“You’re going to make your lip bleed, biting it like that,” he said.
“I’m feeling … kind of nervous.”
“I can see that. Would it help if I held your hand?”
I shook my head vigorously.
No, it would only make things worse, you idiot! Quite apart from the fact that I’m at a total loss to understand the way you’re treating me now anyway! Not to mention our relationship in general. What’s more, Mr. Whitman is looking at us like some kind of know-it-all squirrel!
I almost groaned aloud. Would I feel any better if I told him any of what I was thinking? I thought about doing just that for a moment, but I didn’t.
At last we arrived outside the church. When Gideon helped me out of the car (in a dress like mine you needed a helping hand, if not two of them, for that maneuver), I noticed that this time he wasn’t wearing a sword. How reckless of him!
Passersby looked at us curiously. In the porch, Mr. Whitman held the church door open for us. “Hurry up, please,” he said. “We don’t want to attract attention.” No, sure, there was nothing likely to attract attention in two black limousines parking in North Audley Street in broad daylight so that men in suits could carry the Lost Ark out of the trunk of one of the cars, over the sidewalk, and into the church. Although from a distance the chest carrying it could have been a small coffin.… The thought gave me goose bumps.
“I hope at least you remembered the pistol,” I whispered to Gideon.
“You have a funny idea of what goes on at a soirée,” he said, in a normal tone of voice, arranging the scarf around my shoulders. “Did anyone check what’s in your bag? We don’t want your mobile ringing in the middle of a musical performance.”
I couldn’t keep from laughing at that idea, because just then my ringtone was a croaking frog. “There won’t be anyone there who could call me except you,” I pointed out.
“And I don’t even know your number. Please may I take a look inside your bag?”
“It’s called a reticule,” I said, shrugging and handing him the little bag.
“Smelling salts, handkerchief, perfume, powder … excellent,” said Gideon. “All just as it should be. Come along.” He gave me the reticule back, took my hand, and led me through the church porch. Mr. Whitman bolted the door again behind us. Gideon forgot to let go of my hand once we were inside the church, which was just as well, because otherwise I’d have panicked at the last moment and run away.
In front of the altar, and under the skeptical gaze of the priest (in all his vestments, ready to conduct a church service), Falk de Villiers and Mr. Marley were taking the chronograph out of the Lost Ar—I mean its chest. Dr. White, striding around to measure the space, said, “Eleven steps to the left from the fourth column and then you can’t miss it.”
“I don’t know whether I can guarantee that the church will be completely empty at six thirty,” the priest said nervously. “The organist likes to stay a little longer, and there are some members of the congregation who stop to talk to me at the door on their way out, and I can’t very well—”
“Don’t worry,” said Falk de Villiers. The chronograph was now standing on the altar. The afternoon sunlight coming through the stained-glass church windows made the jewels set in it look enormous. “We’ll be here, helping you to get rid of your flock.” He looked at us. “Are you two ready?”
Gideon finally let go of my hand. “I’ll go first,” he said. The priest’s jaw dropped when he saw Gideon simply disappear in a whirling eddy of bright, clear light.
“Gwyneth.” As Falk took my hand and inserted my finger into the chronograph, he smiled encouragingly at me. “We’ll meet again in exactly four hours’ time.”
“Let’s hope you’re right,” I muttered, and then the needle was going into my flesh, the room filled with red light, and I closed my eyes.
When I opened them again, I staggered slightly, and someone was holding my shoulder to steady me. “It’s all okay,” Gideon whispered in my ear.
You couldn’t see much. Only a single candle lit up the chancel, while the rest of the church lay in eerie darkness.
“Soyez les bienvenus,” said a hoarse voice out of that darkness, and although I’d been expecting it, I jumped. A man’s figure emerged from the shadow of a column, and in the candlelight I recognized the pale face of the count’s friend Rakoczy. He reminded me of a vampire, just as he had at our first meeting; there was no brightness in his black eyes, and in the dim light, they looked like uncanny black holes again.
“Monsieur Rakoczy,” said Gideon in French, bowing politely. “I am glad to see you. You’ve already met my companion.”
“Of course. Mademoiselle Gray, for this evening. My pleasure.” Rakoczy sketched a bow.
“Ah, très…,” I murmured, and then I gave it up. After all, you never knew what you might say by mistake in a foreign language, particularly when you were likely to get stuck speaking it.
“My men and I are escorting you to Lord Brompton’s house,” said Rakoczy.
There wasn’t anything to be seen of these men of his, but the scary part was that I could hear them, breathing and moving in the darkness as we followed Rakoczy down the nave of the church and over to the door. I couldn’t see anyone out in the street, either, although I looked around several times. It was cool, with a light drizzle of rain falling, and if there were any streetlights at all at this period, they’d all gone wrong this evening. It was so dark that I couldn’t even see Gideon’s face beside me properly, and all the shadows seemed to be coming alive, breathing, clinking slightly. My hand clutched Gideon’s. I only hoped he wouldn’t let go of me now!
