Sitting on the leather seat, Aubrey hummed a little. The morning had given him much to think about. He tapped on the glass that divided the passenger compartment from the driver. Stubbs slid back a pane. 'Sir?'
'Let's go home through Barley Park, shall we, Stubbs?'
'Barley Park it is.'
The pane slid back and Aubrey was left with his ruminations. Weariness rolled over him and he gazed out of the window as the Oakleigh-Nash made its way through Barley Park. Strollers enjoyed the sun, with a few kite flyers doing their best to catch the light breeze. The renowned avenue of elms stretched out in front of them.
Like soldiers on parade, Aubrey thought, and the notion made him think of the international situation, which, in turn, made him glum because Holmland was at it again. Its navy manoeuvres off the coast of Volnya were causing great unrest on the Continent. Meanwhile, the fractious states of the Goltan Peninsula were a hotbed of gossip and rumour that Holmland was watching with delight.
All of this military build-up meant that every nation on the Continent was nervous. Strong allies were the best way to keep Holmland away, which explained the desire of Gallia to cement relations with Albion – one demonstration of which was the maiden flight of the experimental dirigible. Brave, plucky, stylish Gallia, Albion's friend and bulwark on the Continent.
Aubrey smiled. A perfect place for a holiday.
As the car swung toward the park gates, Aubrey saw a number of soldiers ambling arm in arm with pretty girls. He had to admit, their uniforms did look dashing.
The pretty girls made him think of Caroline.
Formidably competent. Utterly presentable. Endlessly bewildering. Aubrey sat back in the vast leather seat and spent some time composing appropriate epithets. The constantly surprising Caroline Hepworth. The agreeably fascinating Caroline Hepworth. Caroline of the unruly hair. The unruffled poise. The face that, according to George, was too symmetrical. Aubrey pictured her in a white coat, studying a stuffed bird of paradise, trying to decide if it was a Lesser Superb Fantail or a Greater Superb Fantail or another species altogether, and he enjoyed the image.
Aubrey had come to know her no better since she'd helped to thwart the diabolical plans of Dr Tremaine, the one-time Sorcerer Royal. She had maintained an aloof attitude toward him that was alternately endearing and frustrating. Aubrey was not accustomed to having a goal that he couldn't attain, but Caroline Hepworth was proving to be more than a challenge.
Aubrey lapsed into brooding, mulling over his various failings. Most of which he was sure that Caroline had itemised, but the greatest he'd kept from everyone but George: he was dead. Technically, at least.
It had been his overconfidence that had led him to experiment with death magic. When it went awry, his soul was wrenched from his body and dragged towards the portal that opened onto the true death. It was only through improvisation and quick thinking that he'd reunited his body and soul, but the solution had proved to be temporary. Magical exertion, such as saving the Gallian airman, left him weak and exhausted. Since that massive expenditure of effort, he'd found it hard to sleep – which only added to his fatigue.
Through experience and necessity, he'd learned how to hide such effects, but this drained him even more.
The streets of Fielding Cross were quiet. It was an exclusive neighbourhood of elegant sandstone row houses, and a few other residences that were set in lavish gardens, well back from the streets. Stubbs waited for the uniformed guardsman to open the gates and then he steered the Oakleigh-Nash into Maidstone.
Aubrey was still unaccustomed to the family home being guarded; the presence of soldiers was a constant reminder that his father was now PM and that certain proprieties must be observed.
He was barely through the door, and had hardly given his hat to Harris, the butler, when Duchess Maria appeared.
'Grandmother,' he said, but only after examining the word for its neutrality. He thought it safe enough.
'Aubrey. Good. I need to see you immediately.'
She glided off. Aubrey glanced at Harris, who managed to look impassive and sympathetic at the same time. 'The library, I'd say, young sir.'
Aubrey went straight to the library but, somehow, his grandmother was there well before him. She was seated in an enormous wing-backed chair facing the door, her customary position. Aubrey entered warily, but when she offered her cheek, hope rose in him that this was not going to be one of her usual interrogations.
