A Matter of Magic

by Patricia C. Wrede

  “Part of my brother’s library, actually,” Mairelon said.

  “They don’t seem much like his kind of thing,” Kerring said. “I wonder. . . . Wait here for a minute.” He disappeared behind one of the bookshelves, and Kim heard the sounds of drawers opening and closing, and paper rustling. Finally Kerring reappeared, carrying Mairelon’s list and a little sheaf of documents.

  “Found it!” he said triumphantly. “I thought these were familiar. They’re part of a collection your father had me assess about, oh, fifteen years ago.”

  “Only part?” Mairelon said.

  “The part I recommended he buy.” Kerring waved the sheaf of documents. “The whole collection was much more extensive. It belonged to a Frenchman, an émigré who ended up in debtor’s prison. De Cambriol, that was his name. His wife was a French wizard, one of the group they called Les Griffonais; she was just beginning to make a name for herself when she died. That’s why your father was interested in her books.”

  “Her books?” Kim said. “I thought you said they belonged to her husband.”

  “He inherited them,” Kerring said. “It was quite a nice little collection, actually, but he wasn’t a wizard himself and had no interest in magic, so when he fell on hard times, he sold them off. Didn’t do him much good, I’m afraid. Too many gambling debts; the proceeds from the sale didn’t even begin to buy him out.”

  “And my father bought them,” Mairelon said in a thoughtful tone.

  “Some of them,” Kerring corrected him. “Madame de Cambriol’s magic collection, to be precise, plus one or two others he thought looked interesting. I thought he’d bought her livre de mémoire, too, but I don’t see it on your list. Pity; there’s a deal of interest in the Griffonais these days. Your brother could have gotten a nice price for it.”

  “What’s a . . . a livre de thingumy?” Kim asked, at the same moment that Mairelon said, “Interest?”

  Kerring’s beard split in a grin. “One at a time. A livre de mémoire is a sort of book of notes that a lot of French wizards keep. A memory book, we’d call it.”

  “Just who is interested in Les Griffonais?” Mairelon said. “And why?”

  “Everybody,” Kerring replied, gesturing expansively. “Because of the restoration of the French monarchy, you see. Now that they’ve finally gotten rid of that pushy little Corsican they let take over the country, there’s a lot of curiosity about things under the old regime.”

  “I believe there was rather more to Napoleon than that,” Mairelon murmured. “Thank you very much for the information, and if you hear of anyone asking specifically about Les Griffonais or Madame de Cambriol, do let me know. Andrew might be interested in selling off some of the books.”

  Lord Kerring gave Mairelon a sharp look. “You’re up to something, Merrill, and don’t think I don’t know it. I expect a full account for the archives once it’s over, whatever it is.”

  “If you insist,” Mairelon said. “I believe we have what we came for. Good day; perhaps I’ll see you at the club next week.”

  “No doubt. Good day, Miss Merrill. I expect I’ll see more of you when you start your journeyman’s work. And I assure you that it will be a pleasure.” Kerring bowed.

  “Thank you, my lord,” Kim stammered, and managed to curtsey without losing her balance. Kerring gave her an avuncular smile, and a moment later she and Mairelon were outside the library once more.

  Mairelon was frowning slightly as they started down the hall. Thinking again, Kim told herself. Well, he can just think out loud where I can hear it. “Now what?” she asked him.

  “Mmm? Kerring is an old reprobate at times, but he’s a sound man and there’s no denying he knows his work.”

  “Fine for him,” Kim said. “But what do we do now?”

  “We go back to the house and see whether we can turn up Madame de Cambriol’s memory book. If it’s not there, we’ll know our burglar got what he was after.”

  “But you don’t even know whether it was in the library to begin with,” Kim said.

  “If Kerring thinks my father bought it, I’m willing to wager he did,” Mairelon said. “There might even be an inventory around somewhere. We’ll have to check. Come along; we haven’t time to waste.”

  4

  Mairelon was extremely cheerful all the way home, but he refused to tell her anything more and she could not think of a way of questioning him that was likely to get a useful response. Not when he was in such a fey mood, anyway. When they reached Grosvenor Square, the opportunity was lost; Mrs. Lowe was hovering by the door, and took Kim in hand at once.

  “You’ll have to hurry, or we’ll be late,” she said as she bustled Kim up the stairs. “I’ve sent for Sally to do what she can with your hair. It ought to have been in papers all morning, but that can’t be helped now.”

