In the intervening years there had been no record of marriage or of further births involving anyone named Dratham, and such events were always recorded in the man’s parish of origin. So Ivy knew not only that Dratham was the misbegotten son of a gentleman or a lord, but also that he never married and had died childless (or at least with no legitimate children).
Despite her excitement at having learned more about the history of the house, a melancholy descended over Ivy. She gave the ledgers back to the clerks, then left the past and the dusty air of the Toll House to walk out into the warm present of a brilliant afternoon.
Ivy had intended to hire a cab to take her back to The Seventh Swan, for she had told Lawden not to wait for her in case her sisters needed the carriage. But she always seemed to think better when walking, and she had much to ponder. So she walked up the bustling length of King’s Street and considered all she had learned that day.
There was no way to really know, but Ivy was convinced from what she had learned that Waywrend Loerus Dratham had been a magician. She did not know for a fact that the magickal eyes in the house were original to it, but there had been nothing found to indicate they were added later. In which case they had been his doing.
Then there was the matter of his middle name. From what Ivy had read, the planet Loerus was one whose movements were often watched by magicians. That Dratham’s father, whoever he was, would give his son such a name could not be chance, and he may well have been a magician himself. The fact that Dratham had never married also gave the impression of a man alone in his house, studying arcane lore.
Still, this was all conjecture. For all she knew, he had been a dull-witted man who was too homely to get a wife and who never cracked the pages of a book in his life.
Yet she couldn’t believe that. A man with an incurious mind would never have built a house so interesting as the house on Durrow Street. All the same, she had to admit it was unlikely that she would ever uncover proof that Dratham was a magician. While these days it was becoming fashionable for the sons of lords to study magick—or at least to affect the appearance of studying it—that was not the case two and three centuries ago. In that era, there had still been edicts banning the practice of magick. And if Dratham was a magician, it was something he would have done in secret.
So consumed was Ivy with these thoughts that it took her several moments to realize that someone was calling her name.
“Good day, Lady Quent!” came the voice again, followed by a clatter of hooves and wheels against cobbles.
Startled, Ivy looked up to see a barouche of lacquered and gilded wood, drawn by a pair of perfectly matched grays, come to a halt not ten paces away. The driver, whose coat was as rich as any gentleman’s, leaped down to open the door, then helped a woman out of the carriage. Her gown was a violet that matched her eyes, and her hair fell in a shower of chestnut curls over her shoulders.
“I knew it could not be long before we met again, Lady Quent,” the woman said as she approached. Then she gave a bright laugh. “But how dreadful you must think me! You can only imagine I devised this encounter even as I did our first. Yet this time I can profess my complete innocence. I had come to the Old City to select new pigments for my painting. I am weary of all my usual colors, and long for new ones. However, I discovered nothing of any interest. Until I spied you from the carriage, that is.”
“Lady Crayford!” Ivy managed to say at last, and made a curtsy.
“Lady Quent,” the other said, curtsying herself.
This shocked Ivy. The wife of a viscount had no need to pay honor in such a way to the wife of a baronet—and one freshly made, at that. Only then she saw the gleam in Lady Crayford’s eyes, and the curve of her lips, and Ivy knew the other lady was making light of the whole affair.
“I see that you go afoot,” the viscountess said. “Exercise is beneficial, no doubt, but talking is far more entertaining. Can I tempt you into the barouche? There is a great deal of room, as I bought very little today—a fact for which my husband will no doubt be glad!”
Presented with such an invitation, Ivy could hardly refuse. Nor could she say she had any wish to. Nothing could be more pleasant than spending a little time in the company of one so charming and interesting as Lady Crayford, and this way she would return to Mr. Quent and her sisters all the sooner.
“You are very kind,” Ivy said after the driver had helped them both into the carriage.
“On the contrary, I am very selfish,” her companion said from the opposite bench. “For this way I can have you all to myself, at least for a little while.”
“I am sure you hardly need me for company!”
