”

“Don’t blither, Thomas. I am speaking of the Duke of Wellington, naturally. How fortunate that I have the custom of giving a card party whenever I return to Paris.” Lady Sylvia smiled. “I shall have to sort through the invitations we have received to see which evening would be best. An unintentional conflict would never do.”

“Whereas intentional conflicts are the done thing?” Thomas said.

“Only when I do them, dear.”

James was looking at Lady Sylvia with a fascinated expression. “The Duke is an old friend, I presume?”

Lady Sylvia considered. “He is forty-eight,” she said at last. “I do not believe I would call him old.”

I caught the twinkle in her eye. “Don’t tease, Lady Sylvia,” I said. “How long have you known the Duke?”

“We have been acquainted since his return from the India campaign, sufficiently well that I believe I can depend on him to accept an invitation to a card party, however last-minute. Especially when he has other old acquaintances to renew.” She looked at James.

“A mere former A.D.C. is unlikely to be much of a draw,” James said. “I hope you won’t depend on that to persuade him to come.”

“Nonsense,” Lady Sylvia replied. “The Duke speaks very highly of his ‘family.’ I’m sure he’ll be pleased to see you. Especially if we can reassure him as to the events at the Sainte Chapelle.”

“Just like Thomas,” James muttered under his breath. Fortunately, neither Lady Sylvia nor Thomas chose to hear. No one raised any more objections to interrogating Captain Winters. I do not think either of them actually wished to, despite the long-suffering expressions they had assumed. The thought of having an excuse to go poking about plainly pleased them both. “But you are not to go haring off to the chapel yourself while we’re with Reggie,” James told me sternly.

“Of course not,” I said. “I have every confidence in you and Thomas. Besides, Kate and I will be much too busy to go to Notre-Dame tomorrow.”

“Busy?” James looked at me suspiciously. “With what?”

“Shopping, of course. We can hardly attend Lady Sylvia’s card party in London fashions.”

From the commonplace book of Lady Schofield

27 August 1817

Paris

At Lady Sylvia’s house

In truth, I never thought it possible that shopping in Paris could live up to Cecy’s expectations. Shopping in Heaven itself would have a hard time matching the glories of her imagination. Yet, somehow, the dressmakers and the milliners we visited with Lady Sylvia succeeded. If they did not surpass our hopes, then they matched them easily.

This is the very thing I hope to remember fondly in years to come, so I intend to set forth an account of yesterday’s events in as much detail as I can muster. It was a day that began well and ended even better.

We set forth on a fine morning, Lady Sylvia, Cecy, and I, accompanied by my maid, Reardon, and Lady Sylvia’s maid, Aubert, in Lady Sylvia’s coach. Every detail of the city seemed spruce and clean, fresh and crisp. I hardly took my eyes off the passing streets, so fascinating were the indefinable differences in proportion, in light, in atmosphere. If I were forced to try to describe what it is that makes Paris so distinctly Parisian, I couldn’t muster a word. Yet there is no doubt in my mind that no one who has once seen even a part of Paris could ever mistake it for any other place in the world. Not that it is all beautiful, by any means. On our route we saw nothing of the cramped streets, encrusted with the filth of the ages, one found in the poorest quarters. The only jarring detail on our way was on the most elegant street of all, the Champs-Elysées, a boulevard lined on either side with tree stumps.

“They cut the chestnut trees down for firewood during the war,” Lady Sylvia told us. “Understandable, but most unfortunate.”

“Surely they will replant the trees,” said Cecy. “It would be foolish not to.”

“Someday they may,” said Lady Sylvia. “I find the sight even more melancholy than you do, for I remember what it was like in its glory.”

Cecy and I could not really understand what had been lost. We could only try to imagine how fine that broad street must once have been. Respect for Lady Sylvia kept us silent for the rest of the short journey.

“Here we are,” said Lady Sylvia, as the carriage drew up to our first port of call, a prodigiously elegant dressmaker.

“So soon?” I said. It seemed we had hardly settled ourselves in the carriage. We might easily have walked the distance from Lady Sylvia’s house.

“At last!” sighed Cecy. “I’ve been waiting all my life for this moment.”

We descended from the carriage, and then we descended upon the dressmaker. As Lady Sylvia was well known to the establishment, we were greeted with great cordiality.

“Oh, this is just as splendid as I thought it would be,” Cecy murmured to me, as we were shown to a corner of the shop with a few elegant yet comfortable chairs, where we were invited to seat ourselves.

We concealed our gratification and excitement as best we could, so our descent upon Lady Sylvia’s modiste was not quite so much like a ravening wolf descending upon a sheepfold as it might have been. Yet there was no point in pretending we were even mildly blasé about things. For one thing, no one could miss the glow of satisfaction in Cecy’s eyes as she took her first long look around. I suspect that, like me, she was marveling at the colors and textures of the fabrics, the design and detail of the gowns, and the elegance and refinement of the workmanship.

“Oh, Kate, that rose-colored silk would suit you to perfection.” With that, Cecy was off and running, aided and abetted by the modiste and her skilled assistants.

“This is only the first, remember. We have a great many more shops to visit before we are through,” Lady Sylvia told us in an undertone. “We must pace ourselves.”

The fine morning yielded to a stubbornly rainy afternoon. Despite the weather, our shopping campaign, under Lady Sylvia’s generalship, lasted the rest of the day, with only a brief intermission for refreshments. By the time we returned to Lady Sylvia’s house, we were hungry and thirsty, surprisingly leg-weary, given that all we had done was shop, and filled with a sense of righteous accomplishment. With Reardon and Aubert to help match ribbons and hold things for us, we had worked our way through our entire list of necessities and rather a lot of the luxuries. We had ordered gowns, we had chosen hats, we had purchased gloves, fans, and bottles of scent.

N.B. Bought a flask of scent to give Georgy for her birthday. She loves jasmine.

I was ready, after the day’s exertions, for nothing more strenuous than a nap before dinner. Cecy’s constitution really must be one of iron, for she and Lady Sylvia interviewed no fewer than three young women for the position of her maid. I did not help. Instead, I retired to my room and took off my slippers while I watched Reardon lay out the gown I would wear at dinner that evening.

It did not take long for table talk at dinner to travel from a gown-by-gown description of our shopping expedition to a detailed account of James and Thomas’s interview with Reggie, a young man whom Thomas seems to hold in low regard.

After some spirited remarks from Thomas, James countered, “There’s nothing wrong with Reggie’s wits.”

“I never meant to imply there was,” Thomas said. “It’s just that I never fail to be amazed by the yawning abyss between what Reggie’s keen wits perceive and what he makes of it. Honestly, drop him into a vat of boiling olive oil and I’ve no doubt he could tell you if it was the first pressing or the second. But then he’d spend his last breath complaining that he never cared above half for olive oil and hinting that he would greatly prefer to be boiled in some other kind.”

“At times he is rather slow to draw an inference,” James conceded. “But on the other hand, he doesn’t often jump to conclusions.”

“James,” said Thomas, in that martyred tone of voice he uses when he thinks he might like to tear his hair in frustration but it would only put him to the trouble of tidying his appearance again, “stop making excuses for Reggie. I ask it of you as a friend of long standing. No, I order you. Stop immediately.”

James said nothing, but he replied as only a friend of many years would do, by launching a bread roll directly at Thomas’s head. He would have made a direct hit, but Thomas ducked efficiently. Apparently, Thomas took this retaliation as a matter of course, for he went on speaking to us as if nothing had happened.

“Reggie showed us the scene of the break-in at Sainte Chapelle, and he’d made the most perfect notes: the marks on the floor, the candle wax, the fact that incense had been burned there—but he never mentioned that the incense had a very off quality to the scent, and he hadn’t noticed that the marks on the floor made a pattern. Someone held a ritual of some kind on that spot, and it wasn’t a small one.”

“Reggie insists they detected no magical traces remaining,” James said.

“That only means Reggie was told no traces had been detected. I think someone’s being a bit less than honest with him,” Thomas said. “A safe enough proposition, given Reggie’s fine qualities.”

“You made us promise not to visit Sainte Chapelle without you,” Cecy said, “so I don’t think it was very fair of you to go without us.”

“Oh, Reggie insisted,” said James. “Once we’d begun to question him, he wished to demonstrate that he’d left no stone unturned.”

“Had there been a stone left unturned, by any chance?” Cecy asked.

“What Reggie noticed, he recorded meticulously,” Thomas conceded. “Nothing had been taken, nothing left beyond some drops of candle wax and the smell of incense. But it was rather unusual incense.” Thomas produced a snuffbox from his pocket of his white waistcoat and placed it before Lady Sylvia. “Deuced peculiar, in fact.”

“We scraped up what wax we could,” James explained. “In one of the lumps of wax we found a bit of the unburned incense. Thomas sacrificed his supply of snuff to bring it safely back.”

