Sorcery & Cecelia: Or the Enchanted Chocolate Pot (19 page)

“Mr. Strangle, Madame,” said the butler, and withdrew his bulk to reveal Mr. Strangle in the hall behind him, looking like a garden rake with poor posture.

I concealed my disappointment as best I could, while Aunt Charlotte made Mr. Strangle welcome. By the time Mr. Strangle had concluded an ad hoc oration on the impiety of the lower classes, all the macaroons were gone and I had resigned myself to Thomas’s absence. Since he did not even trouble to send a note excusing himself, I could not but believe that the engagement had slipped his mind. An alternative explanation presented itself to me, but I refused to entertain it, even for a moment.

As Aunt Charlotte was sending down to the kitchen for more macaroons, Mr. Strangle leaned his shoulder against mine to whisper in a very conspiratorial fashion. “The truth is,” he hissed, “I came here on a quest. I am in search of Frederick Hollydean.”

“He isn’t here,” I said.

“But do you not know his whereabouts?” asked Mr. Strangle.

“No, I don’t,” I replied, “and I fail to see why you should think for one moment that I would.”

“How cold you are,” Mr. Strangle replied, “to a lad who was your childhood playmate. And yet I would have judged you a very passionate young lady. Women with wide mouths often are, I’ve discovered.”

I felt a chill run down my spine. I am not sure which alarmed me more, his words, his expression, or his voice, but I felt shocked at his behavior, which is rather strange, when you think of it. There are so many things a properly brought up young lady is expected to be shocked at, it is very odd that this is the first thing that genuinely did shock me. In retrospect, I wish very much that I’d had the presence of mind to box his ears, but all I did was gape at him. Something in my manner alerted Aunt Charlotte, however, for she hovered close throughout the remainder of Mr. Strangle’s visit, ready to pounce upon the least vulgarity. He did not stay much longer—nor did I wish him to.

We were engaged for a musical evening at Countess Lieven’s, where Georgy was prevailed upon to sing her Italian songs. She got off all the lines in the right order, which was a great relief. I was able to concentrate on the accompaniment fairly well, but once Georgy’s songs were over I found myself unable to stop thinking of Thomas, and James’s message.

By the time we returned to Berkeley Square it was after midnight. My maid had waited up for me, but I did not let her help me to change out of my gown. Instead, I made her accompany me as I went back down the stairs and ordered the carriage to be brought round again. I was almost surprised when I was obeyed. The servants were certainly startled, but they did not refuse. I was able to sweep out unhindered, merely by saying I had just received news of Oliver.

I was at the doorstep of Schofield House before I realized the enormity of what I had done. The butler, understandably, refused us entry. I explained who I was and demanded to know if the Marquis was in.

“I shall go and see,” the butler told us. As he moved off down the hall, I ordered the maid to stay where she was and followed him down the hall and into a dimly lit room, where the butler announced calmly that a young person had called.

“Oh, really, Kimball,” said Thomas, “are you out of your senses?” Then he caught sight of me and said, “Oh, of course. Much becomes clear to me. Well, as long as you’re here, Kimball, make yourself useful and dispose of that.”

Thomas was seated at a card table set in the center of the room. Across from him sat another gentleman, slumped forward in his chair with his head pillowed on his folded arms. His face was turned away from me, but I could hear his gentle snoring. Thomas indicated the sleeping gentleman with a careless gesture and Kimball stepped forward obediently to lever the man up out of the chair. As he left the room, Thomas added, “More claret, if you please, Kimball.”

I watched Kimball depart with his burden and realized only as the sleeper’s heels dragged across the threshold that Thomas’s guest was Frederick Hollydean.

“You’ll forgive me if I don’t rise, I trust,” said Thomas. “Be a good girl and close the door, will you? You can have the horrible Hollydean’s chair if you like. Make yourself comfortable.”

I stared at Thomas but to my relief he did not seem much altered since the last time I had seen him. He looked just as weary, not much paler. Perhaps the clearest sign of change was in his eyes, which were too bright and slightly hollow. I held his gaze and said, “I have a message for you from James Tarleton.”

He paused in the act of emptying the claret decanter into his glass. “What is the message?”

