by Lynn Vieh
“Indeed.” I looked over his shoulder at the stone-faced doorman who was decidedly not watching us. “What about me?”
“You’ve been evicted,” Fourth blurted out. “This very morning, I fear. The solicitor quite forcefully communicated Mr. Davies’s desire that you not be permitted in the building by the doorman or any of the other tenants. Unfortunately he was not at all forthcoming as to why such a grossly undeserved action is being taken.” He twisted his hands together. “I assured the man that you are the kindest and most considerate of tenants, but he refused to be swayed. I cannot fathom why Mr. Davies would do this to you.”
I could. Walsh, or Dredmore.
I looked up at my office window. “Have they closed it up, or cleared it out?”
“Both. Mr. Docket told the solicitor that he would see to your belongings.” Fourth grimaced. “As soon as he mentioned casting them into the incinerator, the solicitor happily agreed.”
“You needn’t worry,” I told him. “Docket is a mate; he won’t torch my things. If you would be so kind as to drop him a note through the tube and say that I’ll arrange for a cart to come round tonight, after the building closes.”
“Anything,” he said, nodding. “Miss Kittredge, I cannot express how sorry I am about this. I will be writing a letter of protest to Mr. Davies as soon as I return to the office.”
“You’re very kind, Mr. Gremley.” I patted his arm. “But under the circumstances, it would be wiser not to openly associate yourself with me.”
His expression changed to one of unhappy understanding, and he offered me a sad smile. “You should know that your advice to me was brilliant. I was introduced to Maritza Skolnik by her father, who also obtained her consent to be my escort on Friday night.”
Skolnik was no fool; within a fortnight he’d have Mr. Gremley engaged to his daughter. But as she was a lovely, gentle creature, I imagined Fourth could look forward to a very pleasant future. “I’m so glad. I wish you and the lady all the best, sir.”
Fourth hesitated before bending and giving me an awkward peck on the cheek. “As I hope for you, Miss Kittredge.” With his face still turning red, he hurried off.
Davies had always been a conservative man but genial landlord; he wouldn’t have thrown me out unless he’d been given ample cause. Walsh, or Dredmore. Whichever man had made the complaint against me, I knew I would not be invited to renew my tenancy at this or any other of Davies’s buildings.
I might have sought sanctuary with Rina or Bridget, both of whom had been completely justified in their advice to me, but I couldn’t do it, not yet. Not until I found out which man was responsible.
I walked slowly back toward my flat, but had no interest in spending the day alone sulking. I also realized that there might be other reasons I was being hounded. What was Nolan Walsh hiding? Was it as Dredmore had hinted, that I’d inadvertently stumbled onto something that threatened Walsh more than the scandal of divorcing his young wife?
And then there was Dredmore. He was a man of the world, an important man not to be trifled with. Why had he pursued me, and seduced me, and imprisoned me? I was young, healthy, and attractive, but hardly anything beyond that. Rumsen was filled with women whose beauty made me seem a veritable troll by comparison. Hundreds of posh, nubile women Dredmore could take to wife with a snap of his fingers—professional, talented women he could purchase for the night or however long he wished to use them. Lucien was not only rich and mysterious, he was virile and handsome. Virtually any female within the city would be eager and happy to oblige him.
My stomach growled, so I changed direction and went to the fruit market, where the stands were just opening for the morning’s business. There I walked along until I reached the old peach seller, who had just sliced open a red-gold beauty to release the delicious fragrance.
This was where Dredmore had claimed he had seen me the first time. Where he had . . . no, the most powerful deathmage in the country could not have looked across a market and fallen in love with me at first sight. One required a heart for such a thing to happen. But why would he wish me to believe he’d done so?
“Trying to tempt the browsers?” I said over the open crates.
“Always, miss, always.” She handed me a slice. “North country golders, sweet as honey this year, they are.”
I popped the fruit in my mouth and found it to be precisely as she claimed, as well as sun-warmed and remarkably juicy. “It’s scrumptious.”
