Hobgoblin Night: Mask and Dagger 2 Page 21

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  His mood lightened considerably when Mr. Jonas and Jedidiah took him off to their workshop to view the engine. He examined the device through his eyeglasses, plainly delighted by it. And he asked a great many questions, which Jed and the gnome were delighted to answer, thinking it only natural that his lordship should take a proprietary interest in the whole enterprise. After all, it had been Skelbrooke himself who first stole the Duchess's parchment and turned it over to the Glassmakers.

  Afterwards, walking back to Mothgreen Hall, Sera asked if he intended to sail with Jed and Mr. Jonas on their "absurd expedition."

  "I most certainly do," said his lordship. "But surely— That is, I understood that you and Miss Elsie were to come along as well."

  "Yes," said Sera, with a sigh, "I fancy we did promise something of the sort."

  He was thoughtful and silent for a long time before he spoke again. "You do not like the enterprise. That is not to be wondered at, considering your family history. I believe that you would rather dismiss these matters as errant nonsense, than risk animating your own interest by examining them dispassionately," he guessed shrewdly. "Again not to be wondered at. But if I may say so, and without any wish to offend, perhaps your grandfather was not very wise in the manner in which he approached these mysteries."

  It was a sultry day, and Sera removed her gloves, stripping them off and jamming them impatiently into her reticule. "My grandfather wasted his entire substance—a modest but by no means paltry fortune—in a quest for the mythical stone Seramarias. It also seems likely that his sudden death came as the direct result of a lifetime devoted to the acquisition of hidden knowledge. Nevertheless, he was not a young man, and he had seen a good deal of life and the world! I wonder if you are really so very much wiser than he was?"

  Lord Skelbrooke inclined his carefully powdered head. "Your grandfather was a secretive man, too proud to take the advice of other men, men who had already successfully traveled the same dangerous path that he meant to follow."

  Sera was silent, remembering how Mr. Budge had told her once that Lord Skelbrooke was also a proud and secretive man.

  "No, I cannot claim to be wiser than your grandfather was," his lordship continued, as the road led them through a shady grove of birch trees. "But I do, occasionally, rely on the advice of friends who do have that wisdom: men like Mr. Owlfeather, Mr. Jonas, and Master Ule.

  "And as for wasting my substance . . . with all due modesty, there is nothing at all moderate about my own fortune. I should have to be quite spectacularly foolish in order to waste the half of it. If you marry me, Sera, I can safely promise that you will never want for anything."

  Sera's color fluctuated from red to white. It was an annoying habit he had, continually declaring that he was willing to marry her, but never actually proposing straight out. And she finally remembered why she had once disliked him. She did not find it agreeable, this dreadful, pulse-pounding, heart-fluttering state that he always induced in her. Or she knew that she shouldn't enjoy it, and that was much the same.

  "And whatever gave you the idea . . . Mr. Carstares . . . that I wished to marry a wealthy man?"

  The road led them out into the sunshine again. "I never thought so; I do not think so now. But you are far too sensible to think of marrying a man who was likely to ruin himself. And I do not think you would dislike being a baron's lady and living a life of ease. I own a fine old country estate, back in Imbria, and also a house in Lundy."

  Sera flashed him a look of anxious inquiry. Truly, he was such a bundle of contradictions, she had difficulty trusting him. "I had thought the plan was to take up your studies once more and practice medicine on the continent of Calliope."

  "Indeed yes, for a time. And then afterwards to return home and raise a family on my ancestral estates, providing that plan meets with your approval."

  "And your present . . ." Sera hesitated, wound the strings of her reticule tightly around her fingers. "I suppose one might call it an occupation . . . do you plan to continue that as well?"

  "By no means," said Skelbrooke. "I rather think that I have abandoned that trade already."

  Sera sighed deeply. "Yet you do still carry the Sleep Dust with you."

  He had been watching her intently, but now he looked away. "I do not carry it for the sole purpose of rendering my adversaries instantly unconscious. And it is really quite a harmless vice."

  "Yes, I believe it is always so, with those who pursue destructive habits," Sera said, with a bitter smile. "They always strive to convince themselves that it is no great matter."

