“Kim! There you are. No need to stand about; the luggage won’t be along for a couple of hours at least. Come inside and wait where it’s warm.”
Kim nodded, glad to have some direction at last. As she started into the inn, she noted that the village was showing a few signs of life at last: a large, round woman had emerged to sweep the step in front of the mercer’s shop (and get a look at the new arrivals), an open carriage was descending a distant hill toward the town, and a second dog had joined the barking of the first, prompting a volley of curses from an unseen person on the second floor of the inn. The last thing Kim saw before the door of the inn closed behind her was a large jug hurtling out of the window in the general direction of the dogs. The crash was audible even after the door closed.
Mairelon was standing just inside the door, in a short hallway at the foot of a steep flight of stairs. Beside him, the innkeeper darted uncertain looks at the mud-splattered boots and breeches of his newest guest, clearly trying to decide whether this was truly one of the Quality or only some jumped-up Cit trying to pass himself off as gentry. Kim could almost sympathize. Mairelon’s cape was well cut but, to her experienced eye, a little shabby and out of fashion, and the mud made it difficult to determine whether his boots were similarly well used. Had she been looking him over on the London streets, she would have given him a casual glance and gone on hunting for a better pigeon to pluck.
“Get yourself something to drink while you wait,” Mairelon said, seemingly oblivious to the innkeeper’s worried frown. He tossed Kim a coin that glittered silver in the air, and the innkeeper’s expression lightened. Kim suppressed a smile and bobbed her head respectfully as Mairelon turned to the innkeeper. “Now, since we’re agreed, I’ll just go up and clean off a little of this dirt.”
“Very good, Mr. de Mare,” the innkeeper answered. “Your lad can go on in there, my wife will be glad to see to him. Now, if you’ll just come this way . . .”
Mairelon followed him up the stairs without a backward glance, leaving a trail of damp and dirty footprints. Kim snorted softly. At least she would be able to find his room if she needed to. She looked down at the coin Mairelon had tossed her. It was a new shilling, more than enough for a pint of ale and perhaps a roll. She flipped it into the air, caught it, and went into the public room to listen to whatever local gossip there might be.
The room was nearly empty. Two weather-beaten men in farmers’ smocks glanced up from their mugs as she entered, and a small, brown-haired man in the corner jumped nervously and then relaxed. Kim took a seat beside the door, where she could get a good look at everyone who might come in and still watch the rest of the big, square room. Once she was seated, she discovered that her view of the yard outside was limited to a slantwise glimpse of a corner, but she dismissed that limitation with a mental shrug. Nothing was perfect, and her job was to watch and listen to the coves inside, not the goings-on outdoors.
A large, grey-haired woman who was presumably the innkeeper’s wife appeared a few moments later, carrying a tray of mugs. She replaced the farmers’ drinks without comment, then looked over at the nervous man in the corner. He shook his head, then nodded and beckoned. “Make up your mind, Mr. Fenton,” the woman said as she set a mug in front of him. “I haven’t the time to be mucking about back and forth to the kitchen twelve times an hour, not for the likes of you.”
“My money’s as good as anyone’s,” the small man said. “And if you ‘forget’ to let me know when my . . . associate arrives, I’ll see you regret it.”
“Keep your hair on,” the woman advised. “Nobody’s come asking for you, not even Mr. Frederick. And what he’s thinking of, letting you off your work like this—”
The small man flushed. “I have my half-day free, the same as anyone.”
“Only more often,” the woman shot back, and the two farmers chuckled audibly. “I’m surprised he doesn’t turn you off, but there, he’s always been the sort to put up with more than he ought.”
“Mr. Meredith is kind enough to give me an extra holiday occasionally,” the small man said, and Kim thought he sounded even more nervous than before.
“Yes, because you ask him straight out! You’re abusing Mr. Frederick’s trust, you are, and you ought to be ashamed.”
“That’s ‘Mr. Meredith,’ to you,” the small man said with an attempt at a haughty sneer.
“Ho! ‘Mr. Meredith,’ to me that’s known him since he was a lad? Next thing you’ll be telling me what to call my husband! Drink up and hold your peace, Mister Fenton, or we’ll see, that’s all.”