Indeed, there was a pretty girl in the carriage, a servant who had no doubt accompanied the lady to help bear packages. She was a meek thing, though, and sat very quietly with her head bowed.
“On the contrary, I need you very much,” Lady Crayford said. “I haven’t encountered a single interesting person or seen a single lovely thing today. And how is an artist to paint with nothing for inspiration? I might as well coat my canvas all in gray. Do you mind if I direct the driver to go around by way of the Promenade? It is a little farther that way to Marble Street, I confess, but it is prettier.”
Ivy conceded that it was, and as she was already going to return faster than she would have on foot, she could hardly complain.
“What sort of things do you like to paint?” Ivy asked after the directions had been relayed to the driver.
Lady Crayford shook her head. “No, Lady Quent. I will not let you so deftly turn the topic of the conversation to me, as I am sure is your wont. Rather, I will defy your modesty, and instead ask all about you.”
She proceeded to quiz Ivy on what she had been doing that day, and why she was residing at The Seventh Swan, which required an explanation of the refurbishment of the house on Durrow Street. Ivy at first attempted to keep her answers brief, so the topic would not become tedious. When Lady Crayford pressed her for all manner of details, soon Ivy found herself discussing what she had learned about the house.
“How fascinating to live in a house with such history!” Lady Crayford exclaimed. “And owned by a magician, you say. I’m sure there must be all manner of hidden doors and secret passages.”
Indeed, they had found a hidden door, Ivy said, one all carved with leaves, though it led only to a blank wall. All the same, her companion was intrigued.
“I envy you, Lady Quent, to soon be dwelling in such a remarkable abode.” Lady Crayford gave a sigh. “None of the houses in the New Quarter is nearly so interesting. Oh, they are pretty enough. Yet they are neither truly new anymore, nor really old enough to offer real character. Well, it is always the way that what was new becomes old, and what was old is rediscovered. Thus I wouldn’t be surprised if everyone started moving back to the Old City soon. Which means you are in the vanguard of fashion, Lady Quent.”
That was a point Ivy could not concede. They were dwelling on Durrow Street because the house belonged to her father, she explained, and for no other reason. Except that wasn’t really true. No doubt Mr. Quent could have afforded a house in the New Quarter and would have moved them there if Ivy had asked him to.
The carriage rounded a bend on the Promenade, resulting in a striking view of Halworth Gardens with the Crag rising above, and Ivy remarked that it would make for a lovely painting. This time her attempt to turn the topic away from herself succeeded, for Lady Crayford agreed that it would indeed be pretty, but that there was a superior view just a short way ahead, where the ragged edge of an old wall created an interesting frame to it all.
As the carriage continued on, they leaned out the window, and Lady Crayford pointed out other scenes worth painting. Ivy noted that she seemed to favor provocative contrasts: a dead tree in the midst of a garden in bloom, or a dusty street sweeper standing beside a heroic statue of a general, holding his broom even as the statue gripped a sword.
Ivy could not help noticing that they received many look
s from people in the street as they passed. However, Lady Crayford seemed not to care. Nor, after a time, did Ivy. Why should she worry if others thought her and her companion deserving of a stare or a gawk? In a moment those faces would flash by, and Ivy would never see them again. Before long she laughed as Lady Crayford did, leaning out the carriage window and pointing at anything that intrigued or delighted, imagining them in a painting.
Too soon the carriage came to a halt before The Seventh Swan. Ivy thanked Lady Crayford for the conveyance. Then, perhaps imprudently—but she was yet filled with excitement from their conversation—she exclaimed, “I wish I could see your paintings someday!”
“Then you must come see them,” Lady Crayford said, her expression pleased. “I would not have thought to compel you to view such tedious things, but since you have tendered yourself, you cannot withdraw the offer. You must come to my next party. I am planning it for Brightday eve. Your presence will assure it is a lively gathering.”
At once Ivy’s excitement vanished. How could she have been so presumptuous? She must have appeared as if she were fishing for an invitation. How dreadful she must seem!