  “It wouldn’t have helped then,” Kim muttered.

  “What did you say?”

  “Nothing.”

  “I hope you don’t intend to be difficult about this,” Mrs. Lowe said. “Mrs. Hardcastle has gone to a good deal of trouble to arrange this meeting, and it is probably the best opportunity you will have to settle yourself comfortably.”

  As if that’s the reason I came back to London, Kim thought, frowning. Fortunately, Mrs. Lowe had stepped forward to open the bedroom door, and did not see Kim’s expression. Mrs. Lowe’s maid, Sally, bobbed a curtsey as they entered. A pair of curling tongs lay heating in the fire, and a pale yellow walking dress waited on the bed. Kim rolled her eyes. “You mean I have to change clothes, too, as well as having my hair fussed with? What’s wrong with what I have on?”

  “Mrs. Hardcastle informs me that Mr. Fulton is partial to yellow,” Mrs. Lowe said coldly. “Now, sit down and let Sally fix your hair. We have barely half an hour before we must leave.”

  Kim considered briefly, then sat. She could, she supposed, delay their departure if she worked at it, but delaying or avoiding this call would only make Mrs. Lowe more determined to arrange another. She had to think of a way to put an end to the matter once and for all, or she’d fall in the soup sooner or later.

  “You have lovely hair, Miss, though it’s a bit short,” Sally ventured as she wound the first strand around a curlpaper. “I dare say it’ll look that nice when it’s all done up proper.”

  “That will do, Sally.” Mrs. Lowe studied Kim for a moment, and then she and Sally went to work. With considerable effort and ingenuity, they produced a passable arrangement of curls from Kim’s dark, unruly hair. At least, Mrs. Lowe said it was passable, but even to Kim’s unpracticed eye the coiffure bore no resemblance to the elegant styles worn by real ladies. I look like a fishmonger’s daughter trying to ape Quality, she thought gloomily. I bet it’ll be all straggly before we’ve gone three blocks. If it stays up that long. She shook her head experimentally, and Mrs. Lowe clucked at her.

  Getting into the gown without disarranging her hair was an effort, and Kim was glad that Sally was there to do most of the work. When Mrs. Lowe was satisfied with Kim’s appearance at last, they descended the stairs once more.

  Mairelon was waiting in the hall. “There you are at last! I thought you were in a hurry. I’ve had the coach waiting for half an hour.” He picked up his gloves. “Shall we go?”

  Mrs. Lowe stared at him, for once bereft of speech.

  “You’re coming, too?” Kim said with relief.

  “Oh, yes.” Mairelon smiled seraphically at his dumbfounded aunt. “After all, Aunt Agatha said only this morning that she expects me to pay more attention to my social duties. I thought I had best begin at once, before I forgot.” He signaled the footman, who opened the door wide, and offered his arm to his aunt. By the time Mrs. Lowe recovered from her shock, they were in the carriage and on their way. Mrs. Lowe could hardly rip up at Mairelon as long as Kim was present, so the journey was accomplished in silence.

  They emerged from the carriage in front of a sturdy brick townhouse of modest proportions. Two of the lower windows h
ad been bricked over. An iron railing enclosed a yard or so of space in front of the house, where an extremely ugly pottery urn stood empty. Three slate steps, freshly scrubbed, led up to the wooden door. An impeccably correct butler opened the door and led them up the staircase inside. Kim, noting the empty candle sconces on the wall and the half-hidden darns in the linen drape covering a table in the upstairs hall, was not impressed. Mrs. Hardcastle may be bosom bows with Mrs. Lowe, but she’s not as full of juice. This place wouldn’t be worth the time—let alone the risk—to a decent cracksman.

  They found Mrs. Hardcastle in the saloon, a dark and austerely furnished room whose narrow windows did little to lighten the atmosphere. Mrs. Lowe checked briefly in the doorway, and when Kim entered close on her heels, she saw why.

  Mrs. Hardcastle had more guests than they had expected. Not only that, the young woman shaking her golden-guinea curls at the offer of a slice of cake was a diamond of the first water. From the top of her high-crowned hat to her heart-shaped face and perfect complexion, to her slender figure, to the elegantly turned ankles and dainty feet set off by neat kid boots, she was everything that current fashion demanded of a Beauty. No wonder old poker-back’s nose is out of joint, Kim thought with satisfaction. She didn’t bargain for any competition, let alone a regular out-and-outer.