With this obscure threat, the woman picked up her tray and sailed back toward the door. She stopped long enough to give Kim a mug of warm, dark ale and collect the shilling, but Fenton did not take the opportunity to renew hostilities. He seemed content to glower over the top of his mug, alternating between dark looks at the grey-haired woman and equally dark but more apprehensive glances in the direction of the window overlooking the yard.
The innkeeper’s wife left, and the farmers continued to sit in companionable silence. For lack of anything better to do, Kim studied Fenton while she sipped her ale and waited for someone else to come in and start another conversation for her to listen to. He was brown-haired and thin-faced, and he had an indefinable air about him that marked him as London-bred. From the conversation she had overheard, Kim guessed that he was in service with Mr. Meredith. A footman, perhaps; he was too well dressed to be a groom or stable hand, and not well enough turned out for a butler or valet.
Kim had just reached this conclusion when the serving room door flew open to reveal a dark-haired young man in fashionable riding clothes. He surveyed the room with an air of brooding intensity, then strode to the corner table and flung his gloves down in front of Fenton. “You sent me a message,” the young man said.
Kim choked and slopped ale over the side of her mug. She recognized the young man’s voice instantly; it was Jon, the most zealous of the druids she and Mairelon had observed the previous evening.
“I don’t know that I would put it that way, Mr. Aberford,” Fenton said, giving a significant glance in the direction of the farmers. “Merely, there are some things I think you ought to know.”
“If your intention is to sell me the information that your master doesn’t have the object he was commissioned to bring me, your luck is out,” Jon said with gloomy relish. “I already know.”
Fenton’s shoulders hunched together as if he were bracing himself for a blow. “How did you find out—”
“He told me himself, last night. Blithering idiot! What possessed him to play whist with Henry Bramingham, of all people?”
“Ah, I believe there was a wager involved,” Fenton said. His shoulders relaxed, but he did not look at all happy.
“Well, he certainly didn’t give Henry the Dish!” Jon snapped.
“Of course not, Mr. Aberford. I, ah, thought you ought to know, that’s all. So if—” Fenton broke off in mid-sentence, looking out the window. He jumped to his feet, his face a pasty white color, and bolted for the door. Jon sat staring after him in simple astonishment, taken too much by surprise to remember any of his brooding airs.
Fenton reached the door just as it opened to admit an enormous man in ill-fitting new clothes. “ ’Ere, now! Watch what you’re about!” the man said in a deep, slow voice as Fenton skidded to a stop in front of him.
“Sorry!” Fenton gasped, then dodged under the big man’s arm and vanished.
“ ’E’s in a bit of a rush, ain’t ’e?” the big man commented to the room at large.
Kim rose quietly as the newcomer lumbered into the room and slipped out the still-open door of the serving room. There was no sign of Fenton in the hall, so she took a quick look out the front door to see if she could tell what had driven him to make such a dramatic exit.
The yard was full of activity. A landau had pulled up in front of the inn, its top open despite the cool weather. A handsome and vaguely familiar young man sat
with his back to the coachman; facing him were an extremely elegant woman in her early forties and a stunningly beautiful blonde girl of perhaps seventeen. A second young man, whom Kim recognized at once as the bland and somewhat foolish Freddy Meredith from the druids’ meeting, had pulled a large, placid bay horse to a halt at the edge of the innyard. He was sitting in the saddle as if stunned, gazing in admiration at the blonde. Standing next to him (or rather, next to his horse) was a shabby, sour-looking man, and Kim found herself first blinking, then squinting in surprise, and then sternly suppressing a strong impulse to take to her heels as rapidly and unceremoniously as Fenton had done.
Jack Stower! What was Jack Stower doing in Ranton Hill? Fortunately, his attention was fixed on the rider, and Kim had time to pull her head back into the inn. She shut the door far enough to hide her face and forced her frozen wits into motion. Dan Laverham couldn’t have sent Jack after her; she hadn’t known herself where she was going when she left London. Jack was on some other errand, then, and all she had to do was keep out of his way so that word of her presence in Ranton Hill wouldn’t get back to Laverham. To do that, though, she needed to know what Jack was up to, so that she could avoid him. Hoping that no one would come into the hall to find her in so odd-looking a position, Kim opened the door a crack and peered out, listening with all her might.