She looked side to side before shoving a small paper sack in my hands. When I reached for my reticule, she shook her head. “A gift, dearie.” She gave me a meaningful look. “I’ll wager you could use a bit of sweetness today.”
That put me on alert. “Why’s that?”
She leaned over the crates. “Bunch of beaters came round earlier, asking after a gel who looks a bit like you. They said she lives a goldstone round the corner.” When I glanced round she added, “No one knew this gel, ’course, so they went off. I heard one of them say something daft about looking for her in some eagle’s nest.” She straightened and said in a louder voice, “Morning’s a bit chilly, don’t you think, miss? Best cover up until the air warms.”
I drew my hood over my head. “I will, thank you.”
If Inspector Doyle had sent beaters looking for me, it was either to bring me in on another phony charge or to give me protection. I wanted to believe it was the latter, and might have, if my eviction from the office hadn’t taken place. Dredmore might have filed a charge against me as well, and he had a legitimate one: I’d stolen George. Although anyone with enough coin to afford one motored about in a carri, horses remained the primary means of transport round the city. No young blue ever made a circuit of the parks in a carri, and even merchants who could afford a fleet of carris still kept horses as a show of their wealth and status. Because of this, horse thieves remained universally reviled by all the citizens of Rumsen, and when convicted were regularly sentenced to be whipped in public to serve as a warning to others.
Dredmore would love to see me bound to a punishment post and lashed until I bled, I thought, my mood dark. He’d probably volunteer to ply the whip—
No, he wouldn’t.
As much as I hated him and his spectacular arrogance, Lucien had employed his unsavory methods in an attempt to protect me. Whatever we had been to each other before last night, the man and I were no longer enemies. I didn’t know what we might become, but our interlude in the maze had changed everything.
I took my bag of peaches to a little children’s park three blocks north of the market. A few nannies were pushing prams along the walks, but the benches and sandboxes were empty. I sat down on a bench half-hidden from the street by a large red-and-white-striped glory bush and took out a peach.
“North country golders,” Doyle said as he sat down beside me. “I hear they’re as sweet as honey this year.”
“That they are.” I took the other peach from the sack and offered to him.
We sat and ate the fruit in silence. Doyle left me briefly to purchase two mugs of spiced tea from a cart. I warmed my hands against the sides of the hot porcelain before taking a sip.
“I came in to find a stack of complaints on my desk this morning,” Doyle mentioned as we watched a fierce-looking nan bend over her pram to coo at her fussy charge. “Funny thing, they all bore your name. Busy night, Kit?”
I shrugged.
He blew some steam from his mug before tasting. “The commissioner would very much like to, what were his words . . . oh, yes. ‘See that one dragged through the streets by her ankles.’”
I turned up my toes. “Not much to them. Knots had better be tight.”
“I also received a very interesting communication from Lord Dredmore.” Doyle finished his tea with a few swallows. “It seems that someone trespassed onto his property last night and stole a black gelding from his stables.”
I made my sigh heavy. “How terrible for him.”
“This particular gelding
was trained to be ridden only by a lady,” Doyle said. “And yet no sidesaddle was found to be missing.”
“You know, I think I heard someone mention rumor of a black horse this morning, too.” I pretended to think. “Oh, yes. One was found at dawn standing outside Halter’s stables. Lovely big black fellow, name of George.” I glanced at him. “What a coincidence.”
“I’ll send a man over to collect George and pay Halter for his troubles.” He regarded me directly. “Now that I’ve told you how dreadful my morning has been, you will tell me exactly what you were doing last night.”
“Before being kidnapped and held against my will at Morehaven, or after?” I enjoyed the shock on his face. “You really should do some investigating now and then, Chief Inspector. I thought you Yardmen were trained for it.”
“Why would Lord Dredmore abduct you?”
“He’s a pompous, controlling ass; I’m difficult to scare off, and we’re competing for the same job.” I dropped my peach pit back into the bag.
