The Cheater's Game: Glass and Steele, #7

by C. J. Archer

  They hadn't been invited.

  By the time we returned to number sixteen Park Street, Willie had woken and Matt had finished attending to his business matters. Willie and I settled in Matt's office to think of ways to extract information about the mysterious blonde from the New Somerville Club members and staff. By Willie and I, I meant mostly me. She slouched in an armchair and inspected her fingernails, her booted feet resting on a table. I tossed out ideas for conversational topics to use on potential witnesses, and she grunted her approval or rejection. It was a different type of grunt for each. I knew Willie well enough to know the short sharp one meant yes and the long one meant no. I wrote the approved topics on a piece of paper. Once I'd run out of ideas, I counted the number. Only five.

  "You need to be less discerning," I told her.

  It turned out that I didn't know Willie very well, after all. She came up with a third type of grunt, the meaning of which I couldn't fathom. I was about to ask her when there was a knock on the door.

  Peter entered and announced a visitor. "Mr. Barratt is here, madam. Mr. Glass asked for you to join them in the drawing room."

  "Thank you, Fossett. Please see that tea is brought in."

  I left Willie to her slouching and grunting and headed to the drawing room. I heard Matt and Oscar before I entered, even through the closed door.

  "It was you!" Oscar shouted. "It had to be. No one else knew."

  "Calm down," Matt snarled. "It wasn't me."

  I opened the door and ordered them to keep their voices down. Matt looked relieved to see me, whereas Oscar merely scowled. "What are you two arguing about?"

  "Your fiancé is sabotaging my book," Oscar said.

  Matt shook his head and muttered under his breath.

  "Sit down," I said. They both sat. "Oscar, how is Matt supposedly sabotaging your book?"

  "The printer is ignoring me. He sends every letter back unopened and pretends to be out when I call on him. You two were the only ones aside from Nash who knew about the printer, and I doubt you want to stop my book, India."

  "Matt doesn't either."

  Matt said nothing.

  "See!" Oscar cried. "He won't even deny it."

  "I can deny it if you want, but you won't believe me," Matt said.

  "That is not a denial."

  I stood between them, hands on hips. "So you've finished the book? It's ready for printing?"

  "I'm still in the planning and research phase," Oscar said more calmly. "I hope to start the actual writing next week."

  "Then it could take weeks to finish. Months, even. Is that correct?"

  "Correct."

  "Then why are you so worried about this printer ignoring you? Commission another printer."

  "There are no other printers! Not—" He broke off as Bristow wheeled in the tea trolley.

  The short break seemed to dampen Oscar's fire a little, but as soon as Bristow left, he shot to his feet. He pointed at Matt. "This is your fault, Glass. I know it."

  I pressed a cup and saucer into his hands. "Sit down or you'll spill tea on the carpet and I'll be most upset." He sat. "Now, as I recall, the printer was operating illegally because he didn't have a license from The Stationer's Guild. So perhaps he simply had second thoughts about printing your book. Perhaps he's worried it'll draw attention to his operation."

  "The voice of reason," Matt said, accepting a cup. "India's offering you a more logical and likely explanation than the one you jumped to. I can assure you, Barratt, I am not in the habit of destroying the livelihood of a man I've never met. Not even to annoy you."

  Oscar didn't seem convinced, but he managed to keep his thoughts to himself as he sipped his tea. "He seemed keen to print my book up until a few days ago," he finally said. "Something must have happened, or why else would he suddenly change his mind?"

  "How do you know it was sudden?" I asked. "He might have been telling you one thing while secretly considering how dangerous it could be to his business."

  "Are you sure you didn't tell anyone else about the book?" Matt asked.

  "I'm sure," Oscar said.

  "What about Nash? Can you trust him?"

  Oscar didn't look quite so certain anymore. "I've just come from seeing him. He assured me it wasn't him, but the truth is, I just don't know him well enough. He's also artless."

  "His grandfather was a magician," I said. "And the professor has a keen interest in magic. I doubt he'd do anything to jeopardize the book."

  "I doubt it too." He watched Matt over the rim of his cup.

  "It wasn't me," Matt said again. "You have my word."

  Oscar's entire body heaved with his deep breath. "Then I apologize, Glass. I'm very busy these days—with work, the book, and so many magicians approaching me for advice. And of course, there are ongoing family battles. It's a little overwhelming, and I've become short tempered."

  "What sort of advice are the magicians seeking?" I asked.

  "Mostly whether to tell the truth about their magic. Some have asked how to find you, India. They want you to extend their magic."

  "You'd better not tell them," Matt growled.

  "I haven't and I wouldn't. Not unless India wishes it."

  So far only one magician had come to number sixteen Park Street to ask me to extend his magic. The leather worker had discovered my address quite by chance from his friend who worked at The Cross Keys tavern, where my grandfather regularly drank. He'd realized Chronos's connection to me after reading Oscar's article in The Weekly Gazette. He had not returned, thankfully, but if Oscar started telling magicians how to find me, I might be inundated with requests.

  "How many magicians have approached you?" I asked.

  "About ten."

