11 August 1817
Calais
At Dessein’s Hotel
I AM ABSOLUTELY NOT to go downstairs before the clock strikes the hour. It would be rude to do so, as it would imply that Piers and the staff are not perfectly capable of running such a simple thing as a dinner. I will stay right here and write in my commonplace book until it is time to go downstairs. If I am very careful, I won’t get ink on myself, either.
Remember to mention tactfully to Cecy that Thomas was talking about moules, not poules, and that he entertained that French staff officer with a great many mussels, not a great many chickens.
N.B. Where is best petticoat? Didn’t leave at the Black Swan because I noticed mud on hem when aboard the ship.
N.B. Item on Uncle’s list: Amiens—manor house garden ruins, probable remains of Roman temple to Minerva Anthrax. Ask C. to check Uncle’s handwriting before I write home with description. He would be upset if I got name wrong and Minerva Anthrax seems most unlikely.
N.B. Is not the word poule sometimes used as a synonym for an improper young woman? Remember just to ask T. tactfully if this is so and if I might possibly have confused things, my ear for accent being what it is. If T. changes subject, ask James same.
Thomas and I returned from our walk along the shore rather later, and rather wetter, than we had intended. Lady Sylvia and James arrived back just as we did, and there was much confusion of muddy boots and damp pelisses before we were all comfortably disposed in a private parlor. I don’t know if James detected Cecy’s agitation sooner than I did, but I know he remarked upon it before I could.
James asked, “Cecy, do you wish to speak to me privately?” Eyes wide, Cecy shook her head. The signs of her excitement were not easy to identify, but to anyone who knew her well they were unmistakable. The thought that James knew her so thoroughly cost me a tiny pang, half joy at her good fortune in a husband, half regret at his sharing my knowledge of her. “No, it’s something we must all discuss.”
Lady Sylvia looked distinctly intrigued. “My dear, has something happened while we were out?”
“Yes. You had a caller. Only there was a small muddle …” Cecy told us the story of the woman in blue and the mysterious parcel she’d left for Lady Sylvia. When she brought it forth, we leaned close to watch as Lady Sylvia undid the wrapper with painstaking care.
It was not, as I had supposed from the parcel’s shape, a box of any kind. Freed of its wrappings, it was a squarish little flask of a curious glassy substance, translucent white with streaks of brown shot through it. The flat stopper was made of gold. With great caution, Lady Sylvia opened the flask. It held perhaps an ounce of a clear, oily substance. She rubbed a drop between thumb and forefinger and a pleasantly flowery aroma filled the small salon.
Thomas looked pained. “Scent? Someone went to the trouble to be so mysterious about a bottle of scent? It’s not unpleasant, I grant you. But it seems a bit—”
“The stopper is made of gold and ivory,” said James. “The flask is alabaster. Very old work, that. Whatever the scent is, it must be something quite out of the ordinary.”
“It isn’t scent,” said Lady Sylvia. “Too oily. Yet it isn’t a heavy oil. By no means. And it is nearly empty.” She stoppered the flask and wrapped it loosely in the brown paper again, then placed it in her reticule. “I think we should keep this news among ourselves until we learn a little more. Now, Cecy, tell me again precisely what her parting words were.”
“‘Pray give this to the Marchioness as soon as she returns, and convey my respect and congratulations to your husband.’ Then I asked her who she was, and she said she was the Lady in Blue. She said she thought James would remember.” Cecy turned to her husband, all confidence. “James?”
But James was staring at the salon door, where Piers stood in unobtrusive silence. “How long have you been standing there? Well, man?”
Piers’s astonishment was plain. “A moment only, Sir. The door was open. The cook wishes to know if the ragout of lamb is to be served as a remove.”
“You deal with him, Thomas,” said Lady Sylvia. “After all, you found him. Kate, Cecy, I think it is long past time we set about making our own preparations. Will you accompany me?” Though she phrased it as a question, it was plain even to me that she meant it as an order, so Cecy and I came upstairs with her to change for dinner. And here, for these last interminable minutes until the hour strikes, we remain.
