The Grand Tour

by Patricia C. Wrede

  “Here you are at last,” Lady Sylvia said. “James, will you deal?”

  “My pleasure,” James said as he took his seat. “Though there’s hardly any point to it, with you two against us. We might as well concede right now.”

  “Concede?” His Grace said with mock horror. “My dear Tarleton! Surely you learned better than that on the Peninsula.”

  “I learned never to bet against you, Sir,” James said as the cards flew through his fingers.

  The Duke of Wellington gave a great neighing laugh, and we settled down to play. He and James quickly fell into military reminiscence, which occupied the first hand. James and I lost.

  “Very good,” Lady Sylvia said as she gathered up the cards and began shuffling them. “Now you must have a chance for revenge. Cecy, dear, will you cut?”

  As my hand touched the cards, I felt the barest frisson of magic. I looked at Lady Sylvia. She nodded encouragingly, so I did as she had asked. She smiled and dealt the next hand, concentrating as she did. As each card landed, the steady rumble of the talk around us became more muffled, until the sound was as distant as if the crowded tables were in the next room with the door closed.

  “There,” Lady Sylvia said, setting the pack on the table and picking up her hand. She smiled at His Grace’s intent expression. “It is so difficult to speak both privately and unobtrusively at a gathering such as this. Much better to speak privately in public, I think.”

  Wellington’s eyebrows rose. “You and I are not the only wizards here. The Comte de Villiers is no dabbler, nor is Lady Marchant, to name only two.”

  Lady Sylvia smiled. “That is why I gave James the first deal. I assure you, Your Grace, no one will notice this particular spell. I was quite careful; setting it up took the better part of the week.”

  “In that case, I should welcome a detailed description,” the Duke said. “The usual cantrips are all far too obvious for the sort of diplomatic work I find myself doing these days.”

  “I shall send it to you tomorrow,” Lady Sylvia promised. “On condition that you apprise me of any improvements that may occur to you.”

  “It is agreed,” Lord Wellington said. “Now, I assume you did not go to all this trouble in order for us to make ourselves obvious, so we had better bid the hand. Then you can tell me what is behind all this.”

  We commenced play, and through the first several rounds Lady Sylvia described the arrival of the Sainte Ampoule, the failed attempt to steal it in Calais, and the successful theft on the road to Paris. The Duke looked more and more thoughtful as the tale went on, and played at least one card quite at random.

  “I see,” he said when Lady Sylvia finished. “I might have guessed that Captain Tarleton did not get himself shot engaging in senseless heroics. Reasonable heroics are much more his style. Even so, we’ll have no more of that, if you please,” he told James. “I can’t be losing any more of my family now that we’re at peace.” For a moment, his eyes clouded, and I realized he must be thinking of all the officers who had died at Waterloo—James told me once that the Duke often referred to them as his family.

  “Never fear, Sir,” James replied. “I’m already under similar orders from my wife.”

  “Ah, then I need not worry.” The Duke of Wellington smiled warmly at me. “You have found a pearl, James—wise as well as discreet. You’ve been in Paris more than three weeks, and I haven’t heard a whisper of this business.”

  “You have reason to expect that you would have, had one of us been … talkative?” Lady Sylvia said. “Possibly you have already heard of this from another source?”

  “But who else—” I paused. The only people Lady Sylvia had told of the Sainte Ampoule were the Bishop, whom I could not imagine informing anyone, and … “Not Mr. Brummell?”

  The Duke did not answer, though he gave Lady Sylvia a quelling look (which appeared to have no effect whatsoever). He studied his cards, then played the nine of diamonds. He waited as the play went around the table. Then, as he collected the trick, he said, “I believe Captain Winters told you of the business at Sainte Chapelle? ”

  We all nodded.

  Wellington frowned. “It’s a much bigger business than you may realize. Someone is up to something.”

  “What sort of something?” James prompted. “Or do you know yet?”

