by Kevin Sands
Lanterns hung outside the entrance, illuminating the house with gentle flames. Shadows danced over the stonework, and above it all stood the most impressive feature: the tower. It rose two floors higher than the rest of the building, the torches overhead turning it into a landlocked lighthouse, pushing back against the encroaching night.
But it was too cold to stand around admiring the view. Tom thumped on the heavy doors and waited. After a second pounding, we were greeted by a prim-faced steward who seemed annoyed that we’d roused him. His expression grew even more cross as he looked at Tom, with Moppet sitting on his shoulders, and me and Sally beside him. No doubt he thought we were beggars. I don’t think it helped that I was holding a pigeon.
“Can I assist you?” he said, sounding certain he couldn’t.
“Inform Baronet Darcy,” I said in my haughtiest voice, “that the Baron Ashcombe is here, with the Lady Grace.”
The steward balked. I understood his hesitation: We’d arrived without announcement, without a coach, without an entourage. We were more likely to be criminals than lords.
I worried he might refuse us, but discretion won out. It would be worse to insult a lord than let in a thief. “Of course,” he said, and he led us into the warmth.
The entrance hall took my breath away. It was eighty feet long, and three stories high, the upper story painted with a mural of the assassination of Julius Caesar. The ceiling was painted, too, a window into heaven: cherubim and seraphim flying through puffy white clouds, God sitting above them all on His radiant throne. Below our feet, black-and-white stone stretched away, with a dozen other paintings, sculptures, and busts arrayed on the path to the staircase, rich red carpet over Italian marble.
I tried not to gawk—Baron Ashcombe wouldn’t—as the steward took our coats and bade Sally and me wait in the drawing room. As our retainer, Tom would have to retire to the servants’ wing. Moppet—who stared at the wealth around her like it was the king’s own palace—naturally went with him. I gave her Bridget to hold on to as well.
“Make sure my man is well fed,” I said, as superior as I could. Tom threw me a grateful look.
“Of course, my lord,” the steward said, and he installed us in the drawing room before going to get the baronet. He should have brought us refreshments, but he didn’t; apparently, I’d locked myself into a battle of bad manners with the Darcys’ steward.
I tried to decide—would Baron Ashcombe chastise him?—until I saw Sally’s arched eyebrow.
“If you’re finished playing,” she whispered.
“Just acting the part,” I said, face growing hot.
We waited, with little to do but admire the room’s décor: masterwork paintings and Oriental rugs, silver curios and velvet chairs; and we waited so long I began to think something was happening here that went beyond mere rudeness.
A baronetcy was the lowest titled rank in the kingdom—low enough, in fact, that baronets were not considered part of the peerage. Despite their title, baronets were commoners, ranked just above knights, and to be addressed as “sir,” not “my lord.” Baronet Darcy might rate higher than any of the local folk, but even given that our visit was unannounced, it was unacceptable for him to make us wait. I began to get nervous—had I got something wrong?—until the baronet entered. Then I saw the cause of the delay.
The man could barely walk. His round face, pale and sweating, screwed up in pain every time his right foot touched the ground—which it mostly didn’t, as a tall, burly, finely dressed man with long, curly black hair kept his arm around him, so the baronet could lean on him like a crutch.
Baronet Darcy smiled through the pain. “Welcome, Baron,” he boomed, his voice rich and full. “It’s so good to see you—”
He stopped, leaning heavily on the man at his side. He looked around the room. “Pardon me, my lady,” he said to Sally, “but where did the baron go?”
Had my geas rendered me invisible, too? “I’m Baron Ashcombe,” I said.
He looked at me and frowned. “No, you’re not.”
CHAPTER
27
SALLY AND I FROZE. IF we were discovered playing at nobility, it would be the hangman’s noose for all of us.
No, I thought. We have the king’s permission. Lord Ashcombe will vouch for me.
Except Lord Ashcombe was at least a fortnight away. If Baronet Darcy took matters into his own hands . . .
Begging for mercy would fail, I knew. And the true explanation would sound outlandish. No, the only way forward was boldness.