I confess that when I went up to dress for dinner, I felt just a little annoyed with Lady Sylvia. It was, after all, owing to her advice that Kate and I had come away from London without taking time to arrange for proper wardrobes or maids, and now, on only our second evening in France, before we had had any time to remedy the situation, she expected us to dine with Beau Brummell! And while it is quite true that Mr. Brummell was no longer an intimate of the Prince of Wales, nor the unquestioned arbiter of fashion in London, it had been only a year since he was all these things and more. It was a good thing I had been so well occupied for much of the afternoon, or I might have fretted enough to get into what Mrs. Everslee at home refers to as “A State.”
Lady Sylvia did, however, make some helpful suggestions as to which of the gowns in our rather limited wardrobes would be suitable. On her advice, I chose a green silk with a single flounce, quite simple, with Mama’s little gold locket for jewelry She chose a deep rose taffeta for Kate, which set off her figure to perfection—I think it must have been one of the gowns that the two of them bought just before I came up to London, for it was certainly nothing that my Aunt Charlotte would have picked for Kate. One of Kate’s trunks appeared to have gone missing during the voyage, so Lady Sylvia loaned her a petticoat, and I, a clean pair of gloves. (I would have been perfectly happy to have provided the petticoat as well, but it would not have done; I am too tall.)
Kate finished dressing first, and sat writing in the little book Papa gave her until Lady Sylvia and I were ready and it was time to go down. Lady Sylvia wore black, as is her custom—Kate told me once that she never put off mourning after her husband and eldest son died years ago.
James and Thomas were waiting in the private parlor, and Mr. Brummell was announced practically on our heels. At first glance, he did not appear particularly formidable. He was a man of medium height and middle years, with wide, intelligent gray eyes. He neither looked nor acted like a gentleman in the grip of pecuniary difficulties; his dark coat was exquisitely cut, and he bowed over Lady Sylvia’s hand with a considerable air. “It is remarkably pleasant to see you again, Lady Sylvia.”
“I might say the same to you,” Lady Sylvia replied. “And how is your gout?”
Brummell’s lips quirked. “Oh, I should not mind so much, but it is in my favorite leg.”
Lady Sylvia laughed and turned to us. “I believe you have not yet made the acquaintance of my daughter-at-law, Lady Schofield, and her dear friend and cousin, Mrs. Tarleton. You are already acquainted with my son and Mr. Tarleton.”
“I am,” Mr. Brummell said, bowing to everyone. “And it is an honor to meet two such brave and clever ladies, for clever you must certainly be to have persuaded my friends here to matrimony, and as for brave”—he shrugged—“one has only to look at the pair of them to recognize your courage in taking them on.”
I could feel Kate’s anxiety yield to annoyance, and I was not sure whether to be angry or amused myself. Fortunately, James laughed. “You have not changed a hair, Beau,” he said. “But though I quarrel with your reasoning, your conclusions are more accurate than you think.”
“Far more accurate,” Thomas said, taking Kate’s arm.
The Beau raised his eyebrows expressively and looked from James to Thomas and back. “Indeed? How fortunate; you may tell me the tale over dinner, and the discussion will be both interesting and unexceptionable—a combination that seems beyond the ability of far too many people in these unfortunate times.”
“After dinner,” Lady Sylvia said firmly, with a brief but meaningful glance at the French servants who were setting out the dinner.
Mr. Brummell’s smile had a peculiar edge to it. “Oh, you need not be concerned about them. I stayed at this hotel when I… first arrived in France, and though I gave my instructions with great care in the French language, they were always misconstruing me. If they could not understand their own tongue, I hardly think they will manage better with English.”
“Which is, no doubt, why you have chosen to rent rooms from Monsieur Quillac instead of remaining here,” Lady Sylvia said in a dry tone. A quick look passed between her and Mr. Brummell, and then she went on, “We shall entertain you with London gossip, instead. Had you heard that Prinny speaks of leaving off his stays?”