Lady Maria was Aubrey's father's mother. She was tiny, eighty years old, and she looked as if she could last another eighty. Her hair was silver, but her face had only traces of wrinkles. Her eyes were a clear, startling green. She was the custodian of all things Fitzwilliam, particularly reputation and honour, and she devoted all her energies to maintaining the family name, through her vast network of correspondents.
'You're going on a holiday.' Lady Maria eschewed questions, favouring a more direct approach. Aubrey had often felt that the Albion army had been deprived of a great general by the simple fact of her being born female.
'I am, Grandmother. University places won't be offered for some time yet, and it's been a hectic year.'
'Yes. I believe "hectic" to be an accurate description, if inadequate.'
'Quite. So a little travel, some idleness, would seem to be in order.'
'Lutetia, I take it. The City of Love.'
Aubrey managed to stop himself before he gaped. 'I beg your pardon?'
'It's where I met your late grandfather. My papa was attending the same peace conference that your grandfather was. The one that resulted in the Treaty of St Anne.'
'Between Gallia and Albion?'
'Exactly. I was afraid of him at first, with his dreadful reputation, but it didn't take long before we found out we shared an interest in roses. He was dashing. A romantic figure.'
A romantic figure? Aubrey bit down on an expression of utter disbelief that would have echoed around the library if he hadn't. In polite circles, his grandfather was still referred to as the Steel Duke. In less polite circles – including on the Continent – he was called the Bloody Duke, and the name was usually followed by spitting on the floor. Aubrey found it difficult to imagine this legendary soldier and diplomat as a romantic figure interested in roses.
He strove for neutrality again, puzzled as to why his grandmother was telling him this. 'I see.'
She darted a glance at him. 'I wonder if you do.'
He smiled, but remained silent.
'I have a task for you while you're in Lutetia,' she continued, rather more briskly. 'One of my correspondents has let me know that a certain Alphonse Caron has some items that belong to me. I would like them back.'
'He stole them?'
'He came into possession of them.'
'You haven't asked the police to get them for you?'
She sniffed. 'Gallian police? You may as well ask a cat to knit a jumper for you. Lovely uniforms, appalling attention to detail.'
Aubrey had an uncomfortable feeling about this request. 'And what items am I looking for?'
Duchess Maria glared at him for a moment, just for practice. 'Some letters. From your grandfather to me.'
Some time later, Aubrey left the library, his mind awhirl with the City of Love and correspondence between his grandmother and grandfather. It was a whole world he'd never considered.
He was on his way to the kitchen to see if he could find something to eat when the door to the front drawing room opened. His mother stood there appraising him. 'Aubrey. At last. I need to see you.'
LADY ROSE'S DRAWING ROOM WAS AN ECLECTIC RIOT. Originally, it had been an unimaginative place with sturdy furniture fit for a battleship. Lately, however, it had been garnished with gaudy and exotic objects from Lady Fitzwilliam's many overseas expeditions. Masks, beads, dried tropical flowers and statuettes had gradually taken over the room, much as jungle creepers would drape themselves over any available tree.
Lady Rose entered, frowning. When she reached what had
once been a mantelpiece but now was more like a sea-shell museum, she turned. 'Sit, Aubrey, sit.'
Aubrey looked around at the various heaps and mounds of bark paintings, carved gourds and alpaca wool rugs.
'Anywhere, anywhere. Push that grass skirt onto the floor.'
Aubrey did as he was told. His mother was obviously after something, for her booted foot tapped and her fingers drummed on the marble mantelpiece.
'I've lost my assistant,' Lady Rose said abruptly.
Aubrey considered this. 'Well, it was you who arranged Caroline's place at the University of Lutetia.'
'Yes, yes, and she well deserved it. Professor Lavoisier will teach her a great deal about modern taxonomy. A month spent with him will stand her in good stead for when she goes up to Greythorn.' She gnawed her lip. Aubrey sat back and admired the way his mother was so unselfconscious about her beauty. In an age where women of breeding spent inordinate hours primping, Lady Rose Fitzwilliam was capable of dazzling any gathering with her regal profile and her bright blue eyes – with no effort required.
