Wrede, Patricia C - Mairelon 01 (16 page)

           
"Burn
it, Robert!" The driver of the overturned phaeton backed up two hasty
steps as one of the chestnut horses he was trying to calm half reared in the
traces. "If either of them is hurt--"

           
"The
master appears uninjured," the postillion at the carriage said,
temporarily abandoning his pulling at the door to peer through the carriage
window. "And I believe John Coachman is not seriously hurt."

           
"Not
them, you imbecile, my chestnuts!" the infuriated driver cried.
"Robert--"

           
"I
would be happy to help you, George, but I can hardly leave my horses, can
I?" Robert said, half turning without taking his attention from his
restive greys. His voice and the outline of his face came together in Kim's
mind, and she recognized him as one of the druids she and Mairelon had spied
on. George's voice was familiar, too; he was probably another of them. Kim
started to roll her eyes, only to be brought up short.

           
"Who,
exactly, is responsible for this outrage?" said a cold, hard voice
authoritatively.

           
Every
drop of Kim's blood seemed to congeal into ice. She knew that voice; she had
fled from
London
to get away from
its owner.
First Jack Stower, now Dan Laverham,
she thought in despair.
She would never get away from them. She wanted to dive for the ditch and the
hedge beyond, but she could not make her muscles obey her. It was all she could
do to force her head to turn in the direction of the speaker. When she did, she
suffered a second shock.

           
The tall
man who was in the act of climbing out of the ruined coach was not Dan
Laverham. He had the same narrow jaw and sharp eyes as Dan, and the same long
nose, but his dark hair had less grey in it. Under the superfine coat he wore,
his shoulders were broader and more muscular than Dan's. He could have passed
as Laverham's brother, if Laverham had had one who dressed like a toff, but he
was
not
Dan Laverham. Relief made Kim's knees feel weak.

           
"Accident,
not outrage," Robert said politely. "I am Robert Choiniet, and my
friend with the unspeakable chestnuts is George Dashville."

           
"I
take it you were racing on a public thoroughfare," the man from the coach
snapped. "You should be horse whipped for such carelessness."

           
"Possibly,"
Robert said with unimpaired calm. "I doubt that anyone will do so,
however. May I take a message to someone for you, sir? I must go by Stavely
Farm first, but after that I am at your disposal."

           
"Robert, you traitor!"
George had finally
succeeded in getting his animals under control, but his angry cry startled them
into another round of sidling and head-tossing. "You can't mean to go back
to Austen and claim you
won
!"

           
"Why not?
Just because
your
driving was so bad that you overturned instead of merely losing by an inch or
two?"

           
"Enough."
The man from the coach spoke with a quiet deadliness. "I have no interest
in your disagreements, and you will oblige me by saving them for another time
and place." He turned to Robert Choiniet. "You will go by
Bramingham
Place
and inform them that Lord St. Clair has met
with an accident on the road. I trust you are capable of giving them sufficient
directions. Beyond that, all I require of you is that you do not return."

           
"I
understand perfectly, sir," Robert said coldly. "Give you good
day."

           
He raised
his hands a quarter of an inch. His horses sprang forward, eager to be away,
and the phaeton swept off down the road. George Dashville stared after it,
spluttering incoherently, while the Baron straightened his cravat and brushed
at his coat and breeches. Kim shook herself out of her daze and eased herself
farther down the slope of the ditch. A low stone wall ran along the far side;
if she could get over it, she had a good chance of getting around the entire
muddle of men and carriages without being seen.

           
Her luck
held. The chestnut horses took exception to the Baron's abrupt movements, and
George's efforts to keep them from bolting occupied both his attention and St.
Clair's while Kim slid over the wall unnoticed. She bent over and crept along
it, keeping her head low despite her curiosity. She didn't want St. Clair to
catch her, even if he wasn't Dan Laverham. From the way Mairelon acted, St.
Clair was as bad as Dan. She didn't straighten up until the Baron's caustic
observations regarding George's horsemanship began to fade with distance.

           
Kim's
back was sore and stiff from her long, crouched-over walk to avoid Baron St.
Clair, so she took things easier on the last mile to Bramingham Place. Once she
reached the drive leading up to the house, she slowed even further. She enjoyed
looking about at the bushes through which she and Mairelon had dodged the night
before, though the manicured lawn and meticulous placement of the trees made
her nervous. Besides, she was in no real hurry to complete her errand.

           
Slow as
she went, the house drew inexorably nearer. Kim sighed and straightened her
jacket. She had better get this over with before her nerve failed her. She went
up to the door and knocked.

           
The door
opened at once, and Kim thought she saw a faint, fleeting expression of
surprise on the face of the butler who had opened the door. "Message for
Miss D'Auber," Kim said, touching her cap respectfully.

           
"Very good."
The butler held out his hand.