“I am sure my presence cannot be needed to make an affair at your house lively,” she said. “And you no doubt already have a full guest list.”
“On the contrary, there is always room for one more couple, and you and Sir Quent will be the best thing about the party. I will be delighted to show you off.”
Ivy hardly knew what to say. According to the stories Lily had read in the broadsheets, the viscountess’s parties were the most famous affairs in the city, filled with all manner of noble and glorious beings. That she and Mr. Quent would be out of place there was beyond a certainty.
“But my husband is often out of town.”
“Well, if he cannot come, then bring another companion.” She reached out and gripped Ivy’s hands. “But come you must, Lady Quent. Promise me that you will.”
Asked so directly—with such warmth of feeling, and by one who was her superior—Ivy could not refuse. Nor, once she had accepted the invitation, could she say she was in any way sorry, for she truly did wish to see Lady Crayford’s paintings.
Once Lady Crayford was satisfied with the solemnity of the promise, she bid Ivy farewell, and in an unexpected and charming gesture, kissed Ivy’s cheek. Ivy said farewell, then departed the carriage and entered the inn. As she did, laughter rose within her. She had just been invited to a party at the house of the renowned viscountess Lady Crayford! How was she to tell Mr. Quent? What was she going to wear?
And, most of all, whatever was Lily going to say?
CHAPTER ELEVEN
RAFFERDY KNEW THERE was no further use in leaving it to luck.
His friend could only be avoiding the Sword and Leaf. Twice in the last half month Rafferdy had gone to their old haunt and had sat for at least an hour, and neither time did his drinking companion have the decency to present himself. True, it had been a few months since they had met at the tavern in the Old City. All the same, was it too much to ask for Garritt to present himself when he was wanted?
Apparently it was. While a chance meeting with a friend was always more merry than a planned affair, the problem with such encounters was that they never seemed to reliably happen when one wished them to. Which meant if he was ever going to meet with that rascal Eldyn Garritt, it was going to have to be arranged.
As he blotted and sealed the note he had composed to Garritt, his gaze strayed to the stack of invitations on his writing desk. At the top was a letter from Lady Marsdel, informing him that his presence was required for tea tomorrow. The note had come two days ago, but Rafferdy still had not written a response. Each time he tried to pick up a pen to do so, some invisible force stayed his hand. For what if she had been invited to tea as well?
True, he had promised Mrs. Baydon that he would not avoid another affair at Lady Marsdel’s just because he knew Mrs. Quent would be there. He had realized it was not for Mrs. Quent’s benefit that he had kept himself from her these last months. However, knowing that one had acted ignobly was far from the same thing as being noble, and the idea of encountering Mrs. Quent was one that still filled him with discomfort.
That she would gloat about her marriage, or burden him with overly affectionate anecdotes concerning her husband, was impossible; she had too much sense, and too fine an apprehension of the feelings of others, to ever do such a thing. She would never say anything to injure his feelings.
Still, no matter how thoughtful or sensitive her statements were, she would not be able to conceal her present state of joy. Merely to be bright and lovely in his presence would demonstrate stronger than any words how content she was with the way fate had arranged things.
No, Rafferdy was not ready to witness that yet. Besides, there was no way to know if she had been invited to Lady Marsdel’s tomorrow. Which meant if he turned down the invitation, it could not be because she was expected there. Thus his promise to Mrs. Baydon would not be broken.
Rafferdy took up a pen. However, after a minute he set it back down without writing a word. Instead, he picked up the note for Garritt and gave it to his man.
TO RAFFERDY’S IMMENSE satisfaction, a reply came that very afternoon. Garritt would happily meet him at the usual place; he would be there an hour after sunset, and he promised his purse would be full.
He set down Garritt’s note and returned to the mirror, where he had been modeling his new robe of black crepe. After some consideration, he decided it gave him a lordly look. Not that this was something he had sought. The main benefit of the robe was that it did not emanate a musty odor. The lack of any kind of ruffle was also a welcome characteristic. If it happened that the garment lent him a more official air, he supposed it could not be helped.