“Someone had cleared a circular space about eight feet across,” Thomas said. “At regular intervals on the periphery of the space, seven candles were set out. Someone drew something on the floor in chalk. I think it was a seven-pointed star.”

“Someone cleaned up after themselves thoroughly enough that we can’t be absolutely positive. That would be my guess, too.” James narrowed his eyes.

“Was there any sign that the Sainte Ampoule was used?” Lady Sylvia asked. “Any marks that might have been chrism?”

“None we could find,” Thomas replied.

“Whatever they were doing,” said James, “it’s an odd place to do it. Even though it was once the private chapel of the kings of France, it’s just a storeroom now.”

“Was that where the coronations were held?” Cecy asked.

“No. The coronations were at Reims,” Lady Sylvia replied. “No one would contemplate holding a coronation in Sainte Chapelle.”

“Indeed not,” said Thomas. “It would be like staging Hamlet in a hatbox.”

We had finished our dinner when word came to Thomas that Piers had arrived and was asking to see him at the earliest opportunity.

“The prodigal valet? I don’t believe it,” James said. “It took him long enough to find his way here from Calais, didn’t it?”

Thomas looked at me. I can’t describe the precise mixture of elements in that look. There was something of guilt, a little reluctance, but most of all resolution, a brave and honest look that meant to tell the truth and hazard the consequences. I looked back inquiringly, and Thomas gave a little nod, as if he’d come to some decision. “I think this interview is one we must conduct in company. Mother, may we speak to him in the green room?”

“By all means,” said Lady Sylvia. “I’m pleased to hear that we’ll be included in the conversation. Raoul, please have Piers join us in the Salon Vert.”

The five of us were seated in the drawing room when Piers was shown in. The poor man, never very prepossessing, showed signs of a long journey in bad weather. He looked exhausted, in dire need of a bath and a shave. His clothing was rain-soaked and his boots squelched with every step he took.

Piers looked startled as he glanced from Thomas to all the rest of us in the room, but he stood before Thomas with his shoulders back and his chin up, with the calm resolution of a man confronted by a firing squad. “Thank you for seeing me, my lord.”

“We’re eager to hear your report,” Thomas said. “Too eager to wait until morning. Please tell us what you’ve been doing since we left you in Calais.”

“As you requested, I’ve been investigating the identity of the intruder at Dessein’s,” Piers said carefully. “I found the owner of the Turkish slipper. It belonged to Lord William Mountjoy.”

“William Mountjoy?” Lady Sylvia looked thoughtful. “I knew his uncle. The son was killed at Waterloo, and Mountjoy inherited quite unexpectedly. Very sad story.”

“For everyone but Mountjoy,” said James.

Cecy glanced sharply at James, as if his tartness surprised her.

Piers went on. “Unfortunately, identifying the owner of the slipper did not necessarily identify the intruder. It seems someone took the trouble to steal the man’s slippers and dressing gown as a disguise. When he heard of the incident, he discovered that his possessions were missing and reported the loss to the authorities. Very indignant he was, having his things worn by an intruder pretending to be him.”

“Was he?” This time there was no ignoring the edge in James’s voice.

“If you’re wondering whether the gentleman wore his own slippers, it can’t be proven, for his valet says they were together at the time,” Piers said.

“Then we’re looking for someone who stole into the inn and helped himself to Mountjoy’s things. Whoever he is, he’s a man of iron nerve, I collect,” said James. “Did the intruder take anything else?”

“No one reported anything stolen,” Piers answered. “That doesn’t mean much, I know, but it is all I could ascertain.”

“You spoke to Mountjoy’s valet?” Thomas asked. “Did he have any idea how someone could have gained entry to Mountjoy’s room to steal the dressing gown and slippers?”

“I spoke with Mountjoy and his manservant Rupert together at first. Neither had any idea how the thief got in.”

Piers looked pleased with himself. “I took the trouble to get Rupert on his own later. He admitted that he let himself be deceived by the same young person who tricked me and locked me in a cupboard. She had him so thoroughly in his cups, he can’t be sure who might have been in or out of Mountjoy’s room.”

“Most unfortunate,” said Thomas in a tone that caused Piers’s complacency to evaporate completely.

“Rupert found the other slipper and the dressing gown out in the garden, soaked with dew. Mountjoy refused to give up the slippers once the pair was reunited, and he insisted on keeping the dressing gown, too.” Piers was all business. “He had it made to measure in Venice.”

“So we can’t ask Mr. Lennox and Mr. Reardon for their help,” I said.

“Alas, no,” said Lady Sylvia. “I wish I’d thought to try it myself in Calais, even if it had only led us to the slipper’s owner.”

Piers continued. “Mountjoy has been on the Continent for a year or more, doing the Grand Tour. He was glad to be going home at last. He postponed his sailing for England, he was so annoyed by the theft. Lucky for me he did, or I would have missed the chance to question him.”

“This young person of yours, Piers,” said Thomas, “have you any idea where she went? Or, for that matter, where she came from?”

“I do not.” Piers stiffened under Thomas’s scrutiny. “If she took ship for Dover, she could have disappeared no more thoroughly.”

“Could she have?” Cecy asked. “Taken ship for Dover, I mean?”

“She could have,” said Piers. “But she was not an English young person. I think, though I could not swear to it, that Eve-Marie was genuinely French. For her to choose to go to England would amaze me. She had little respect for the British. Highly unlikely she would go there by choice.”

“Unless she was up to something,” said Cecy thoughtfully.

“As you say, Ma’am.” Piers fixed his attention on Thomas but said nothing more.

Thomas returned him look for look. “Is there anything else, Piers?”

“Just this. Of the guests at the inn that night, all could account for their whereabouts within minutes of the intruder’s discovery. I think it unlikely another guest perpetrated the masquerade.”

“What about servants?” James asked.

“Same goes for them.”

“So your Eve-Marie assisted whoever it was in gaining access to the inn from outside,” said Thomas.

Piers looked pained. “She is not my young person in particular. However, that is, in essence, my surmise, my lord.”

“Next time remember her perfidy and see if you can be a bit more careful,” said Thomas. He shifted his attention from Piers to the rest of us, but Piers remained standing as stiffly as if he were at attention. “Mother, is this room protected?”

“Of course it is, my dear. As is the entire house.” Lady Sylvia was tranquil. “Have you something in particular to tell us?”

“You know me too well,” said Thomas. “I must make a confession. I hired Piers here to serve as my valet, but he has no previous experience in that role.”

“Hardly news, that,” said James. “I’ve seen you turned out better in some of those disguises you dug up to wear back in our days on the Peninsula.”

Thomas paid him no heed. “When we planned this journey, I had no idea we were going to find it half so eventful. I did think it might be a good idea to be prepared for the unexpected, however, so I asked a few old friends to recommend someone capable, someone experienced. In short, someone useful in an emergency.” Thomas was looking right at me now, and that oddly mixed expression of his was back. On anyone else, it might have been apologetic. “They recommended Piers to me.”

Something in Thomas’s expression must have seemed more familiar to Lady Sylvia than it did to me, for her expression lightened suddenly and she spoke. “You hired Piers as your valet, despite his lack of previous experience. May we inquire then, of just what your manservant’s previous experience consists?”

Thomas looked pained. “He’s a bodyguard.”

James gaped and then grinned. “Thomas, you can’t be serious. You don’t need a bodyguard.”

“Of course he doesn’t,” said Lady Sylvia. “Not for himself.”

“Well, James and I don’t need a bodyguard, and you certainly don’t, Lady Sylvia. So who—” Cecy broke off abruptly. “Oh, dear.”

I didn’t spare any of them a glance. I couldn’t take my eyes off Thomas. “You felt I needed a bodyguard?” Given recent events, it seemed a logical idea to have someone capable along on our journey. Yet Thomas had made this arrangement before we ever left London. Thomas had made all sorts of arrangements without consulting me, and I blessed him for it. But I felt cross with him for taking the initiative on this arrangement. He might have at least mentioned it to me. “Am I that clumsy?”

“Lord, no!” Thomas said. “I never meant that. Never crossed my mind. No, it’s just that I can’t be everywhere, Kate. I know it. There are going to be times when you need someone to watch out for you and I won’t be able to do it all myself. I meant to be serious and responsible and thoughtful. I was trying to plan ahead. In a way, it’s fortunate I did, because I never dreamt we’d walk into anything like the mess we have.”

“Fortunate,” I said, but I couldn’t get out another word. I didn’t trust my voice.

Piers spoke then, still standing rigidly at attention. “My lady, I was hired to see to your safety. His lordship made it plain that was the only thing that mattered to him.”

“Quite unusually prescient behavior for Thomas,” said Lady Sylvia. “Quite responsible of him, too.”

“Good idea,” said James. “Wish I’d thought of it.”

“I beg your pardon?” Cecy’s indignation was plain.

I just looked at Thomas.