“Sir Hilary has returned,” I began. “He is watching James Tarleton closely, so it is probably unsafe to send any messages directly. Also he believes that Sir Hilary spent the early part of last Wednesday evening working sorcery, probably of a moderately difficult nature. He is certain Sir Hilary has the chocolate pot at Bedrick Hall. And I can tell you he does,” I added, “for Cecy has seen it there.”

Thomas began to speak, but I forestalled him. “He will not make any attempt to recover it until he has heard from you, but he does not think you have much time left. And he thought that a week ago, nearly. So that is why I am here. In case you meant to ask,” I finished.

“I see,” said Thomas. He put down the empty claret decanter and picked up his glass. As he moved, I saw his wrist was stained red. I exclaimed and took an involuntary step forward. He regarded me with surprise for a moment, then glanced at his cuff with mild interest. “It’s only claret, my dear. The horrible Hollydean has a head like teak. Under normal circumstances I might have been able to match him drink for drink, but I don’t have time to trifle with such things at the moment. So I put much of my share of the claret down my sleeve. It’s an old trick, but a good one. And it served my purpose. Sit down.”

I took Frederick Hollydean’s chair. Between us on the table were two glasses, the empty decanter, a pack of cards, and a whist scorecard. The only light in the room came from the candles on the side table near the door and the fire in the grate. For a long moment, the fire was the only sound.

“Thomas,” I said finally, “do tell me what is wrong with you.”

Thomas took a sip of claret and put the glass down. It made a ring on the tabletop. He moved the glass and made another, then drew a fingertip across to connect the two. Idly, he went on making patterns with the wine stains all the time he spoke, as if he were reluctant to meet my eyes.

“I told you about the chocolate pot,” he said. “Sir Hilary was most unhappy when I left his tutelage. I didn’t realize it, but his effort to prevent me from employing my own magic lingered on in the chocolate pot, even when I was expert at wizardry. On my return to England, it served him as a link to me. And when James surrendered the chocolate pot to him, it was only a matter of time until Sir Hilary discovered how useful such a link could be.”

“James gave him the chocolate pot?” I asked. From your description of how suspicious James Tarleton is of everyone, including you, I found this hard to credit.

“He thought he was giving it to me,” Thomas answered. “Dear old James.” He took a sip of claret and regarded me with his brilliant, hooded gaze. “What a diplomat—I recall the winter after Salamanca. We were with Wellington in Frenada. James was one of his aides-de-camp, and found a way for us to hunt the Duke’s pack of hounds. It was the one source of amusement all that dreadful winter—Frenada was quite the dirtiest village I ever saw on that whole campaign. Anyway, we hunted the foxes to extinction and had to start in on the neighborhood wolves. When the Duke learned of it,
we
were nearly extinct, I can tell you. But trust James to find a way to turn old Hooky up sweet. He had the Duke off to Cadiz and the lovely ladies there in a trice, and the whole staff along with him. Well, almost the whole staff. I was ordered to remain behind in Frenada, but that was small punishment in light of the crime.”

He broke off and eyed me fiercely. “You’re not drinking your claret.”

“It’s Frederick Hollydean’s claret,” I said.

“Well, don’t you like it? Or do you only drink tea and ratafia?”

“I’ve never tasted anything stronger than ratafia,” I confessed.

“What? You mean to tell me that your cod’s head of a cousin never even gave you a taste of your uncle’s brandy?”

I shook my head.

“Well, then, what are you waiting for? I’d give you some from my glass, but it’s nearly gone. Drinking from Hollydean’s won’t hurt you.”

It seemed the only way to get him to stop carping at me. After the first sip flared and faded, I took another.

“Well?”

“It’s not as nasty as ratafia,” I admitted. “But I hardly think it can be very good claret.”

Thomas gaped in amazement. “The devil you say, girl—how could you tell that from your first two sips? You’re roasting me.”

“I don’t think you would serve the best claret to Frederick Hollydean,” I pointed out. “Particularly if you planned to pour the greater share of it down your sleeve.”

“Oh,” said Thomas. “I begin to see how you find yourself in scrapes like taking chocolate with Miranda. Your trouble, my girl, is that silly trick you have of nodding and looking intelligent while you produce the most amazing pieces of information. How the devil am I to guess what you know and what you don’t know?”

“You might try explaining things to me,” I suggested. “For one thing, what did you hope to accomplish by pretending to be in love with Dorothea?”