“These are my men,” whispered Rakoczy. “Good, battle-hardened Kurucs, every one. I am sure we’ll be escorting you on the way back as well.”
How reassuring.
It wasn’t far to Lord Brompton’s house, and the closer we came, the more the dismal gloom lifted. When we reached the fine house in Wigmore Street, it was brightly lit and looked really inviting, almost cozy. Rakoczy’s men stayed behind in the shadows while he took us into the house, where we found Lord Brompton himself waiting in the big entrance hall. A grand staircase with curving banisters led up to the first floor. Lord Brompton was just as fat as I remembered him, and in the light of all the candles, his face shone greasily.
The hall was empty except for his lordship and four footmen lined up neatly beside a door, waiting for further instructions. The party we were going to was nowhere to be seen, but I could hear the muted sound of babbling voices, and a few bars of a tune played on a tinkling keyboard.
As Rakoczy bowed and withdrew, I realized why Lord Brompton was receiving us here before anyone else could talk to us. He said how glad he was to see us, and how much he had enjoyed our last meeting, but added that—er, well, it would be better not to mention that meeting in front of his wife.
“Just in case of any misunderstanding,” he said. He kept winking as if he had something in his eye, and he kissed my hand at least three times. “The count tells me that you are from one of the most distinguished families in England, Miss Gray, and I do hope you will forgive my impertinence at our amusing conversation about the twenty-first century, and my ridiculous notion that you were an actress.” He was still winking for all he was worth.
“I’m sure that was partly our own fault, said Gideon smoothly. “The count was doing his best to put you on the wrong track. And since we are on our own now, don’t you think the count is a remarkable old gentleman? My foster sister and I are used to his jokes, but those who know him less well must often find him rather strange.” He took my shawl off my shoulders, and handed it to one of the footmen. “Well, however that may be, we have heard that your salon contains an excellent pianoforte and has wonderful acoustics. We were delighted to receive Lady Brompton’s kind invitation.”
Lord Brompton spent a few more seconds staring at my plunging neckline before he said, “And we are equally delighted to see you here. Come along. All the other guests are here.” He offered me his arm. “Miss Gray?”
“My lord.” I glanced at Gideon, and he smiled encouragingly as he followed us to the salon, which was on the other side of a handsome double door at the far end of the entrance hall.
I’d thought that a salon would be something like a living room, but the room we now entered could almost have rivaled our ballroom at home in Bourdon Place. A fire blazed in a large hearth on one of the longer walls, and a pianoforte stood in front of the heavily curtained windows. My eyes moved over delicate little tables with curving legs ending in feet like animal paws, sofas with colorful patterned upholstery, and chairs with gilded arms. The whole room was lit by hundreds of candles hanging and standing everywhere, lending it such a magical glitter that for a moment I was speechless with delight. Unfortunately the candles also lit up a great many strangers, and my admiration of the scene (remembering Giordano’s stern warnings, I kept my lips firmly closed so as not to let my mouth drop open by mistake) was mingled with fear again. Was this supposed to be an intimate little evening party? If so, what would the ball be like?
I didn’t get around to taking a closer look, because Gideon was firmly leading me on into the crowd. Many pairs of eyes examined us curiously, and a moment later, a small, plump woman who turned out to be Lady Brompton came hurrying toward us.
She wore a light brown dress trimmed with velvet, and her hair was hidden under a voluminous wig, which, considering all the candles here, must be a high-risk fire hazard. Our hostess had a nice smile—she welcomed us warmly. I automatically sank into a low curtsey, while Gideon took this opportunity of leaving me alone, or rather of letting Lord Brompton lead him farther into the throng. Before I could decide whether to feel cross about that, Lady Brompton was deep in conversation with me. Luckily I remembered the name of the place where I lived—where Penelope Gray lived, that is—just in time. Encouraged by Lady Brompton’s enthusiastic nods, I assured her that it was a very quiet, peaceful spot, but short of the delightful entertainments that looked like positively overwhelming me here in London society.
“You won’t think that anymore if Genoveva Fairfax gets a chance to run through her entire repertory on the pianoforte again today.” A lady in primrose yellow came over to us. “In fact I am sure that you’ll be longing for the simple pleasures of country life again.”
“Oh, hush!” said Lady Brompton, but she giggled. “How unkind of you, Georgiana!” When she smiled at me in that conspiratorial way, she suddenly seemed quite young. How had she come to marry that fat old man?
“Unkind, maybe, but true!” The lady in yellow (such an unflattering color, even by candlelight) told me, lowering her voice, that at the last soirée where Miss Fairfax performed, her husband had fallen asleep and started snoring loudly.