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  Wherein the Duchess suffers a Bereavement, and Jarl Skogsrå makes Wedding Plans.

  At Stillwater Hall, the Duchess struggled valiantly to maintain those niceties of existence she had known in Thornburg and at the Wichtelberg in Zar-Wildungen. And a struggle it was: all the servants she had hired in Moonstone were slovenly and lazy. No decent housekeeper, butler, or chamber maid could be possibly induced to set foot in an establishment as damp and ramshackle as Stillwater Hall.

  Nevertheless, the Duchess did her best. She slept late each morning, drank a cup of chocolate at noon, played with Sebastian for about an hour, then dressed (with the aid of the maid-servant she brought with her from Wäldermark) and descended the stairs to the gloomy drawing room sometime after two o'clock.

  Today, she found a fire already burning on the hearth, evidence that someone had come down before her, since the lethargic servants never bothered to kindle a fire or draw the curtains except in the presence of direct and immediate instructions. She found a handful of letters on the drawing room desk and carried them over to a velvet sofa, dingy in its color, unsteady in its legs, situated near the fire where the light was better.

  She was still reading the first of these letters when Thomas Kelly walked in. "How vexing this is!" she said, without looking up, though she waved him toward a chair. "Captain Kassien writes of considerable difficulty outfitting the ship as I have requested. Yet my instructions were all very simple and absolutely clear. I fear that one of us will have to go up to Turtle Bay and speak with him, and discover exactly what the problem is."

  Now, Kelly might have told her that no problem existed—that the letter was, in fact, a forgery—but it was no part of his plans to do so. Nor did he imagine that Captain Kassien would disabuse her, by denying all knowledge of the letter when the Duchess confronted him. The sorcerer knew (as the Gracious Lady did not) that the good Captain was addicted to the bottle, and did not always remember everything he had or had not done.

  "I daresay I shall have to go myself," she added, tossing the letter aside. "I cannot trust poor Skogsrå to handle the matter. He is not good for much just now. Mr. Hooke is otherwise occupied, and as for you . . . no, I do not think that would be wise."

  "It is true that other people do not find my presence . . . comfortable," said Kelly. "Indeed, they tend to grow uneasy whenever I am near. Yes, you had best attend to the matter personally."

  The Duchess picked up another letter and slit it open with a tiny knife. She had only read a line or two when she cried out in distress. She continued reading, right on to the end, and then took out a dainty lace handkerchief and wiped her eyes. Kelly was interested to note that her mouth trembled and genuine tears sparkled on her cheeks. Such a display of emotion, he had imagined, was quite beyond the Duchess's sensibilities.

  "The Duke is dead. To think that he has been dead all these weeks, and without knowing anything about it, I have been a widow in very truth. How I shall miss him, my dear old friend!"

  Kelly raised a skeptical eyebrow. "Miss him? But perhaps I labor under some misapprehension: you and the Duke have lived apart these ten years and more, have you not?"

  The Duchess made a tiny gesture. "I visited him as often as I possibly could. And before that, when he had his health, we lived together quite amicably for forty some years. Yes, we were married for more than half a century! None of my other
husbands lasted nearly so long," she added, with a mournful shake of her head, "though the Duke was not a young man when I married him."

  She looked at Kelly with a touch of defiance amidst her grief. "I was devoted to him, you know, for all my infidelities."

  Kelly was not inclined to argue the point, for the matter really did not interest him. "And what will you do now?"

  The Duchess put up a little white hand to wipe a tear from her cheek. "I am not quite certain. The house in Thornburg is mine, and my solicitor informs me that the Duke left me a considerable sum of money. But the Wichtelberg and the bulk of his estate must go to that tiresome nephew of his. I never did like that young fool, and he is rather an old fool now. He will not want me to go on treating it as my home. The lawyers will handle the details . . . and perhaps I shall not return to Wäldermark at all."

  She smiled tremulously. "I have never lived so long in one place before. People do become so curious when one does not age, and though my fairy blood is not entirely a secret, I have never cared to have my origins generally known. But I need not decide anything at once. I must have time to think. This is really a dreadful blow."