“Kate, I should have told you all about it at the start,” said Thomas. “For that mistake, I apologize. But I don’t apologize for hiring him to help me take care of you. The world is a very big place. I think we’ve all seen that it can be a dangerous place, too.”

I looked at him in silence for a moment longer. Thomas’s eyes said even more than his words did. When I was very sure that I could keep my voice level, I said, “Very well. Thank you for your help, Piers. Please excuse me now.” I started for the door.

“That will be all, Piers,” said Thomas, then added to the room at large, “Good night.” He reached the door before I did and held it open for me as I passed.

“You needn’t,” I said to him, under my breath.

“I must,” said Thomas.

“I have Reardon now,” I said. “I can manage perfectly well alone.”

“I can’t,” said Thomas. So he came upstairs with me.

I let Thomas persuade me of his good intentions before I accepted his apology. At the expression on my face, he drew back. “Kate? What is it?” With sudden suspicion, he added, “Why are you smiling?”

I poked him gently. “You could have told me about Piers, but you didn’t. Instead, you had the complete gall to complain to me about his incompetence as a valet.”

“He is an incompetent valet. After that performance in Calais, I’m none too confident of his skills as a bodyguard, either. I would have told you, but I didn’t want to worry you. Don’t change the subject. You haven’t answered my question. Why are you smiling?”

“I could tell you.” I thought it over. “But I wouldn’t want to worry you.”

Thomas made it clear that he wanted me to answer his question.

“Oh, do stop. I surrender.” I caught my breath and pushed the hair out of my eyes. “I’m smiling because not only do I accept your gracious apology, I believe your motives are pure. You hired Piers to protect me from outsiders and not from my own clumsiness. But now you must forgive me, please.”

“What for?” Thomas demanded.

“I was hurt at first,” I confessed. “I did think you were making allowances for your clumsy wife. But Sir Hilary’s presence in Paris proves you had good reason to hire Piers. It wasn’t kind, nor even honest of me to let you go on thinking I was overset. I apologize.”

For once in my life, I had the utter satisfaction of seeing Thomas caught by surprise. He stared at me a moment, eyes wide, mouth slightly agape. It was an endearing expression, one of fuddled, innocent astonishment. I almost regret that I will, in all likelihood, never see it again.

“Kate—” Thomas’s voice scarcely attained a whisper. “You were roasting me? The whole time?”

“Not the whole time. For the first few seconds, I was quite distressed. But after that—” Thomas didn’t let me finish what I meant to say. Yet I have reason to be certain that, eventually, he forgave me.

28 August 1817

Paris

At Lady Sylvia’s house

During the past few days, I have seen far less of Cecy than I have of the seamstress sent by the modiste to do the final fitting on my gowns. While I have Reardon safely ensconced in my service to help bring order out of the chaos of my personal appearance on a daily basis, Cecy still has not engaged a maid of her own. Lady Sylvia’s maids help her, of course, but a great deal of Cecy’s time is taken up with the interviews and the checking of references. I find it lowering to see how much time and attention the task of hiring a servant requires when it is done properly. Still, this does not prevent me from frequent bouts of exultation that in engaging Reardon, I have escaped the task.

Reardon’s adjustment to the household has been effortless, though I’m sure it must have cost her some pains to make it seem that way to me. The other members of the staff accepted her and she dealt with them in kind. Of necessity, she sees a great deal of Piers. He seems only to benefit from her calm example of service. Thomas’s clothing has returned to its customary state of order and refinement (which means that it is just as neat as James’s but somehow not as staid). Thomas himself has taken to early morning rides with Cecy in the Bois de Boulogne, as James is still recuperating, though he refuses to admit it. I am often pressed to join them, but given my relative lack of skill in the saddle, I prefer to make it my custom to lie in and begin the morning with a sleepy cup of tea or chocolate. An hour or two of sleep while Thomas is off galloping about somewhere makes a world of difference to my outlook on the day.

29 August 1817

Paris

At Lady Sylvia’s house

This morning James and I were present when Mr. Lennox and Mr. Reardon paid a call on Lady Sylvia. Thomas was off riding with Cecy, so it was just the five of us. Mr. Reardon wore his neckcloth in a new style, but I was glad to discover it made no difference. I could still tell him from Mr. Lennox. They both looked rather sheepish, as if they expected a good scolding from Lady Sylvia.

“I’m afraid we may have exceeded our authority.” Mr. Lennox held out his hand. Nestled in the palm were Cecy’s pearl earrings, stolen by the highwaymen.

“Good heavens, where did you find these?” Lady Sylvia asked, as Mr. Lennox gave her the earrings. James and I stared wordlessly.

“To be exact,” Mr. Reardon replied, “on a velvet cushion on the counter of a pawnshop in the Rue d’Horloge.”

Lady Sylvia asked, “In what way do you fear you may have exceeded your authority? ”

“We pursued a variant of the location spell,” said Mr. Reardon, “using a few of the objects we found discarded at the scene of Sir Hilary Bedrick’s murder. A clay pipe proved unexpectedly rewarding. We followed the trace to the pawnshop. The trace was extremely clear. We assumed the clarity owed something to the strength of the link.”

“We don’t know that it didn’t.” Mr. Lennox gave the distinct impression this was a point they had already discussed at length.

“Be that as it may,” Reardon continued with patience and precision, “the clarity of the trace came from the recent presence of the man we traced. Extremely recent, as it turned out.”

“We were questioning the proprietor,” Lennox said, “when we discovered the owner of the pipe was actually still on the premises. When he overheard our questions, he fled.”

“We pursued him, but he eluded us.” From the blandness of Reardon’s tone, I think it safe to assume that much more had happened, but that we weren’t going to hear any of it.

“Eventually we returned to the proprietor. He turned the earrings over to us after only a minimal amount of persuasion,” Lennox said.

“Yet it was regrettable. Whoever the man who pawned the earrings was, he must have heard us. If he had sufficient wit, he now knows someone is taking an interest in Bedrick’s murder and your robbery. It won’t require much research to identify you through us. We apologize for our ill-timed interrogation,” Reardon concluded.

“It can’t be helped.” Lady Sylvia gazed at the pearl eardrops in her hand. “If someone realizes we are taking an interest in this matter, there’s nothing we can do to remedy it. Whatever we’ve stumbled into, it may prove to be a good thing, if our interest puts them off.”

“It may merely make them more cautious,” I said. “Whoever they are.”

James said, “The man who pawned Cecy’s earrings may have had nothing whatever to do with the robbery. He may know nothing at all. In that case, even if he overheard you asking about him, he has no reason to connect us to the incident at all. And no one to tell if he did.”

“That adds up to a great many ifs,” said Mr. Reardon, “a word I have always held in considerable distaste.”

Lady Sylvia gave the earrings to James and closed his hand over them gently. “You shall be the one to return these to their owner.”

I said, “Now we know Aunt Elizabeth’s charm really did work. Cecy couldn’t lose those even when they were stolen from her.”

Lady Sylvia looked thoughtful. “Even the simplest of spells may have unlooked-for consequences. Who can say what part that little charm played in these matters?”

From the deposition of Mrs. James Tarleton, &c.

The Bois de Boulogne is quite a pleasant place for a ride, and I was looking forward to the day when James would be well enough to join me. In the meantime, Thomas made quite an acceptable substitute, particularly as he had no foolish notions about what constituted a suitable mount for a lady. Indeed, I was obliged at one point to decline his offer of a particularly fine and spirited gray gelding; dearly though I would have loved to try his paces, I could see that he was too strong for me, and I would not risk doing a mischief to one of Lady Sylvia’s horses.

The ride to and from the Bois was nearly as pleasant as the wood itself. Paris is a city of great beauty, and the boulevards are wide and well considered. We took a different route each day. Thomas claimed it was in order to familiarize himself with the city, though I thought it was more that he wished to show off how familiar with it he already was, without the chance of embarrassing himself in front of Kate.

One morning, a little over a week after Piers’s return, we had a late start from the stables due to some unexpected difficulties with the tack. Consequently, the streets were more full and our progress both to and from the Bois was slower than usual. Thomas had chosen a particularly circuitous route, and as we turned an unfamiliar corner, I saw a small shop just ahead of us.

I reined in my horse. “Thomas, is that a bookshop?”

“That’s usually what la librairie means,” he replied. “Why?”

“Papa gave me a list of titles he has had difficulty in obtaining from his usual sources,” I said. “I have not been able to look for them yet, but this appears to be a most promising possibility.” The shop looked just like all the ones Papa has dragged Oliver and Aunt Elizabeth and me to in the past. “Would you mind if we stopped for a moment?”

“I suppose it’s a sort of shopping I can tolerate,” Thomas replied. “And it certainly doesn’t sound like anything James would object to.”

Taking that for assent, I rode to the door and dismounted. Thomas found an urchin who agreed to hold the horses for the princely sum of half a franc, with another to follow when we came out.

