The Mislaid Magician (27 page)

Since Georgy’s behavior is quite beyond the bounds of what is acceptable in Polite Society, and since Aunt Charlotte must hold
someone
to blame, she has settled on Daniel, who, as Georgy’s husband, ought to have controlled her better. (I think this is quite unjust of Aunt Charlotte.
She
never controlled Georgy’s flights when she was the one responsible for rearing you both, and since it is plain enough that she would never own herself inferior to anyone less exalted than a royal duke, I cannot see why she thinks Daniel should have any better success than she did.)

I do not know how she discovered that Daniel had gone to Leeds, nor how she learned that we were there and had dined with him some weeks ago. Still, she did it. Much of her final letter was taken up with scolding me for not sending Daniel in pursuit of his errant wife, with a fine disregard for the fact that at the time, none of us knew or even suspected that Georgy had been erring.

But the worst of it is that she has very nearly tracked Daniel to Haliwar Tower—“He went off to a house party near Stockton with some jumped-up northern Cit” is the way she put it (not without some justice, though how she managed to obtain such an accurate character of Mr. Ramsey Webb, I cannot imagine)—and she proposes to follow him, find him, and confront him there! “Since none of the rest of you appears to have any Notion what is Due to the Family,” if you please!

James is quite put out, as the information he gained at Leeds indicates that the Webbs may well be deeply involved in this railroad business, and he is most anxious that they not be warned or set on edge before he can get at them again. Since Aunt Charlotte is certain to set
anyone
on edge, we are going back to Stockton tomorrow to find and stop her. Poor James is growing quite tired of all this gadding about, but at least we shall not need to move our entire establishment this time. It will only be an overnight trip, so our trunks may stay here at Wardhill. (Walker, needless to say, comes with me.)

Your much-traveled,

Cecy

My dear Thomas,

You will be pleased to learn that you are to be spared a visit from yet another relative-at-law. For my sins, I shall not. Charlotte Rushton is somewhere in Stockton, having taken some hen-witted notion that the Duke of Waltham needs her instruction to deal with his erring spouse. In fairness, I must admit that Daniel frequently strikes me as needing instruction on a good many topics, but with the best will in the world I cannot see Miss Rushton as the proper person to do the instructing.

Having tracked His Grace this far, Miss Rushton is likely to discover the name and location of Haliwar Tower at any moment. How she has managed it, I do not know. I am half minded to recommend her to my lord Wellington for his special staff, provided I am never required to deal with her myself.

Cecelia and I have, perforce, come to Stockton in an attempt to locate her aunt before she descends in fury on the Webbs. It is a great pity I did not know of her presence or intentions when I was in Leeds on that railroad business. I might then have headed her off quite easily, but as she addressed her screed to Cecelia rather than to me, I did not discover the matter until I had returned to Wardhill and handed over the reserved letters.

I am more than a little tempted to refer Miss Rushton to Goosepool and the Dancing Weans, but it would not do. Even if her magical talents and training are enough to activate the transformation trap, it is unlikely that she would remain in canine form for long. Once she reverted to her natural shape, I would have both her and the difficult Mr. Skelly to deal with—for I place no dependence on any change in his behavior as a result of his time as a terrier. There is also the probable reaction of my dear Cecelia and your unexpectedly dangerous Kate to the transformation of their aunt. No, on the whole I think it better not to mention the matter.

I do not expect that it will take us more than a day or two to find Miss Rushton. It had better not. We came away with a minimum of baggage, and my valet will not be pleased if I run out of cravats. So your correspondence may continue to be directed to Wardhill Cottage as usual.

Yours,

James

(Enchanted by T.S. on general principles)

Dear Cecy,

I fear I write only to tell you I have nothing to write.

Mr. Scarlet remains mute, despite all Thomas’s efforts. The man smirks. That is the only sign he even hears what Thomas is saying to him. The
dicemi
spell that has served Thomas so well in the past only makes Mr. Scarlet smile disdainfully.

Thomas will try again in the morning.

Dear Cecy,

Thomas has shown such patience I can scarcely credit it, yet Mr. Scarlet sits mumchance. The beastly fellow seems to find our coal cellar very much to his taste.