  A tear dripped down her nose and fell in her lap. "One thing I do know: I shall not marry again. They do not last long enough, these poor fragile humans, and I could never be happy with a husband of my father's people. They are so stiff and stern and careful of their dignity; they can spend days poring over their musty old rituals or studying their tiresome genealogies!"

  The sorcerer was not entirely certain what form of comfort she expected. But she seemed to expect something, so he put forth as much effort as he was able. "You might, one supposes—after a suitable period of mourning, and if you find living alone intolerable—you might marry one of your own sort."

  The Duchess looked up at him, her eyes still shining with tears. "My dear Mr. Kelly, there is none like me, not in all the world. We hybrids are each unique. No, I fear that I must grow accustomed to living alone."

  She put up her handkerchief and blew her nose, a surprisingly prosaic gesture. "I may begin my new life by settling here in the colonies. Or perhaps go back to the northern counties of Imbria, where I was born. There can be no one there now who could possibly remember me. Yes, I shall go home, at least for a while. Once all debts are settled, once I have prosecuted my rightful vengeance, then I can begin anew, at peace with all the world."

  Skogsrå came downstairs to join them for dinner an hour later; he lurched across the vast dining hall, his limp more pronounced than ever. He had finally dressed himself, in crimson velvet and point lace, with an enormous gold brooch at his throat; he had even made some attempt to dress his hair in the old way, with the golden lovelocks hanging down to his shoulders. Yet he lacked his usual meticulous elegance, and his boots needed polishing. He bowed to the Duchess, inclined his head in the direction of Thomas Kelly, and took a seat at the far end of the long table.

  One of the sullen and dirty servants from Moonstone brought in a covered dish and thumped it down on the table before him. The troll removed the lid, eyeing distastefully a massive portion of nearly raw beef. Yet once he set to work, the meat rapidly disappeared.

  Kelly ate very little. A small piece of bread and a sip of port or canary wine was all that he ever required. However, he was lacing that wine now with natron and balsam, to slow down the process of decomposition. The Duchess, too, scarcely touched the food on her plate, and soon withdrew, with the indigo ape trailing behind her, leaving the two gentlemen to share the port and whatever masculine confidences that might occur to them.

  "The Duchess leaves for Turtle Bay in a day or two," said Kelly. "Her journey there and back again, as well as any business she may use the opportunity to transact along the way, will keep her away for a week at the least."

  The Jarl brightened. "You have arranged this?"

  "I have," said Kelly, uncorking the flask in which he kept the natron, and pouring a little into his cup. "Though by good fortune, a second letter arrived today, quite unexpectedly, informing the lady that the Duke of Zar-Wildungen is dead."

  Skogsrå stared into his wineglass. "That would explain why the Gracious Lady appears distraught. A merciful release, some might say, but not likely to appear so to the Duchess. I believe she was greatly attached to him."

  "So she informs me," Kelly said coldly, glancing down the length of the table with those hard, dull eyes of his. "It could not have happened at a better time. Not only does the Duchess remove herself on account of the letter that I arranged to be sent to her, but her grief may prove a useful distraction for some time to come. When she returns to find you and your monster gone, she may lack the energy for an immediate pursuit."

  "That is so," said Skogsrå, pouring another glass of port for himself. He spent a moment in pleasant contemplation of his approaching nuptials. Then he bowed to the sorcerer. "But you are arranging this. It is for you to say how we will proceed."

  "First, you must select your bride," said Kelly. "For that, it will be necessary to go into Moonstone. I hope the effort is not beyond you?"

  "I have already selected my bride," said the troll, smiling for the first time in days. "And she does not live in Moonstone."

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  In which Sera accepts a Most Pressing invitation.

  The hobgoblin furor, set off by the collapsing clocktower, gradually died, and life in Hobb's Church (despite Mr. Tynsdale's efforts to the contrary) slowly returned to its customary placid course, until the arrival of a traveling musical consort caused a brief flurry of interest among the more genteel inhabitants. Immediately, they began planning a series of "cultural" evenings, to be held at the church.