  “That’s the trouble,” the Duke said, half to himself. “It’s a different sort of battlefield.” He shook his head and looked at Lady Sylvia. “There have been other thefts,” he said abruptly. “An ancient coronation robe in Spain—God knows why the French didn’t cart it away when they had the chance, but they didn’t. It was moldering in some fortress in Castile until a few months ago. And just this morning I received word that a royal ring has gone missing in Aachen that dates back to before the Holy Roman Emperors. Someone seems to be collecting royal regalia.”

  “But from different countries,” Lady Sylvia said. “And is it a single item from each place? That seems unlikely for a mere collector. Also, you would not be so concerned if you thought that was all there was to it.”

  “Ah, there’s the rub,” said the Duke of Wellington. “I don’t know anything. I suspect a good deal, but I can’t look into things any further without causing all sorts of difficulties. There are already whispers—rumor includes at least one plot to assassinate or to enchant each member of the French royal family, and most of the members of the Estates-Generale as well, individually and collectively. And those are just the reasonably plausible ones.”

  “Well,” I said, “if you don’t know anything, what do you suspect?”

  His Grace gave me a penetrating look. “I suspect someone of plotting to put Napoleon’s empire back together. Possibly with Bonaparte himself at the head of it once more, though there has been enough activity in Austria lately that it may be the son they’re considering.”

  I blinked. “How is stealing a lot of old coronation garb going to put Napoleon’s empire back together? It’s not as if anyone is going to be impressed because someone is wearing a moth-eaten robe and a secondhand ring.”

  The Duke gave another loud laugh, but he sobered quickly. “That is one of the questions for which I would very much like an answer,” he said. “There’s magic involved, of that I’m certain, but what sort of magic and who’s behind it…” He shrugged. “At one time, I had hopes of learning something from Sir Hilary Bedrick—he was just the kind to get mixed up in that sort of experimental magic without thinking too much about what the consequences might be.”

  “Or without caring about them,” James said.

  “True. But when that business came out about his attempts to steal other wizards’ magic—well, I didn’t think he’d have had time to be involved in any other plots. And once the Royal College of Wizards stripped him of his magic, he would have been no use to them. And if he was no use to them, he’d have had no information for me.”

  “So you thought,” Lady Sylvia said.

  His Grace nodded. “So I thought. Then he was killed under… peculiar circumstances, and I wondered. Now you tell me that he was in possession of the Sainte Ampoule at the time of his death, and I’ve no way to discover whether it was by accident or design.”

  “Mr. Strangle might know,” I said. His Grace looked at me inquiringly, so I explained about Mr. Strangle’s previous association with Sir Hilary. Before I finished, James was shaking his head.

  “Harry Strangle is a nasty piece of work, I grant you,” he said. “But it’s bad enough that Thomas has a bee in his brain about the man. There’s no reason to think he’s had anything to do with Sir Hilary since Sir Hilary’s expulsion from the Royal College.”

  “Nevertheless, I’d welcome a chance to talk with him,” the Duke said. “Unfortunately, that wouldn’t be possible, even if he were still in Paris.” He pinched the bridge of his nose and frowned unhappily. “There are still Bonapartists in Europe, you know, and not just in France. Also, some of our allies are not happy with the current state of affa
irs. They don’t want France back on her feet—though it will take years to accomplish that—and they would welcome an excuse to arrange matters more to their liking. If I open any sort of official investigation, it will only encourage the lot of them.”

  “Are you perhaps hinting at the possibility of an unofficial investigation?” Lady Sylvia asked. “The sort of thing Thomas used to do?”

  “Exactly.” He looked from me to James.

  James sat back with a look of resignation. “You want us to hunt up Harry Strangle and ask him your questions.”

  “And to keep an eye open for anything else that might have to do with the stolen regalia,” His Grace said, nodding.