  Beside the Beauty sat an undistinguished girl, also turned out in expensive (though in her case, unbecoming) fashion. A sober-looking gentleman and their middle-aged hostess completed the company.

  Though Mrs. Lowe must have been annoyed, she gave no sign of it beyond that initial hesitation. She greeted Mrs. Hardcastle with the warmth due an old friend, and acknowledged the necessary introductions with perfect aplomb. The Beauty was a Miss Letitia Tarnower; her companion, Miss Annabel Matthews. The sober gentleman was, of course, Mr. Henry Fulton.

  As the newcomers seated themselves, Kim studied Mr. Fulton. He looked to be in his mid-thirties, which was considerably younger than she had expected. His morning-dress was neat and correct, but lacked a certain elegance. He’s a Cit, and well enough off for Mrs. Lowe to think he’s “reasonably respectable,” but he doesn’t follow Society fashion. Well, most Cits don’t. She wondered whether he had been informed of the purpose of their meeting.

  Then Mr. Fulton caught her eye, reddened slightly, and looked away. He knows. And if he had come intending to inspect a potential bride, then she could no longer simply dismiss Mrs. Lowe’s maunderings about marriage and her opportunities in London.

  She glanced at Mr. Fulton again. His face was pleasant enough. I ought to jump at him. There can’t be very many well-to-do Cits willing to take up with a girl off the streets, even if I am the ward of a gentleman now. So why is the idea so . . . repellent?

  “Tea, Miss Merrill?” Mrs. Hardcastle said.

  “Yes, thank you.”

  Mrs. Hardcastle beamed as if Kim had said something clever. Kim blinked, then accepted the teacup with a noncommittal murmur. This earned her an encouraging nod and a not-too-subtle significant look in Mr. Fulton’s direction.

  Kim chose to ignore the hint. She sat sipping at her tea, in the faint hope that a polite lack of interest would discourage any more attempts to draw her into conversation with Mr. Fulton. There was also a slim chance that sitting quietly might keep her from committing any of the social solecisms that would earn her a trimming from Mrs. Lowe once they returned home.

  “I am pleased to find you here, Mr. Fulton,” Mrs. Lowe said. “My nephew’s ward was particularly eager to make your acquaintance.”

  “Yes, it is so nice to meet new people,” Miss Tarnower said with a dazzling smile before Mr. Fulton could respond. “Mrs. Hardcastle’s acquaintance is so very varied that one never knows who will turn up. I would not be astonished to find the Prince of Wales himself at one of her saloons.”

  Mrs. Hardcastle looked quite struck for a moment, then shook her head. “It is kind of you to say so, but I fear that His Highness is considerably above my touch.”

  “Oh, pooh! You are too modest. Everyone knows you, and you know everyone. I’ll wager that if I gave you a name, you could tell us all about that person, no matter who it is! There now, you cannot say it is untrue.”

  “Ah, but it would be inhospitable of her to correct a guest,” Mairelon said.

  “That was not what I meant at all,” Miss Tarnower said with a puzzled frown. “Oh! I see. You are bamming me.”

  “Letitia!” Miss Matthews said in an urgent undertone that carried rather better than she intended it to.

  Miss Tarnower glanced at her companion, then turned back to Mairelon. “Is your acquaintance as wide as Mrs. Hardcastle’s, sir?” she asked with another dazzling smile.

  “Oh, at least,” Mairelon murmured.

  “Richard,” Mrs. Lowe said softly, in the same warning tone that Miss Matthews had used. Being more experienced, her pitch was better-chosen; if Kim had not been sitting next to her, she would not have heard a thing.

  “Mr. Merrill is well known in France, I believe,” Mrs. Hardcastle told Miss Tarnower.

  “Too well known,” Mairelon said. “Even under the new king.”

  “But I am not interested in the king of France.” Miss Tarnower frowned, as if suddenly struck by a thought. “Unless he is to be in London this Season?”

  “I believe that to be unlikely,” Mrs. Hardcastle said.

  Mr. Fulton leaned forward. “I take it you were in France during the war, then, Mr. Merrill?”

  “Some of the time,” Mairelon acknowledged with a faint smile.

  “I thought your name was familiar,” Mr. Fulton said with some satisfaction.

  “It is of no consequence,” Mrs. Lowe said hastily. “It was a . . . personal matter.”

