Ruby Red: Edelstein Trilogie 01 (17 page)

“That’s right, mention yourself first,” I murmured.

“The password?”

Quark edit bisquitis
. Or something along those lines.

“
Qua redit nescitis,
” said Gideon.

Well, I’d had it almost right.

ELEVEN

THE MAN IN THE YELLOW
coat put his sword away. “Follow me.”

Curious, I looked out the first window we passed. So this was the eighteenth century! My scalp began tingling with excitement. But all I could see was an inner courtyard with a fountain in the middle of it. I’d seen it looking just the same before.

We went up more stairs. Gideon let me go first.

“You were here only yesterday?” I asked, intrigued. I whispered it so that the man in the yellow coat wouldn’t hear what we were saying. He was only a couple of steps ahead of us.

“It was yesterday to them,” said Gideon. “To me it’s almost two years ago.”

“Why were you here?”

“To introduce myself to the count, and I had to tell him that the first chronograph had been stolen.”

“I don’t suppose he thought much of that.”

The man in yellow acted as if he wasn’t trying to listen to us, but you could practically see his ears popping out from under the white sausages of hair in the effort to hear.

“He took it better than I’d expected,” said Gideon. “And after the first shock, he was delighted to hear that our second chronograph really was in working order, giving us another chance to end the whole thing successfully.”

“Where’s the chronograph
now
?” I whispered. “I mean at this moment in this time.”

“Somewhere in this building, I assume. The count won’t be parted from it for long. He himself has to elapse to avoid random time traveling.”

“Why can’t we simply take the chronograph back with us into the future, then?”

“For a number of reasons,” said Gideon. His tone of voice had changed. It wasn’t quite so arrogant. More like patronizing. “The most important are obvious. One of the Guardians’ golden rules for the use of the chronograph is that the continuum must never be broken. If we took the chronograph back to the future with us, the count and the time travelers born after him would have to manage without it.”

“Yes, but then no one could steal it either.”

Gideon shook his head. “I can see you’ve never thought much about the nature of time. It would be very dangerous to interrupt certain sequences of events. In the worst case scenario, you might never be born.”

“I see,” I said untruthfully.

Meanwhile we had reached the first floor, passing two more men armed with swords. The yellow man had a brief exchange with them in whispers. What was that password again? All I could think of was
Qua nesquick mosquitoes.
I definitely had to get myself another brain.

The two men were looking at Gideon and me with unconcealed curiosity, and as soon as we’d passed them, they went on whispering. I’d have loved to hear what they were saying.

The man in yellow knocked on a door. Another man was sitting at a desk inside the room, also wearing a wig and colorful clothes. The turquoise coat and flowered waistcoat that showed above the desk were dazzling, and below the desktop, there was a cheerful view of bright red trousers and striped stockings. I’d stopped even being surprised by this kind of thing.

“Mr. Secretary,” said the man in yellow, “here’s yesterday’s visitor again. And he knows today’s password, too.”

The secretary man looked incredulously at Gideon’s face. “How
can
you know the password? We announced it only two hours ago, and no one’s left this house since then. And who is
she
? Women are not allowed here.”

I was going to tell him my name politely, but Gideon took my arm and interrupted me. “We have to speak to the count,” he said. “On urgent business. We’re in a hurry.”

“They came from down below,” said the man in yellow.

“But the count isn’t here,” said the secretary. He was on his feet now, wringing his hands. “We can send a messenger—”

“No, we have to speak to the count ourselves. We don’t have time to send messengers back and forth. Where is the count at the moment?”

“Visiting Lord Brompton in his new town house in Wigmore Street. A meeting to discuss something of the greatest importance. He arranged the meeting directly after your visit yesterday.”

Gideon swore under his breath. “We need a coach to take us to Wigmore Street, then. At once.”

“I can arrange that,” said the secretary, nodding to the man in yellow. “See to it yourself, please, Wilbour.”