I cannot send you so meager a letter. I will wait another day in hope I may add genuine news to it.

Still nothing. Thomas is dogged. Mr. Scarlet may be stubborn, but I will back Thomas against him any day. It is only a matter of time. I will write when there is something that merits the ink and paper for me to tell you.

Dear Cecy,

I promised I would write when I had something to tell you. Now I scarcely know where to begin.

We have solved the problem of our superfluous child. Drina is safely reunited with her mother. That Thomas and I are safely here at Skeynes with the children, we owe largely to Mr. Wrexton and Aunt Elizabeth, and perhaps a trifle to Reggie Winters, as well.

I think you may recall Colonel Winters? He was mere Captain Winters when we met him in Paris back on our Grand Tour, a good-tempered young man with a mustache. He was dogged (if perhaps a trifle dense, at least in Thomas’s estimation) in the pursuit of the miscreants who broke into the Sainte Chapelle to conduct their clandestine magical ritual. If you do remember Reggie Winters, I am impressed, for I haven’t given him a thought in years. Fortune has favored him, and he is now liaison for Wellington, the army, and those members of the Royal College who advise the military.

This morning (hard to believe—it seems a lifetime has passed since then) the children greeted Thomas and me on our return from riding the boundary. They were agog with excitement over the behavior of the toy soldiers that guard the Map. Thomas came with me to the nursery, where the soldiers were all in motion. It was exceedingly slow motion, such that we had to hold our breath and watch in silence for minutes on end, but it was just as Arthur and the others said. All the soldiers were moving, at a rate of mere inches per month, around Skeynes as the children have it marked on the Map.

Thomas retired to his study to scrutinize the bounds we’ve set around Skeynes. Nothing he did could detect any threat to correspond with the phenomenon. After one last thorough inspection of the Map in situ, he concluded that the spell was failing.

Thomas detailed Arthur and Eleanor to make careful observations of the toy soldiers’ motion, both in distance and in time, on the grounds that further study was required before a hypothesis could be formed. I think you would be pleased and surprised by the patience and respect Thomas displays toward the twins where magic is concerned. Certainly it pleases and surprises me.

“That should keep them busy,” Thomas confided to me. “The remarkable thing is that they were able to create the Map in the first place. After all, Arthur and Eleanor have had no formal magical training. If their creation malfunctions before it stops working entirely, I suppose it’s not surprising.”

We had only just finished in the nursery when we were informed that a carriage had drawn up at the door. Thomas joined the children at the window. “It’s the Wrextons at last,” he told me over his shoulder as he turned for the stairs. “From the look of things, they’ve brought half the army with them. Not before time, either. I’ve been writing to London daily for help from the Royal College. Perhaps someone has finally troubled himself to open the post.”

When I followed Thomas out to meet the Wrextons, I was taken aback to discover that he had only been exaggerating a trifle. To the great annoyance of our servants, there were troops of red-coated soldiers everywhere. The Wrextons, both looking as neat as wax despite their travels, were in a far grander carriage than is their wont, an elegant barouche with a coachman and footman in the front. Riding in the barouche with the Wrextons was a lady wearing a veil that concealed her features utterly. The officer only too obviously in charge dismounted and greeted Thomas with starched formality.

“Reggie Winters,” Thomas exclaimed. “Haven’t you sold out yet?”

The name, once uttered, jogged my memory sufficiently that I was able to make a more formal greeting. “Colonel Winters, how nice to meet you again.”

Colonel Winters ignored us both as he drew forth a letter and read it aloud to us. I freely admit any memory I might have had of the formal opening phrases was displaced by my astonishment when I heard these words read out:

“Thomas Schofield, quondam Marquis of Schofield, I do arrest you on the charge of high treason.”

I was gaping at Colonel Winters, so I felt Thomas’s surprise more than I saw it. He stiffened beside me, caught utterly off-guard by the accusation, and exclaimed, “Winters, is this your idea of a joke?”

Mr. Wrexton sprang down from the barouche. “Thomas, I do beseech you to moderate your language. Clearly there has been a mistake. But irreverence will only compound the difficulty.”

