Heart of Gold (3 page)

Aubrey felt both irritated and pleased. Irritated
because Tallis seemed determined to overlook Aubrey's
part in preventing Dr Tremaine's mad plans, but pleased
that the Special Services chief recognised Caroline's
remarkable talents. Expert markswoman, ornithopter
pilot and naturalist, as well as exceptionally talented at
hand-to-hand combat, languages and dancing – he could
see why Tallis thought she would be an asset.

The Special Services operative outside the ward
saluted Captain Tallis and studied Aubrey closely. Inside,
the sole occupant sat up in his bed and inspected them
quizzically.

'Saltin,' Tallis said. 'This is Mr Aubrey Fitzwilliam. He
was the one who saved you.'

'Fitzwilliam!' Captain Saltin said in accented
Albionish. 'They told me what you did! I owe you my
life! I am in your debt, forever!'

The Gallian had lost his eyebrows in the blaze, but
Aubrey noticed they were already starting to grow back,
thick and black to match his moustache. 'I'm glad to see
you're well.'

'Well? I am alive, a second life you've given to me.
Why would I not be well?' Saltin beamed. 'When I
return to my home, I will tell my wife that we will name
our firstborn child after you. The entire town of Chrétien
will know of your deeds, then the province of Marchmaine,
then the whole of Gallia!'

Aubrey blushed. 'You don't have to do that.'

Saltin went to jump out of his bed, but Tallis restrained
him. 'But I want to,' the Gallian said. 'Aubrey Saltin will
carry your name into the future!'

'How long have you been in the Dirigible Corps?'
Aubrey asked him, eager to change the subject.

Half an hour later, his head was spinning with details
of Gallia's dirigible program. It was only the appearance
of worried nurses that put an end to the airman's
passionate descriptions of water-ballast contingencies
and keel-bracing materials.

Leaving, Aubrey waved from the door. 'Visit me in
Gallia,' Saltin called from his bed. The nurse at his side
tried to thrust a thermometer into his mouth. 'Promise
me you will.'

'I may take you up on that,' Aubrey said, laughing.
'Good luck with the recovery.'

Captain Tallis escorted Aubrey out of the hospital.
'Keep yourself out of trouble, Fitzwilliam, there's a good
chap,' he said at the front door. A bus rumbled past advertising
Evans Cocoa. 'Leave things to us.'

The Oakleigh-Nash rolled up. Stubbs hurried to open
the door for Aubrey. 'Thank you, Captain Tallis.
I always
do my best to stay out of trouble.'

Sitting on the leather seat, Aubrey hummed a little.
The morning had given him much to think about. He
tapped on the glass that divided the passenger compartment
from the driver. Stubbs slid back a pane. 'Sir?'

'Let's go home through Barley Park, shall we, Stubbs?'

'Barley Park it is.'

The pane slid back and Aubrey was left with his ruminations.
Weariness rolled over him and he gazed out of
the window as the Oakleigh-Nash made its way through
Barley Park. Strollers enjoyed the sun, with a few kite
flyers doing their best to catch the light breeze. The
renowned avenue of elms stretched out in front of them.

Like soldiers on parade
, Aubrey thought, and the notion
made him think of the international situation, which, in
turn, made him glum because Holmland was at it again.
Its navy manoeuvres off the coast of Volnya were causing
great unrest on the Continent. Meanwhile, the fractious
states of the Goltan Peninsula were a hotbed of gossip
and rumour that Holmland was watching with delight.

All of this military build-up meant that every nation
on the Continent was nervous. Strong allies were the best
way to keep Holmland away, which explained the desire
of Gallia to cement relations with Albion – one demonstration
of which was the maiden flight of the experimental
dirigible. Brave, plucky, stylish Gallia, Albion's
friend and bulwark on the Continent.

Aubrey smiled.
A perfect place for a holiday.