“He’s your man,” Stower was insisting to Freddy Meredith.
Freddy did not appear to hear. “Bramingham!” he called with every appearance of delight. “Didn’t expect to find you here.”
The young man in the carriage twisted to look over his shoulder. “Freddy? Good Lord! I mean, what are you doing out at this hour?”
“Things,” the rider said with a vague wave. He clucked to his horse, which ignored him. A faint frown creased his forehead, and he made a tentative movement with his heels. The bay bent its neck to eye its rider, then ambled over to the carriage, leaving Jack Stower standing with his fists clenched and a black expression on his face.
“Henry!” the elegant woman said in a peremptory voice as Freddy was performing this maneuver. “If you must stop to speak with your friend, at least send someone in to inquire about Jasper. At this rate, we shall never get to Swafflton.”
“Yes, of course, Lady Granleigh.” Henry nodded to the footman, who jumped from his perch at the rear of the landau and came over. “See if Mr. Marston is in, and have a note sent up to tell him we are here.”
“Be better to go inside,” Freddy advised from his perch on the horse. “Private parlor for the ladies. Much nicer than sitting out in the weather.”
Kim missed Henry’s reply, for she had to nip sideways and flatten herself against the wall to avoid the footman’s entrance. He clumped past her without noticing, glanced around, then rang loudly for the innkeeper. Kim slipped back to the door and saw that Jack Stower had vanished. She heard the innkeeper’s footsteps at the rear of the hall and made a quick decision. Better to have room to move than to be nabbed by Stower or the footman in the hallway. She slid out the door like a greased eel.
“Very well,” the elegant woman was saying in a disapproving tone. “But I will have the proprieties observed. Present your friend to us, Henry.”
“My pleasure, Lady Granleigh,” Henry said in a harassed tone. “Lady Granleigh, Miss Thornley, this is Mr. Frederick Meredith. Freddy, Lady Granleigh, and her ward, Miss Marianne Thornley. They’re down for one of Mother’s house parties.”
“A pleasure,” Freddy said, bowing.
“Meredith,” Lady Granleigh said pensively. “Are you by chance related to Lord Cecil Meredith?”
“M’uncle,” Freddy answered. “Stood godfather to me, or so they tell me. I don’t remember it, myself.”
“Indeed.” Lady Granleigh’s manner thawed noticeably. “Lord Cecil is a dear friend of my husband’s.”
“What brings you ladies out in all this muck?” Freddy asked offhandedly, though his eyes had returned to the lovely blonde girl.
“Since it is not raining, Lady Granleigh and I thought we would drive to Swafflton to look at ribbons,” the blonde girl replied in a low, musical voice. “Mr. Bramingham was kind enough to accompany us.”
“This ain’t one of the stops on the road to Swafflton,” Freddy said in a knowledgeable tone. “Sure Bramingham gave the coachman the right direction?”
“Freddy!” Henry said. “Don’t be ridiculous.”
“We are here to meet my brother,” Lady Granleigh said in an icy voice.
“Oh, that’s all right, then,” Freddy said. “Didn’t know you had one.”
Miss Thornley giggled. Her guardian gave her a quelling look. “Really, Mr. Meredith—”
The door of the inn flew open. “Meredith! I knew it was you,” Jon Aberford said in threatening tones.
“Hullo, Jon,” Freddy said mildly. “Bit of a surprise, meeting you here. I must say, I didn’t expect it.”
“I should think not! How do you dare show your face in public?”
“Because I ain’t a Turk,” Freddy replied in reasonable tones. “Why should I care who sees it? Perfectly good face, besides, it’s the only one I’ve got.”
“Don’t play the fool!” Jon said. “Henry, do you know what this . . . this blithering idiot has done?”
“No, and I don’t much care to,” Henry answered frankly. “It’s nothing to do with me.”
“Henry, you will do me the favor of not presenting me to your unpleasant and most unmannerly acquaintance,” Lady Granleigh put in. “I must have the lowest opinion of anyone who would enact a scene in so public an arena.”
