I tore myself away.
Where was my self-respect? I felt so embarrassed. I wiped my face with the back of my hand.
“Handkerchief?” he asked, smiling, as he took a lemon-yellow square of fabric trimmed with lace out of his pocket. “No paper tissues in the Rococo age, I’m afraid, but you can have this.”
I was just about to take it when a black limousine drew up beside us.
Mr. George was waiting for us inside the car, his bald patch covered with tiny beads of sweat, and at the sight of him, all the thoughts circling around and around in my head calmed down a little. I was still completely knackered, but that was all.
“We’ve been beside ourselves with anxiety,” said Mr. George. “Oh, my God, Gideon, what happened to your arm? You’re bleeding! And Gwyneth looks distraught. Is she injured?”
“Just exhausted,” said Gideon briefly. “We’ll take her home.”
“No, not yet. We must examine you both, and your wound has to be treated immediately, Gideon.”
“It stopped bleeding a long time ago. It’s only a scratch, really. Gwyneth wants to go home.”
“She may not have elapsed for long enough. She has to go to school tomorrow, and—”
Gideon’s voice took on its familiar arrogant tone, but it wasn’t meant for me this time.
“Mr. George. She’s been gone for three hours. That will be enough for the next eighteen hours.”
“It probably will be,” said Mr. George. “But it goes against all the rules, and then we have to know whether—”
“Mr. George!”
He gave up, turned, and knocked on the window between us and the driver. The glass moved sideways with a soft swish.
“Turn right into Berkeley Street,” said Mr. George. “We’re making a little detour. Number 81, Bourdon Place.”
I breathed a sigh of relief. I could go home. To my mum.
Mr. George was looking at me very gravely. His expression was sympathetic, as if he’d never seen a more pitiful sight. “What happened, for heaven’s sake?”
“Three men attacked our coach in Hyde Park,” said Gideon. “The coachman was shot.”
“Oh, my God,” said Mr. George. “I don’t understand it, but that makes sense.”
“How do you mean?”
“It’s in the Annals—the twenty-fourth of September, 1782. A second-degree Guardian by the name of James Wilbour was found dead in Hyde Park. Half his face was shot away. They never found out who did it.”
“Well, now we know,” said Gideon grimly. “That is to say, I know what his murderer looked like, but I don’t know the man’s name.”
“And I killed him,” I said in a flat voice.
“What?”
“She came up and ran Wilbour’s sword into his attacker’s back,” said Gideon. “Well, we don’t know whether she really killed him.”
Mr. George’s blue eyes were round. “She did what?”
“It was two against one,” I murmured. “I couldn’t just stand there watching.”
“Three against one,” Gideon corrected me. “But I’d already finished off one of them. I told you to stay in the coach no matter what happened.”
“It didn’t seem as if you were going to last much longer,” I said without looking at him.
Gideon didn’t answer.
Mr. George looked from one to the other of us and shook his head. “What a disaster! Your mother will murder me, Gwyneth! It was supposed to be the safest of operations. A conversation with the count in the same house, no risk at all. You wouldn’t for an instant have been in danger. And instead the two of you go halfway around the city and get set upon by footpads.… Gideon, for heaven’s sake, what on earth did you have in mind?”
“It would have been fine if someone hadn’t given us away.” Gideon sounded angry now. “Someone or other must have known about our visit. Someone who was in a position to persuade this man Wilbour to drive us to a meeting place in the park.”
“But why would anyone want to kill you two? And who could have known you would be visiting the count on that very day? None of it makes sense.” Mr. George was chewing his lower lip. “Ah, here we are.”
I looked up. Yes, we really were in front of our house, all its windows brightly lit. Somewhere inside, my mum was waiting for me. So was my bed.
“Thank you,” said Gideon.
I turned and looked at him. “What for?”
“Maybe … maybe I really wouldn’t have lasted much longer,” he said. Another crooked grin flitted across his face. “I think you actually did save my stupid life.”
Oh. I didn’t know what to say. All I could do was look at him, noticing that my silly lower lip was beginning to quiver again.
Gideon quickly brought out his lace-edged handkerchief. This time I took it. “Better mop your face with this, or your mother might think you’ve been crying,” he said.
He meant to make me laugh, but at this moment, that was right out of the question. At least I didn’t burst into tears again.
The driver opened the car door, and Mr. George got out. “I’ll take her to the door, Gideon. I won’t be a minute.”
“Good night,” I managed to say.
“Sleep well,” said Gideon, smiling. “See you tomorrow.”
“GWEN! GWENNY!” Caroline was shaking me awake. “You’ll be late if you don’t get up now.”
I pulled the covers over my head. I didn’t want to wake up. Even in my dreams, I’d known there were dreadful memories waiting for me when I came out of my present blissfully drowsy state.
“Honestly, Gwenny! It’s quarter past!”