As the car swung toward the park gates, Aubrey saw a
number of soldiers ambling arm in arm with pretty girls.
He had to admit, their uniforms did look dashing.

The pretty girls made him think of Caroline.

Formidably competent. Utterly presentable. Endlessly
bewildering. Aubrey sat back in the vast leather seat and
spent some time composing appropriate epithets. The
constantly surprising Caroline Hepworth. The agreeably
fascinating Caroline Hepworth. Caroline of the unruly hair.
The unruffled poise. The face that, according to George,
was too symmetrical. Aubrey pictured her in a white coat,
studying a stuffed bird of paradise, trying to decide if it
was a Lesser Superb Fantail or a Greater Superb Fantail
or another species altogether, and he enjoyed the image.

Aubrey had come to know her no better since she'd
helped to thwart the diabolical plans of Dr Tremaine, the
one-time Sorcerer Royal. She had maintained an aloof
attitude toward him that was alternately endearing and
frustrating. Aubrey was not accustomed to having a goal
that he couldn't attain, but Caroline Hepworth was
proving to be more than a challenge.

Aubrey lapsed into brooding, mulling over his various
failings. Most of which he was sure that Caroline had
itemised, but the greatest he'd kept from everyone but
George: he was dead. Technically, at least.

It had been his overconfidence that had led him to
experiment with death magic. When it went awry, his
soul was wrenched from his body and dragged towards
the portal that opened onto the true death. It was only
through improvisation and quick thinking that he'd
reunited his body and soul, but the solution had proved
to be temporary. Magical exertion, such as saving the
Gallian airman, left him weak and exhausted. Since that
massive expenditure of effort, he'd found it hard to sleep
– which only added to his fatigue.

Through experience and necessity, he'd learned how
to hide such effects, but this drained him even more.

The streets of Fielding Cross were quiet. It was an
exclusive neighbourhood of elegant sandstone row
houses, and a few other residences that were set in lavish
gardens, well back from the streets. Stubbs waited for
the uniformed guardsman to open the gates and then he
steered the Oakleigh-Nash into Maidstone.

Aubrey was still unaccustomed to the family home
being guarded; the presence of soldiers was a constant
reminder that his father was now PM and that certain
proprieties must be observed.

He was barely through the door, and had hardly given
his hat to Harris, the butler, when Duchess Maria appeared.

'Grandmother,' he said, but only after examining the
word for its neutrality. He thought it safe enough.

'Aubrey. Good. I need to see you immediately.'

She glided off. Aubrey glanced at Harris, who
managed to look impassive and sympathetic at the same
time. 'The library, I'd say, young sir.'

Aubrey went straight to the library but, somehow, his
grandmother was there well before him. She was seated
in an enormous wing-backed chair facing the door, her
customary position. Aubrey entered warily, but when she
offered her cheek, hope rose in him that this was not
going to be one of her usual interrogations.

Lady Maria was Aubrey's father's mother. She was
tiny, eighty years old, and she looked as if she could last
another eighty. Her hair was silver, but her face had
only traces of wrinkles. Her eyes were a clear, startling
green. She was the custodian of all things Fitzwilliam,
particularly reputation and honour, and she devoted all
her energies to maintaining the family name, through her
vast network of correspondents.

'You're going on a holiday.' Lady Maria eschewed
questions, favouring a more direct approach. Aubrey had
often felt that the Albion army had been deprived of a
great general by the simple fact of her being born female.

'I am, Grandmother. University places won't be offered
for some time yet, and it's been a hectic year.'

'Yes. I believe "hectic" to be an accurate description,
if inadequate.'

'Quite. So a little travel, some idleness, would seem to
be in order.'

'Lutetia, I take it. The City of Love.'

Aubrey managed to stop himself before he gaped. 'I
beg your pardon?'

'It's where I met your late grandfather. My papa was
attending the same peace conference that your grandfather
was. The one that resulted in the Treaty of St Anne.'

'Between Gallia and Albion?'

