Sapphire Blue (The Ruby Red Trilogy) (24 page)

Charlotte:
Giordano is terribly afraid Gwyneth will get everything wrong tomorrow that she
can
get wrong
.

Gideon:
Pass the olive oil, please.

Charlotte:
Politics and history are a closed book to Gwyneth. She can’t even remember names—they go in at one ear and straight out of the other. She can’t help it, her brain doesn’t have the capacity. It’s stuffed with the names of boy bands and long, long cast lists of actors in soppy romantic films.

Raphael:
Gwyneth is your time-traveling cousin, right? I saw her yesterday in school. Isn’t she the one with long dark hair and blue eyes?

Charlotte:
Yes, and that birthmark on her temple, the one that looks like a little banana.

Gideon:
Like a little crescent moon.

Raphael:
What’s that friend of hers called? The blonde with freckles? Lily?

Charlotte:
Lesley Hay. Rather brighter than Gwyneth, but she’s a wonderful example of the way people get to look like their dogs. Hers is a shaggy golden retriever crossbreed called Bertie.

Raphael:
That’s cute!

Charlotte:
You like dogs?

Raphael:
Especially golden retriever crossbreeds with freckles.

Charlotte:
I see. Well, you can try your luck. You won’t find it particularly difficult. Lesley gets through even more boys than Gwyneth.

Gideon:
Really? How many … er, boyfriends has Gwyneth had?

Charlotte:
Oh, my God! This is kind of embarrassing. I don’t want to speak ill of her, it’s just that she’s not very discriminating. Particularly when she’s had a drink. She’s done the rounds of almost all the boys in our class and the class above us.… I guess I lost track at some point. I’d rather not repeat what they call her.

Raphael:
The school mattress?

Gideon:
Pass the salt, please.

When Xemerius had reached this point in his story, I’d jumped up at once to go down to Charlotte’s room and strangle her, but Lesley wouldn’t let me. She reminded me that revenge is a dish best eaten cold, and she wouldn’t agree when I said my motive wasn’t revenge, it was pure murderous bloodlust. She added that if Gideon and Raphael were even a quarter as bright as they were good-looking, they wouldn’t believe a word Charlotte said anyway.

“I think Lesley really does look a bit like a golden retriever,” Xemerius had said, and when I looked at him reproachfully he was quick to add, “I like dogs, you know I do! Such clever animals.”

And Lesley really was clever. She had solved the mystery of the
Green Rider
book, although the result of all her efforts was rather disappointing. All she had come up with was another number code with two letters and funny little marks in it.

Five one zero three zero four one dot seven eight n comma zero zero zero eight four nine dot nine one w.

It was nearly midnight when we stealthily made our way right through the house and into the library. At least, Lesley and I stealthily made our way right through the house. Xemerius had flown on ahead.

We must have spent an hour searching the shelves for more clues. The fifty-first book in the third row … the fifty-first row, thirtieth book, page four, line seven, word eight … but wherever we tried beginning to count, nothing made sense. In the end we were just taking books out at random and shaking them, hoping for more notes to drop to the floor. But Lesley was confident, all the same. She’d written the code down on a piece of paper, and she kept taking it out of her jeans pocket and looking at it. “It must mean something,” she murmured to herself. “And I’m going to find out what.”

After that we finally went to bed. My alarm clock had roused me from my dreamless sleep in the morning—and from then on, I’d thought of almost nothing but the soirée.

“’Ere comes Mr. George to collect you,” said Madame Rossini, bringing me back to the present. She handed me a little bag—the reticule, that would be—and I wondered whether to smuggle the vegetable knife into it at the last moment after all. I’d turned down Lesley’s advice to tape it to my thigh. With my luck, I’d probably have hurt no one but myself, and how I was going to get the tape off my leg under the huge skirt in an emergency was a mystery to me anyway. When Mr. George came into the room, Madame Rossini was draping a large, lavishly embroidered shawl around my shoulders. She kissed me on both cheeks. “Good luck, my leetle swan-necked beauty,” she said. “Mind you bring ’er back to me safe and sound, Monsieur George.”