'And you're going to Lutetia, quite coincidentally,' she said.
Aubrey smacked himself on the forehead and winced as he hit his bruise. 'You're right. Caroline will be there!'
'That was appalling, Aubrey. You'd be laughed off the stage with an effort like that. Or booed off, if the play was meant to be a comedy.'
Aubrey wondered whether he should protest his innocence in more strident terms, but he decided a flanking manoeuvre may be wiser. 'Is there anything I can do for you while I'm in Lutetia?'
'I'm glad you asked. I want you visit a certain Dr Romellier, an expert on the flightless birds of the islands of the southern ocean. He's produced a monograph that could shake the foundations of modern ornithology.'
Aubrey must have looked unimpressed. 'It may not sound momentous to you, Aubrey, but Dr Romellier has been working on this for forty years. It's his life's work and I want to show support for him.' She paused and chose her words carefully. 'He's somewhat of a recluse, you see.'
'Recluse.'
'While I've never met him, I know people who have. Some have called him difficult, some say he's just eccentric. Others have called him unpredictable.'
'And you want me to visit him.'
'You'll need to find him first. He's quite secretive about where he lives, but one of his letters, some time ago, let slip that he's close to the university. He complained, you see, about being woken every morning by the clock over the Theology Building when it starts ringing at six.'
'How important is this?'
'How important is your trip to Lutetia?' His mother smiled sweetly. 'I've been wondering, you see, about where I'm going to find a replacement assistant. I'd need someone young, someone who's currently at leisure, someone I can trust.'
'Dr Romellier.' Aubrey stood. 'Monograph. I'd be delighted to fetch it for you.'
'I'm glad, my dear. You always were a considerate one.' She studied him for a moment. 'And keep that heroic impulse in check while you're in Lutetia, won't you?'
'I'll do what I can. You know how it is.'
'I do.' She sighed. 'I married your father, didn't I?'
AUBREY HAD BARELY REACHED HIS ROOM WHEN GEORGE rushed in. 'I say, old man, Mother and Father have said I can go with you to Gallia.' He stopped dead in his tracks. 'What's wrong with you? You look as if you found five pounds but lost ten.'
'It was meant to be a holiday,' Aubrey said, throwing himself onto the red velvet settee. He covered his eyes with his hands. 'I need a holiday.'
George dropped into one of the armchairs. Absently, he prodded a large set of brass scales for weighing horses. 'Holidays are always good. Can't get enough of 'em, personally.'
'But this one's turning into a chore. Both Mother and Grandmother want me to spend time chasing up things for them. And Bertie wants me to find something for him, too.'
'What sort of things?'
'Oh.' Aubrey waved a hand. 'Things.'
'I see. Dashed inconsiderate of them. Things, eh? Can't be easy to find things in Lutetia, it being foreign and all.'
Aubrey opened an eye. 'Am I being precious, George?'
'Just a little.' George grinned. 'We're in Lutetia for a month. I'm sure you'll have time for your errands and after that we'll be able to devote ourselves to other pursuits.'
'Such as?'
George sat back in the chair and put his arms behind his head. 'I understand that the young ladies of Gallia are particularly striking.'
'George, you don't speak a word of Gallian.'
'You're not the only one who enjoys a challenge, old man. I aim to extend myself while I'm over there.'
Aubrey was prevented from investigating this claim further when Tilly, one of the maids, knocked on the door frame. 'Excuse me, Master Aubrey, but Sir Darius would like to see you in the conservatory.'
Aubrey stood. 'About things, no doubt.'
'Excuse me, sir?'
'Never mind, Tilly. George, would you like to go down to lunch? This could take some time.'
'Lunch?' George jumped to his feet. 'Capital idea.'
THE FACT THAT SIR DARIUS WAS IN THE CONSERVATORY was a sign, and not a terribly good one. Aubrey's father ignored the conservatory unless politics were getting too much for him. Then he sought the warm leafiness of the indoor garden as a refuge.
Aubrey found him in one of the huge bow-backed wicker chairs. It was enveloped in the bosom of a spreading fig tree. Sir Darius was sitting, an elegant figure in grey, hands steepled in front of his mouth, frowning in thought.