“But—won’t we be rather short of time?” I asked, thinking of the long way back through the musty cellar. “I mean, time to get to Wigmore Street in a coach.” Our dentist was in Wigmore Street. The nearest Tube station was Bond Street on the Central Line, but going there from here you’d have to change several times. And like I said, that was on the Tube! I hated to think how long it would take in a horse-drawn coach. “Maybe it would be better if we came back another time?”

“No,” said Gideon, suddenly smiling at me. There was something in his face that I couldn’t quite interpret. A wish for adventure, maybe?

“We still have over two and a half hours,” he said cheerfully. “We’ll drive to Wigmore Street.”

*   *   *

THE COACH DRIVE
through London was the most exciting thing to have happened to me so far. For some reason I’d imagined the city would be very peaceful without any motor traffic—people strolling along carrying sunshades and wearing hats, a carriage now and then trotting by at a comfortable pace, no exhaust fumes, no taxis racing recklessly along and trying to run you down even when you were going over a pedestrian crossing with a green light.

In fact, it was anything but peaceful. It was raining, and even without cars and buses, the traffic was chaotic. All kinds of coaches, carriages, and carts were going along, crowding close together, spraying mud and water from the puddles all over the place. True, there were no exhaust fumes, but the street didn’t smell good—there was a slight smell of decay, and then there were horse droppings and other refuse.

I’d never seen so many horses all at once before. Our coach was drawn by four of them, black and very beautiful. The man in the yellow coat was sitting on the coachman’s box, guiding the horses through the turmoil at breakneck speed. The coach rocked wildly, and every time the horses went around a bend, I thought we were going to tip over. What with that and trying hard not to let the jolting make me fall against Gideon, I couldn’t see much of the London that was passing by outside the coach windows. When I did look out, nothing that I saw, nothing at all, looked familiar. It was as if I’d landed in a totally different city.

“This is Kingsway,” said Gideon. “You wouldn’t recognize it, would you?”

Our coachman launched into a daring overtaking maneuver to get past an oxcart and a coach like our own. This time I couldn’t help it—the force of gravity flung me against Gideon.

“This guy must think he’s Ben Hur,” I said as I slid back into my own corner.

“Driving a coach is tremendous fun,” said Gideon, and he sounded quite envious of the man on the box. “It’s even better in an open carriage, of course. I’d like to drive a phaeton.”

Once again the coach swayed, and I started feeling slightly nauseated. You needed a strong stomach to ride in one of these. “And I’d like to be in a Jag,” I murmured.

Still, I had to admit that we arrived in Wigmore Street sooner than I’d have thought possible. I looked around as we got out in front of a very grand house, but I didn’t recognize anything about this part of town from our own time, even though unfortunately, like I said, I’d had to go to the dentist more often than I wanted to. But there was a vague sense of familiarity about it all. And the rain had stopped.

The footman who opened the door claimed at first that Lord Brompton was not at home, but Gideon convincingly assured him that he knew that wasn’t true and said that if the footman didn’t take us both to his lordship and his lordship’s visitors at once, he would lose his job that very day. He put his signet ring into the intimidated footman’s hand and told him to hurry up.

“Do you have your own signet ring?” I asked as we waited in the entrance hall.

“Yes, of course,” said Gideon. “Are you scared?”

“No, why? Should I be?” The coach ride had jolted me about so much that I couldn’t think of anything scarier for the moment. But just as he was saying that, my heart began thudding wildly. I couldn’t help thinking of what my mother had said about Count Saint-Germain. If the man really could read thoughts …

I felt my pinned-up hair. It was probably all untidy after that coach ride.

“It looks perfect,” said Gideon with a slight smile.

What was all this about? Did he
want
to make me feel nervous?

“Our cook at home is called Brompton, too,” I said, to cover up for my embarrassment. “Mrs. Brompton.”

“It’s a small world,” said Gideon.