“It would be a singularly foolish thing for him to do,” Mr. Brummell replied, taking her arm to lead her to the table. “I therefore confidently predict that he will have done so by the beginning of next Season.”
We sat down to dinner and talked in an amiable and frivolous fashion throughout the first course. The soup was excellent, and I resolved to engage a French cook as soon as we returned home, though I was sure Aunt Charlotte would claim it extravagant.
French cuisine may be excellent, but French domestic architecture sometimes leaves much to be desired. Just as the fish course was served, a large chunk of plaster parted company with the rest of the ceiling and landed in our dinner.
“Damme!” said Mr. Brummell.
Kate looked as if she wished the earth would swallow her. James’s amusement seemed about to break loose, and I gave him a glance of warning. Thomas gave Kate a little nod of encouragement and she squared her shoulders. I recognized the expression on her face, and found myself hoping fervently that she was not about to tell one of her outrageous tales to Mr. Brummell. I was not at all sure I could answer for my own reaction should she do so, and I was quite certain that James would burst out laughing.
12 August 1817
Calais
At Dessein’s Hotel
I WAS A MODEL OF genteel deportment. I forced myself not to come downstairs until the clock had struck six. The others were in the parlor before me. Thomas and James bantered cheerfully between themselves. Lady Sylvia looked rested and refreshed. Cecy’s customary high spirits had returned, and there was nothing wrong with me but my usual dread of social discomfiture.
Cecy tucked my hair up at the back, made me turn slowly to inspect my buttonholes and hemline, and pronounced me neat as a pin.
Thomas chaffed me gently about my skittishness and reviewed the protocol of the situation with me. I was to be the hostess, and, therefore, Mr. Brummell was my honored guest. He would be on my right. Thomas would be at the other end of the table, to be sure, but it was not a very large table, just the six of us. If I did anything dreadful, everyone there was related to me except Mr. Brummell, and he had better manners than all the rest of us put together. Therefore, I had nothing to fear.
“After all,” Thomas finished, “it’s only dinner. What can go wrong?”
I felt we all looked rather nice as we went in to dinner. Elegant, but not ostentatious. It seemed terribly odd to take precedence over Lady Sylvia but I braced myself for the ordeal. Mr. Brummell made it plain that he knew Thomas and James, as well as Lady Sylvia, quite well. His table talk was divided evenly among us. The soup course yielded to the fish and I began to relax. Perhaps Thomas had been right all along. Perhaps playing my role in Society would come to me as I went on. Perhaps a bit of practice was truly all I required.
As the fish course began, I heard a soft creak overhead. I glanced up in time to see a piece of the plaster ceiling the size of a wagon wheel bid farewell to its grip on the laths above and crash down on the table. Soup tureen, candelabra, glasses, and plates alike were cast into chaos.
“Dear me,” said Mr. Brummell.
The servants left the room. In the distance, I could hear the innkeeper’s bay of alarm. Close at hand, I could hear soup dripping to the floor, a not-unmusical trickle.
I put down my spoon and looked around the table. Opposite me, Thomas was as expressionless as I have ever seen him. I worried what his honest response to this catastrophe might be, that such impassivity was needed. Cecy’s eyes were wide with astonishment. Lady Sylvia used her napkin to extinguish a sprig of the floral arrangement where a fallen candle was trying to smolder into flame. I think James was trying not to laugh. With all the aplomb I’d learned telling fibs as a girl, I turned to our guest. “Mr. Brummell, with such fine weather, we thought it might amuse you to take the rest of the meal in the classical fashion, al fresco in the garden. I hope you will accompany me?” My conscience intruded. More honestly, I went on. “It may take some time for the table to be laid—indeed, there may not be a table at all.”
“But the menu is worth the wait, I promise,” Thomas added. He was still straight-faced, but I could see now what he’d striven so hard to hide from me. Amusement. I would not have thought it possible, but I felt my affection for Thomas increase. He probably thought it would have wounded my feelings had he laughed aloud.
