Chapter 33
In the end, the plans had come together for Tuesday.
Phipps had agreed to lure Cecily Styles to the room they’d arranged, asking to meet her to discuss matters.
Edmund hadn’t been entirely sure she’d bite, but she had agreed to meet, especially once Phipps had dangled the possibility of a larger payment.
Edmund could not decide if she were supremely confident of her own abilities or desperate for a bit more cash, especially quickly.
They’d had plenty of time to make the arrangements.
Master Benton had met him at the Academy at half-two, with a trunk of materials and supplies.
Edmund had lent his shoulder, though mostly not his own vitality, to the arrangements.
That involved setting up several layers of warding and protection, as well as a charm to ensure that Master Benton and Pen could hear clearly in the smaller back room.
Pen had turned up at four, unsure of her welcome.
Master Benton had introduced himself— as a longtime aide of Edmund’s father— and then explained what he was doing as he went along.
That had involved minor adjustments to most of the furniture.
They’d ended up moving most of it back to the walls.
It was set the way it might be if there was some expectation for a cocktail party or a bit of dancing.
They’d left two chairs and a small sofa nearest the fireplace, along with a low table.
At six, before Edmund went downstairs to wait, Master Benton had handed him two potions.
“The usual, and the other.” Master Benton did not explain the family secrets to Pen.
Obviously that was for Edmund to do, if he thought they needed explaining.
Edmund had just drunk them and handed the vials back.
Master Benton and Pen had taken up seats— comfortable ones— in the smaller back room, to wait.
Edmund was terribly grateful for both of them being there.
If things went as he hoped, additional verification under truth charms might be very helpful.
And if things went badly, well, he was in no doubt about Master Benton’s practical skills in a number of matters.
Papa hadn’t told all of those tales, Edmund was sure of it, but the ones he’d shared about their War had made that competence absolutely visible.
He did not actually see Miss Styles enter, though of course he’d been making sure she’d not glance in and see him waiting. Instead, the owner paused at his table. “Your party has arrived and brought a bottle herself.”
Edmund raised an eyebrow, but nodded. “Thank you.” He left a coin for his own, threading through the growing numbers having a meal or a drink, until he was halfway up the steps. Then he pulled several charms around him. None of them were a pure disguise.
He knew the theory of that, but it wasn’t a skill he was confident in.
Obscuring himself, however, he’d known how to do since he was fifteen.
That bit of magic had been terribly handy with the Army right near Ytene during the war.
It meant Edmund was more than adept at the charm that let the eyes slide off of him.
It would give him just a minute to get in the upstairs room and close the door behind him.
As he felt the door latch, he simultaneously felt the warding spring up around him.
That was also as it ought to be, but he’d been expecting it.
He thought the warding might be subtle enough she wouldn’t realise what was there.
Or at least all of it. Doing this kind of duel with someone of an unknown background was tricky indeed.
But he wanted not to need it. Now, he let the charm on his face drop, saying, “Cecily Styles—” As soon as he said it, he knew it was a name she used but not her proper name, not as the magic counted it. Without much of a gap, he went on, “I’m sure you know who I am.”
“Edmund Carillon.” Her nose wrinkled up. “No Phipps, then?” She said it almost casually. He’d seen that expression on Uncle Alexander’s face often enough, though. And on Mama’s, actually. It was about the refactoring of plans in several directions, given some new and unexpected information.
“Not tonight, no.” Edmund approached cautiously, leaving a fair bit of space between them.
Interestingly, she had not claimed the chair facing the door, where she’d have the best view of whoever was entering.
Instead, she’d settled on the centre of the sofa.
There was more or less enough room to get out on either side, or for someone to join her if they were brave enough.
Edmund chose the chair closest to the door, refusing to focus on the door that led to the back room.
If she charged for the exit, he would at least be physically in the way.
It was interesting what she’d chosen to wear.
Aunt Cassie’s comments over the years meant he was certain that it was an older frock, remade.