  To the first of these events, Miss Barebones and the ladies at Mothgreen Academy were most particularly invited—an olive branch, perhaps, on the part of those citizens who had treated them badly during the recent troubles.

  Of course all the ladies from Mothgreen planned to attend. But Elsie suffered a dizzy spell in the morning, spent the afternoon lying down in her bedchamber with a throbbing headache, and though she felt better by suppertime, reluctantly decided that she had much better spend the evening at home. Naturally, Dr. Carstares was delegated to remain at her side in case of a relapse.

  And so he deserves, presenting himself as the sympathetic physician on every possible occasion! thought Sera. But it proved unfortunate for Elsie as well. Had there not been a doctor in the household, Jed might have been asked to stay, and they might have spent a pleasant evening together in the parlor, chaperoned by the chamber maid and the garden boy. As it was, Sera sent a note to Jedidiah, informing him that she, Miss Barebones, Miss Eglantine, and Miss Fitch required an escort into town, and could he oblige . . . ?

  Then she went upstairs to change into the newly repaired straw-colored satin. She had been forced to rip an entire tea-stained panel out of the skirt and replace it with a fresh length of fabric, but the dress looked very well. Particularly combined with a pair of lace gloves, a cameo brooch, and a wide-brimmed hat of black straw, tied with pale yellow ribbons. All that was wanting to complete the outfit, Sera thought with a pang, was her missing sea-ivory necklace.

  She experienced a pang of another sort when she went downstairs and his lordship held up his scissor lorgnette to examine her gown. "Magnificent, Miss Thorn! I quite envy your brother the privilege of escorting you. Would that I might go in his place."

  Jedidiah arrived in plenty of time, driving a borrowed carriage. Jed also appeared to advantage in a suit of bottle-green velvet, quite the gentleman indeed, with his brown hair lightly powdered and a black satin ribbon at the end of his pigtail.

  Jed took Sera aside for a private word and showed her a pistol and a long knife that he carried. "Merciful heavens," said Sera, with one hand on her heart, eyeing the pistol mistrustfully. She knew perfectly well that Jed was handy with a knife. "I suppose you intend to defend me from the Duchess if the need should arise. But have you any idea how to use t
hat dreadful object?"

  "I have," said Jed, with a wide grin. "It is a gentleman's weapon, you know, and I have been acquiring the habits of a gentleman. Also, I've a loaded fowling piece under the seat of the carriage."

  "Well," said Sera, pluming her feathers a bit, "you must suit yourself. But I have noticed that Lord Skelbrooke, for all his cautions, never sees fit to arm himself when he and I go out for a walk."

  "No, he does not," agreed Jed, with an even broader grin. "That is . . . if you don't count the twelve-inch blade concealed in his walking stick, the stiletto stickpin in his cravat, the two or three small pistols he carries about his person, and the explosive pocket watch."

  Which at least provided some method to his lordship's over-powering finery—and perhaps (thought Sera) he was not quite so vain as he might appear.

  "He sounds a perfect walking arsenal," she said. "I perceive that my own precautions have been quite unnecessary." And she opened her reticule to reveal a scimitar-shaped letter-opener she had culled from Uncle Izrael's effects.

  Jedidiah gave her an amused glance. "Do you plan to stab somebody with that piddling little thing?"

  "I do," said Sera, with a challenging light in her eyes. "Do you imagine that I lack the nerve?"

  As it developed, neither guns, nor explosives, nor letter-openers were required during the ride into town. They arrived in Hobb's Church quite safely, and Jed helped the four ladies to descend from the carriage.

  The weather had turned exceptionally warm, and all the doors of the church stood wide open, in the hopes of attracting any evening breeze. For all that, the church was stifling when they entered. Most of the seats were already filled, obliging Jed and the Mothgreen ladies to take separate pews.

  The first entertainment on the program was the traveling string quartet. Sera sat with her hands in her lap, listening with deep appreciation. But half an hour later, when Madame Castiglione from the music school in Moonstone stepped up to the platform to sing operatic arias, the church had grown so unbearably hot that Sera could not resist slipping out for a breath of fresh air.