Aunt Elizabeth descended from the carriage and came to my side. “Dear Kate, I’m so glad to see you in your best looks. Michael, do apologize to Thomas for your error.”

“This is partially my fault,” Mr. Wrexton conceded, “and I do beg your pardon for it most sincerely. You asked me for help in identifying your superfluous child. I’m afraid I permitted myself to be piqued by the implication that I am some sort of universal office for the recovery of lost articles. When I wrote to answer your request, I gave you short shrift. Matters that I—quite unforgivably—assumed to be more pressing claimed my attention, and I did nothing whatever to help you identify the lost child. I’m sorry. I have tried to explain matters to Colonel Winters, but he has the fixed notion that you are responsible for her abduction. He has army magicians deployed around your perimeter, so I beg you to be circumspect.”

“Wait.” Thomas held up his hand to halt Mr. Wrexton. He glared at Winters. “Do you mean to tell me all this pother is about Drina?”

At the very sound of the name, the veiled lady in the barouche wailed and buried her sobs in her handkerchief.

Colonel Winters drew himself to his full height and read from his paper again. “If any person or persons do maliciously wish, will, or desire, invent, practice, or attempt any bodily harm to be done to the king’s most royal person or his heirs apparent”—Winters put heavy emphasis on the words
heirs apparent
—“that person shall be adjudged a traitor and tried for high treason.”

Just the manner in which Colonel Winters said them aloud seemed to me to put the words
high treason
in capital letters. It made me shudder. If I could have buried my sobs in a handkerchief, I might have done so. As usual, however, I had come out without any such useful object on my person.

“Oh, gather what wits the good Lord gave you, Reggie,” Thomas snapped. “You know perfectly well I’ve never done anything of the sort. In any event, the Duke of York is the king’s heir apparent.”

Winters dropped his official air and answered Thomas back. “My orders concern Her Royal Highness, the Princess Alexandrina Victoria, the king’s only niece. Until the existence of legitimate issue from the Duke of York, she is next after him in line for the throne.”

Thomas turned to me and I could see my own horror mirrored in his eyes. “Drina!” said Thomas, just as I smote my forehead and cried, “Laid couching! I should have known!”

“Drina!” The veiled lady fairly bounded out of the carriage in her haste to reach Thomas. “You do have her, you villain!” In her distress, she struck Thomas a flurry of blows about the head and shoulders, but Aunt Elizabeth and I were able to pull her off him before any serious injuries were inflicted.

In the struggle, the lady’s veil was pulled aside. I saw that we were trying to restrain a wild-eyed woman in her early forties. She was dressed with great expense, if no more than moderate elegance, and her eyes were red with weeping. I could feel only pity for the agony the woman must have endured. My pity availed me nothing, however. The moment my grip on her wrist faltered, she boxed my ears soundly.

I fell back, blinking tears of pain away, and saw that the children had broken free of the nurses. Arthur, Eleanor, and Edward were racing toward us, but far in the lead was Drina, her skirts and petticoats lifted a ladylike few inches to speed her flight.

“Pray do not cry, Mama,” called Drina, as the children joined us in a small stampede. “I am here. Oh, I am here.”

Drina cast herself into her mother’s arms, and the pair of them sank down on the gravel, weeping with joy to be reunited.

Aunt Elizabeth and I exchanged rueful smiles. I know my own eyes came near to brimming with tears. How could anyone find anything but joy in the touching sight of a mother and a daughter reunited?

When Drina had collected herself, which she did with remarkable speed for one of her tender years, she turned to Colonel Winters. “Lord and Lady Schofield are not at fault,” she stated. With eyes flashing, she turned to her mother. “It is the odious Mr. Conroy who is to blame, Mama. He arranged for Mr. Scarlet to abduct me. I was held prisoner in a dreadful place. Mr. Scarlet told me that if I dared speak a word to tell anyone who I truly was, he would do dreadful things to Feodore, and you would die most horridly.”

“Mr. Conroy can do no more harm,” Drina’s mother said. “He is a prisoner in the Tower.” After a moment of devoting herself to her handkerchief again, she added, “I am sorry for my folly, for he deceived me cruelly.”