I squared up to him. “I beg your pardon?”
My attitude flustered him. “Young sir . . . Baron Ashcombe is the King’s Warden. I’ve met the man.”
Now I understood. My heart slowed as I explained what Sally had told me. “You mean my grandfather, Richard. He’s the marquess now. I inherited my title this summer.”
“Oh.” He turned beet red. “Oh my goodness. I’m so very sorry. Out here—I hadn’t heard—”
“Quite all right,” I said, and in truth, as my heart stopped racing, I was delighted he’d made such an error. It would make him far less likely to question any future mistakes I might make. Plus, he’d be considerably more eager to help me.
Though, at the moment, he was the one in need of assistance. He’d gone pale again, and not because he was embarrassed. “Are you all right?” I said.
“Of course, of course.” He tried to smile; it came out as a grimace. “Just a small problem with my foot. A touch of gout.”
I answered without thinking. “You should take off your boot. Have your servants bring lemon juice, and if you have natron, stir in a spoonful and drink it. Also, if you can get them, soak your foot in the salts rendered from Epsom’s springs.”
He looked somewhat startled. “My goodness, Baron. You know a remarkable amount about treating gout.”
Uh . . .
Sally recovered for me. “His father had a steward who suffered from it. Christopher was very fond of him.”
“Of course, of course. Well, I’m most grateful for your advice. Apothecaries are—ah!—scarce around these parts. Please, sit. We were about to go to table for dinner. I do hope you’ll join us?”
He hoped correctly. The day had left me famished.
“Cooper!”
The steward entered.
“Set two more places for dinner. And where’s Julian?”
“Just returned, sir,” the steward said.
“Tell him to join us.” The steward left as his master was taken over to the couch. “Julian is my son,” the baronet said. Then he paused. “Oh, look at me. I haven’t even introduced myself. Lady Grace”—he attempted an awkward one-footed bow—“and Baron Ashcombe—Christopher, was it?”
I nodded.
“I am Edmund Darcy. This quiet fellow”—he indicated the curly-haired man helping him sit—“was once my sharpest assistant, now my greatest friend. Álvaro Arias. He’s come to visit, all the way from the Continent. To my shame, I’ve reduced him to a crutch.”
Álvaro bowed to us with grace. “Don’t be ridiculous, Edmund.” I caught an accent, Spanish. “That’s what friends are for,” he said, and I couldn’t help but think of Tom.
He knelt to pull off Sir Edmund’s boot. The baronet sweated as Álvaro yanked at his heel. “So, Baron, what brings you to . . .” He trailed off as his eyes rolled back in his head, and, finally, he passed out.
Sir Edmund sagged as Álvaro held him in the chair, shouting for the steward. Sally and I rose immediately to help. As we did, I could see why he’d lost consciousness. His gout was shocking. His foot was so red and swollen I didn’t understand how they’d got the boot on him in the first place. The agony must have been unbearable.
Cooper hurried in, followed by a pair of servants carrying mulled wine and pastries. “Bring some snow,” I commanded them.
Álvaro propped Sir Edmund up; Sally fanned his face. When he awoke, he was beyond embarrassed. “What a welcome,” he said.
“Think nothing of it.” I caught myself before saying I’m used to such things, though somewhere, in the back of my mind, I thought, I am used to such things.
I stopped. I pressed ever so lightly on the memory; it made me dizzy. I pulled back before I passed out, too, but before I relaxed, I caught an image. I was caring for . . . some old man? He . . . also had gout?
Trying to remember made the world swim. I had to let the image go. But my pulse quickened. My memories: I think they’re coming back Just like Sybil promised.
The servants returned with a bowl full of snow. Álvaro was trying to get Sir Edmund to sip from the wine. “Press the snow to your face,” I said. “You’ll feel much better.”
He did, apologizing so much it became boring. “So,” he said finally, “to what do I owe the pleasure of your arrival?”
Sally told him about our visit to Paris—painting it as a trip to see distant cousins—and then explained we’d been in a shipwreck, washing up on shore.
