by Bee Ridgway
“Good day, Cousin.” Julia found that the sight of him no longer nauseated her.
“Get in here.” He reached out for her arm as she walked up the steps.
She jerked it away. “Unhand me. There is no need. I am coming in.” She swept past him into the dark hallway, stripping off her gloves and unpinning her hat. She laid them on the footman’s chair and turned to face her fulminating cousin. “What is it you want of me?”
Eamon’s tombstone teeth gleamed in the dim light of the entrance hall. “I have found the talisman,” he said.
Julia raised her eyebrows. “Really? Have you stopped time?”
“No, but I will soon enough. Come. I want to see if you recognize it.” He led the way into the study, and Julia suppressed a gasp. The piles of strange items that the servants had collected for Eamon had all been cleared away. Everything of Grandfather’s, all his stones and books and knickknacks, was gone. The room was bare and the desk entirely clear, except for one small, colorful box sitting in the exact center of the leather desktop.
It was the lacquered Chinese box that Grandfather had shown her years before.
Eamon picked it up and handed it to her. “Have you ever seen this box before?”
“No,” Julia lied. She held it lightly. “What is it?”
Eamon looked at her, long and piercingly, and Julia returned his gaze. Apparently satisfied, he took a piece of paper out of his pocket. She could see that it had a line or two of Grandfather’s writing on it. “‘July the twenty-first, 1803,’” Eamon read out loud. “‘Solved reached in forty-eight seconds.’”
Julia turned the box over in her hands. “It requires a solution?” She hoped her voice sounded innocent.
Eamon snatched it out of her hands. “Yes, stupid girl. It is clearly a magical box of some sort. There is either something in it or something in the opening of it that must unlock time. I found it in a hidden compartment in this desk—devilish clever, but I found it. This box, and a worthless miniature of some mulatto.” Eamon dug carelessly in his pocket and extracted another square of paper. He handed it over and Julia gazed down at a remarkably realistic painting, smooth as ice. It depicted a young woman’s laughing face. The woman’s skin was darker than English people’s, her hair a deeper black, her eyes a clearer blue. Indeed, the colors of everything in the picture, including the slice of sky behind her head and the yellows of her dress, seemed richer than any Julia had seen before. She turned the painting over, but there was nothing written on the back. The paper was slick; Julia had no idea how the paint could possibly adhere to it. She held it back out to Eamon, but he waved his hand. “Keep it if you like.”
“Might not this picture be the talisman?”
“Give it back!” He snatched the painting and studied it. “Perhaps, perhaps . . . but how?”
“If Grandfather hid it with the box, perhaps they are to be used together.”
Eamon frowned at her, suspicious. “You suddenly seem very eager to help, Julia.”
“As you know, Cousin, I do not believe there is a talisman. I believe Grandfather’s talent died with him. But if this trinket will satisfy your quest for one, I shall be delighted.”
“There is a talisman.” Eamon pushed the painting back into his pocket, oblivious to her sarcasm. “I am sure of it. It is this box. But the note is puzzling. The box must be manipulated in a certain way for exactly forty-eight seconds? Could that be it?”
Julia knew very well what the note chronicled. Grandfather had been looking at his stopwatch while she had tried to solve the puzzle. She had thought herself defeated, for the box never opened. But clearly she had, in fact, succeeded, and he had been testing her speed with it. Why?
Eamon was half twisting the box one way, then twisting it back, and half twisting it another. He was clearly afraid to disarrange it. “How does it work?” he muttered to himself. “What is the secret?”
Julia cleared her throat. “Cousin, may I please leave you to this?”
Eamon looked up at her blindly, the lacquered box sickly bright in his pale fingers. Then he nodded. “Yes, yes. Go. Run along. In fact, I don’t want to see you for the remainder of the day.”
And I hope to never see you again, Julia thought as she left the room.
* * *
Nick leapt from his horse, tossed the reins to a waiting groom, and ran from the stable yard to the house. He began yelling for Clare before he was even properly inside.
She came running, her face pale. “What is it? Are you ill?”