  “What, still?” Mr. Fulton looked from Mrs. Lowe to Mairelon and said apologetically, “I am very sorry if I have been indiscreet, but since my brother saw no harm in relating the story to me, I thought—”

  “Tommy Fulton!” Mairelon said, snapping his fingers. “Last time I saw him was in that little French town where Old Hooky set up his, er, coin exchange. St. Jean de Luz, that was it. Good heavens, are you his brother? How is he?”

  “He was badly wounded at Waterloo, and I fear his health has not been the same since,” Mr. Fulton replied. “Still, he does tolerably well.”

  “I’m glad he made it through.” Mairelon’s face clouded. “Too many didn’t.”

  Mrs. Lowe was frowning in a mixture of relief and mystification that Kim found puzzling. Didn’t she know or care what Mairelon had really been doing during those years when London Society thought he had run off with the Saltash Set?

  “Tom speaks very highly of your . . . work,” Mr. Fulton said to Mairelon.

  “No need to mince words,” Mairelon said. “Not now, anyway.” He smiled at the puzzled expressions of the two young ladies opposite him. “I met Tommy Fulton while I was on the Peninsula, spying on the French. He was one of the pickets who made it possible for me to cross back and forth across the lines when I needed to. Very solid.”

  Mr. Fulton inclined his head. “He will be pleased to know you remember him so kindly.”

  “Remember him? I could hardly forget him. Did he tell you about the incident with the chickens?”

  Seeing that the conversation was about to degenerate into military reminiscence, Mrs. Lowe and Mrs. Hardcastle both hurried into speech.

  “I am sure you have many fascinating tales, but—”

  “Perhaps Richard can visit your brother some other—”

  The two ladies both stopped short and waited politely for each other to continue. Since Mr. Fulton was also waiting for one of them to finish her speech, this gave Letitia Tarnower the opportunity to reenter the conversation.

  “I dislike chickens,” she announced. “They are stupid birds, and they have nothing whatever to do with who one knows, which is what we were discussing.”

  “Yes, and I quite agree that it is pleasant to meet new people,” Mrs. Lowe said, tho
ugh her tone was at odds with her words. She managed a stiff smile at Miss Tarnower, then turned to Mr. Fulton with a warmer expression. “It is, for instance, very pleasant to make your acquaintance at last, Mr. Fulton. We have heard so much about you.”

  “I, too, have heard much about you, Miss Merrill,” Mr. Fulton said, and smiled. “I must say, it did not do you justice.”

  Beside Mrs. Hardcastle, Mairelon frowned suddenly. Mrs. Lowe nudged Kim and gave her a pointed look. Annoyed, Kim raised her teacup and sipped again. Old fusspot. It would serve her right if I did disgrace her in public. Then she blinked and began to grin. And I bet it’ll send Fulton to the rightabout in a hurry, too.

  Mairelon was watching her, and his frown deepened. Before he could queer her pitch, she looked at Mr. Fulton and said very deliberately, “Don’t go pitching me no gammon. You ain’t heard near enough, acos I’ll lay you a monkey the gentry-mort ain’t told you I was on the sharping lay afore Mairelon took a fancy to adopt me.”

  Mrs. Lowe’s breath hissed faintly between her teeth in anger; Mrs. Hardcastle looked shocked, and the two younger ladies, merely puzzled. Mr. Fulton seemed taken aback, but he rallied enough to say, “No, I don’t believe she did.”

  “Well, I ain’t no mace cove, and I don’t hold with bubbling a flash cull, not when it comes to getting priest-linked, anyways.”

  “Kim!” Mrs. Lowe had recovered from her surprise-induced paralysis; it was a tribute to her good breeding that she kept her voice low despite her anger and chagrin. “Hold your tongue, at once.”

  Kim set her teacup on the table. Looking up, she met Mr. Fulton’s eyes. “And I’ll tell you straight, this ain’t been my lay, right from the beginning,” she continued, as if Mrs. Lowe had never interrupted. “I ain’t never been no Madam Ran. So I ain’t going to get in a pucker if you was to shab off.”

  “I . . . see,” Mr. Fulton said in a dazed voice.

  “Well, I do not,” Letitia Tarnower said crossly.

  “I should hope not!” Mrs. Hardcastle groped in her reticule and produced a bottle of smelling salts, which she at once made use of. “I have never heard anything so vulgar in my life! Not that I understood the half of it myself.”