Álvaro was amazed. “You survived that storm? Madre de Dios.” He made the sign of the cross. “The saints are watching over you.”
“Does your grandfather know what’s happened?” Sir Edmund said. “We should send word.”
“I’ve already done that,” I said. “Though it’ll be a couple of weeks before I hear from him.”
“That soon? In this snow?”
“I hired a ship.”
“Oh. Clever. Well, I’m sorry for your troubles, but I’m delighted you’ve come. Please, Baron, it would be an honor if you would consider my home as yours for the duration of your stay. Did I tell you I met your grandfather once?”
He had, but he seemed particularly proud of it, so I let him continue.
“It was after His Majesty’s glorious return to the throne. King Charles granted me my baronetcy, and I had occasion to talk with the baron—sorry, the marquess—about the merits of the cavalry charge.”
I knew nothing about the merits of the cavalry charge, other than that trampling someone with a horse while chopping off their head sounded rather effective. I got the feeling that the real Baron Ashcombe would know much more about it than me, so I changed the subject.
The baronet’s comment about the king reminded me of what Moppet had whispered in our room last night. “What do you know about Puritans?”
He seemed surprised by the tangent. “Quite a bit, actually. I had occasion to deal with several during the Interregnum.”
“Have there been Puritan troubles around here?”
“Lately? Not that I’ve heard. Devonshire has been peaceful since the fall of the Commonwealth. Is something going on?” he said, curious.
My answer was cut off by a boy of around sixteen entering the drawing room; Baronet Darcy’s son, Julian. He had a round, ruddy face like his father’s, cheeks still reddened by the cold. His boots left wet prints on the marble behind him.
“Father!” he said, his voice high, his words rushed, excited. “I shot a deer—” He spotted us. “Oh! Hello.”
Sir Edmund introduced us. Julian lit up when he heard my name. “Ashcombe? Like Richard Ashcombe?” He stared at me with awe.
“My son will have many questions for you. But not too many,” Sir Edmund said to the boy, with a chiding look. “Julian will escort you to table. I’ll be along in a moment.”
Slowly, Álvaro helped Sir Edmund to his feet. As commanded, Julian led us to the dining hall.
“My father thinks I talk too much,” he said cheerfully. “What’s it like, being the King’s Warden’s grandson?”
“It’s—”
“I bet you’re good with a sword. Are you good with a sword? I want to learn, but my father won’t let me. He says fighting’s for common folk.”
I thought of pointing out that, as a baronet, his father was common folk. I let it pass. “I’ve—”
“Oh! Could you teach me? The sword, I mean. I want to fight for the king, like your grandfather. I bet you’ll get to do that, too. I want to become a knight. It’s nice here, but I don’t really have any friends. I want to see the world.”
The way he changed subjects made my head spin. Talking to him was like having a conversation with a butterfly.
“My father had adventures once,” Julian continued. “He lived in Essex. That’s where I was born. Oh!”
He stopped and pointed to a doorway, the upper stones rounded in an arch. Beyond it, I could see a spiral staircase leading upward.
“That’s the tower,” Julian said. “Have you been up yet? You can see for miles around. Though we’re not close enough to see the ocean. Can you believe I’ve never even been on a boat? You can’t take a boat along the river, it’s too shallow, but the ocean’s so close—I mean, not close enough to see, but it’s close—I should have been on a boat by now, don’t you think? So will you?”
I blinked. “Will I what?”
“Teach me the sword. We have a whole bunch in the armory. We could have a lesson now!”
“Um . . . I think your father wanted us at dinner.”
“Oh. Right. After, then?”
I was beginning to wonder if I could fake using a sword when Sally saved me. “Why don’t you have your man Tom teach him?” she said. “Tom was trained by Sir William Leech himself.”
“Really? Sir William Leech?” Julian sounded impressed. “Who’s that?”
“A . . . very good swordsman,” she said.