“I hoped to keep Miranda to a program of events I was already familiar with. I knew what to expect from her while she thought Dorothea had some influence over me. Miranda requires me to be close at hand, you see. At any point up to actual matrimony, I would have been safe enough. I didn’t expect her to be quite so ruthless about terminating our engagement. According to Frederick Hollydean, she has taken a really amazing dislike to you, Kate.” Thomas sighed and drained his glass. “Where can Kimball be with the other decanter?”

He rose and crossed the room to ring for Kimball. Watching Thomas move, I found it difficult to believe he was the same man who had waltzed with me at Almack’s. He walked like an old, old man. The claret might account for some of the hesitation in his step, but I was sure his unnatural fatigue played a part as well.

“Who is doing this to you?” I asked. “Sir Hilary or Miranda?”

“For all her bad intentions, Miranda hasn’t harmed me yet,” Thomas replied. From the bellpull he moved to his writing desk where he rummaged industriously. After a brief search, he returned to the table with a ring, which he handed to me as he took his place. I examined it closely. It was a narrow band of dull metal, marked inside and out with curious little glyphs.

“Does it fit?” Thomas asked.

I put the ring on my left index finger. Thomas took my hand and examined the effect. “Good,” he said. “Keep it. And mind you wear it. If Miranda tries to turn you into a goat, I should like to be able to find you in short order. The horrible Hollydean says she finds you perfectly mystifying. On the one hand, it’s obvious you are merely a social nuisance. But on the other, how is it that you were able to find the door to Sir Hilary’s garden without help? Miranda’s taken the cork-brained notion into her head that you are working with him.”

“Absurd,” I said hastily. “How
did
I find the door?”

Thomas smiled, for once without a trace of derision. “It might be interesting to conduct a few tests when this is all over. I expect you must have some degree of natural aptitude in order to see the door with an utterly untrained eye. After all, I worked on the equations.”

“Yes, so you told me,” I said.

Kimball entered the library without the formality of knocking. “Your pardon, my lord,” he said, “but there is a lady here to see you.”

“Come now, Kimball,” said Thomas, “this is most unlike you.”

“So this is where I find you,” said Aunt Charlotte in a voice of iced vitriol, “playing cards and drinking claret with this—nobleman.” She stepped around Kimball and seized me by the tip of my left ear. “You sadden me, Katherine.”

I winced and rose in obedience to her grip on my ear. Thomas got to his feet and began an explanation as bonelessly smooth as it was utterly false.

“As for you,” Aunt Charlotte said, fixing him with a look so filled with scorn that even Thomas’s glib words slowed, “there is only one thing that could spare you from disgrace.”

“Oh, Aunt Charlotte,” I said, “rip up at me all you please, only not here. He had nothing to do with it, I promise you.”

“Yes, very likely,” she agreed with a savage tug at my ear to demonstrate her skepticism. “I feel quite certain he has nothing to do with ‘news of Oliver.’ ”

“Oh, yes,” I faltered, “news of Oliver.”

For a moment I dared to hope that my calm voice might produce some plausible lie without interference from my brain, but the moment passed and I felt myself surrender hope. Silently, I awaited Aunt Charlotte’s wrath.

“Yes, Madame,” said Thomas in a tone of bland interest, “what precisely was it that you wished to know about young Oliver?”

Aunt Charlotte gave my ear a savage twist but in perfect fairness to her I think it was done in astonishment, not anger. “His whereabouts,” cried Aunt Charlotte. “I wish to know where the boy has gone! He was in my keeping, sir!”

“Perhaps you would care to see a letter written to me by one of the friends with whom he is staying?” replied Thomas. “A very well respected gentleman, highly thought of by Wellington himself.”

Aunt Charlotte said nothing, but Thomas returned to his writing desk and conducted another brief rummage, which produced a single sheet of paper. Aunt Charlotte accepted it from him without releasing her grip on my ear in the slightest. For a moment or two the fire made the only sound in the room, then Aunt Charlotte sniffed disdainfully and handed the letter back to Thomas.

“And just who is this Michael person?” she inquired. “He has neglected to furnish the direction of his letter. This says no more than those vague scrawls of Oliver’s to his father—that he arrived safely and seems to be well looked after.”