“I am completely well,” he said, “but what in the devil’s name is wrong with you?”
“With me?” His sister drew up short. “Have you hit your head again?” She came forward, hand outstretched to feel his forehead.
“There’s nothing amiss with me.” He pushed past her and strode ahead into the drawing room, then turned and pointed a finger. “But you need a damned good explanation for why you haven’t been to see Julia Percy, when you must know that her reputation is in tatters. The new Lord Darchester is keeping her locked up like a prisoner. Or are you deceived by the slander?”
“Heavens.” Clare sank onto a settee. “I feared that something was terribly wrong over at Castle Dar. There has been talk among the servants that the new earl might be mad. Their footman is betrothed to our kitchen maid and she said—”
“I see. You feared something might be wrong. And you heard from the servants that the earl is mad. So instead of helping our family’s friend and neighbor, you spent your time weaving plans with Jem Jemison for the destruction of Blackdown.”
Clare thinned her lips and took a moment to respond. “Mr. Jemison has left Blackdown, you will be pleased to know. He has gone to London.”
For some reason this only enraged Nick further. “So now I must find a new steward? Wonderful! And why didn’t he tell me of his decision to leave? I am the marquess—”
“I hired him when you were dead,” Clare said sharply, her temper finally flaring. “And so he came to me this morning and told me he was leaving. He is in London, trying to find another way to care for the soldiers of your regiment.”
“Oh, they were my soldiers, were they, who were going to swarm like locusts over my land? You didn’t tell me that yesterday. And now you imply that I am the rich man of the parable, that I turn them from the door like Lazarus the leper! I understand you, Sister. You imply that I am a negligent boor, and perhaps I am. But you are no better. Explain to me about Julia Percy, and why you have abandoned her!”
Clare stood still, allowing his rage to crash around her, her face rigid. “You have been away too long. You forget: You cannot simply burst into the home of a belted earl on the strength of servants’ gossip and demand that he hand over a member of his family.”
Nick threw up his hands. “Of course not. Perish the thought that it might be possible to rescue Julia from the clutches of a madman. Shall I tell you? It is because he is a lord of the realm and his accusers are servants. And because she is a woman, with no rights of her own.” He rounded on Clare, pointing a finger at her nose. “I tell you, Clare, the world has got to change. You women must stop regarding yourselves as chattels.”
At that, Clare put back her hands on her hips and laughed. “Your bump on the head certainly changed you, Nickin. You accuse me of destroying Falcott for a dream of brotherhood and equality—meanwhile it appears that you have been transformed into a Godwinite!”
“Perhaps, I have been! And so should you be.”
Her laugh died, but her eyes smiled at him. “What happened to you in Spain?”
“Never you mind.” Nick crossed his arms over his chest. “Now explain yourself, woman.”
“A Godwinite, but still pigheaded! Of course I have been to visit the new earl, and to see Julia. Do you think I am heartless? She adored that crusty grandfather of hers, and she must be devastated without him. I arrived home from London the day after the old earl died, and I went immediately to Castle Dar. I was turned away, but I ret
urned the next day and again the next. The other women of the parish have also tried to call. We left cards, we left invitations, we even went as a group and sought to be admitted. The men have gone, too. Although we could tell it pained good Pringle to do it, we were all repeatedly turned away.”
Nick glared at his sister, then strode away across the room and back again. “Talk, talk, talk,” he finally said. “Gossip and talk. The good people of the parish fret and worry: ‘Oh, poor Julia.’ Then, my dear sister, do you know what they do when they are home again? They tell vicious stories, and they relish every word. Did you know, Clare, that everyone thinks she is Darchester’s mistress? After only a fortnight?” He nodded at her. “Oh, yes. I suppose you are not privy to the more salacious rumors that fly about the village, due to your being . . .” He paused. “Due to . . .” He finished lamely.