He seemed overjoyed at the idea. He rattled on about—well, many things; I couldn’t keep up. He was an odd sort of fellow, like a little boy trapped in a young man’s body, and I found talking to him a bit unsettling. At the same time, I began to feel sorry for him. It was clear he was painfully lonely.
Still, I was relieved when his father finally arrived. Sir Edmund hobbled in, Álvaro holding him so his foot wouldn’t touch the ground. Seeing the friendship the Spaniard offered made me think of Tom again, and that made me even sadder for poor Julian, living here all alone.
“Christopher’s man is going to teach me the sword,” he said proudly.
His father gave me an embarrassed glance—and not, I suspected, just because his son had used my name instead of my title. “I see. Now, Julian, go call Cooper and have dinner brought in, won’t you?”
The boy bounded away. Once he’d left the room, Sir Edmund said, “My apologies, my lord. Julian gets ideas in his head. I promise, he won’t trouble you during your stay. He mostly likes to wander the countryside, anyway, hunting and exploring, visiting with the villagers. I’ll make sure he’s not a bother.”
“It’s all right,” I said, though I wondered how I’d survive a fortnight’s worth of Julian’s enthusiasm. “I was just as excited to learn the sword.”
“Ah. Yes.” Sir Edmund shifted uncomfortably. “Then I’ll definitely keep him out of your hair. I’d rather not go giving him ideas; next thing I know he’ll have up and joined the army.” He sighed. “I suppose all children dream of adventure. I did, once, too. But with that excitement comes a darkness, and, well . . . Julian’s not meant for such things.”
His talk of darkness seemed to carry a great weight behind the words. I itched to ask him about his days as a witch-hunter—and more important, about the blood mark—but Julian bounded back into the room, servants carrying our dinner behind him, and I knew I’d have to wait until the meal had finished. Talk of witches and blood was too vulgar for a baronet’s table.
Sir Edmund spoke a lot during the meal, in part, I think, to quell his son’s incessant questions. Álvaro ate in silence, letting Sir Edmund do the entertaining—which the baronet was clearly eager to do. He told me a little about the area, but he was far more keen to steer the topic to my supposed grandfather. He seemed rather excited at the prospect of the King’s Warden visiting his home.
He’s eager for the prestige, I realized. He kept dropping names: Lord Ashcombe, the Duke of York, the king. And though the furnishings, the clothing, the silver settings that surrounded us already displayed his wealth, he kept s
lipping in statements of how rare this particular painting hanging behind us was, or in what exotic land the goblets on the table had been made.
I remembered what he’d said earlier, about his baronetcy. It wasn’t hereditary; he’d got it—most likely bought it—from the king five years ago. He didn’t grow up with money, I thought. Or status. But he likes it.
He will want something from you, my master said. Your presence is an opportunity for him.
If he planned to use me to ingratiate himself with Lord Ashcombe, he was going to be sorely disappointed. For the moment, however, this would be useful: I could ask quite a bit of the man, with the promise of favors to be returned in kind. I waited, my patience strained, until the meal wound down and he asked what I thought of Devonshire.
Finally. “It’s beautiful,” I said, “and the people are as kind as any I’ve met. Though your troubles have come to my attention.”
“Troubles?”
“With the children.”
Sir Edmund looked at me blankly.
“The children?” I said. “The missing children?”
Sir Edmund looked over at Álvaro. His friend seemed just as puzzled. “Children are missing?” Álvaro said.
I remembered the way Sybil had sneered, spitting my title back at me. I began to understand her reaction. Here was the wealthiest man in the county, living in comfort, trying to worm his way into the peerage—yet oblivious to the trouble outside his own gates.
“We’ve heard nothing of this,” Sir Edmund said. “Julian? Do you know of any missing children?”
Julian nodded. “Little Jack disappeared from Kingston Osdale. I helped look for him, but there was nothing we could do. He fell into the river.”
“How do you know that?” I said.
“His tracks through the snow. They went straight to the water’s edge. He must have slipped on a rock and drowned.”
Exactly what I’d thought, before I’d seen the blood marks. “Did they find his body?”