“Not only that, the open air can sometimes be more private,” said Lady Sylvia with a smile.
I only wish that everyone I ever told a bouncer to could be as willing to be deceived as Mr. Brummell. He was courtesy itself as he offered me his arm. “Then by all means, Lady Schofield, let us enjoy a fête champêtre. I believe there is to be a particularly fine moon tonight.”
There was a delay while the staff constructed a trestle table in the garden. Once it was covered with the tablecloth, and the chairs were moved outdoors for us, it looked well enough. The fish course was lost, unfortunately, but the rest of the menu made its way forth from the kitchens in good order.
At the end of the meal, we left the gentlemen to their port, but they did not linger long, and joined us in the private parlor upstairs after a very few minutes. (James explained to me later that Mr. Brummell preferred to limit his indulgence, as port tended to aggravate his gout.)
As the door closed behind Piers, leaving the six of us entirely to ourselves at last, Mr. Brummell settled into a chair and said, “I notice, Lady Sylvia, that amid your amiable reminiscences over dinner there was no mention of the Royal College of Wizards. Ought I to attach some significance to this omission, or have they merely been even duller than usual these past few months?”
“You always were a clever one,” Lady Sylvia said. “In fact, I am a little surprised you hadn’t heard already. The expulsion of Sir Hilary Bedrick from the Royal College, barely three months after his investiture, created quite a scandal.”
Mr. Brummell lowered his eyelids a trifle; his expression bore a strong resemblance to the one the Vicar’s cat used to assume when she was pretending not to be interested in something so as to lure it close enough to pounce on. “Indeed it did,” he replied. “It is, however, a scandal peculiarly devoid of details. Normally, the reasons behind such an abrupt departure are bandied about in the most common fashion imaginable. Nor have I had the pleasure of dining with him recently, though it is usual for persons who are, ah, under a cloud to take refuge on the Continent until some new scandal permits their return to Society. Which, no doubt, accounts for the distressing lack of style exhibited by so many English persons in France—present company, of course, most thoroughly excepted.”
“I don’t think Sir Hilary will want to dine with you, cloud or not, once he hears you have recently supped with us,” Thomas said.
“I am much obliged for the warning,” Mr. Brummell said earnestly. “I must certainly see to it that he hears no such thing.”
I shivered a little, remembering the strange little cloistered garden where James and I had spent a night as Sir Hilary’s prisoners. “You don’t really think he’ll come to France when the Royal College has finished with him, do you?”
“Finishes with him?” Mr. Brummel’s eyebrows rose. “Do you know, I was under the impression that they had finished with him already. That is normally what expulsion means.”
“Not in this case,” James said grimly. “And never fear, we do intend to tell you the whole. But it will make more sense if we tell it in order. You remember that chocolate pot of Thomas’s?”
“The blue one? Quite well; I tried several times to get someone to duplicate the shade for one of my snuffboxes, but I never quite managed it.”
“Yes,” said Thomas, sounding a trifle put out. “That one. It… inadvertently became the focus for my magic.”
“Inadvertently?” The Beau looked amused. “My dear Sir!”
“These things do happen,” Lady Sylvia said, frowning both Thomas and James to silence. She then proceeded to give an admirably succinct summary of the events leading up to Sir Hilary’s expulsion from the Royal College: his conspiracy with Miranda Tanistry Griscomb and their various attempts to enchant Thomas into marrying Miranda’s stepdaughter (which Kate foiled quite neatly) or to drain Thomas’s magic through the stolen chocolate pot (which ended when I deliberately smashed the pot to smithereens); Miranda’s attempt to steal Kate’s youth (which backfired fatally, thanks to Lady Sylvia); and, finally, Sir Hilary’s attempt to murder James and my foolish brother, Oliver, and to drain me until I lost my wits (frustrated by the timely arrival of my Aunt Elizabeth and my magic tutor, Mr. Wrexton).