Oh, and he believes that he’s in love with me. I kept that thought in my head.
“Were there any witnesses to your abduction and captivity?” Doyle persisted.
“Who were not in the employ of Lucien Dredmore? Ah, no, sorry. He’s not that stupid.” I saw the lines round his mouth deepen. “Just forget it, Tommy.”
“I don’t think I can do that just now.” He put his hand over mine. “Did he hurt you, Kit?”
Beyond all hope of recovery, I was beginning to believe. “No. Dredmore could never do anything to me but make me laugh.”
“That’s not what I mean.”
Here was my opportunity for some genuine revenge. Tom Doyle could take me to a physick, who would examine me and find the physical evidence of what Dredmore and I had done. Since I was unmarried and had never been charged with soliciting favors from gentlemen, I could claim ravishment and have Dredmore charged with assaulting me. Without witnesses it would be difficult to see him convicted, but filing the complaint along would be enough to destroy his reputation. He’d never again be invited to the governor’s mansion to show off his grubby bag of tricks.
It will end here and now. The memory of Lucien’s voice in the gardens at Morehaven echoed in my mind. All you need say is no.
“Nothing else happened between me and Dredmore last night that concerns the law,” I told Doyle.
“Perhaps you’ll change your mind after I tell you why I’m here.” He finished his tea. “You’re wanted at the magistrate’s.”
“Court?” I frowned. “Why, whatever for?”
He took my mug from me. “You’ll be arraigned on charges of practicing magic in a residential area.”
“Even if I did practice magic, which I don’t, my office is in the business district.” When he said nothing, I added, “My landlord had me evicted from the building about an hour ago.”
“The address cited in the warrant is for your flat, Kit.” He rose and carried our mugs back to the cartlass, who tucked them in her wash bin before handing Doyle back fo’pence for the return of her crockery.
I went to the fountain to wash the peach juice from my fingers, and was drying them with my kerchief when Doyle joined me.
“Do you know a barrister?” he asked. When I shook my head, he sighed. “You’ll need one. A good one.”
“Can’t afford so much as a bad one, Tom.”
“Bloody hell, Kit,” he snapped, startling a pair of passing nans. “Have you any idea of how much trouble you’re in? These are serious charges. Violation of trade practice law carries a sentence of three to five years, hard labor. What the devil have you been up to on the Hill?”
“I tried to help someone.” Before he could shout again, I added, “You needn’t fuss at me, Inspector. I was warned; I knew something like this might happen.”
“And you did it anyway.”
“Some things are worth a bit of risk.” I smiled up at him. “I don’t suppose you’d pay attention to the flowers for the next few minutes.”
“I wish I could, Kit, but my beaters are standing just over there, and they’d give chase.” He held out his hand. “I’ll speak for you at court.”
“And say what? You know I’m a good lass because we played together as children? You’ll get the sack.” I turned round and held my wrists behind my back. “Do your job, Inspector.”
A few moments later the cold steel cuffs of Doyle’s shackles clamped over my wrists. “Charmian Constance Kittredge, you are charged with practicing magic in a prohibited area. Be advised that anything you say while in my custody can be entered into evidence and used against you. You are permitted representation before the magistrate. If you cannot afford such representation, an aid-solicitor will be summoned to counsel you and speak on your behalf. Do you understand what I have told you?”
The reasons, no, but the words, of course. “I do, sir.”
“Right, then.” He arranged my cloak so that it covered my manacles and then took my arm. “Let’s go.”
* * *
Chief Inspector Doyle spared me the humiliation of taking me to Rumsen Main first to be glassed and recorded. While I knew eventually I would have my image and personal information added to the vast number of criminal countenances and case files kept in the police archives, the reprieve gave me a bit of time to decide what next I would do.
My enemy—either Dredmore or Walsh—had thrown down the gauntlet by having me hauled before the magistrate. My choices were to fight, arrange bail and flee, or surrender myself to an unhappy fate.
I wasn’t going to run away or give up, which meant I needed to arm myself.