As he turned to admire the drape of the robe, he noticed a flash of blue. Rafferdy raised his right hand, looking at the ring on his fourth finger. He had grown so used to the thing that he seldom paid it attention anymore. Except that wasn’t entirely the case, for on more than one occasion since the opening day of Assembly, he had found himself absently turning the House ring around and around or gazing into the blue gem.
It was only a stray sunbeam that caused the jewel to glimmer now. But it wasn’t sunlight that had made it flare that day at Assembly, when he used an enchantment to unlock a door and gain his escape. He had not studied magick since his final lesson with Mr. Bennick last year, but the spell of opening had come easily to him. It seemed he had not forgotten everything he had learned from the former magician.
Which had proved fortunate. Who knew how long he would have been trapped in the Hall of Magnates if he had not been able to unlock the door? He might have had to spend the night alone in that echoing hall, with no light and nothing to drink or smoke. He could not imagine a worse fate!
Or couldn’t he? That very day he had seen someone who had suffered a far worse fate than being deprived of brandy or tobacco. A grave shock such as this can have an effect on your mind, the Lady Shayde had said to him, her eyes black holes in her pale visage. You might not even be certain what you really saw today.
Yet he was certain. The image of the body splayed on the floor was still vivid in his mind. Her brutish companion, the man Moorkirk, had told Rafferdy to forget what he had seen. Would that Rafferdy could comply with that order! Even now, as he recalled the scene, he felt a creeping of the flesh on the back of his neck. How could a man’s throat be slit like that and seep not blood, but some grayish substance?
He had no idea. However, it was their concern, not his, and he did not expect he would ever encounter the White Lady again. Her purpose was to seek out spies and plotters against the king, of which Rafferdy knew precious few. All the same, he would think twice before using magick to open a locked door again, for dread of what might lay beyond!
He supposed such a trick would be beyond him soon enough. What little magickal ability he possessed would no doubt fade away with time and disuse. Nor cou
ld he have improved upon his skills even if he wanted to. He could hardly go beg Mr. Bennick for another lesson in magick, and he had no idea who else he might ask.
Unless Lord Coulten would know.
Rafferdy had not spoken with Lord Coulten since the opening day of Assembly. The Hall of Magnates had convened twice since then, and both times Lord Baydon had asked Rafferdy to sit by him. The elder lord had lately felt unsteady due to a lingering head cold, and he had wanted to make sure he had convenient access to a young arm to lean on should he need assistance. At the end of the last session, Rafferdy had spied Lord Coulten from afar, and the two of them had exchanged cordial waves, but that was all.
Rafferdy imagined that Lord Coulten attended Gauldren’s College. It was the most likely place for a young man to study magick these days. Except, now that he thought about it, Rafferdy had never seen Lord Coulten in the two years he had spent at university himself. While it was possible he had started at Gauldren’s College after Rafferdy left, Rafferdy could not imagine a freshman would already be wearing a House ring, as Lord Coulten did. Besides, he was a bit old to be in his first year. In which case Lord Coulten hadn’t attended Gauldren’s College at all.
So then, where did he study magick?
Rafferdy realized he was still staring at his ring. He lowered his hand. The act took a greater exertion of conscious will than he would have thought necessary. He grimaced at himself in the mirror. Great gods! What did it matter where Lord Coulten had gotten his ring or learned to be a magician? It was not as if Rafferdy had any need to ask him of it.
Rafferdy took out a handkerchief and wiped away the damp sheen that had collected on his brow. Despite the fineness of the crepe cloth, the robe was surprisingly hot and stifling. Nor did he really care for the look of it, now that he reconsidered himself in the mirror.
Well, he would only have to wear it for a short time, just until his father’s health was improved. Unlike the ring on his right hand, at least this thing he could take off easily after putting it on. He did so then, throwing it over the back of a chair and leaving it for his man to pick up.
The House on Durrow Street Page 20