“Under the circumstances, the Royal College of Wizards felt that expulsion was not enough,” Lady Sylvia finished. “By no means. No, they wisely decided to strip Sir Hilary of his magical abilities before exiling him from England. The process is somewhat lengthy, which is no doubt why he has not yet passed this way.”
“Unless he has chosen to go to the Low Countries,” Mr. Brummell said in a thoughtful tone. “I am much obliged for your information.”
“Then perhaps you will be willing to advise me in return,” Lady Sylvia said, and to my surprise she drew the little alabaster bottle from her reticule and passed it to Mr. Brummell. “This was delivered to me under rather mysterious circumstances this afternoon. What do you make of it?”
Mr. Brummell’s face went quite expressionless. He fingered the bottle for a moment, then, holding the stopper carefully in place, he turned it over and made a brief examination of the underside. “Ah,” he said in a satisfied tone, and returned it to Lady Sylvia.
“‘Ah’?” said Thomas. “I could have said that much myself.”
“You just did,” James told him.
Mr. Brummell ignored them both and looked at Lady Sylvia. “I believe the rather blurred mark on the base of the flask is the seal of the Archbishops of Notre-Dame in Paris. As you might reasonably be assumed to be traveling to Paris, I suspect you were meant to take the flask there.” He paused, considering. “Under the present circumstances, I am not at all sure that would be wise.”
“I thought the last Archbishop of Notre-Dame was executed years ago, during the Terror,” Kate said.
“He was,” Mr. Brummell replied. “Archbishops are, however, replaceable … very careless of the French revolutionaries not to have thought of that when they were going about executing people. Though I am quite sure it was not the new Archbishop who set his seal on your flask.”
“I see.” Lady Sylvia studied the flask for a moment, then replaced it in her reticule. “And where would it be wise to take this interesting acquisition?”
“I do not know,” Mr. Brummell said, frowning. “But I can say with certainty that there are at least two other places you ought not to take it.”
“And those are?”
“Vienna.” Mr. Brummell paused. “And the island of St. Helena.”
I stared at Mr. Brummell in considerable astonishment, as did Thomas, James, and Kate. Lady Sylvia was the only one of us to keep her countenance unmoved. The significance of St. Helena was immediately obvious—that was where Napoleon Bonaparte had been sent after his defeat at Waterloo and where he was still imprisoned. Vienna, however…
Then Kate frowned and said, “But what possible connection is there between a flask of sweet oil and Napoleon Bonaparte or his wife?” and I recalled that Bonaparte’s second wife, Marie Louise, had been an Austrian archduchess, and that she had returned home with their son following his exile.
“There is, quite probably, no connection at all,” Mr. Brummell replied with unimpaired calm. “In which case, it would be advisable for things to remain that way. I must also caution you to be circumspect in whatever letters you may happen to write. The cabinet noir is as active as ever, and while it is nothing like as sophisticated as it once was, nor as much heeded, it might still cause you a certain… inconvenience.”
“What is the black cabinet?” Kate demanded.
“The black chamber is a department of the French government devoted primarily to opening people’s mail,” Thomas replied. “And, of course, reading it once it has been opened.”
“They have an official department to read people’s private mail?” I said, outraged.
“Not exactly,” Thomas said. “Reading private mail is, after all, illegal, even in France—at least, the Legislative Assembly declared it so after they deposed Louis XVI. So did the Constituent Assembly a few years later. That’s why the cabinet noir is a secret department, not an official one.”
“It can’t be all that secret,” Kate said, “or you wouldn’t know so much about it.”
“That,” said Thomas smugly, “is due to the fact that I am not French.”
“It is due to the fact that you can’t resist poking your nose into whatever happens along, any more than Cecy can,” James said with some severity.
I opened my mouth to make a stinging retort, then closed it firmly. One ought not to make a scene in company, and though I confess that such considerations have not always restrained me in the past, I simply could not do so when the company in question was Mr. Brummell.
Lady Sylvia gave me an approving nod, and turned a quelling frown on James. “I must thank you for the information, Mr. Brummell,” she said when it was clear that James had subsided once more. “I am not fond of inconvenience.”