“Ah, but it does!” Jon said, ignoring Lady Granleigh’s interjection. He gestured at Freddy. “This traitor lost the Sacred Dish to you at play. Will you return it?”
“Here, now!” Freddy said. “Got no reason to go calling names! Everything was quite in order; told you so last night.”
“Sacred dish?” Henry said, bewildered. “What are you on about now, Jonathan? You don’t mean that big silver platter, do you?”
“Platter?” Lady Granleigh said with unexpected interest.
“What have you done with it?” Jonathan demanded.
“If you are talking about the platter, I haven’t done anything with it yet,” Henry snapped in evident exasperation. “It’s sitting in a display case in the library, and it will stay in the display case until Lord St. Clair arrives tomorrow. At which point I am going to present it to him for his collection.”
“What, your uncle’s coming?” Freddy said to Henry. “You didn’t tell me.”
“Why should I?” Henry retorted. “It’s nothing to you.”
“No reason to keep it a secret, is there?” Freddy answered. “And it’s bound to be of interest. Why, m’mother will want to call if Lord St. Clair is staying with you.”
“Be quiet, Freddy!” Jonathan said. “Henry, be reasonable. You can’t just give away the Sacred Dish!”
“Don’t see why not,” Freddy said, giving the matter due consideration. “He isn’t one of the Sons; the thing don’t mean anything to him. Unless St. Clair don’t arrive. Hard to give something to someone who ain’t there.”
“Come by Bramingham Place tomorrow at three and watch me,” Henry invited Jonathan cordially.
“You don’t know what you are doing,” Jon said, suddenly calm.
“I know enough.”
“Quite,” said Freddy. He had one eye fixed on Miss Thornley, who was beginning to look distressed. “Here, Jon, be a good fellow and come away; you’re upsetting the ladies.”
“You haven’t heard the last of this,” Jon said. With a parting glower he turned and reentered the inn.
“If that isn’t just like Jon!” Freddy said.
“I trust we have seen the last of him,” Lady Granleigh said. “Henry, are you quite certain that man of yours isn’t carousing inside instead of delivering your message? Jasper ought to have come out by now.”
Henry pressed his lips together. “I’ll go and see
, if you like, Lady Granleigh.”
“If you do that, we’ll lose you, too,” Lady Granleigh said. “Send that boy over there; he may as well be useful.”
“Hi! You there!” Henry beckoned to Kim. “Pop inside and see what’s holding up Mr. Marston, there’s half a guinea in it for you.”
“A shilling,” Lady Granleigh said sharply. “No more than a shilling, and not until you come back. Really, Henry, you ought to know better.”
Kim muttered something that would pass for “Yes, mum,” and touched her hand to her cap. The respectful gesture might please the bracket-faced old cat, and it would screen Kim’s face from unwanted notice. Reluctantly she turned and started for the inn.
Before she reached it, the door swung open and the footman emerged, followed by a tall man in a driving cape. Kim stepped aside without thinking, and froze as she got a good look at his face. It was the skinny toff from the Dog and Bull who had hired her to crack Mairelon’s crib. Had all of London followed her to Ranton Hill?
“Amelia!” the toff said. “What d’you mean by arriving at dawn like this? I’d barely got my breakfast finished!”
“When we are in the country, we keep country hours, Jasper,” Lady Granleigh replied. “I explained that to you yesterday; had I known you were going to be obstinate, I would have postponed our expedition until tomorrow. I am sure that Lord St. Clair would have been delighted to accompany us.”
“Of course he would,” Freddy said gallantly. “I mean to say, lovely ladies, pleasant company—anyone would be delighted.”
Jasper Marston had by this time taken his place in the coach, and Lady Granleigh had had more than enough of Freddy, nephew of Lord Cecil Meredith or not. “It is high time we were going,” she announced. “Good day, Mr. Meredith. Driver!”
The coachman nodded and slapped the reins lightly against the horses’ backs. The team snorted and began to move; in another moment, the landau had pulled out of the inn’s yard and was on its way east to Swafflton.
A Matter of Magic Page 10