Clare sat back down. “Due to the fact that I am a spinster, you mean? You have ranted like a lunatic for ten minutes, and now you choose to mince words? I am a spinster and a noblewoman. As a result, no one ever tells me anything. Why don’t you come down off your high horse, take a seat, and let us have a rational conversation about this problem. I am indeed appalled to learn that our neighbors think so badly of Julia, and I am ashamed that I have not done more to try to see her and find out the truth of her situation. But let us not lose our heads. Tell me what you know, and together we shall find a way to secure Julia’s freedom.”
Nick glowered.
She patted the seat next to her and raised her eyebrows at him in the time-honored gesture of an older sister. “Sit,” she said.
“As you wish.” He collapsed down next to her, draped one arm around her shoulders, and stretched his legs out. He tried, unconsciously, to shove one sneaker off his foot with the toe of the other, and looked in some surprise down the length of his body, past his jacket and breeches to his tall riding boots. “I am in all my dirt,” he said, remembering suddenly that he really ought to change out of his riding clothes before conversing with a lady, even if that lady happened to be his sister.
“Yes, you are a barbarian,” Clare said. “Now tell me.”
Nick let his head fall back against the sofa. He spoke up to the ceiling. “I rode to the wood, and encountered Julia riding over from Castle Dar,” he said.
“I thought she was a prisoner.”
“She is, to all intents.”
Clare sighed. “I don’t mean to doubt you, Nick, but are you certain she is in such dire straits as you imagine? After all, she was riding about. When did you even have the chance to hear village gossip? You returned only the day before yesterday.”
“Count Lebedev overheard the news of Julia’s supposed disgrace bantered about the inn yard, of all places. And I know Julia is in danger because she told me she was, and I believe her.”
Clare nodded. “Julia is a dramatic little body,” she said, “but she is not a liar.”
“What do you mean, a dramatic little body?” Nick sat up straight and swiveled to face his sister.
“Oh, nothing. But when Julia was younger, she and Bella were forever brewing up mischief of one kind or another. You must remember, Nickin. She was always over here, underfoot. They did terrible things.”
Nick did have a vague memory of his little sister and her friend charging up and down the staircases, yodeling like beagles, but he had hardly been interested in girls three years his junior. “How terrible could two little girls be?”
Clare laughed incredulously. “I will not even deign to answer that question. Except to remind you of the time, a few years before Papa’s death, when they let the pigs into the kitchen garden. Arabella did not care for carrots and they thought to ruin the year’s crop.”
A memory floated back to him of little Bella at teatime, the rest of the family feasting on her favorite cake while she sat weeping, with nothing but a big carrot on her plate. “Julia was behind that prank?”
“Oh, I don’t know whose idea it was, but she was certainly caught red-handed alongside Bella, exhorting the pigs to root up the gardeners’ hard work. Of course the poor animals were simply running wild all over the garden, trying to escape two screaming girls.”
“Papa must have been enraged.”
“I’m surprised they both survived into adulthood,” Clare said. “When they were discovered in their mischief-making, Bella lied or cried like any normal girl, but Julia stood like a queen and took her punishment. If she felt the accusation was just, she condescended to apologize for her actions. But if she felt the accusation was unfair, the scorn in her eye was withering. If she hadn’t been such a loving child, and so obviously in need of mothering, I believe Mother would have come to fear her.” Clare sighed. “I hate to think of someone of her spirit suffering confinement and perhaps . . . worse.” She turned an anxious face to Nick. “You don’t think there is any truth in the gossip? That she is his . . . ?”
“No.” Nick stood and paced the room. “No. The girl I met today was no one’s mistress, willing or unwilling. But she was anxious about her own safety, and she did agree that she should come to us at Blackdown. Apparently she cannot get away from this cousin of hers. He seems to have some hold over her. It’s enough to drive me mad with worry for her.”
Clare looked at him thoughtfully, her lips pursed. “Hmm,” she said.
“Hmm what?”
“Just hmm.”
Nick twitched his cuffs into place. He had never been able to hide anything from the all-seeing older-sisterly powers of Clare. Of course that went two ways, and therefore he knew exactly what she was thinking when she said hmm. And she was perfectly right. This morning Julia had plucked his heart like it was nothing more than a strawberry hiding under a leaf. He loved her. He, Nick Davenant, né Nicholas Falcott. Or was it Falcott né Davenant? In any case, there it was. He was in love with a woman two hundred years in his past.