“I had suspected it,” Mr. Brummell replied gravely. “Speaking of which, I should mention that your old acquaintance Lord Eking was here with his wife two days ago; you only just managed to miss them.”
“How fortunate,” Lady Sylvia murmured. “Do you happen to know where they planned to travel next? And who else is likely to be in Paris at present?”
I was far more interested in learning more about the flask and its contents, and the reason why Mr. Brummell thought it ought not to come near Napoleon Bonaparte or his unfortunate wife, but it was quite clear that neither he nor Lady Sylvia intended to discuss the matter further. They passed quickly from discussion of acquaintances who might be in Paris to reminiscing about those they had known in the past. At length, Mr. Brummell rose to take his leave. As he made his adieux, he murmured something in a low voice to Thomas, and then departed. Thomas looked after him with a very curious expression on his face.
“What was that about?” James asked at last.
Thomas turned, looking thoughtful. “More advice.”
“And shall you take it?” Kate asked in the tone that means she does not consider the answer adequate but prefers not to make a fuss about it just at present.
“Very possibly.” Thomas hesitated, then sighed. “He advised me to create a new focus as soon as may be.”
“Quite a good suggestion, I think,” Lady Sylvia said.
James eyed the door pensively. “A good suggestion, perhaps—but not exactly a reassuring one,” he said, and on that note, the evening ended.
12 August 1817
Calais
At Dessein’s Hotel
N.B. Consult with Lady S. about engaging a suitable maid. I have never done such a thing in English. Doing so in French much worse.
N.B. Mend hem in second-best petticoat.
THOMAS HAD A WORD with the innkeeper after our dinner guest had departed. He made it abundantly clear why we would be leaving the next day, reasons that owed nothing to the fact that Lady Sylvia had arranged rooms for us in Amiens.
Piers was not to be found when we retired to our chamber. Thomas had a few more words to say. He finished off with, “Can’t think where the fellow gets to.”
“Never mind.” With much tugging on my part, and a little more swearing on Thomas’s part, I helped Thomas out of his coat, which was all we wanted Piers for, anyway. “He does know we’re leaving tomorrow, doesn’t he?”
Thomas plucked at the knot under his chin until the starched linen came loose. “With plaster in the soup, I should hope he knows we’re leaving.”
I couldn’t help saying, “Plaster in the fish.”
“You’re not going to take up contradiction as a hobby, are you?” Thomas finished unwinding his neckcloth and draped it over a chair for Piers to deal with.
I felt dismayed. “Oh, dear. Do you think I’m taking after Aunt Charlotte?”
Thomas put his arms around me. “Don’t look so stricken. I didn’t mean it. After all, you were right. It was in the fish.”
“It was everywhere.” I let my cheek rest against his shoulder. “What must he have thought?”
“Oh, hang Brummell. It’s over and done with now. I was proud of you.”
“You were? Truly?”
“Truly. Never saw a woman to match you for sangfroid.” Thomas gave me a little shake.
“Oh. Thank you, Thomas.” I hid my smile. Flowery, Thomas’s sentiments were not, but no one could doubt his sincerity. “Are you going to give some thought to Mr. Brummell’s advice on creating a new focus?”
“Of course. He’s right. I need to take care of that. Think of something for me, will you? Something crafty and brilliant?”
“Not a chocolate pot?”
“Not a chocolate pot,” Thomas agreed wholeheartedly. “Never quite left off feeling silly about making a pig’s ear of it that time. This time it’s going to be something clever.”
“That’s good. What will it be this time?”
“I don’t know. That’s why I’m leaving it to you. I want it to be perfect.”
“Oh, Thomas—”
“What?”
Any words I could muster seemed foolishly small in comparison to my feelings. There I was, with my own true love, who trusted me as I trusted him, and we were in each other’s arms, and the rest of the world was far away. “Nothing.”
Thomas seemed to understand me despite my tongue-tied muttering. “Never mind. I haven’t finished telling you how much I admire your sangfroid.”
