“And in the fourth place,” Lord Darcy added, “you fancy yourself a detective. Go ahead. What did you find out?”
“Not much,” she admitted. “I found her name easily enough in the Grand Register of the Convention. She’s the only female apprentice listed. The name is Tia Einzig. T-I-A E-I-N-Z-I-G.”
“Einzig?” Lord Darcy lifted an eyebrow. “Germanic, definitely. Possibly Prussian, which would, no doubt, make her a Polish subject.
“The name may be Prussian; she isn’t,” said Her Grace. “She is, however — or was — a subject of His Slavonic Majesty. She came from some little place on the eastern side of the Danube, a few hundred miles from the Adriatic coast — one of those towns with sixteen letters in its name, only three of which are vowels. K-D-J-A-something. She left in 1961 for the Grand Duchy of Venetia and lived in Belluno for about a year. Then she was in Milano for a couple of months, then went on to Torino. In 1963, she came to France, to live in Grenoble. All this came out last year, when her case was brought to Raymond’s attention.”
“Raymond?”
“His Grace, the Duke of Dauphine,” Mary de Cumberland explained. “Naturally, a request for extradition would have to be brought to his personal attention.”
“Naturally.” The sardonic light had returned to Lord Darcy’s eyes, and now it gleamed dangerously. “Mary.”
“Yes?”
“I retract what I said about your being a woman who uses her intellect. The rational mind marshals its facts and reports them in a logical order. This is the first I have heard of any extradition proceedings.”
“Oh.” She flashed him a brilliant smile. “I’m sorry, my dear. I—”
He cut her off. “First, may I ask where you got this information? You certainly didn’t pop off to Dauphine this afternoon and ask your old friend the Duke to let you look at the Legal Proceedings Record of the Duchy of Dauphine.”
“How did you know he was an old friend?” the Dowager Duchess asked. “I don’t recall ever having mentioned it to you before.”
“You haven’t. You are not a woman who parades the names of influential friends. Neither would you call an Imperial Governor by his Christian name alone unless you were a close friend. That is neither here nor there. I repeat: What is your source for this history of Tia Einzig?”
“Father Dominique. The Reverend Father Dominique ap Tewdwr, O.S.B., who was the Sensitive in charge of the clerical commission which the Archbishop appointed to investigate the personality of Tia Einzig. His Grace the Duke asked that the commission be appointed to make the investigation because of the charges that were made against her in Belluno, Milano, and Torino — the requests for extradition, so that she could be tried locally on the charges against her.”
“What were those charges, specifically?”
“The same in all three cases. Practicing sorcery without a license, and…”
“And?”
“And black magic.”
CHAPTER 6
Carlyle House has been the property of the Dukes of Cumberland since it was built, although it is frequently and erroneously supposed that it is a part of the heritage of the Marquisate of Carlisle by those who do not recognize that the names are similar in pronunciation but not in spelling.
Mary, Dowager Duchess of Cumberland — formerly Duchess Consort, née Lady Mary de Beaufort — had been the second wife of the widowed Duke of Cumberland. The Duke, at the time of the marriage, was in his sixties, Lady Mary in her early twenties. But no one who knew them had thought of it as a May-December marriage, not even the Duke’s son and heir by his late first wife. The old Duke, though only remotely related to the Royal Family, had the typically Plantagenet vigor, handsomeness, and longevity. His golden blond hair had lightened over the years, and his face had begun to show the deepening lines of age, but he was still as good as any man twenty years his junior, and he looked and behaved no older. But even a strong and powerful man may have an accident with a horse, and His late Grace was no exception.
Mary, who had loved her husband, not only for his youthful vigor but for his mature wisdom, was a widow before she was thirty.
Her stepson, Edwin — who, upon the death of his father, followed by His Majesty’s confirmation, had become the present Duke of Cumberland — was rather a dull fellow. He was perfectly competent as an Imperial Governor, but he lacked the Plantagenet spark — however diluted — that his father had had. He liked and respected his stepmother — who was only six months his junior — but he did not understand her. Her vivaciousness, her quickness of mind, and especially her touch of the Talent, made her alien to him.
An agreement had been reached. De Cumberland would take care of the duchy, remaining in Carlisle; his stepmother would be given Carlyle House for life. It was all His Grace could do for a stepmother he loved but did not in the least understand.
When Lord Darcy and the Duchess entered the front door of Carlyle House, the seneschal who held it open for them murmured, “Good evening, Your Grace, your lordship,” and closed the door quickly to block out the gray tendrils of fog that seemed to want to follow them into the brightly lit hall.
“Good evening, Geffri,” said Her Grace, turning so that the seneschal could help her off with her cloak. “Where is everyone?”
“My lords the Bishops of Winchester and Carlisle have retired, Your Grace. The Benedictine Fathers have gone to St. Paul’s to chant Evensong with the Chapter; they were so good as to inform me that because of the fog they will spend the night at the Chapter House with their brethren. Sir Lyon Grey is remaining at his room in the Royal Steward tonight. Master Sean O Lochlainn has sent word that he is temporarily indisposed.”
“Indisposed!” The Duchess laughed. “I should think so! He will spend the night in the Tower of London, Geffri.”
“So I have been informed, Your Grace,” said the imperturbable seneschal. “Sir Thomas Leseaux,” he continued, taking Lord Darcy’s cloak, “is in the salon. My Lord John Quetzal is upstairs donning his evening attire and should be down shortly. The selection of hot dishes which Your Grace ordered has been placed upon the buffet.”
“Thank you, Geffri. Oh… I have sent the coach to the Palace du Marquis to fetch Lord Darcy’s luggage. Let’s see… where can we put my lord?”
“I should suggest the Lily Suite, Your Grace. It adjoins the Rose Suite and has a communicating door, making it suitable for the transfer thence of Master Sean’s things, if that will be suitable and convenient for his lordship.”
“Perfect, Geffri,” said Lord Darcy. “When my things have been taken up, let me know, will you? I have not had an opportunity to freshen up since I arrived.”
“I shall see that your lordship is notified immediately.”
“Very good. Thank you, Geffri.”
“A pleasure, your lordship.”
“Come, my lord,” said the Duchess, taking his arm, “we’ll go in and have a drink with Sir Thomas to take the chill of the fog out of our bones.”
As the two of them walked toward the salon, Lord Darcy said: “Who are your Benedictine guests?”
“The older one is a Father Quinn, from the north of Ireland.”
“Father Quinn?” Lord Darcy said musingly. “I don’t believe I know him. Who is the other?”
“A Father Patrique of Cherbourg,” said Her Grace. “A remarkable Sensitive and Healer. You must meet him.”