Montford District, the building where the magistrate courts were housed, stood in the shadows of Montford Central, the judgment courts. Both were named for Lord Montford, the Queen’s Architect, whose building designs had been brought over along with Crown law after the Rebellion had been crushed. The only way I’d ever see the inside of Montford Central was if I killed someone, burned down a block of houses, or did something equally as dastardly; Montford District was reserved for civil and common criminal cases.
I suppose I should have admired all the grandeur of the soaring Doric columns and the heavy chiselwork above the archways, but the stodgy, Crown-nodding affectedness of the building’s design ruined any appreciation I might have for the bloody place. So did being hauled to it as a prisoner.
Doyle brought me into the great hall, which had been hung with paintings depicting the Empire’s triumph over the rebels and stone plaquettes inscribed with tiresome axioms about the nobility of justice.
“ ‘ The law of the Crown is a spring of life,’ ” I read one out loud as we passed it. “Do you think our forefathers would agree, Chief Inspector, seeing as it put most of them facedown in shallow, unmarked graves?”
“Be quiet,” he warned as he steered me through a security checkpoint and down to an entry marked Advocacy.
Inside were two chairs, a table, and a balding solicitor in a shabby suit who barely glanced at us. “Morning. This the Murphy gel, or the Holmes boy?”
“Kittredge,” Doyle told him.
“Damn it all. I told Scotty I didn’t want that one before I left the office.” The solicitor dug through his papers until he found a thick bundle of papers and scowled at me. “You know why you’ve been brought up before the magis, miss?”
“I’ve been wrongly charged with practicing magic in a residential area,” I said, sounding as forlorn as possible. “And what is your name, sir?”
“Douglas Clark, at your service.” He didn’t bother to get up or bow. “You can leave her, Chief.”
Doyle removed my manacles. “Keep your chin up.”
“Always.” I watched him go before I sat down beside my aid-solicitor. “I’m not lying, sir. The charges being brought against me are utter nonsense.”
“They always are, dearie.” He turned to me. “You’re young, which will help, although you can’t claim ignorance of the law. That always sets hissono
r’s wig on end. Someone coerce you to wave your wand in the wrong place? Your da, maybe?”
“I’m an orphan.”
“That’s too bad. Got a teller off last month for having a home seeing by blaming her brother for not paying their rent. And her without a proper license at all.” Clark studied my face. “What sort of magic you practice?”
“None.”
He shook his head. “Can’t go in denying your business, miss. They wouldn’t file charges without hard evidence.”
“They have none. I’ve never practiced magic.”
He turned back to the papers and scrabbled through them, his frown deepening with every page he turned. “No witnesses, no confiscations, no testimonies. That can’t be right. Hang on, here it is.” He pulled out a paper and held it up. “His lordship charges that the defendant bespelled her physical residence to protect the occupants and repel intruders.”
“I did nothing of the kind,” I assured him.
He nodded absently. “They’ve listed some enchanted objects that were found openly displayed on the exterior of your residence.”
“Seven wardlings, nailed above my entry,” I said. “Put there by a police warder, not me.”
“The cops?” He glanced up, completely perplexed. “Why’d they want to ward your place, then?”
I detailed the attack on me by the snuffmages as well as my subsequent detainment and drugging at Rumsen Main. “I did not fashion or display the wardlings. There is no other magic item on the premises or in my possession.” I almost reached for my pendant before I thought better of it. “Nor have I uttered a single spell.”
“Hang on.” He dug down to the very last page of the charge statement, and after reading it sat back in his chair. “The charges are being brought by Lord Nolan Walsh. Himself ’s one of them bankers downtown what’s got more money than H.M. What in sweet Mary’s name did you do to bring his wrath down on your head, gel?”
So Walsh, not Dredmore. An invisible burden lifted from my shoulders, not that I welcomed the tiny surge of relief that came with it. “I’m working for Lord Walsh’s wife, Lady Diana. Someone inside his household has been—”