  “You’re on your wedding tour; you’ve the perfect excuse to travel wherever you like on a whim. And you’ve already stumbled across one part of the scheme—if it is a scheme.”

  “My wife has a knack for that sort of stumble,” James murmured.

  “The chrism was delivered to Lady Sylvia,” I pointed out. “And if you hadn’t made me stay behind, merely because I was indisposed during our passage to Calais—”

  “Yes, I know,” James said. “But if you’d come out with me, something else would have happened.”

  “Very likely,” Lady Sylvia said. “But that only makes you a better choice for this.” She looked back at the Duke of Wellington. “I assume you mean to include Thomas and his bride as well? They really should have been here, but unfortunately the numbers would not allow it.”

  “Yes, of course,” the Duke said with only the barest hesitation. “Thomas has amply demonstrated his flair for finding things out.”

  “As has my daughter-at-law,” Lady Sylvia said gently. “Is there any more you can tell us? There are rather a lot of ancient royal objects in Europe, one way and another. It would take months just to cross France, if one were to stop to look into all of them.”

  “Like Papa’s antiquities,” I said without thinking.

  “Your father is interested in antiquities?” the Duke said, frowning once more. “Of what sort?”

  “Illegible, mostly,” James said. “But it might not be a bad idea to consult him. There may be some less obvious connection between these missing items that he could explain for us.”

  The Duke’s frown deepened. “I can’t have more rumors starting. If you are willing to begin this venture, you must manage it as you see fit—but there can be no mention of my name or anything remotely official.”

  “That does make it more difficult,” James said.

  I could not help myself. I sniffed. “That is because you do not know how Papa gets when something interests him,” I said. “It is the simplest task imaginable. I will write him a letter, complaining that we could not visit Sainte Chapelle because of the break-in, and I will mention the other thefts in connection with that, as events that are public knowledge—they are public knowledge?” I said, looking at the Duke.

  “All except the chrism,” he said.

  “So I will mention the thefts, and ask him what he makes of it,” I went on. “And if I do not get a five-page response detailing the history of every item and its uses, with references going back to Ancient Greece—well, then I do not know Papa. I shall have to think of a tactful way to tell him not to cross his lines,” I added thoughtfully. “His handwriting is hard enough to read as it is.”

  “I shall leave it to you, my dear,” James said.

  “I see the matter is in capable hands,” His Grace said gallantly. “I’ll send you a packet of information tomorrow. I need not tell you to take care with it.”

  “No,” James agreed.

  Our talk became more general, and Lady Sylvia let her muffling spell fade. Though James and I took the second hand, the Duke and Lady Sylvia won the third, and the game. I should have liked to go in search of Kate and Thomas directly, but upon reflection I thought it might attract just the sort of attention the Duke of Wellington wished to avoid, so I spent the remainder of the evening filling in wherever I was needed to make up the numbers.

  The day after the card party, we all slept very late. I spent the early part of the afternoon writing my letter to Papa. Lady Sylvia explained the Duke of Wellington’s request to Kate and Thomas, who agreed at once, and Thomas and James set about making preparations to leave Paris.

  Later, Thomas took Lady Sylvia’s spell over to the Duke of Wellington, and stayed only a little longer than might be expected of an old military acquaintance. I sent my letter off to Papa, with instructions to reply to the consulate in Milan. Reardon and Walker packed, while James made sure that the carriages we had hired would indeed be ready next day.

  And so, on the second morning after Lady Sylvia’s card party, we bade Lady Sylvia a fond farewell. Amid many promises to write—and to send any confidential information via the system of knitting she had shown us—we left Paris, heading toward the Alps.

  From the commonplace book of Lady Schofield

  18 September 1817

  Paris

  At Lady Sylvia’s house

  We leave Paris in two hours. Thomas and I said our farewells to Lady Sylvia last night, for we could not do them justice in this whirlwind of packing and hauling. I shall miss Lady Sylvia dreadfully, not least because she has a genius for comfortable travel. Thomas assures me that he has inherited her genius. I only hope it may be true.