And not, he thought, originally hers, there was something about the fit of the shoulders that suggested it had originally been for a woman a little more broadly built.
He could not have explained how he knew that.
It was in his head from all of Aunt Cassie’s murmurs at gatherings or when he visited her shop in Trellech and they had a moment to watch people through the window.
The frock itself was a vibrant blue, with the sort of intensity that made the most of her striking colouring, dark hair and blue-green eyes.
And the jewellery she wore, a single pearl pendant and matching earrings, drew attention to her face.
The drinks were on a tray on the table, and that was interesting. Edmund settled his feet under him— so he could stand and move quickly if called for. “I wanted to speak with you about a matter or two.”
Miss Styles nodded. “I suspected as much when you— mmm.” Her eyes flicked to the door he’d come in from.
“Have a drink, do. We should be civilised, surely. The usual grounds of hospitality.” The liquid in the glasses was amber, the shade of diluted honey with the sun behind it, with a half-empty bottle beside it.
Edmund deliberately leaned over, lifting it. “To a fruitful conversation.” He waited for her acknowledgement and then took a modest sip. “Mead. Your own?”
“A family recipe.” She lifted her own glass and drank a moderate swallow before setting it down. “Not the sort of thing usually served on Oxford’s high street.”
It made him snort. Miss Styles was at ease, despite the fact she had not sought this conversation.
She had not attempted to leave. Those were both interesting details, and they did not add up in the way he had expected.
The way the odds had suggested, at least. There were a number of places he might begin, but he started with the simplest and the most complex. “You are of Albion.”
His own oaths did not grab him. There was not even a hint of it. It told him enough about the answer. “I am.” She lifted her glass slightly. “Not all of us make a show of it.”
“Many people don’t.” Edmund agreed. He certainly hadn’t for two years or so.
His parents didn’t at times, though of course they were as recognisable as he was to anyone who paid attention to that sort of society news.
“And you’re reading what, Miss Styles?” He had actually looked it up, but of course best not to admit to that.
“Modern languages.” She shrugged. “Do call me Cecily.”
Edmund noted it was a particular formation, presenting the name she chose, rather than a more solid identification. “Cecily. And you know I’m called Edmund. Please do. As you say, I hope for a civilised conversation.”
“The question, Edmund,” She leaned into the name a little. “Is why you are here for a conversation at all.”
“Ah. Well. I have something of an interest in the well-being of others at the university. Nothing specific, you understand, not that many of them are from the New Forest.” Where it would be rather more directly his interest. “Though certainly some in those circles are.”
She inclined her head, and leaned forward, shifting on the sofa until she was sitting closer to him, close enough she could reach out and touch him. She hadn’t yet. “That is what they call noblesse oblige, I suppose? They are silly young men. They get into such trouble with no help from me.”
Edmund shrugged once, then sipped again from his drink.
He knew perfectly well she’d put something into it.
Papa had trained his palette in that as much as anything else.
Papa had focused on the wine, and Papa’s two alchemists on everything else.
The question would be what she expected in terms of results.
“Still.” He wanted to draw this out, and see how far she might extend herself without him pressing the matter.
Pressing would come later, if he did this correctly.
“And yet, you’ve not drawn attention within Albion. ”
“No. Besides,” Now she reached to touch his arm lightly, her body inclined and giving him a rather deliberate view of her bosom. “It wasn’t as if you would give me a second look.”
If that was how she wanted to play it, he could play along. “I’ve not had much time for that sort of question.” He shrugged, keeping his own gestures deliberately casual, without showing the effort that took. “A few dances, of course. Not attending draws the eye as much as the dance.”
“With Miss Stirling. Does she know you’re calling on me?” The question had a barb to it.
Edmund had expected that, though, enough that he could show his amusement, take a sip of the mead, and pace his reply. “Ah, Cecily. We do not have the sort of relationship, you and I, where I’d answer that question.”