Mr. George gave a rather forced smile. He didn’t seem quite as friendly as usual. “I’m afraid that’s out of my hands, Madame Rossini. Come along, Gwyneth. There are a few people who want to meet you.”

It was already early afternoon when we went another floor up to the Dragon Hall. Getting dressed and having my hair done had taken over two hours. Mr. George was unusually silent, and I concentrated on not tripping over the hem of my dress on the stairs. I remembered our last visit to the eighteenth century and thought how difficult it was going to be to escape from any men armed with swords in all these bulky clothes.

“Mr. George, could you tell me about the Florentine Alliance, please?” I asked on a sudden impulse.

Mr. George stopped. “The Florentine Alliance? Who mentioned that to you?”

“No one, really,” I said, sighing. “But now and then, I catch people saying something about it. I was only asking because … well, I’m scared. It was those Alliance guys who attacked us in Hyde Park, wasn’t it?”

Mr. George looked at me gravely. “Maybe, yes. In fact probably. But there’s nothing for you to be afraid of. I don’t think the two of you need fear an attack today. Together with the count and Rakoczy, we’ve taken all imaginable precautions.”

I opened my mouth to say something, but Mr. George got in first. “Oh, very well, or you won’t give me any peace: we do indeed have to assume that in the year 1782 there’s a traitor among the Guardians, maybe the same man who leaked information in previous years that led to the attempts on Count Saint-Germain’s life in Paris, Dover, Amsterdam, and Germany.” He passed his hand over his bald patch. “But that man is never mentioned by name in the
Annals.
Although the count successfully crushed the Florentine Alliance, the traitor among the Guardians was never unmasked. Your visits to the year 1782 are intended to put that right.”

“Gideon thinks Lucy and Paul may have had something to do with it.”

“There are indeed indications that such an idea isn’t too wide of the mark.” Mr. George pointed to the door of the Dragon Hall. “But there’s no time for us to go into more detail now. Whatever happens, keep close to Gideon, and if you do happen to get separated, hide somewhere you can wait safely until you travel back.”

I nodded. Suddenly my mouth felt very dry.

Mr. George opened the door and let me go first. I could hardly get past him in my hooped skirt. The room was full of people staring at me, and I felt so embarrassed that the blood shot into my face. Apart from Dr. White, Falk de Villiers, Mr. Whitman, Mr. Marley, Gideon, and the unspeakable Giordano, there were five other men in dark suits, with serious expressions, all standing under the huge dragon on the ceiling. I wished Xemerius was here to tell me which of them was the home secretary and which was the Nobel Prize winner, but Xemerius had been sent off on another mission. (By Lesley, not me, but more about that later.)

“Gentlemen, may I introduce Gwyneth Shepherd to you?” announced Falk de Villiers solemnly. It was probably a rhetorical question. “She is our Ruby. The last time traveler in the Circle of Twelve.”

“This evening traveling under the name of Penelope Gray, ward of the fourth Viscount Batten,” added Mr. George, and Giordano murmured, “Probably to go down in history, after this evening, as the
Lady Without a Fan
.”

I glanced quickly at Gideon, whose dark red embroidered coat really did go very well with my dress. To my great relief, he wasn’t wearing a wig, because all tensed up as I was, I’d probably have burst into hysterical laughter at the sight of it. But there was nothing ridiculous about him. He looked simply perfect. His brown hair was tied back in a braid behind his head; one lock fell over his forehead as if by mistake, cleverly covering up his injury. As so often, I couldn’t really interpret the expression on his face.

I had to shake hands with the unknown gentlemen one by one. Each told me his name (which went in at one ear and straight out of the other; Charlotte was right about my brain capacity), and I murmured something like “How do you do?” or “Good evening, sir,” to each of them. All in all, they seemed a very serious bunch. Only one of them smiled. The others just looked as if they were about to have a leg amputated. The one who was smiling must have been the home secretary. Politicians do more smiling than other people, it’s part of the job.

Giordano looked me up and down, and I was expecting some kind of comment, but instead he just sighed very heavily. Falk de Villiers wasn’t smiling, either, although at least he said, “That dress really suits you beautifully, Gwyneth. The real Penelope Gray would have been glad to look as good as that. Madame Rossini has done wonderful work!”

