David Liss - The Twelfth Enchantment - A Novel

A kindly old gentleman in a spotless white apron smiled at her when she walked through the door. “Can I help you?”

“I hope so,” said Lucy. “What have you for breaking open houses?”

When she had finished her business, the shopkeeper cheerfully wrapped her purchases, and wished her a good day. When Lucy opened the door onto the street, she came face-to-face, much to her surprise, with Spencer Perceval, who had his hand out and was preparing to knock. His handsome face formed an O in surprise, and his slight form took a step backwards.

“Miss Derrick,” he said.

“Mr. Perceval,” she responded. Then, on a whim, she curtsied, because she did not know how one ought to behave in the presence of the prime minister.

He could not help but smile. “I see my warnings have had little effect.”

“I was but looking at some books,” said Lucy, who focused all of her will into not looking like a child caught stealing sweets. “Is that now a crime?”

“Your crimes are none of my concern,” he told her. “However, I wish to make certain you do not interfere with our affairs. Your visit here has nothing to do with the events we spoke of the other night, does it?”

“Of course not,” said Lucy. It never occurred to her not to lie, and it was this facility that made her so good at deception, especially if the man she deceived thought her pretty.

He studied her carefully, ostensibly for signs of dissembling, but Lucy had the feeling he used this examination to look at her because he liked to look at her. Lucy did not think of herself as vain about her appearance, but she knew when a man admired her, and she saw no reason not to use this advantage to keep Mr. Perceval off balance.

“The order cannot tolerate your interference,” he told her. “The next time I see you, I hope it is someplace less suspect than this.”

“I hope so too,” said Lucy. As she walked away, she had the distinct impression she had gotten away with something.

When Lucy returned to Mr. Gilley’s town house, Lucy handed her coat and hat to a servant, went to her room to set down her things, and then proceeded to the parlor, where Mrs. Gilley and Norah were playing cards. Lucy sat near them, with her back to the fire, and opened a novel that happened to be sitting there. Both ladies said hello, and neither asked where she had been or how she had passed her day. The spell had worked flawlessly.

It did not work forever, however. It would last no more than two sunsets, and so that meant when she climbed into Byron’s carriage the next day, she would have to reach Lady Harriet’s estate in Kent—a distance of some fifty miles—discover what she could there without being detected, and return to London before two days had passed. It seemed to her that this should be possible—provided nothing went terribly wrong, but there were any number of things that could go wrong, particularly when one traveled such a long stretch of road in such a hurry, and when one was involved in such risky undertakings as breaking open the house of a wealthy and influential lady, and doing so with a notorious rake.

Lucy collected all she might need for charms she might be forced to make or spells she might have to cast. Most of these she put in a small travel bag, but some she secured in a secret pouch she had sewn in the gown she would wear. She meant to keep emergency provisions in that, and perhaps use it to secure from the world what she did not want the world to see.

Mrs. Emmett declared that she would stay behind to cover Lucy’s absence. The good woman wept at the prospect of being apart from Lucy for two days, but she also insisted that she could not go, though she would not say why. Lucy wanted her there as a buffer against Byron, but Mrs. Emmett would not be persuaded.

Byron collected her in the predawn hours, somehow looking perfectly rested and impeccably dressed, despite the early hour. Lucy had been full of apprehension, afraid that he would attempt something inappropriate the moment she entered the coach, but though he smiled at her and snuck glances at her in the dim light, his behavior was entirely unobjectionable. After the first hour, Lucy began to relax and feel as at ease as she would if they were in the presence of a chaperone.

After they rode in silence for some time, Lucy explained her time limitations, and Byron merely smiled and told her that he would certainly have her back by the hour she desired. And perhaps he meant it, but it also occurred to Lucy that he would not be particularly troubled if he did not. Perhaps he would determine it to be in his best interest that she did not return in time. Once revealed as the sort of woman who would run off with a rogue for two days, she would have nothing to lose by accepting his scandalous proposals. Lucy would be on her guard.

Their conversation at first centered around trivial things, as though they were but two unremarkable people upon an exceedingly unremarkable journey. They talked of the gathering at Almack’s, of some of the people Lucy had met since arriving in town, the sights she had seen, and the plays she hoped yet to see. Byron talked of his forthcoming volume, Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage , which would be published soon, and how many voices had agreed that it was apt to bring him significant attention. He was buoyant and witty, and pleased with Lucy’s company. He was, in short, very much the man whom Lucy found so charming when she first met him in Nottinghamshire and the man she wished he had remained.

“I cannot thank you enough for helping me in this regard,” said Lucy.

“I am happy to offer my help,” he said. “If only because I willingly sold a book to Lady Harriett that I would have been so much happier to give to you as a gift. And yet you seem reluctant to tell me what book it is and why it is so important.”

Lucy sighed. “The affair is complicated, and so unbelievable. Even having seen what you have seen, you would think me mad if I told you the truth. I would think myself mad. I have spoken it aloud only to Mr. Morrison, and it nearly broke my heart to do so.”

“You would tell him what you would not tell me?” He sounded more arch than angry.

“Only out of necessity.”

“Then I shan’t force you,” he said. “But you need not fear for my belief. I have also seen many things. The ghost of my dog, Boatswain, haunts my estate at Newstead, and people think me mad when I speak of it, but that makes it no less true. I would add that I am bound to accept anything that comes from your lips as the absolute truth.”

It was this ease that prompted her. “I had an older sister whom I loved very much, and she died very young. My other sister, Martha, named her first child for her. I cannot tell you what that child means to me, and now she is gone, replaced with a vile thing, a changeling. I know how it sounds, but I have seen it, even if no one else has. The book I seek will give me the knowledge I need to banish the changeling and return Emily to her mother.”

Byron said nothing for several long minutes. “I am sorry that such a book was in my power and that I let it go. I only wish I had known.”

“I did not know until recently. Have you ties to Lady Harriett?”

“Her family is old and established,” said Byron, “and because of my title, I am often in the company of such people.”

“Do you think she would give you what we seek as a favor?”

Byron shook his head. “Lady Harriett does not do favors, and I recall she was curiously eager to buy my collection, which is a poor one. I think she must have known what I had. If she truly wants this book for herself, she will never give it over. Do you have a plan that does not require asking politely?”