We were both sleeping soundly when the alarm was given in the small hours of the night.
“Thief!” Lady Sylvia’s voice was unmistakable. “Stop, thief!”
Lady Sylvia must have issued a more magical command as well, for someone uttered a wild cry of surprise and dismay that made the little hairs on the nape of my neck bristle. Glass broke. Then came silence, followed by the inevitable sounds of a household rousing in the dead of night.
I followed Thomas out of our room in all haste.
“What is it? Is it a fire?” The innkeeper emerged from his quarters in slippers and nightshirt. No one knew what was happening, so no one attempted to answer him.
I tried to see over Thomas’s shoulder as we peered into Lady Sylvia’s bedchamber.
“Mother!” Thomas was alarmed. “Are you all right?”
“Yes, dear. Quite all right. I’m afraid he escaped, drat the man.” Someone had managed to light a lamp, and the shadows danced in Lady Sylvia’s room. She was sitting up in her bed, looking displeased with herself.
“Who was it?” Cecy demanded, her curiosity unquenchable as ever. She and James were behind us. Cecy was as bundled up in her dressing gown as I was in mine. James wore a garment similar in style to Thomas’s dressing gown, vivid scarlet picked out with black and gold embroidery. Neither of them seemed to have been asleep at all.
“My dear, I have no idea.” Lady Sylvia brandished a man’s slipper. “He left only this. Do you think we should send a footman out with this on a velvet cushion to see whom it fits?”
“Perhaps not just this minute,” said James. He took the slipper from her and turned it over in his hands. “Hmm. Well-made of good leather. See the peaked instep? Turkish fashion.”
“Made popular by that infernal cad Byron,” countered Lady Sylvia. “Anyone might own such a pair of slippers.”
“Anyone who follows fashion,” said Cecy. “But who would come into your bedchamber in the dead of night? And why? Is anything missing?”
“I have not yet had time to check,” said Lady Sylvia. “Perhaps we should do so now.”
James and Cecy and I began assisting her to go through her things. The first place we checked was Lady Sylvia’s jewelry box. The alabaster flask was safe. Thomas spoke softly to the innkeeper, who took himself off. Thomas himself slipped away soon after, leaving us with Lady Sylvia. In a quarter of an hour, perhaps less, he returned, just as we finished our task.
“Nothing seems to be gone,” James told Thomas. “Whatever he came for, he didn’t get it.”
“Good,” said Thomas. “I’ll tell you another good thing. We’ve found Piers. Apparently he has been drugged, tied up, and locked in the scullery for the past five hours.”
“Dear me. Is he all right?” I asked.
Thomas seemed indifferent to the state of his valet’s health. “He has a headache, well-earned, I suspect. It seems he’d been flirting with a personable young woman since his arrival. He holds her responsible for his misfortune.”
“Who? Where is she?” asked Cecy.
“She told him her name was Eve-Marie, and led him to believe she was a local resident, helping at the inn during our stay. In fact, no one here knows her, and unless the search the innkeeper is conducting proves unexpectedly successful, she’s nowhere to be found.”
James frowned. “How could Piers allow himself to be fooled so?”
Thomas chose his words with care. “Piers is convinced it is all our fault. The general air of, er, matrimonial bliss seems to have affected his judgment.”
“Eve, indeed,” said Lady Sylvia. “My intruder was no woman. I trust the innkeeper has someone searching for him, too.”
“He has,” Thomas said. “But no further trace of him has been found, either. I fear there’s no chance of picking up his trail until daybreak.”
Despite the stirring events of the night, James and I woke early the following morning. One of Lady Sylvia’s maids had pressed my gray lustring carriage dress. She helped me into it while James’s man shaved James, and so we were ready for breakfast much sooner than I had expected.
Breakfast had been laid out in a side parlor, which, though tiny, appeared to have a very secure ceiling. Early as we were, Lady Sylvia was there before us. She looked up from La Mode Illustrée, greeted us in a perfectly normal fashion, and recommended the cheese to James’s particular attention. As we began filling our plates, Kate and Thomas arrived.