“That’s true—I’ve seen a portrait of the real Penelope Gray. No wonder she never married and she spent her life out in the wilds of Derbyshire,” Mr. Marley blurted out. Next moment he went bright red and stared at the floor in embarrassment.

Mr. Whitman quoted Shakespeare—at least, I strongly suspected it was Shakespeare. Mr. Whitman was crazy about the man. Something like
Oh then, what graces in my love do dwell, that she can make a heaven into hell?
“No need to blush, Gwyneth,” he added.

I gave him a cross look. Silly Mr. Squirrel! If I’d gone red before, it was certainly nothing to do with him. Apart from which I didn’t understand the quotation—you could take it equally well as a compliment or the opposite.

Unexpectedly, Gideon came to my aid. “
The conceited man overestimates his own deserts,
” he told Mr. Whitman in a friendly tone. “Aristotle.”

Mr. Whitman’s smile turned a little tight-lipped.

“Mr. Whitman only meant to say how terrific you look,” Gideon told me, and the blood promptly shot into my cheeks again.

Gideon acted as if he didn’t notice. But when I glanced at him again a few seconds later, he was smiling to himself in a satisfied way. Mr. Whitman, on the other hand, looked as if he was having difficulty suppressing another quote from Shakespeare.

Dr. White looked at his watch. Little Robert was hiding behind his legs, gazing at me wide-eyed. His father looked at his watch. “It’s about time we started off. The priest has a christening at four o’clock.”

The
priest
?

“You’re not traveling back to the past from the cellars here today,” explained Mr. George. “You leave from a church in North Audley Street instead. That will save you time getting to Lord Brompton’s house.”

“And it will also minimize the danger of an attack on the way there or back,” said one of the strangers I’d met, earning himself a glance of annoyance from Falk de Villiers.

“The chronograph is ready,” said Falk, pointing to a silver-handled chest standing on the table. “There are two limousines waiting outside. Well, gentlemen…”

“Good luck,” said the man I thought was the home secretary. Giordano heaved another heavy sigh.

Dr. White, carrying a doctor’s bag (what for?), held the door open. Mr. Marley and Mr. Whitman took one handle of the chronograph chest each and carried it out as solemnly as if it were the Lost Ark.

Gideon was beside me in a moment and gave me his arm. “Come on, young Penelope, let’s introduce you to the cream of London society,” he said. “Ready?”

No. I wasn’t ready in the least. And Penelope was a horrible name. But I had no choice. I tried to seem as relaxed as possible as I looked up at Gideon. “Ready when you are.”

I vow to be honorable and courteous,

show compassion and decency,

right wrongs,

help the weak,

and preserve the secrets

contained in the Golden Rules,

from this day to the day of my death.

  F
ROM THE
O
ATH OF THE
A
DEPTS,
C
HRONICLES OF THE
G
UARDIANS,
V
OL. 1:
T
HE
K
EEPERS OF THE
S
ECRET

TEN

WHAT I WAS MOST
afraid of was seeing Count Saint-Germain again. The last time we met, I’d heard his voice in my mind, and his hand had squeezed my throat although he’d been standing more than a dozen feet away from me.
I don’t know exactly what part you are playing, girl, or whether you are of any importance. But I will not have my rules broken.

I could take it for granted that I’d broken some of his rules since then—although it had to be admitted that I didn’t know what they were, which made me feel rather defiant. If no one could be bothered to explain any of these rules to me, or the reasons for them, they couldn’t really be surprised if I didn’t keep them.

But I was also afraid of all kinds of other things. I was secretly convinced that Giordano and Charlotte were right: I was going to make a total mess of pretending to be Penelope Gray, and everyone would realize that there was something wrong about me. For a moment, I couldn’t even remember the name of the place she came from in Derbyshire. Something beginning with
B
. Or
P
. Or
D
. Or …

“Have you learnt the guest list by heart?” Mr. Whitman, next to me, wasn’t exactly helping to calm me down. Why on earth would I learn the guest list by heart? I shook my head. Mr. Whitman responded with a slight sigh.