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Dr. White and Mr. George nodded solemnly by way of an answer.
“Okay, so what sort of a secret is it?”
Mum began to laugh. It was totally out of place, but she laughed with a gurgle, like Caroline when Mr. Bean is on TV.
“Grace!” hissed Lady Arista. “Pull yourself together!”
But Mum just laughed even more. “A secret is a secret is a secret,” she got out between two bursts of laughter. “That’s always the way.”
“Just as I said: hysterical females, the whole bunch of them!” growled Dr. White.
“I’m glad you can see a funny side to all this,” said Mr. de Villiers.
Mum wiped the tears of laughter from her eyes. “I’m sorry. It just suddenly came over me. To be honest, I feel more like crying, I really do.”
I realized that I wasn’t going to get any closer to the nature of the secret by asking questions about it.
“What’s so dangerous about this count that I’m not supposed to meet him?” I asked instead.
Mum just shook her head. She was suddenly deadly serious again. I was getting worried about her. These mood swings weren’t like her at all.
“Nothing,” replied Dr. White. “Your mother is simply afraid you might come into contact with intellectual ideas that don’t agree with her own. But she’s not the one who makes the decisions here.”
“Intellectual ideas,” repeated my mother, and this time it was her voice dripping irony.
“Why don’t we leave it to Gwyneth to decide if she wants to meet the count?” suggested Mr. de Villiers.
“Just for a conversation? Back in the past?” I looked inquiringly from Mr. de Villiers to Mr. George and back again. “Will he be able to answer my question about the secret?”
“If he wants to,” said Mr. George. “You’ll meet him in the year 1782. The count was a very old man then, but conveniently for our purposes, he was making a visit to London. On a strictly secret mission, the nature of which is unknown to historians and his biographers. He spent the night here in this house. So it will be very easy to arrange a meeting between you. Gideon will escort you, of course.”
Gideon muttered something indistinct to himself, in which I caught the words “idiots” and “babysitter.” How I loathed this guy!
“Mum?”
“Say no, darling.”
“But why?”
“You’re not ready for it yet.”
“Not ready for what yet? Why aren’t I supposed to meet this count? What’s so dangerous about him? Oh, come on, Mum, tell me.”
“Yes, tell her, Grace,” said Mr. de Villiers. “She hates all this mystery mongering. I should think it hurts her, coming from her own mother in particular.”
Mum did not reply.
“As you see, it’s difficult extracting any really useful information from us,” said Mr. de Villiers, his amber eyes studying me seriously.
My mum still didn’t say anything.
I could have shaken her. Falk de Villiers was right. All these stupid hints weren’t getting me anywhere.
“Then I’ll have to find out for myself,” I said. “Yes, I want to meet him.” I don’t know what had suddenly come over me, but I no longer felt like a five-year-old who wanted to run home and hide under the bed.
Gideon groaned.
“You heard what she said, Grace,” said Mr. de Villiers. “I suggest you get a taxi back to Mayfair and take a tranquilizer. We’ll take Gwyneth home when we’ve … finished with her.”