“Ah, Kate, there you are!” said Lady Sylvia, who looked none the worse for the previous night’s interrupted sleep. “Good morning, Thomas.”
“Good morning, Mother,” said Thomas. “You’ve certainly had a busy time this morning. Don’t you ever rest?”
“A busy time?” I said. “Have you discovered anything new about that intruder last night?”
Kate shook her head. “Thomas is put out because when he went to order the coaches, he found that Lady Sylvia had already done so.”
“Just so,” said Lady Sylvia. “You had best sit down, both of you; there’s just time for you to eat before we start for Amiens.”
I frowned. “But shouldn’t we make some push to discover who was poking about in your bedroom, before we leave Calais?”
“Whoever it was is long gone by this time,” James said, giving me a look plainly meant to be quelling.
“Perhaps,” said Thomas. “Though he may not have gone far, with only one slipper.”
James turned his frown toward Thomas, but before he could speak, Kate said, “He can’t have needed to go far. Isn’t that why you didn’t hunt for him last night?”
“There, you see?” Thomas said to James.
“How do you know the thief didn’t have far to go?” James asked Kate in a tone halfway between horror and fascination.
“Well, I hardly think anyone would wear Turkish slippers if he knew he’d have to run miles through the streets afterward,” Kate said.
“Nor would an ordinary thief wear Byronic fashions,” I put in. “So Lady Sylvia’s intruder was very likely someone staying at this hotel.”
“Which is precisely why I wish to leave it as soon as possible,” Lady Sylvia said. “Drink your tea.”
“Surely you don’t mean us to go on to Amiens just as if nothing had happened!” I said.
“Not exactly,” said Lady Sylvia. “But I most certainly do mean to leave for Amiens as soon as possible. Calais has been far too full of events for comfort.”
Unorthodox parcel deliveries, unstable ceilings, mysterious housemaids, midnight intruders—yes, I could see her point. “But nearly everything that has happened has happened to you,” I said slowly. “Well, except for the ceiling, but, really, I don’t see how that could have been limited. If you go on, and James and I remain here another day to investigate—”
“Absolutely not,” James said.
“It would be far too obvious,” Thomas put in smoothly. “No, I’ll leave Piers behind, on the strength of his aching head. He can watch out for anything of interest while he recuperates, and report back when he catches up.”
Kate and I exchanged glances. It was obvious to both of us that our husbands did not wish either of us involved in looking into the matter of Lady Sylvia’s intruder. Still, Thomas had a point. All of the travel arrangements between here and Paris had been made for five; it would look very odd if the party split so abruptly without a reason. If I had thought of it sooner, I might have pretended to be still recovering from my seasickness, and too unwell to travel. After the hearty meal I had eaten last night (and much of it in the garden, where anyone might have observed my appetite), such dissembling was unlikely to be convincing. I did not place any dependence on Piers’s investigative abilities, but there really was no other choice.
“Oh, very well,” I said. “But do at least get a list of the other guests from the innkeeper, James. It may tell us something useful. Try not to let him know why you want it.”
“I did that last night,” Thomas said.
“Nicely done, dear,” said Lady Sylvia. “And I look forward to discussing it with you all—after we are out of Calais.”
With these important matters settled, we applied ourselves to our meal. Lady Sylvia had instructed her servants as to packing and loading the trunks, so that by the time we finished eating, we had nothing more to do but settle our bill, distribute the vials, and climb into the coaches.
I soon realized one of the reasons Lady Sylvia had been so insistent on such a speedy, early start. The roads in France are far worse than those in England. I suppose it was only to be expected in a country that had been at war so recently, and for so long, but it slowed our progress noticeably. The coaches lurched so dreadfully that even thinking was difficult, and I had the greatest concern that we would break a wheel or an axle. We changed horses at a posting inn and forged on. Near Boulogne, the roads improved somewhat, but they deteriorated again as soon as we were away from the city, and so it was quite late by the time we arrived in Amiens.