Bookshops are much the same, whatever the language. Dusty shelves reached to the ceiling, piled high with shabby literature and smelling of musty leather. The proprietor was very helpful, but he could supply only two of the volumes Papa had requested. “Me, I do not keep les histoires,” he explained. “They do not sell here at all well. When by chance some arrive, I send them to my friend in the Rue de Rivoli. That one of which you ask”—he waved at Papa’s list—“I sent to him only two days ago.”

“Very well; can you give me his direction?” I said.

“It is most easy to find,” the man told me. “It is near the Île de la Cité, a few turns from the bridge.”

Thomas stared at the bookseller in transparent disbelief.

“The Île de la Cité?” He transferred his stare to me. “I don’t believe it. How did you set this up?”

“Set what up?” I said. “Is there some reason—Oh.” I felt very dull not to have seen instantly what Thomas was getting at. The Île de la Cité is, of course, the location of the Cathedral of Notre-Dame, and the Sainte Chapelle. The bookseller was looking anxious, so I thanked him for his information and paid for my purchases. Thomas frowned at me the entire time.

“You are not going anywhere near Sainte Chapelle,” he said firmly as we left the bookstore.

“If this bookstore is nearby, I most certainly shall,” I replied. “You heard the gentleman; this place has one of the books Papa particularly requested. If you choose not to accompany me, I am sure Lady Sylvia—”

“Absolutely not,” Thomas said. “You are every bit as bad as James warned me, and he would not approve of this. Not at all.” He paused a moment, thinking. “I’ll take you back to the house, and then you can give me your book list and I’ll retrieve your titles for you,” he offered at last.

“You may have the list this very moment,” I said, digging it out, “but I do not think it will serve.”

“Why no—Good God, this is writing?” He peered at Papa’s list. “De No … Nobis, or Novum? Or Nocturne?”

“Papa’s handwriting is not the best,” I said. “Kate and Aunt Elizabeth are the only other people I know who can make any sense of it.”

Thomas favored me with an intense glare. “And I don’t suppose you’re willing to write out a clean copy. You want an excuse to go poking about Sainte Chapelle.”

“I don’t expect there would be much point to it, after you and James examined everything so thoroughly,” I said sweetly. “Now, are we going on to the Rue de Rivoli, or shall we finish our ride? I’m sure Kate and Lady Sylvia will be happy—”

“You are not dragging Kate anywhere near the Île de la Cité, ” Thomas said flatly. “Not that dragging would be necessary; she’s as bad as you are. Very well, we’ll find this bookstore and get your father his books. How I’m going to explain this to James …”

“I’ll explain it to him myself,” I said. Thomas only rolled his eyes.

We turned our horses’ heads toward the river. Thomas sulked the entire way, and left it to me to locate the bookshop. Fortunately, the proprietor’s directions were quite clear, and for once someone was correct in saying a place was easy to find. It was much the same as the first in appearance, except that it had more custom. As we entered, I heard the bookseller speaking to someone near the far wall.

“Monsieur, I have said I have only Volume IV of the Anciennes Pratiques; I cannot magic the books out of thin air. If you wish to buy Volume IV, you may do so, but more than that, I cannot sell you.”

“That is not adequate,” said an unpleasantly familiar man’s voice.

“If he doesn’t have them, he doesn’t have them,” a younger voice said. “Don’t make a fuss, Harry.”

Although the speakers were hidden by the rows of bookcases, I was quite sure it was young Theodore Daventer and his oily tutor, whom James and I had met at the Temple of Minerva Victrix. Thomas had stopped in the doorway, still frowning ferociously. I gave him a reassuring nod and started forward.

“I sent a note around requesting the Anciennes Pratiques,” the tutor replied. “I did not ask for Volume IV alone. If he does not have the set for sale, he should not have answered.”

I came around the end of the bookcases, and the first thing I saw was Theodore Daventer, looking acutely uncomfortable. The tutor, by contrast, seemed to be positively reveling in the prospect of making as much fuss as possible. I smiled at Theodore and pretended not to notice the tutor or the distressed bookseller.

“Mr. Daventer!” I said. “How nice to run into you again.”

“Good morning, Mrs. Tarleton,” said Theodore Daventer, for of course it was him. “And Mr.—um.” He looked over my shoulder uncertainly.

Thomas’s frown could make anyone uncertain. I turned. “Lord Schofield, may I present Theodore Daventer?” I said. “And—”

“Harry Strangle,” Thomas said in a soft, dangerous voice. “What are you doing in Paris?”

The tutor’s face went white. He took a step backward, stumbled, took another step, then turned and fled. Thomas surged after him, pushing past the shopkeeper and Theodore and knocking over a stack of books in his haste. The shopkeeper’s cry of distress did not slow him down in the least, but the overturned books did—enough to allow the tutor to dodge around the bookshelves and race for the door. Thomas followed.

“What is that about?” Theodore demanded.

“I am not perfectly sure,” I replied, not altogether truthfully. Kate had told me a good deal about Mr. Strangle in the letters she wrote during her London Season. In addition to his disagreeable personality, he had been in league with Sir Hilary Bedrick’s colleague Miranda—more than sufficient reason for Thomas to wish to cross-question him regarding Sir Hilary’s recent demise. “Perhaps you should ask your tutor when next you see him.”

Theodore looked down. “I suppose.”

“I take it Mr.—Strangle?—prefers not to confide in his students,” I said. “I believe it’s not uncommon behavior for tutors.”

“It’s not that,” Theodore said. He sounded just like my brother, Oliver, and I gave him my best encouraging smile. “It’s just—I don’t think my father would—Even if Uncle did recommend—I—I don’t think I like Mr. Strangle very much. And he doesn’t know nearly as much history as he pretends. His lessons are much too easy.”

I blinked. Oliver and his friends did a good deal of complaining about their tutors while we were all growing up, but I had never heard any of them grumble about lessons being too easy.

My surprise must have shown more than I intended, because Theodore blushed slightly and waved at the bookcases. “I suppose it’s well enough for the other fellows, but—well, you heard him going on about the Anciennes Pratiques.”

“He did seem quite set on getting hold of it,” I said carefully.

“Yes, he wants me to read it.” Theodore snorted. “I tried to tell him, I’ve already read it. Well, looked at it, enough to see that it’s all secondary and tertiary sources strung together with a lot of metaphysical nonsense. But he won’t listen. The only worthwhile reading he’s given me is Monsieur Montier’s monograph on the history of the Île de la Cité. And his ‘practical applications’ aren’t teaching us anything, even if we do get to see—” He stopped short and reddened, from which I assumed he had been about to say something completely unsuitable for a lady’s ears.

Despite the brevity of my acquaintance with Mr. Strangle, it did not surprise me in the least that he would encourage his pupils in such a fashion. To avoid embarrassing Theodore further, I turned to the shopkeeper and inquired about the books Papa had requested. He was evidently a trifle deaf, for he had some trouble in understanding me, but Theodore was of considerable help in making him understand my wishes. The man did not have quite everything Papa wanted, but I crossed several more items off the list.

“Thank you,” I said to Theodore when the shopkeeper had gone off to collect the titles I required. “My father will be so pleased.”

“I am happy to have been of service,” he said with a formal little half bow.

“Will you be in Paris long?” I said. “I’m sure my husband would be as delighted to see you again as I am.”

“Only a few more days,” he said. “Harry and I are heading east.” He scowled. “I wish the other fellows were staying with us, but there’s been some mix-up or other, so it’ll just be the two of us for a while. My uncle is meeting us somewhere along the way. Milan, I think.”

“What a pity,” I said. “James will be sorry to miss you. But perhaps he could stop by your lodgings tomorrow, before you leave?”

Theodore brightened at the prospect, and gave me his direction, which was what I had wanted all along. I arranged for the delivery of my purchases, made my adieux, and left the shop, wondering what I would do if Thomas did not turn up soon. But he had arrived, apparently, only a moment before I did. His cravat had been somewhat disarranged by his exertions, and he looked quite grim.

“He got away,” he said without preamble. “It’s quite clear that he’s been here some time; he knows the streets—especially the alleys—in this part of town much too well.”

“That’s a pity,” I said as he threw me into the saddle. “Still, I expect you and James can catch up with him at the Pont du Gard Auberge tonight or tomorrow.”

Thomas flipped the horse boy a franc, mounted, and looked at me with narrowed eyes. “Indeed? And why would you think that?”

“I asked young Mr. Daventer for his direction,” I said. “So that James can call on him. And since Mr. Strangle is apparently bear-leading the unfortunate boy, I presume they are both to be found in the same lodgings. You’ll have to go tomorrow, though; they’re leaving Paris in a few days, Theodore says.”

“Theodore seems to have been remarkably forthcoming.”

“Theodore Daventer is a pleasant, studious young man who deserves much better than to have that dreadful man as a tutor,” I said. “I can’t imagine what his father was thinking. Though perhaps he was not in a position to turn off a man recommended by Theodore’s uncle.”