Not that he was going to admit his feelings to Clare, or indeed to anyone. So he scowled. “May we please concentrate on how to get Julia from there to here?”
Then, from across the room, Nick and Clare heard a delicate cough, and the Russian rose up from a leather armchair that faced the fire. “If I may offer my services?” The paternal benevolence of his smile encompassed them both.
“For God’s sake, Lebedev. Don’t you know it is rude to eavesdrop?”
“I beg your pardon.” Arkady examined his fingernails. “But I was happily dozing in this chair when you two barged in and began your so interesting conversation.”
“Clare, I apologize for the count. If anyone is a barbarian, it is he.”
Clare turned sparklingly to Arkady. “If you would care to join us, Count Lebedev? I’m sure your suggestions will be most welcome.”
“I thank you.” He bowed, shooting Nick a triumphant glance, then strolled across the room. “The problems of your neighbors are tiresome. I came here to fry, how to say it, bigger fish?”
Nick rolled his eyes. “I am desolate to learn that you find our society tedious and our problems beneath your interest.”
Arkady brushed past Nick. “May I?” He indicated Nick’s old seat beside Clare, and Clare nodded. Arkady disposed himself gracefully and looked from one sibling to the other. “The rank of marquess, it is higher than the rank of earl, am I wrong?”
“So what?” Nick crossed his arms over his chest.
“This phrase, ‘so what,’” Arkady said. “It does not sound quite correct.” He looked darkly at Nick.
“I don’t give a rat’s arse,” Nick said. “You understand me perfectly. I repeat: so what?”
Clare laughed. “Calm yourself, Nick, and do exert yourself to speak like a gentleman. The count is only trying to help, and you are behaving like a bear.”
Arkady spread his hands. “You have been forgetting yourself for three years, Lord Blackdown. Your sister said you have changed. You admire Godwin and his wife Mary . . . Mary . . .”
“Wollstonecraft.” Nick ground the name out.
“Ah, yes. You have been keeping company, perhaps, with revolutionaries? And, shall we say, enlightened women? Such exciting thoughts they think, these men and women who dream about the future. But please recall: What is in the brain of a normal aristocrat? He goes to a dinner party. Is he thinking that the women are the equals of the men? Does he want to end the slavery? No. He worries: Who is sitting below me at the table? To that man, he shows only his nostrils. Who is sitting above me? To that man, he smiles and smiles.”
“Please,” Nick said. “Get to your point.”
Arkady inclined his head. “If your English aristocracy is anything like our Russian aristocracy, your neighbor the earl will welcome you, the marquess, with bows and scrapes. He thought you were dead. That made him the highest aristocrat in miles and miles. Down he looked upon everyone. But now you have returned. He will not like it, but he must look up to you. I predict that he will accept a visit from you and your sister.”
“Of course.” Clare pivoted on the couch. She was practically in Arkady’s lap. “You are right. We shall wear our finest apparel, stink of ambergris and disapproval, and stay only fifteen minutes. We shall suggest to him that if he does not stop trampling on his cousin’s reputation, society will shun him.”
“If I may be permitted to join you?” Arkady smiled at Clare. “I have much interest in this Castle Dar. I have heard, oh, many tales about it. It has a very interesting atmosphere. Almost . . . timeless?” Arkady caught Nick’s eye over Clare’s head and gave him a meaningful look.
Nick had to admit it was a plan. It did not involve riding up to Castle Dar on a fiery white stallion, fighting the earl with a broadsword, and then carrying Julia away into the sunset. But then again, it would probably work. And if Arkady got to hunt Ofan on the side, that was fine, too. “Yes,” he said. “We go tomorrow afternoon.”
“Why not this afternoon?” Clare asked.
Nick thought of Julia, and the possibility of a meeting up by the woods tomorrow morning. Once she was at Blackdown, he would never see her alone; she would always be with Clare, stitching or some other nonsense. “I have said tomorrow afternoon; it is decided.”