           
"The
master said I was to give it only to her."

           
The
butler's features stiffened into cold disapproval, but all he said was, "I
will see that she is informed. Wait here."

           
The door
closed, leaving Kim standing on the step outside. Kim frowned at it. She had a
vague idea that there was something not quite right about the butler's action,
but her knowledge of
gentry
kens was limited to the
most likely location of the silver. She shrugged. Wait, the man had said; well,
she would wait, then. She sat on the step and stared out across the drive.

           
Several
minutes later, Kim heard the door behind her open. She could practically feel
the butler's disapproving stare digging into her spine, and smiled to herself.
She twisted her head and shoulders around without rising and looked up with an
expression of hopeful inquiry.

           
"Miss
D'Auber will see you," the butler said. His mouth was turned down at the
corners and he was standing rigidly erect, as if to make up for Kim's
informality.

           
"Good,"
Kim said cheerfully, and scrambled to her feet. "How soon will she get
here?"

           
The
butler winced. "She will see you in the green saloon. I would not presume
to say how soon.
This way."

           
Kim tried
to suppress a grin as she followed the butler. She was only partially
successful, but as the man's back was toward her it did not really matter. He
led her down a short hall and showed her into a large room with pale green
walls and spindly-legged chairs covered in green-and-gold-striped silk. There
were two gilded pier tables between the windows, each with a large gold-rimmed
mirror hanging on the wall above it, and at the far side of the room stood a
small writing desk.

           
As the
door clicked shut behind her, Kim eyed the chairs dubiously. They did not look
as if they were meant to be sat on, but the two footstools did not look any
sturdier and she couldn't sit on the pier tables. She finally settled herself
on a footstool, reasoning that if it collapsed under her she would be closer to
the floor. She had hardly sat down before the door latch clicked again, and
Renee D'Auber walked into the room.

           
"I
am Mademoiselle Renee D'Auber," she announced, frowning at Kim. "You
have a message for me, yes?" Her auburn hair shone in the sunlight and her
figured muslin morning dress was the height of elegance. Looking at her made
Kim feel small and rumpled and unpleasantly aware of the dust and grass stains
her clothes had acquired on her walk to
Bramingham
Place
.

           
"Yes,"
Kim said shortly. She rose and reached into her jacket for the letter Mairelon
had given her. As she did, she saw Renee's eyes widen.

           
"But
what is this? You are a girl! Of what is it that Monsieur Merrill is
thinking?"

           
"You
ask him, if you want to know," Kim said. French or not, this woman was
altogether too fly for comfort. Kim scowled and tapped Mairelon's letter with
her forefinger. "And how'd you know this was from him?"

           
"It
is of all things the most likely," Mademoiselle D'Auber replied. "Who
else would know I was here? Also, I have been asking for him, and he would of
course hear of it. It is unimportant. Give me the message."

           
Reluctantly
Kim held the letter out to her. Mademoiselle D'Auber took it and tore it open
at once without stopping to look at the seal. She turned away as she began
reading; a moment later Kim heard a brief exclamation in what was presumably
French. Kim had no idea what the words meant, but the tone in which they were spoken
was one of surprise rather than anger or annoyance.

           
Renee
D'Auber glanced over her shoulder at Kim,
then
returned to the letter, this time studying it with evident care. Kim wondered
what Mairelon had said about her and what this Mademoiselle D'Auber thought of
it. She shifted uncomfortably, wishing she could sit down again but not daring
to do so for fear of offending Mademoiselle D'Auber.

           
Mademoiselle
D'Auber finished reading and turned back to face Kim. "Of a certainty,
this is not at all good," she said, waving the letter.

           
"That's
what we thought," Kim said, emphasizing the "we" slightly.

           
"To
find the real platter becomes a thing most necessary," the Frenchwoman
went on as if she had not heard. "I do not at all see how we are to go
about it."

           
"We?"
Kim said.

           
"But
of course! It is why I am here, to help."

           
Kim's
frown returned. "Hold on! I thought you
was
the
one that nicked the real platter. Mairelon said nobody else could
of
got to it before we did."

           
"Monsieur
Merrill is not altogether right," Mademoiselle D'Auber replied. "I
looked at Monsieur Bramingham's so-remarkable platter yesterday afternoon, yes,
but at once I saw that it was only a copy. I thought,
me,
that
Monsieur Merrill had been very clever, but now I find that it was
not him at all, but someone else. It is most annoying. This business is not
well arranged, I think."

           
"It
ain't
no
fault of ours," Kim muttered.

           
Renee had
crossed to the writing desk and did not hear. "I shall write something for
you to carry back to Monsieur Merrill," she said, taking out a sheet of
heavy, cream-colored paper. "And you must take his letter with you as
well. I will allow Madame Bramingham to persuade me to stay here for another
day or two." She made a face as she spoke, then shrugged and bent over the
page.