“You have been busy,” Thomas said. “Very well; let us go and inform James of the arrangements you have made for his time tomorrow.”

Unfortunately, by the time James and Thomas paid their call, Mr. Strangle and Theodore had departed. They cross-questioned the servants, who said that Mr. Strangle and his charge had left the city. James was willing to believe them, but Thomas insisted on continuing the investigation in the hopes of at least discovering their destination, if they had indeed left Paris.

From the commonplace book of Lady Schofield

5 September 1817

Paris

At Lady Sylvia’s house

N.B. No pomegranates or figs. T. hates them. T. likes apricots and raspberries. Also marrons glacés.

6 September 1817

Paris

At Lady Sylvia’s house

This morning Thomas said, “I like this chaise longue.” He had been reading bits of the news aloud to me while I answered letters. “Let’s purchase one for your boudoir at home.”

“I like it, too.” I could not help but admire the picture he made, stretched the length of chaise longue with his nose in one of the many gazettes and journals he’d accumulated around him. “Shall I truly have a boudoir when I live in your house?”

Thomas didn’t look up from his reading. “Oh, I insist. I had no idea what I was missing, staying out of boudoirs. You shall have the boudoir of your dreams. Mine, too, for that matter. I quite like it here, watching you pull out your hairpins while you compose your missives.”

“You’d pull more than hairpins over this one. It’s to Aunt Charlotte.”

Thomas shuddered elaborately and kept on reading the newspaper.

I thought it over. “I never dreamt I’d have a boudoir. It seems unlikely somehow, after all those years when my great ambition was not to share a room with Georgy.”

The paper rattled as Thomas turned the page. “Lord, I don’t wonder. Share your room, share any little possession she fancied, from the sound of it.”

“That was at its worst when she was gaming. I’m sure she’ll grow out of it, now we know she’s taken after Grandfather. She’s not to be permitted any gambling at all. She was always most generous with her own things before.” In an effort to be fair, I added, “To do her justice, Georgy has many fine qualities. I was ill-situated to appreciate them sometimes, that’s all.”

“I suppose.” Thomas’s voice had taken on a preoccupied tone, a distinct note of inattention.

To test my analysis, I asked, “What color is my boudoir to be?”

Thomas turned the page. “Any color you please, my sweet.”

Of all the absurd terms of endearment that Thomas employs, perhaps my sweet is the one I care for the least. I waited until I was perfectly certain he’d grown absorbed in his reading. “Puce, then. It’s settled.”

In a distant voice, Thomas replied, “I said any color and of course I meant it. Whatever you like, Kate.” Then, in his usual crisp tone, he added, “You do realize your cousin will say puce makes you look quite twenty years older? Distinctly washed out? Perhaps even pulled down?”

“I was sure you had stopped listening.”

No trace of absentmindedness lingered in Thomas’s voice. He was all virtue and vigilance. “I hope I know better than that, now that I am an old married man. I hope I am awake to the perils of not listening to remarks intended to be provoking, no matter how artfully sweet the voice that utters them.”

“You are a married man, aren’t you?” I marveled all over again at this phenomenon. Thomas, a married man. And married to me at that. Incredible. “I am a married woman. How very odd.”

Thomas dropped his newspaper, sprang up from the chaise longue, and came to stand behind me, his hands warm on my shoulders. “How fortunate it is we are married to each other. I couldn’t bear it otherwise.”

I tipped my head back to look up at him as I covered his hands with mine. “Nor could I.” Aunt Charlotte’s letter went unanswered that day. But it went unanswered for excellent reasons.

From the deposition of Mrs. James Tarleton, &c.

James and Thomas spent most of a week attempting to discover Mr. Strangle’s whereabouts. It reached the point where Kate and I hardly ever saw either of them. I was, consequently, rather surprised when Kate and I returned from shopping to discover the pair of them ensconced in the sitting room with a lovely woman of perhaps twenty-five. Her walking-dress was plainly several seasons old, and of only middle quality even then, though her spencer had been turned and retrimmed with cheap braid in a creditable attempt to bring it up to the current mode. Her black hair had been carefully dressed in the very latest fashion, and she seemed a trifle flushed.

“Thomas?” Kate said uncertainly as we paused in the doorway.

“Ah, come in, Kate,” Thomas said. “Madame Walker was just leaving.”

But for the torrent of impassioned French that erupted from the visitor, I might have thought that I had imagined the faint emphasis Thomas put on the word Madame. She spoke very rapidly, but I could make out the words “ responsabilité,” “respectable,” and “acte de mariage” as she jerked at the knotted strings of her reticule.

“Yes, yes,” James said. He sounded rather grim. “Come along.”

“One moment,” I said. “What is this about?”

“Nothing,” James said in the unconvincing tone he uses when he thinks I ought not to be involved in something. Since he is invariably wrong in this regard, I persisted.

“Madame, if you would slow down a little—”

“I speak the English very well,” the woman replied. “And I am a respectable person, me; I have my acte de mariage.” She pulled a paper from her reticule and waved it at me, and I realized she meant her marriage lines.

“I’m sure you do,” James said even more grimly. “Cecy, if you will just—”

“Madame Walker?” Kate said. “But surely you are French?”

“My husband was of the English,” the woman said with dignity. “He was killed at Waterloo, and his family did not want to have to do with a French person. So I am in Paris.”

“But why are you here?” I said. “James, was this Walker one of your army friends?”

“No,” James said. “Cecy—”

“I came because of Monsieur Strangle,” Madame Walker informed us.

“Mr. Strangle?” I said.

James rolled his eyes. “That’s done it.”

“What have you to do with Mr. Strangle?” Kate asked.

Madame Walker shifted uncomfortably. “I have nothing to do with him. Only, it is very hard to feed un bébé when one has no money, and one must be practical, no?” She glanced at James and then down at the document she clutched so tightly.

“You have a baby?” I said. “But if your husband died at Waterloo—”

“Annalise is four years old,” Madame Walker said proudly. “She is at a convent school in the Loire Valley. They are very understanding, but one must pay something.”

“But then why did you come here?” Kate asked.

“I heard the talk, that Milord and Monsieur were trying to find Monsieur Strangle,” Madame Walker said simply. “I thought perhaps they would pay a few francs for what I knew.”

“And what do you know?” Kate said, holding her eyes.

“That he has left Paris with the young gentleman,” Madame replied, “to complete their circle of Europe.”

“The Grand Tour, yes, we’d more or less come to that conclusion ourselves,” James said.

Madame Walker shrugged. “I do not think, me, that it was any such thing. For the English do not make so much of a mystery when they come to see the statues and the paintings and the buildings in Paris.”

“What mystery?” I asked.

Madame hesitated and glanced at James and Thomas again. Then her shoulders slumped. “I do not entirely know,” she confessed. “But he made a great show of not allowing me to see his visitors, which was entirely foolish since I usually saw them in the street outside.”

“Visitors?” Thomas said. He and James exchanged looks. “The concierge said nothing about visitors.”

“But I have told you, Monsieur Strangle was very secret about them!” Madame said. “Even the one who was, I think, only un commerçant come to collect some bills. I know les commerçants, ” she added darkly. “It was only the small gentleman who was truly important. I myself only saw him once. Monsieur Strangle, he pretended that the small gentleman would have to approve his hiring me, though I am quite certain that he never said anything about me to him at all.”

“Mr. Strangle wanted to hire you?” I said, frowning.

James made a choking noise. Madame Walker drew herself up indignantly. “He tried, but I am not like that other woman who visited him. I am a respectable person, me. Only—” She looked down suddenly. “Only I did not tell him so all at once, you understand, because he would sometimes buy the dinner. Sometimes I thought, perhaps, for Annalise’s sake … But he was so, so—” She waved her hands expressively and shuddered.

Suddenly I realized just what Mr. Strangle had wanted to hire her to do. “That is appalling!”

“Just so,” Thomas said.

“And now he has gone,” Madame said with growing intensity, “and he did not even leave the money he promised—though I did not really expect it. I shall starve, and Annalise also.” She sank down on a chair and began to cry. “What am I to do? I am a respectable person, me, but the ladies, they want the references, and the dressmakers also, and even the maîtres des hôtels will not take on so much as a femme de chambre without the letters. An acte de mariage is not enough.”

“If that is the sort of position you would like to have, Madame, the matter is quite simple,” I said. “I will hire you to be my maid.”

James and Thomas both looked at me as if I had run mad. Kate cocked her head to one side. “But, Cecy, do you really think it will do?” she asked.

“Will what do?” Lady Sylvia’s voice said from the doorway, and she swept into the room. She studied Madame Walker’s tearstained face and refurbished turnout, then glanced at Thomas and James. Her eyes settled on Kate and me, considering. She waited.

“Madame Walker finds herself in a difficult situation,” I explained. “So I have just offered her a position as my maid.”

“I see.” Lady Sylvia reviewed us all once more. “And has Madame accepted?”