  That wasn't such a great number, after all. I suspected London housed hundreds of magicians. Perhaps most didn't want to extend their magic or didn't want to bring it to light. It was impossible to gauge the general feeling.

  "I met an interesting magician recently, as it happens," Oscar went on.

  His mysterious tone should have been a warning, but I barreled headlong into the trap with naivety. "Who?" I asked, offering up the plate of cakes.

  "A magical language expert from the continent asked me where to find your grandfather. I believe you met him, India."

  All the breath left my body. I twisted in the chair to see Matt frowning at me. He righted the plate I'd managed to tilt and picked up the cake that had fallen on the floor.

  "India hasn't met a magic language expert," Matt said without taking his gaze off me. "Have you, India?"

  I swallowed but my throat was too tight and the ball of guilt lodged there was too big. Matt's jaw firmed.

  "She has," Oscar said, somewhat delightedly. "His name's Fabian Charbonneau. Her grandfather introduced them. Didn't you know, Glass? Charbonneau wants to teach India the language so she can create new spells. According to him, she's a spell caster."

  I felt as though a noose were closing around my throat; each word from Barratt’s mouth tightened it. But it wasn't nearly as horrible as watching Matt's eyes grow darker and darker. He didn't speak. He didn't ask me if it were true, or for an explanation; he simply set the plate of cakes on the table.

  "It's time for you to go, Barratt," he said with an exaggerated calmness that sent a chill skittering down my spine.

  Oscar pushed himself out of the chair. "Of course. India, you know where to reach me if you need to talk about Charbonneau's—" He cleared his throat as Matt turned an icy glare onto him. "Never mind."

  He shut the door behind him, leaving me alone with a seething Matt.

  Chapter 11

  I busied myself with the tea things, not daring to look at Matt. I didn't need to see him to know his opinion. I could feel the waves of anger vibrating off him.

  "I meant to tell you," I said as I stacked empty cups on the trolley. "There just wasn't a good time."

  "Then find a bad time," he snapped. "You should have told me, India, instead of letting me h
ear it from him."

  "I know. I'm sorry."

  "I'm going to be your husband. You don't think that's reason enough to tell me about something as important as this?"

  "I would have told you, Matt."

  "When?"

  "When I was ready."

  "You mean when you'd decided whether to take this Charbonneau fellow up on his offer or not." He squeezed his eyes shut. When he reopened them again, I was reminded of the old Matt, where he was sick and tired all the time. I hated that I'd caused this change in him.

  "I haven't been thinking about it," I said heavily. "I didn't want to. It's…overwhelming."

  I stared down at the teacup in my hand but hardly saw it through my tear-filled eyes. I hated arguing with Matt. I hated it even more when the argument was my fault.

  Matt took the cup from me and grasped my shoulders. "This is why I want you to come to me. Not because I want to tell you what to do, but because I want to share some of the burden." He tugged me closer and settled his arms around me, enveloping me in a warm hug. "I'm marrying you because I want to share your life, and that means the difficult parts of it too."

  I bit my wobbling lip and tried not to spill tears into his waistcoat. I didn't deserve to be forgiven so easily, but I wanted to believe that I did deserve such a good man.

  Matt didn't rush me to speak, and I waited for the ache in my throat to ease. Then I pulled away and sat on the sofa. He sat beside me.

  "Fabian Charbonneau is a Frenchman with a strong magical lineage." I smoothed my skirt over my lap then clasped my hands. "He's one of the few who know the language of magic, although his knowledge is not complete. Despite being an expert, he can't create new spells. That requires a magician with magic instincts, someone the magic responds to."

  "And he thinks you are that magician?"

  I nodded.

  "Why does he want to create new spells?"

  "Well…" I began, but did not go on. It was a good question. Indeed, it was the only relevant question. Why indeed. "To see if it's possible, I suppose." Even as I said it, I doubted my answer.

  And if I did somehow manage to create a new spell, then what? What would be done with that spell? Who would use it? And would Fabian want me to create another and another? For what purpose?

  Matt didn't ask me any of those questions, although I knew he must be thinking them too. He simply placed his hand over mine and stroked my knuckles with his thumb.

  I leaned against him, my head on his shoulder. "We can expect Fabian and Chronos to call on me soon."

  "Then you'd better think about a response."

  I preferred not to think about it at all, but he was right. It was best to be prepared. The problem was, I didn't know what I wanted to do.

  The New Somerville Club for ladies was a revelation. It was quite small, with a parlor, a reading room and another room set out with chairs and a lectern where the lecture would take place. The reading room was well appointed with recent issues of a variety of magazines, newspapers and periodicals. The armchairs looked comfortable, although the upholstery was frayed at the seams and the curtains faded. I had expected something either overtly feminine with floral wallpaper, or too masculine where smoking was allowed and there wasn't a cushion in sight. I liked this happy middle.

  Willie and I arrived early to join up and talk to the staff. There were very few, with only two maids setting out glasses and jugs of water. The only other two staff members were the president of the club and the treasurer. Both appeared too busy to speak to us as they arranged furniture in the lecture room. I wasn't sure how to proceed, but Willie took the lead. Unfortunately she didn't begin with any of the conversation starters we'd noted down earlier. I knew she hadn't been listening.