  Given the importance of our mission and the urgency of our journey, it is shameful for me to be so reluctant to leave Paris. I dare confess it only here in these pages, but my chief regret is The Barber of Seville. Thomas was to take me next Saturday and now I may never see it. I may never see true opera again. This is not the sort of thing I am willing to be seen to sulk over, so I will pretend I have forgotten about it as thoroughly as Thomas has. Indeed, I hope this will prove one of those occasions in which pretending to forget will lead to forgetfulness in truth. It was only Rossini, after all. We have had our Mozart, and that is what matters.

  The Alps

  From the commonplace book of Lady Schofield

  25 September 1817

  Martigny

  At the Angel

  OUR JOURNEY HAS BEEN blessedly uneventful so far. Lady Sylvia took council with her friends, and it was determined that our safest route will be south and east and through the pass of Great Saint Bernard, then on to Milan via Aosta. Many of the purchases we made in Paris were unnecessary for the expedition (I do not mean the clothes, obviously. Those are essential.) so they remained safely with Lady Sylvia at her house. We have a great deal of baggage just the same, but, fortunately, a great deal of baggage is necessary to keep up the fiction that we are merely on our wedding journey. This means that when we arrive anywhere, we do so with great fuss and complete lack of speed, factors that apply even more forcibly when we depart. I have grown hardened to the staring and pointing that goes on, and try to take comfort from the fact that to those who point and stare, our progress may be the only entertainment provided in a twelvemonth.

  Tonight Thomas and James spent the entire evening telling us stories about their experiences with mules. If mules are truly as cunning and difficult as they say, I may never see the other side of the Alps at all.

  29 September 1817

  Aosta

  At the Grapevine

  When it comes to marveling at wonderful scenery, I am well able to do my part. I always knew home was flat, in the geographic sense of the word, not just socially. But I truly had no idea how flat until I’d seen the alternative. I have a fondness for rolling hills. They seem quite scenic enough for me, pretty to look at and no trouble to stroll about upon. But I had no notion how high a hill could get without becoming a mountain. By the time we came in view of true mountains, my respect for them was evenly divided between awe at their stark beauty and horror that we would be obliged to march through them.

  These emotions were already sharp when the Alps were a dreamlike scrap of white in the extreme distance. At first it was possible to convince myself I was imagining that white
ness, misconstruing a cloud into a mountain. As our journey continued, it became impossible to miss the slopes and summits we neared. Then it became impossible to think of anything else. As the mountains grew ever nearer through the dogged haste we made, my trepidation only deepened.

  The afflictions of travel are many, and vary by the season. So far, my least favorite affliction is mud. Cold feet are a given. Wet feet are almost inevitable. Cold, wet, muddy feet cause not only discomfort, but the spread of dirt and disorder as well. Worst of all, to deal with muddy boots requires someone get his hands dirty. I detest getting my hands dirty. So I am usually detestably cross in the coach, for I have mud on my cold, wet boots, mud on the hem of my skirt, mud on the hem of my petticoat, and mud on my hands. Yes, I do have gloves when I set out each morning, but one is soon soaked and by midafternoon the other has a tendency to vanish as completely as if it had melted. I do not know what becomes of my gloves. One would think there must be a mountain of them by now, wherever it is they go when they disappear.

  At the end of each day’s journey, our routine is the same. We descend upon the night’s lodgings in force. Thomas and Piers deal with the host first, demanding adequate accommodation be provided, and then James and his man take over, all reason and toleration, to smooth the demands into requests and make sure all is bestowed securely. Only the necessary luggage is unloaded. Our rooms, such as they are, are rendered as comfortable as hasty application of firewood and hot water can make them. We sleep too many to a bed, but that just helps us endure the cold. With Reardon’s help, I have been able to stay fairly clean and fairly presentable. I make no claim beyond that.