“He knows we’re here and we know he knows,” Maud had said. “Let’s play this all out in the open.”
“Give them precisely what they expect to see,” added Violet, the theatre magician, “and their eyes will have less chance of straying to look at anything else.”
Jack sent George a bland and hostile smile.
“Polly,” said Lord Cheetham to his wife. “Hawthorn. This is more of a welcoming party than I expected.”
“Leo.” She stepped in to greet him. “Indeed. Let me introduce you to our guests.”
“You see, sir?” said George. “I didn’t want it to be true. However…”
Lord Cheetham’s brows lowered. And there went the hope, which Jack had been trying not to nurture, that he’d have the time and space to explain this entire outrageous situation in a way that his father would understand. He still refused to believe that his father would have been part of this conspiracy from the beginning, condoning the cold-blooded murder of old women. But Lord Cheetham, stubborn and self-righteous Conservative peer, would believe in power being collected and used for the good of all magicians. He might also believe that George Bastoke, the model of strong magic and political acumen, was the right person to wield it.
Perhaps Jack and Polly could still drag Lord Cheetham into the walled garden, with a young medium his father had never met, and try to convince him to listen to the voice of a ghost. Perhaps the earl would even believe them.
In which case he would throw George directly off his land, and the entire conspiracy would go into hiding and try again, in secret, and whatever slim chance there was of thwarting them would vanish into nothing.
“Polly,” said his lordship. “I hardly wanted to believe—sounded so unlike you, when George told me—you do know what these people have done?”
“I invited Miss Debenham up here last week, to help with decorations for the gala,” said Lady Cheetham calmly. “She has a remarkable gift. And Jack’s friends, too—we’ve been quite the cosy little party, and they’ve been invaluable in helping with our preparations. This is Sir Robert Blyth, and his sister, Miss Maud Blyth.”
If anyone knew how to exude well-bred friendliness in a frankly absurd situation, it was Robin and Maud. Even Lord Cheetham murmured something reflexive and shook Robin’s proffered hand.
“The Blyths are not magicians,” said George. “I hardly think their presence at the gala is appropriate.”
“I understand Sir Robert is a valuable unbusheled foreseer for the Assembly,” said Lady Cheetham in tones of surprise. “Surely he deserves to attend.”
Lord Cheetham’s frown was undimmed. George put a hand on his arm. “It makes no difference, sir. I have everything under control. Although,” he added, looking at Jack, “it does surprise me that your little party of criminals is missing its ringleader. Aunt Polly, will you still deny that Edwin Courcey is staying at Cheetham Hall?”
“I will gladly deny it,” said Lady Cheetham. “I haven’t seen Edwin Courcey for years. Shall we go inside, Leo? The staff have so much to do today. And you must be in need of refreshment.”
A flicker passed over George’s face as Lady Cheetham led everyone through the front doors. Jack fell in at his side.
“Left the bulldog in London, did you?” said Jack. “I imagine fancy parties aren’t his cup of tea.”
“He’ll be where I need him to be,” said George, and strode ahead.
Jack had thought the day might drag, but instead it raced. The Hall was a mound of activity and preparation. By late afternoon there’d been so much magic done in the house that the back of Jack’s mouth fizzed.
He dressed early to give Oliver the rest of the evening off, squiring his mother around the party.
“And be careful,” he said. “If anything looks like trouble, you take your mother and leave.”
Oliver was too well trained to ask questions. He knew that trouble was expected and that Jack and the others had something clever planned, and he’d been firmly warned off interacting with Joe Morris. Other than that, Jack wanted him well out of it.
“Yes, my lord.” Oliver delivered a final critical smoothing to the back of Jack’s formal tailcoat. “Have you seen Mr. Ross?”
“No.”
Oliver grinned. “Proud of the job I did on that one.”
Now it was Jack’s turn to firmly squash his curiosity. He went to his own mother’s dressing room and found her almost ready, clad in elegant pale blue with a great deal of black gauze overlay and black lace flowers, with black gloves to the elbow. At Jack’s nod, she dismissed her lady’s maid, saying that her son could help her with her jewels.
Jack lifted the sapphires from their case. Necklace, earrings, tiara. Her wedding present from Lord Cheetham. She turned her back to him obligingly.
“I made a promise to Mr. Ross,” Jack said, looking at the white hair at the nape of her neck and the delicate clasp of the necklace. “I need you to fulfil it, if I can’t.”
He explained about Alan’s family and handed her their address in an envelope; she gave him a look, but took it.
“If things go poorly enough that neither yourself nor Mr. Ross makes it through, I expect to have other matters on my hands. But yes. Of course.”
“You know you don’t have to do anything tonight, Polly. Be a hostess. Focus on protecting the guests and soothing the land if anything happens. Don’t do anything rash. The Hall needs you.”
The look intensified to a Look. “It’s very sweet of you to want to protect me, my dear.”
That was not agreement. Jack thought of her saying, of Elsie, I was her mother. He considered starting the fight about which of them was most allowed to die for the other, and resigned himself to losing it in the same breath. He leaned in to kiss her cheek instead.
He found Alan adjusting glasses on a table set beneath a twinkling string of lights that faded from one colour to the next. Shadows were long and the daylight was beginning to change. The first guests were expected at any time. Everyone had a task, and there was nobody close by.
Jack tapped Alan on the leg with his stick.
“I see you’ve accepted your station in life. And about time too.”
Alan paused, turned, and dropped Jack a vindictive bob. For a beautiful artist’s muse of a young man, he made a rather unfortunate girl. The shortness of his hair was disguised by a white cap, and he blended perfectly, no magic required, into the stream of black-and-white-clad maids who were putting the finishing touches on the preparations.
“If you tell me it suits me,” said Alan, “I will stab you in the throat.”
Jack swept a look up and down the black dress and white apron. “I prefer you in red. You look like an underfed magpie.”