I kept my eyes closed, but it was no good. Too late. The memories came rushing in at me like … er … Attila attacking the … er, the Vandals?
The events of the last two days were unraveling vividly before me like a film.
But I couldn’t remember how I wound up in my bed, only that Mr. Bernard had opened the door to me last night.
“Good evening, Miss Gwyneth. Good evening, Mr. George, sir.”
“Good evening, Mr. Bernard. I’ve brought Gwyneth home a little earlier than we planned. Please give my regards to Lady Arista.”
“Of course, sir. Good evening, sir.” Mr. Bernard was as expressionless as ever when he had closed the door behind Mr. George.
“Pretty dress, Miss Gwyneth,” he had said to me. “Late eighteenth century?”
“I think so.” I’d been so tired that I could have rolled up on the rug in the hall and gone to sleep on the spot. I’d never looked forward to my bed so much. I was just afraid of running into Aunt Glenda, Charlotte, and Lady Arista on my way up to the third floor. They’d all pester me with scolding and questions.
“I am afraid the family have already had dinner. But I’ve prepared a little snack for you in the kitchen.”
“Oh, that’s so kind, Mr. Bernard, but I—”
“You want to go to bed,” said Mr. Bernard, and a tiny smile appeared on his face. “I suggest you go straight to your bedroom. The ladies are all in the music room. They won’t hear you if you keep as quiet as a mouse. Then I will tell your mother that you are back and give her the snack to take up to you.”
I’d been too tired even to feel surprised by his caution and his concern for me. I just said, “Thank you very much, Mr. Bernard,” and went upstairs. I had only the vaguest memory of the snack and my conversation with Mum—I’d already been half asleep. I’m sure I couldn’t have made the effort of chewing anything, but maybe it had been soup.
“Oh, how lovely!” Caroline had discovered the dress hung over the back of a chair along with its frilled petticoat. “Did you bring it back from the past?”
“No, I had it on before I went.” I sat up. “Did Mum tell you about the odd thing that’s happened?”
Caroline nodded. “Not that she had to tell us much. Aunt Glenda was shouting loud enough for all the neighbors to hear. Acting as if Mum were a thief who had stolen poor Charlotte’s time-travel gene.”
“How about Charlotte?”
“She went to her room and wouldn’t come out, no matter how Aunt Glenda pleaded with her. Aunt Glenda shouted that Charlotte’s whole life had been ruined, and it was all Mum’s fault. Grandmother said Aunt Glenda had better take a tablet, or she would be obliged to call the doctor. And Aunt Maddy kept on talking about that eagle, the sapphire, the mountain ash, and the clock in the tower.”
“Sounds dreadful,” I said.
“It was actually exciting,” said Caroline. “Nick and I think it’s a good thing you have the gene instead of Charlotte, even if Aunt Glenda says you have a pea-sized brain and two left feet. She’s so rude.” She stroked the shining fabric of the bodice. “Can you put the dress on to show me after school today?”
“Sure,” I said. “But you can try it on yourself, if you like.”
Caroline giggled. “It’s much too big for me, Gwenny. And now you really must get up, or you won’t have time for any breakfast.”
A refreshing shower finally woke me up, and as I washed my hair, my thoughts kept circling around yesterday evening or, more accurately, the half an hour (well, that’s what it had felt like) that I’d spent shedding tears and snot in Gideon’s arms.
I remembered how he had held me close and stroked my hair. I’d been so upset at the time that I hadn’t even thought how close we suddenly were. I felt all the more embarrassed now. Particularly because he’d really been very nice, not like his usual self at all. (Even if it was just because he felt sorry for me.) And yet I had been determined to hate him forever.
“Gwenny!” Caroline was hammering on the bathroom door. “Come on out! You can’t stay in there forever.”
She was right. I really couldn’t stay here forever. I had to come out—into this suddenly weird new life of mine. I turned off the hot tap and let icy water trickle over me until the last of the weariness had left my body. My school uniform was still in Madame Rossini’s sewing room, and two spare blouses were in the wash, so I had to put on last year’s uniform, which was already a little too small for me. The blouse stretched taut over my breasts, and the skirt was slightly too short. Never mind. My dark blue school shoes were also at the Temple, so I put on my black sneakers, which wasn’t really allowed. But Mr. Gilles, the principal, probably wouldn’t go around all the classrooms inspecting dress code today.
There wasn’t time to blow-dry my hair, so I just rubbed it as dry as I could with a towel and then combed it through. It lay wet and straight over my shoulders, not a trace left of the soft ringlets conjured up yesterday by Madame Rossini.
I looked at my face in the mirror for a moment. I didn’t exactly look as if I’d had a good night’s sleep, but it was better than I’d expected. I put some of Mum’s antiaging cream on my cheeks and forehead. It was never too soon to start, my mother always said.