'Exactly. I was afraid of him at first, with his dreadful
reputation, but it didn't take long before we found out
we shared an interest in roses. He was dashing. A
romantic figure.'

A romantic figure?
Aubrey bit down on an expression of
utter disbelief that would have echoed around the library
if he hadn't. In polite circles, his grandfather was still
referred to as the Steel Duke. In less polite circles –
including on the Continent – he was called the Bloody
Duke, and the name was usually followed by spitting
on the floor. Aubrey found it difficult to imagine this
legendary soldier and diplomat as a romantic figure
interested in roses.

He strove for neutrality again, puzzled as to why his
grandmother was telling him this. 'I see.'

She darted a glance at him. 'I wonder if you do.'

He smiled, but remained silent.

'I have a task for you while you're in Lutetia,' she
continued, rather more briskly. 'One of my correspondents
has let me know that a certain Alphonse Caron has
some items that belong to me. I would like them back.'

'He stole them?'

'He came into possession of them.'

'You haven't asked the police to get them for you?'

She sniffed. 'Gallian police? You may as well ask a cat
to knit a jumper for you. Lovely uniforms, appalling
attention to detail.'

Aubrey had an uncomfortable feeling about this
request. 'And what items am I looking for?'

Duchess Maria glared at him for a moment, just for
practice. 'Some letters. From your grandfather to me.'

Some time later, Aubrey left the library, his mind
awhirl with the City of Love and correspondence
between his grandmother and grandfather. It was a whole
world he'd never considered.

He was on his way to the kitchen to see if he could
find something to eat when the door to the front
drawing room opened. His mother stood there appraising
him. 'Aubrey. At last. I need to see you.'

L
ADY
R
OSE'S DRAWING ROOM WAS AN ECLECTIC RIOT.
Originally, it had been an unimaginative place with
sturdy furniture fit for a battleship. Lately, however, it had
been garnished with gaudy and exotic objects from Lady
Fitzwilliam's many overseas expeditions. Masks, beads,
dried tropical flowers and statuettes had gradually taken
over the room, much as jungle creepers would drape
themselves over any available tree.

Lady Rose entered, frowning. When she reached what
had once been a mantelpiece but now was more like a
sea-shell museum, she turned. 'Sit, Aubrey, sit.'

Aubrey looked around at the various heaps and mounds
of bark paintings, carved gourds and alpaca wool rugs.

'Anywhere, anywhere. Push that grass skirt onto the
floor.'

Aubrey did as he was told. His mother was obviously
after something, for her booted foot tapped and her
fingers drummed on the marble mantelpiece.

'I've lost my assistant,' Lady Rose said abruptly.

Aubrey considered this. 'Well, it was you who arranged
Caroline's place at the University of Lutetia.'

'Yes, yes, and she well deserved it. Professor Lavoisier
will teach her a great deal about modern taxonomy. A
month spent with him will stand her in good stead
for when she goes up to Greythorn.' She gnawed her
lip. Aubrey sat back and admired the way his mother
was so unselfconscious about her beauty. In an age where
women of breeding spent inordinate hours primping,
Lady Rose Fitzwilliam was capable of dazzling any
gathering with her regal profile and her bright blue
eyes – with no effort required.

'And you're going to Lutetia, quite coincidentally,'
she said.

Aubrey smacked himself on the forehead and winced
as he hit his bruise. 'You're right. Caroline will be there!'

'That was appalling, Aubrey. You'd be laughed off the
stage with an effort like that. Or booed off, if the play was
meant to be a comedy.'

Aubrey wondered whether he should protest his innocence
in more strident terms, but he decided a flanking
manoeuvre may be wiser. 'Is there anything I can do for
you while I'm in Lutetia?'

'I'm glad you asked. I want you visit a certain Dr
Romellier, an expert on the flightless birds of the islands
of the southern ocean. He's produced a monograph that
could shake the foundations of modern ornithology.'