“Oh, yes, yes, yes!” Madame said, and burst into another torrent of rapid French, which even Lady Sylvia seemed to have difficulty in following for a moment.

Lady Sylvia nodded and raised a hand, cutting Madame off in midsentence. “Very good,” she said. “Raoul and Aubert will see you settled in. I gather you can start at once?”

“Oui, Madame,” she replied, and curtseyed. Lady Sylvia rang for a footman, instructed him what to do with Walker, and they left.

As the door closed behind them, James looked from me to Lady Sylvia and back. “Cecy,” he said at last, “what maggot have you got in your brain this time? You can’t believe that woman’s story!”

“Oh, but I do,” I told him. “And not just because she was so insistently waving her marriage lines, either. If she were—were—were truly not a respectable person, she would not be in such straits that she had to turn her gowns. Not with a face like that.”

“Hmm,” said Thomas. “You may have something there.”

“Also, she may know more about Mr. Strangle’s business than she’s told us,” I pointed out. “More, perhaps, than she realizes herself. If she can recognize those mysterious visitors of his, we may learn something really useful.”

“But, Cecy, are you sure?” Kate said. “After all the work you have done—the interviews and checking references!”

“Well, it’s obvious just from looking at her that she can dress hair and sew a neat seam,” I said. They all looked at me. I sighed. “I couldn’t just turn her out onto the street. And at least she’s French.”

James laughed suddenly. “My Lady Quixote! Very well; I won’t tease you about your new maid any longer.”

“An excellent notion,” Lady Sylvia said. “Now, if one of you would explain to me just what Madame Walker has already told you of Mr. Strangle’s business, everything will be quite satisfactory all around.”

From the commonplace book of Lady Schofield

14 September 1817

Paris

At Lady Sylvia’s house

At last, at last, the opera season has begun. Last night we went to The Marriage of Figaro. I think I have never truly heard music before. Thomas has promised to take me again in a fortnight, when The Barber of Seville will be performed.

The evening would have been one of the highlights of my life, even without the music. We dressed in our very best clothes. My gown was made of white velvet. With it, I wore my pearls, the longest pair of white kid evening gloves I have ever seen, and white kid sandals. Best of all, I wore one of the Schofield tiaras. Two of them are so elaborate I am not yet old enough to carry them off, but the one Lady Sylvia recommended is relatively simple, and as it is set with pearls, it was quite perfect. Reardon spent hours putting my hair up properly. It is an art, wearing a tiara, Lady Sylvia says.

The five of us arrived at the opera house at exactly the right time, just tardy enough to be fashionable, yet not tardy enough to be rude. Some people make their evening’s entertainment standing around outside places like the opera house, envying the fashionable world as it arrives. I would not find that a satisfactory way to spend the time. Unless Thomas were with me, of course. I feel sure he could shout very amusing things, if he were so inclined.

We survived the press of interested onlookers shouting critical remarks and gained the relative quiet of Lady Sylvia’s box. There was a brief, yet excruciating, period of Being Seen, as we were ogled by the occupants of the other boxes. Much flourishing of opera glasses, much looking down noses. For once, I didn’t care. I knew I was looking my best, I could tell from Thomas’s expression. I concentrated on sitting up straight and doing the tiara justice.

The overture began at last, and the fashionable world fell away. I forgot all about everything, even my tiara. The music was like—oh, I can’t think of anything that isn’t trite. Instead, I will compare it to that day last spring when I attended the investiture at the Royal College of Wizards and stumbled across the threshold into a garden far away. Between one step and the next, I crossed into another world.

The music was like that.

When we left the opera house, it was quite a disappointment to me that we spoke ordinary words. It would have seemed more natural to sing. I wonder if that is what birds do. Lucky birds, if so.

By the time we returned to Lady Sylvia’s house, the music had faded. I was in the real world again. But I hadn’t been alone on that voyage. It is always difficult to deduce what tune Thomas thinks he’s humming, but in this case, I recognized certain passages distinctly.

Only thirteen days until we go to the opera again. It seems an eternity!

17 September 1817

Paris

At Lady Sylvia’s house

At times I had grave doubts, but I have survived Lady Sylvia’s card party. I made a cake of myself, but it was only a small cake, and not in the usual way, for nothing whatever was spilt, torn, or broken.

With Lady Sylvia’s help and Cecy’s encouragement, I chose which of my new gowns to wear last night. It is the color and texture of a pink rose petal, and it fits to perfection. I wore my best pearl necklace, and when I put in the pearl eardrops Aunt Elizabeth gave me, I remembered the charm she cast upon them. If it worked so spectacularly upon Cecy’s, surely mine would be safe for one evening.

I haven’t dared to jinx it by remarking upon it aloud, but I’ve been having an extraordinarily good run of neither losing nor breaking things. I devoutly hope my luck will hold. As I readied myself for the evening, I made all sorts of bargains with Providence in hopes it would not give out spectacularly while I was in the presence of the Duke of Wellington himself.

I was ready in good time, but I stayed in my room until the last possible moment, eager to avoid any possible mishap. Perhaps it was a mistake to spend so much time alone thinking about it. As I waited, I grew more and more convinced that some great piece of clumsiness would befall me before the evening was over.

Thomas came to fetch me down and with a single glance took in my frame of mind. “Goose.” He crossed the room and took me in his arms. I rested against him, sending up a silent prayer of thanksgiving that my husband was not one to ask what was the matter or to need things explained. “It’s all right, you know.” He drew back a little to take a better look. “You do know, don’t you?”

“I know.” My words came out in a very timid way. “I’m just a coward.”

Thomas made a noise expressing disagreement and disbelief. “Gammon. You’re aware of the possibilities, that’s all. Social acuity is an asset.”

“I’m well aware of the possibilities. I’m aware that I have hardly dropped a crumb in days. What are the odds that I spill something sticky on someone important tonight?”

I could tell Thomas was thinking it over. “You’re right. You haven’t had anything turn awkward since you dropped that jam-side-down slice of toast in your lap at breakfast last week.”

I’d forgotten that. “I was thinking of the sauce I spilt on my bodice at dinner five days ago.”

“Five whole days? You’re right. Steps must be taken.” Thomas chose a glass on a tray left on the tea table and poured water from the accompanying carafe until it reached the rim. “Hand that to me, please.”

I picked it up and the inevitable happened. An ounce or two of water spilt from the glass to the tray. Thomas took the brimming glass from me and put it back on the tray. “There. We’ll see if that helps, shall we?”

I mopped up the spill with my handkerchief. Thomas took the sodden bit of fabric away from me. “Find yourself another handkerchief, my dove, and we will go down to put it to the test.”

I couldn’t think of anything to say that wouldn’t sound like shirking or whining, so I just looked at him. He held me. “You needn’t come down if you don’t wish to, but I hate the thought of you alone up here, castigating yourself.”

“I’m so afraid I’ll do something to embarrass you.” In fact, I had a strong presentiment I was doomed to. Not all the preemptive water spilling in the world would save me from my fate. “I just have a feeling I might—”

Thomas put me away from him, suddenly all decision. “I don’t like the cut of this coat above half. If you feel it coming on, spill something on me. It would give me a good reason to be rid of it.” Thomas put my hand on his sleeve and we left the room to proceed very slowly and very carefully down the stairs.

James looked as stylish as Thomas did, all sign of his indisposition gone. Cecy was resplendent in a green gown that did wonderful things for her eyes. Lady Sylvia, as ever, was the personification of breeding and taste. Her gown was simple to the point of severity, her jewels understated yet profoundly impressive. She leaned upon an ebony walking stick, her air one of perfect ease, ready to greet her old friends. It was her past we were meeting that night, her comrades in arms, her allies. As her guests arrived, I marveled at the army of affection she commanded, all the while I took pride in the role I played in her family.

Chicken stakes. The phrase makes wagering sound rather fun. Insignificant losses balanced against the insignificant wins and the all-important amusement of oneself and one’s friends.

Perhaps my dread of embarrassment turned on itself somehow. For whatever reason, I found the prospect of playing cards for an evening held no appeal. Indeed, it filled me with misgiving. Each time I inspected my hand, I asked myself if this was how Georgy had started on her road to disgrace.

It was my social duty to play cards, to help amuse Lady Sylvia’s guests. Therefore, I played cards. Yet my careful cheerfulness didn’t fool Thomas, for after the first change of tables, he collected me from the group I’d been about to join and beckoned a friend over to play in my place.

“My apologies, ladies and gentlemen,” Thomas said as he took my hand. “I will return her eventually. For now, duty calls.”

One of the men at the table knew Thomas of old, it was clear from his mocking tone. “You’re a dutiful man, Schofield. I’ve always said so. Don’t let anyone tell you differently.” We were chaffed good-naturedly, but they let us go.

Thomas escorted me out of the card room. In the small room adjacent to it, we were able to converse in an undertone.