The footman came running downstairs, coattails flying. “The gentlemen are expecting you, sir.”

We followed the man up to the first floor.

“Can he really read thoughts?” I whispered.

“Who, the footman?” Gideon whispered back. “I hope not. I was just thinking he looks like a weasel.”

Was that by any chance a bit of humor? Mr. High-and-Mighty Time Traveler actually cracking a joke? I gave him a quick smile. (Well, it was worth encouraging the possibility.)

“Not the footman. The count,” I said.

He nodded. “That’s what people say, anyway.”

“Did he read
your
thoughts?”

“If he did, I didn’t notice.”

With a deep bow, the footman opened a door for us. I stopped. Maybe I should simply think of nothing at all? But that was plain impossible. As soon as I tried not thinking of anything, millions of ideas flooded my brain.

“Ladies first,” said Gideon, pushing me gently through the doorway.

I took a couple of steps forward and then stopped. I wasn’t sure what was expected of me next. Gideon followed me in, and after another deep bow, the footman closed the door behind us.

Three men were looking at us. The first was a stout man who could only just haul himself out of his chair; the second, a younger man with a very muscular build, the only one of the three not to be wearing a wig; and the third was lean and tall, with features just like those of the portrait in the documents room.

Count Saint-Germain.

Gideon bowed, though not as deeply as the footman just now. The three men bowed back.

I didn’t do anything. No one had taught me how to manage a curtsey in a hooped skirt, and curtseying didn’t feel natural anyway.

“I didn’t expect to see you back so soon, my young friend,” said the man I took to be Count Saint-Germain. He was smiling broadly. “Lord Brompton, may I introduce my great-great-great grandson’s great-great-great-grandson to you? Gideon de Villiers.”

“Lord Brompton!” Another little bow. Obviously shaking hands wasn’t the fashion yet.

“Visually at least, I consider that my line has turned out extremely well,” said the count. “I obviously had luck in choosing the lady of my heart. The tendency to a large hooked nose has entirely died out.”

“Now, now, my dear Count, there you go trying to impress me with your tall tales again,” said Lord Brompton, dropping back into his chair. The chair was so tiny that I was afraid it might collapse under him there and then. His lordship wasn’t just a bit plump, like Mr. George—he was really huge!

“But I have no objection,” he went on, with his little piggy eyes twinkling cheerfully. “Your company is always so very entertaining. A new surprise every few seconds!”

The count laughed and turned to the younger, bare-headed man. “Lord Brompton is and always will be skeptical, my dear Miro! We must think a little harder to find some way of convincing him of our cause.”

The man replied in a harsh, clipped foreign language, and the count smiled again. He turned to Gideon. “This, my dear grandson, is my good friend and companion Miro Rakoczy, better known in
The Annals of the Guardians
as the Black Leopard.”

“Delighted to meet you,” said Gideon.

More bows all round.

Rakoczy—why did that name seem familiar to me? And why did the sight of him make me feel so uncomfortable?

A smile curled the count’s lips as his eyes slowly moved down over my figure. I automatically looked for some resemblance in him to Gideon or Falk de Villiers, but I couldn’t find one. The count’s eyes were very dark, and his gaze was penetrating. It immediately made me think again of what my mother had said.

Think! No, don’t!
But my mind had to have something to occupy it, so I sang “God Save the Queen” in my head.

The count switched to French, which I didn’t understand at first (particularly as inside my head I was busy singing the national anthem at the top of my imaginary voice), but which, with some hesitation and leaving gaps on account of my poor command of French vocabulary, I translated as “And so you, pretty girl, are a [gap] of the good [gap] Jeanne d’Urfé. I was told you had red hair.”

Yikes! It was probably a fact that learning vocabulary was actually essential to understanding a foreign language, like our French teacher had always said. And sadly I didn’t know anyone called Jeanne d’Urfé, so I really couldn’t understand what he was talking about anyway.