  "A friend asked us to meet her here," she said as she followed Mrs. Broxham the president around the room.

  Mrs. Broxham was a short, plump woman with a clipboard in one hand, a pencil behind her ear, and a no-nonsense manner about her. She marched from one side of the room to the other, pointing at chairs that needed to be moved. Miss Ovington, the treasurer, rushed to do Mrs. Broxham's bidding, only Mrs. Broxham was too quick and moved on to the next instruction before Miss Ovington had finished the previous one.

  "Maybe you know her," Willie persisted. "She's a member here."

  "What's her name?" Mrs. Broxham asked, checking her clipboard.

  Willie opened her mouth then shut it again. She hadn't thought this through at all.

  "It's a little embarrassing," I said. "We can't recall it."

  "Lizzie, that chair needs to move closer. We have to fit another five in," Mrs. Broxham said.

  Miss Ovington wove her way between chairs with the precision and grace of a dancer, her arms raised to chest height to avoid bumping anything. She moved the offending chair closer to the one next to it.

  "Too close," Mrs. Broxham said, and Miss Ovington moved it back. "What does your friend look like?" she asked us.

  She had somehow made it to the opposite side of the room without me noticing. I picked up my skirts and trailed after her.

  "She's blonde," I said. "Quite tall with a trim figure, and very pretty. Oh, and American. Perhaps you remember her now. She has a strong accent and isn't easy to forget."

  "Not there, Lizzie. There." Mrs. Broxham removed the pencil from behind her ear and wrote something on her clipboard. "I do remember her, as it happens. She came to the previous lecture, but I don't remember her name. I wouldn't call her very pretty, though."

  "I would," Miss Ovington said, carrying a chair to the other side of the room. "But I don't remember her name either, sorry."

  "Can you check the register?" I asked. "We feel awful for not remembering her name and don't want to make fools of ourselves tonight if she comes."

  "There wouldn't be any point," Mrs. Broxham said. "There were probably ten ladies at last week's lecture that I've never seen before. Some signed up as new members and others came as guests. I don't remember which your friend was. It could be any of those ten." She pointed at individual chairs with her pencil, her lips moving as she counted.

  "What about you, Lizzie?" Willie asked the treasurer.

  Miss Ovington looked shocked that Willie had used her first name to address her. "I can't help you, I'm afraid," she mumbled.

  Willie followed her out while I contemplated tearing the page from last week's register to get the names of the ten newcomers. The problem was, there'd be far more than ten on there that I didn't know. Going by the chairs in the lecture hall, they were expecting sixty attendees tonight.

  Mrs. Broxham suddenly clapped her hands, making my nerves jump. "Lizzie!" she snapped. "Stop gossiping and bring in those chairs."

  Willie helped Miss Ovington with the chairs while I contemplated how best to learn the name and whereabouts of the mysterious woman. The president hurried out of the room, and when I went to look for her, she'd disappeared. One of the maids said she'd gone downstairs to speak to the tearoom staff.

  Members and their guests soon trickled in. Mrs. Broxham returned with her clipboard and peered over Miss Ovington's shoulder as she wrote names in the ledger, correcting her when she made a mistake, which was often.

  I accepted my pamphlet from the woman by the door and joined Willie in the lecture room. We found seats together at the back.

  "This is hopeless," Willie whined. "We ain't never going to find her."

  "She might show up," I said, watching the first of the members trickle in.

  "What if she doesn't?"

  "We'll ask around at the interval. Someone may remember her from last week. In the meantime, we get to be enlightened by an intellectual lecture." I checked my pamphlet. "' The effect on the brain of street noises,'" I read.

  Willie groaned.

  The lecture was quite interesting. A doctor spoke about the brain's structure, followed by another medical professional to tell us about the results of his study into the effects of loud and incessant noises on both the brain and behavior
. He concluded that people who live in the city where the noise levels were higher than in the country, needed to leave the city from time to time or risk going mad.

  "His voice is driving me mad," Willie muttered.

  I was surprised she was still awake. She'd sunk further and further into her chair over the hour and, at one point, I thought I'd heard snoring.

  The audience applauded as the first part of the evening came to an end and refreshments were announced. We filed out of the lecture room to the parlor, where sandwiches and fruit cake had been brought up from the tearoom.

  Willie and I separated to divide and conquer. I tried to be subtle, and avoided breaking into conversations, but as time wore on and the window allotted to the refreshment break closed, I cut people off mid-sentence to question them. Finally I met a group of women eager to talk about the American friend they'd met at the previous lecture.

  "I remember her," said one. "We had a conversation about her homeland."

  "So did I," her companion said. "We stood right in this very spot. She was uncommonly pretty."

  "She was reasonably pretty, I suppose, but in an understated way."

  "Oh, I thought she was extraordinary," the third woman commented.

  The second woman looked at her friends like they were blind. "She didn't say much. Indeed, she didn't really seem interested in our conversation. I think she was looking for someone."

  "Was she alone?" I asked.

  "Yes."

  "No, she was with a friend," said the first woman. "Her landlady is a member here, but I don't believe she's here tonight."