“Kate, what is it? Do you have a headache? Have you torn your gown? I’ve been watching you play, and with every hand you look more and more unhappy.”

“No, do I?” I felt dismayed. I’d been trying so hard to conceal my feelings.

“What’s the matter?”

“Nothing. I don’t object to playing cards since it is to oblige Lady Sylvia.” I trailed off before Thomas’s penetrating glance.

“Out with it.” Thomas was stern. “You don’t object to playing cards. Now that we’ve established that, what do you object to?”

“I’m being foolish.”

“I’ll be the judge of that. I am the arbiter of all things foolish, at least in this arrondissement. Ask anyone. So. Whatever it is that’s making you look so sad, tell me.”

“I wish I didn’t have to gamble.”

Thomas looked adorably confused. “What are you talking about? You aren’t gambling. This isn’t Watier’s. It’s a simple card party.”

“But I am gambling. We all are.”

Thomas shook his head slightly, as if to clear it. “We’re playing for chicken stakes. Nothing more. That’s not real gambling. Gambling is when there’s a stack of guineas the size of your head riding on the turn of a card or the throw of the dice.” Thomas did not seem to find this an unpleasant thought.

“Chicken stakes,” I repeated. “That’s how Georgy began. Soon enough she had to borrow my jewelry to cover her losses.”

“She’s your sister, so I will use moderate language, no matter how great the provocation.” Gravely, Thomas held my gaze with his own and I could not doubt his sincerity. “Georgy is an utter peagoose. You are not.”

“Georgy began by playing in a setting very like this, and she is now so hardened a gambler that she must at all costs be kept from it.”

“You, my buttercup, are not your sister. For which I offer frequent prayers of gratitude to a merciful God.”

At times, Thomas’s choice of endearments can be distracting. I believe he does it on purpose. I let the buttercup go and kept to the point. “You asked me what was troubling me and I am trying to explain. Georgy takes after Grandfather. I am his grandchild just as much as she is, and I’m afraid I will take after him, too.”

Thomas was much struck by this reminder. “Faro Talgarth, they called him. I’m sorry, Kate. I’d forgotten that.”

“He was clever about wagers, most of the time,” I conceded. “With all the practice he had, I suppose his expertise was almost inevitable.”

“He made quite a name for himself at the tables, I can’t deny it. I apologize. I wasn’t thinking.” Thomas took a quick look to be sure we were unobserved, and kissed me.

“You do that so well,” I told him. “Apology accepted.”

“I should apologize well. With all the practice I’ve had?” Thomas looked back into the card room. “They all look happy as children, even Old Hooky. You’ve not been missed by now, so you won’t be missed in future. I can think of several ways around the problem. I’ll leave it to you to choose. I could hereby forbid you to play, even for chicken stakes. I don’t recommend that alternative. It would be quick and easy, but, unfortunately, it is as good as a public statement that I don’t trust you not to have the family failing. Now, almost as easy, since we have an audience conveniently at hand, I could make a point of cajoling you to play cards.”

“But I don’t wish to play cards,” I protested. “Really, I don’t.”

Thomas was all patience. “Yes, Kate. That’s precisely what you say. As many times as necessary. Tell me you’d rather sit by me as I play my hand, smile at me with insipid sweetness, that sort of thing.”

“Oh.” Belatedly, I saw Thomas’s point. “I suppose I could do that.”

“Or you could simply say you don’t know any card games and you refuse to learn. No one minds a touch of the farouche in a new bride.”

I tried out an insipid smile. Thomas seemed to find no fault with it. “I’d rather sit by you and watch you play your hand.”

“So you shall, then.” Thomas looked a little wistful. “It’s the best choice. Some other time I will come the stern husband and forbid you to do something.”

“Oh, are you looking forward to that?” I asked.

“Yes, very much. Some other time you will obey me, as you vowed at the altar when we were married.”

I felt a pang of pure sentiment. My affection for Thomas surpassed even my gratitude for his ready understanding and sympathy. “I shall obey you, as I love and honor you.”

Something in my words seemed to touch Thomas deeply, for he looked at me with such an expression of soft and open affection that my breath caught. He said, “With my body, I do worship thee, Kate.” After a moment, he murmured in my ear, so close his warm breath tickled me. “We’ll have a spot of that later, if you’ve no objection.”

“Not the least objection in the world,” I assured him with heartfelt sincerity.

From the deposition of Mrs. James Tarleton, &c.

A card party sounds as if it must be the most pedestrian entertainment possible, but from the moment responses to Lady Sylvia’s invitation began arriving, it was obvious that an invitation from her carried the weight of a royal command. His Grace, the Duke of Wellington, was perhaps the most illustrious of the guests, but there were sufficient lesser luminaries present that when he arrived and glanced around, he asked Lady Sylvia whether she had ambition to take the place of the late Madame de Staël as the heart of intellectual Paris.

“None whatever,” Lady Sylvia replied. “If Paris wishes to have an intellectual center, she must make her own arrangements. I have quite enough to do already.”

His Grace gave her a sharp look down his long nose. “Indeed?”

“Indeed,” Lady Sylvia said. She made a completely unnecessary show of consulting the schedule of tables and said, “We shall be partnered later this evening. If you still wish to hear my views on Madame de Staël, you may inquire then.” Firmly, she introduced him to Kate and me and sent him in to mingle with the other guests.

For the first few rounds of play, we were all separated, doing our duty at different tables. I soon became accustomed to shifting partners periodically, and to hiding my annoyance when my partner misplayed and lost us the hand. I was quite enjoying myself when, at the end of a particularly good round, James appeared to collect me for the next game.

Since a number of the guests had elected to trade positions, and several had abandoned the card tables entirely for the refreshments at the end of the parlor (thus totally confusing Lady Sylvia’s careful arrangements), I was a little surprised to see him. We repaired to a table that had been set up in a rather cramped alcove in the library. Lady Sylvia and the Duke were already waiting, seated across from each other, so that James and I would play against them.

“Here you are at last,” Lady Sylvia said. “James, will you deal?”

“My pleasure,” James said as he took his seat. “Though there’s hardly any point to it, with you two against us. We might as well concede right now.”

“Concede?” His Grace said with mock horror. “My dear Tarleton! Surely you learned better than that on the Peninsula.”

“I learned never to bet against you, Sir,” James said as the cards flew through his fingers.

The Duke of Wellington gave a great neighing laugh, and we settled down to play. He and James quickly fell into military reminiscence, which occupied the first hand. James and I lost.

“Very good,” Lady Sylvia said as she gathered up the cards and began shuffling them. “Now you must have a chance for revenge. Cecy, dear, will you cut?”

As my hand touched the cards, I felt the barest frisson of magic. I looked at Lady Sylvia. She nodded encouragingly, so I did as she had asked. She smiled and dealt the next hand, concentrating as she did. As each card landed, the steady rumble of the talk around us became more muffled, until the sound was as distant as if the crowded tables were in the next room with the door closed.

“There,” Lady Sylvia said, setting the pack on the table and picking up her hand. She smiled at His Grace’s intent expression. “It is so difficult to speak both privately and unobtrusively at a gathering such as this. Much better to speak privately in public, I think.”

Wellington’s eyebrows rose. “You and I are not the only wizards here. The Comte de Villiers is no dabbler, nor is Lady Marchant, to name only two.”

Lady Sylvia smiled. “That is why I gave James the first deal. I assure you, Your Grace, no one will notice this particular spell. I was quite careful; setting it up took the better part of the week.”

“In that case, I should welcome a detailed description,” the Duke said. “The usual cantrips are all far too obvious for the sort of diplomatic work I find myself doing these days.”

“I shall send it to you tomorrow,” Lady Sylvia promised. “On condition that you apprise me of any improvements that may occur to you.”

“It is agreed,” Lord Wellington said. “Now, I assume you did not go to all this trouble in order for us to make ourselves obvious, so we had better bid the hand. Then you can tell me what is behind all this.”

We commenced play, and through the first several rounds Lady Sylvia described the arrival of the Sainte Ampoule, the failed attempt to steal it in Calais, and the successful theft on the road to Paris. The Duke looked more and more thoughtful as the tale went on, and played at least one card quite at random.

“I see,” he said when Lady Sylvia finished. “I might have guessed that Captain Tarleton did not get himself shot engaging in senseless heroics. Reasonable heroics are much more his style. Even so, we’ll have no more of that, if you please,” he told James. “I can’t be losing any more of my family now that we’re at peace.” For a moment, his eyes clouded, and I realized he must be thinking of all the officers who had died at Waterloo—James told me once that the Duke often referred to them as his family.

“Never fear, Sir,” James replied. “I’m already under similar orders from my wife.”

“Ah, then I need not worry.” The Duke of Wellington smiled warmly at me. “You have found a pearl, James—wise as well as discreet. You’ve been in Paris more than three weeks, and I haven’t heard a whisper of this business.”