           
"Why
do you want me to take Mairelon's message away again?" Kim asked.

           
"But
it would be most awkward if it were found!" Mademoiselle D'Auber said,
writing busily. "Monsieur Bramingham would of a certainty call the Bow
Street Runners. He has already spoken of it. It was very foolish of Monsieur
Merrill to take the copy of the platter, I think."

           
So
Mairelon's letter had not included all the details of the previous night's
events! Kim considered the implications of that while Renee finished her letter,
and she began to feel more cheerful. "Why did you come
--
"

           
"A moment."
Mademoiselle D'Auber sanded her
letter, then folded it neatly and sealed it with a blob of wax, muttering under
her breath as she did. Her voice was too soft for Kim to hear what she was
saying, but each word had a sharp, crystalline quality that distance and
muttering could not disguise. Kim remembered the spell that Mairelon had cast
to test her truthfulness, and backed up a pace.

           
Mademoiselle
D'Auber finished and straightened up with a smothered sigh. She studied the
paper for a moment, then turned and held it out to Kim along with Mairelon's
unfolded letter. "Here; take this to Monsieur Merrill and tell him that I
will be at the inn down in the village tomorrow morning at, oh,
ten o'clock
precisely."

           
Kim
nodded and took the letters, doing her best to hide her reluctance. Renee
D'Auber had put some sort of spell on that letter, Kim was sure of it. And she,
Kim, was going to have to carry the thing all the way back to Ranton Hill at
least, and maybe farther, if Mairelon had given up waiting at the inn and gone
back to the wagon. Kim wasn't normally squeamish, not even about magic, but she
didn't like not knowing what kind of spell she was carrying.

           
Mademoiselle
D'Auber watched closely as Kim stowed the letters away beneath her jacket,
which did nothing to improve the state of Kim's nerves. "There is one
thing more," the Frenchwoman said. She fixed her eyes on Kim's face and
said with great seriousness, "It is of all things the most important that
Monsieur Merrill not leave before I see him. You understand? So if he thinks to
go, you must try to stop him. I think he will listen."

           
"Be
the first time, if he did," Kim said, shrugging. "I'll tell him,
though."

           
"Good."
Renee D'Auber gave Kim a long, measuring look, and Kim found herself wondering
once again just what Mairelon had said about her in his letter. Then the
Frenchwoman went to a long, embroidered bellpull and gave it a vigorous tug. A
few moments later, the door opened and a footman stepped into the room.
"Mademoiselle?"

           
"See
this . . . boy out," Mademoiselle D'Auber said.

           
"Mademoiselle."
The footman bowed. With a single,
sidelong look at the enigmatic Frenchwoman, Kim followed him out of the room
and down the hall to the door of
Bramingham Place
.

           
When Kim
arrived back at the inn late that afternoon, she found Mairelon in the public
room playing cards with Freddy Meredith. They were the room's only occupants,
and judging from the litter of coins near Mairelon's left elbow, they had been
at it for some time. An empty wine bottle lay on the floor beside the table; a
second bottle, barely a third full, stood next to the pile of coins that had
been wagered on the current hand.

           
Kim
paused in the doorway, wondering what the magician could want with a cloth-head
like Meredith. Her eyes flicked from one to the other, and she frowned. Both
men were impeccably turned out, from the stiff folds of their cravats to their
gleaming Hessian boots; they looked the perfect picture of a pair of gentry.
That, Kim realized, was what was bothering her. She had seen Mairelon in his
gentry
togs before, but she had never realized how well they
suited him.
No, not quite that, either.
She had never
realized how well the whole role suited him.

           
Still frowning,
Kim stepped into the room. As she did, Meredith looked up and saw her. He
blinked blearily in her direction. He was, Kim saw, more than a little bit on
the go. "Who's this, Merrill?"

           
Mairelon
turned. "Kim! What news?"

           
"Message
for you, sir," Kim said, remembering just in time that she was still
playing the part of an errand boy.

           
"Can
it wait?"

           
Kim
hesitated. What on earth was she supposed to say to that? "I think you
should look at it, sir," she answered at last.

           
"Ah,
well. Let's have it, then." Mairelon held out a hand expectantly.

           
Kim
froze. "Uh--" She couldn't tell him straight out that Renee D'Auber
had set a spell on the letter, not with Freddy Meredith sitting there, but she
couldn't let him open it without warning him, either. "Sir, I, um--"

           
"Bailey
didn't write it down? I see." Mairelon shoved his chair away from the
table and rose, tossing his cards faceup as he did. Kim was relieved to see
that there was nothing wrong with his balance or his speech; she had been
afraid that he would be as bosky as his companion. "Sorry, Meredith, but
duty calls."