'Father.'
'Ah, Aubrey. I'm glad you're here. I have a task for you.'
The lines under his father's eyes reminded Aubrey that times were difficult for the Prime Minister of Albion. Despite the best efforts of his political foes, Sir Darius's Progressive Party had been successful at the recent election, but Aubrey had been wondering if this was a poisoned chalice. With the military build-up on the Continent, Albion was in a precarious position.
'What can I do for you, sir?' Aubrey desperately wanted to live up to the example set by his father, but it was difficult. While his father never seemed to judge, Aubrey was conscious that he had expectations – as did society. He knew that many, many people were waiting to see if Aubrey succeeded or failed, with the naysayers currently in the ascendant.
The entire plot to kill the King had never been made public as it had been deemed 'contrary to the national interest'. Aubrey had been dismayed by the efforts of the Special Services, which had spread rumour to the effect that Aubrey and some of his 'young friends' had been rather careless at the shooting weekend the Crown Prince had organised, endangering the royal personage. While Aubrey had to admit it was a clever layer of subterfuge, drawing attention away from the real events, he didn't like being thought of as one of the rich and idle layabouts of the upper class.
Sir Darius considered his answer. 'I need an observer. One who has the sort of skills you showed so recently in the affair with that scoundrel Dr Tremaine.'
With an effort, Aubrey didn't groan aloud. 'You want me to do something in Lutetia?'
His father raised an eyebrow. 'Yes. Since you're going there, I thought your unconventional approaches may be useful.'
Aubrey had a moment of pride at his father's use of the world 'unconventional' – taking it as a compliment – but he was still wary. His long-desired holiday was rapidly coming to resemble a shopping list – and, what's more, a shopping list for other people, which might leave little time to browse for himself.
He winced as his extended metaphor threatened to turn around and strangle him. 'I may be busy in Lutetia.'
His father sat back in his chair and smoothed his moustache. It was not a comforting gesture. 'I see. Would you like to tell me what is going to keep you so busy?'
Aubrey decided that he'd rather have most of his fingernails pulled out than tell his father that he was going to engineer as many chance encounters with Caroline Hepworth a
s possible. 'On the other hand, I do enjoy a challenge.'
He often found himself in situations like this with his family. Conversations escalated into battles of wits; greetings became opening salvos in longer engagements. In these exchanges, much was said, much was unsaid, and much was hidden behind careful facial expressions and gestures. A false word was all it took to find that a carefully planned goal was denied, or that one found oneself doing the complete opposite of what one intended, with no certain knowledge how things became turned around.
'Splendid,' Sir Darius said. 'Since this role follows from your exploits in saving our Gallian airman, I thought you may be interested.'
'Captain Saltin continues to recover, I hope?'
'Yes. Bruised, with some minor burns, but rather better off than he would have been if you hadn't come to his rescue.' Sir Darius gave a tired smile. 'It's extraordinary, really. For most of our history, Albion and Gallia have been at each other's throats, sworn enemies who've tried to conquer each other with quite impressive regularity. Now, seven hundred years of mistrust and suspicion are put aside and we embrace each other with open arms. At least, that's what we leaders say.'
Aubrey loved his father speaking openly to him, taking him into his confidence and allowing him to see the intricacies of the world. It made him even hungrier to achieve his ambitions. 'What does the Foreign Office say?'
'Ah. We have some internal disputes in the FO, some very different opinions about the level of threat posed by Holmland, and exactly what they're up to.' He ran a thumb along the armrest. 'I must do something about that.'
'And the Magisterium? What does it say?'
'And why would you think that the Magisterium would be involved in this?'
Aubrey shrugged. 'I thought you may have been approaching me because of my skills with magic. If magic was part of the dirigible disaster, then the Magisterium would need to be involved.'
Aubrey was always keen to hear anything about the Magisterium. It was the branch of law enforcement with the responsibility for magical matters throughout Albion. Under the leadership of the enigmatic Craddock, the Magisterium had become a feared force of highly skilled magicians with a reputation for ruthless investigation and action.
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