“You have reason to expect that you would have, had one of us been … talkative?” Lady Sylvia said. “Possibly you have already heard of this from another source?”

“But who else—” I paused. The only people Lady Sylvia had told of the Sainte Ampoule were the Bishop, whom I could not imagine informing anyone, and … “Not Mr. Brummell?”

The Duke did not answer, though he gave Lady Sylvia a quelling look (which appeared to have no effect whatsoever). He studied his cards, then played the nine of diamonds. He waited as the play went around the table. Then, as he collected the trick, he said, “I believe Captain Winters told you of the business at Sainte Chapelle? ”

We all nodded.

Wellington frowned. “It’s a much bigger business than you may realize. Someone is up to something.”

“What sort of something?” James prompted. “Or do you know yet?”

“That’s the trouble,” the Duke said, half to himself. “It’s a different sort of battlefield.” He shook his head and looked at Lady Sylvia. “There have been other thefts,” he said abruptly. “An ancient coronation robe in Spain—God knows why the French didn’t cart it away when they had the chance, but they didn’t. It was moldering in some fortress in Castile until a few months ago. And just this morning I received word that a royal ring has gone missing in Aachen that dates back to before the Holy Roman Emperors. Someone seems to be collecting royal regalia.”

“But from different countries,” Lady Sylvia said. “And is it a single item from each place? That seems unlikely for a mere collector. Also, you would not be so concerned if you thought that was all there was to it.”

“Ah, there’s the rub,” said the Duke of Wellington. “I don’t know anything. I suspect a good deal, but I can’t look into things any further without causing all sorts of difficulties. There are already whispers—rumor includes at least one plot to assassinate or to enchant each member of the French royal family, and most of the members of the Estates-Generale as well, individually and collectively. And those are just the reasonably plausible ones.”

“Well,” I said, “if you don’t know anything, what do you suspect?”

His Grace gave me a penetrating look. “I suspect someone of plotting to put Napoleon’s empire back together. Possibly with Bonaparte himself at the head of it once more, though there has been enough activity in Austria lately that it may be the son they’re considering.”

I blinked. “How is stealing a lot of old coronation garb going to put Napoleon’s empire back together? It’s not as if anyone is going to be impressed because someone is wearing a moth-eaten robe and a secondhand ring.”

The Duke gave another loud laugh, but he sobered quickly. “That is one of the questions for which I would very much like an answer,” he said. “There’s magic involved, of that I’m certain, but what sort of magic and who’s behind it…” He shrugged. “At one time, I had hopes of learning something from Sir Hilary Bedrick—he was just the kind to get mixed up in that sort of experimental magic without thinking too much about what the consequences might be.”

“Or without caring about them,” James said.

“True. But when that business came out about his attempts to steal other wizards’ magic—well, I didn’t think he’d have had time to be involved in any other plots. And once the Royal College of Wizards stripped him of his magic, he would have been no use to them. And if he was no use to them, he’d have had no information for me.”

“So you thought,” Lady Sylvia said.

His Grace nodded. “So I thought. Then he was killed under… peculiar circumstances, and I wondered. Now you tell me that he was in possession of the Sainte Ampoule at the time of his death, and I’ve no way to discover whether it was by accident or design.”

“Mr. Strangle might know,” I said. His Grace looked at me inquiringly, so I explained about Mr. Strangle’s previous association with Sir Hilary. Before I finished, James was shaking his head.

“Harry Strangle is a nasty piece of work, I grant you,” he said. “But it’s bad enough that Thomas has a bee in his brain about the man. There’s no reason to think he’s had anything to do with Sir Hilary since Sir Hilary’s expulsion from the Royal College.”

“Nevertheless, I’d welcome a chance to talk with him,” the Duke said. “Unfortunately, that wouldn’t be possible, even if he were still in Paris.” He pinched the bridge of his nose and frowned unhappily. “There are still Bonapartists in Europe, you know, and not just in France. Also, some of our allies are not happy with the current state of affairs. They don’t want France back on her feet—though it will take years to accomplish that—and they would welcome an excuse to arrange matters more to their liking. If I open any sort of official investigation, it will only encourage the lot of them.”

“Are you perhaps hinting at the possibility of an unofficial investigation?” Lady Sylvia asked. “The sort of thing Thomas used to do?”

“Exactly.” He looked from me to James.

James sat back with a look of resignation. “You want us to hunt up Harry Strangle and ask him your questions.”

“And to keep an eye open for anything else that might have to do with the stolen regalia,” His Grace said, nodding.

“You’re on your wedding tour; you’ve the perfect excuse to travel wherever you like on a whim. And you’ve already stumbled across one part of the scheme—if it is a scheme.”

“My wife has a knack for that sort of stumble,” James murmured.

“The chrism was delivered to Lady Sylvia,” I pointed out. “And if you hadn’t made me stay behind, merely because I was indisposed during our passage to Calais—”

“Yes, I know,” James said. “But if you’d come out with me, something else would have happened.”

“Very likely,” Lady Sylvia said. “But that only makes you a better choice for this.” She looked back at the Duke of Wellington. “I assume you mean to include Thomas and his bride as well? They really should have been here, but unfortunately the numbers would not allow it.”

“Yes, of course,” the Duke said with only the barest hesitation. “Thomas has amply demonstrated his flair for finding things out.”

“As has my daughter-at-law,” Lady Sylvia said gently. “Is there any more you can tell us? There are rather a lot of ancient royal objects in Europe, one way and another. It would take months just to cross France, if one were to stop to look into all of them.”

“Like Papa’s antiquities,” I said without thinking.

“Your father is interested in antiquities?” the Duke said, frowning once more. “Of what sort?”

“Illegible, mostly,” James said. “But it might not be a bad idea to consult him. There may be some less obvious connection between these missing items that he could explain for us.”

The Duke’s frown deepened. “I can’t have more rumors starting. If you are willing to begin this venture, you must manage it as you see fit—but there can be no mention of my name or anything remotely official.”

“That does make it more difficult,” James said.

I could not help myself. I sniffed. “That is because you do not know how Papa gets when something interests him,” I said. “It is the simplest task imaginable. I will write him a letter, complaining that we could not visit Sainte Chapelle because of the break-in, and I will mention the other thefts in connection with that, as events that are public knowledge—they are public knowledge?” I said, looking at the Duke.

“All except the chrism,” he said.

“So I will mention the thefts, and ask him what he makes of it,” I went on. “And if I do not get a five-page response detailing the history of every item and its uses, with references going back to Ancient Greece—well, then I do not know Papa. I shall have to think of a tactful way to tell him not to cross his lines,” I added thoughtfully. “His handwriting is hard enough to read as it is.”

“I shall leave it to you, my dear,” James said.

“I see the matter is in capable hands,” His Grace said gallantly. “I’ll send you a packet of information tomorrow. I need not tell you to take care with it.”

“No,” James agreed.

Our talk became more general, and Lady Sylvia let her muffling spell fade. Though James and I took the second hand, the Duke and Lady Sylvia won the third, and the game. I should have liked to go in search of Kate and Thomas directly, but upon reflection I thought it might attract just the sort of attention the Duke of Wellington wished to avoid, so I spent the remainder of the evening filling in wherever I was needed to make up the numbers.

The day after the card party, we all slept very late. I spent the early part of the afternoon writing my letter to Papa. Lady Sylvia explained the Duke of Wellington’s request to Kate and Thomas, who agreed at once, and Thomas and James set about making preparations to leave Paris.

Later, Thomas took Lady Sylvia’s spell over to the Duke of Wellington, and stayed only a little longer than might be expected of an old military acquaintance. I sent my letter off to Papa, with instructions to reply to the consulate in Milan. Reardon and Walker packed, while James made sure that the carriages we had hired would indeed be ready next day.

And so, on the second morning after Lady Sylvia’s card party, we bade Lady Sylvia a fond farewell. Amid many promises to write—and to send any confidential information via the system of knitting she had shown us—we left Paris, heading toward the Alps.

From the commonplace book of Lady Schofield

18 September 1817

Paris

At Lady Sylvia’s house

We leave Paris in two hours. Thomas and I said our farewells to Lady Sylvia last night, for we could not do them justice in this whirlwind of packing and hauling. I shall miss Lady Sylvia dreadfully, not least because she has a genius for comfortable travel. Thomas assures me that he has inherited her genius. I only hope it may be true.

Given the importance of our mission and the urgency of our journey, it is shameful for me to be so reluctant to leave Paris. I dare confess it only here in these pages, but my chief regret is The Barber of Seville. Thomas was to take me next Saturday and now I may never see it. I may never see true opera again. This is not the sort of thing I am willing to be seen to sulk over, so I will pretend I have forgotten about it as thoroughly as Thomas has. Indeed, I hope this will prove one of those occasions in which pretending to forget will lead to forgetfulness in truth. It was only Rossini, after all. We have had our Mozart, and that is what matters.