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“This is Kingsway,” said Gideon. “You wouldn’t recognize it, would you?”
Our coachman launched into a daring overtaking maneuver to get past an oxcart and a coach like our own. This time I couldn’t help it—the force of gravity flung me against Gideon.
“This guy must think he’s Ben Hur,” I said as I slid back into my own corner.
“Driving a coach is tremendous fun,” said Gideon, and he sounded quite envious of the man on the box. “It’s even better in an open carriage, of course. I’d like to drive a phaeton.”
Once again the coach swayed, and I started feeling slightly nauseated. You needed a strong stomach to ride in one of these. “And I’d like to be in a Jag,” I murmured.
Still, I had to admit that we arrived in Wigmore Street sooner than I’d have thought possible. I looked around as we got out in front of a very grand house, but I didn’t recognize anything about this part of town from our own time, even though unfortunately, like I said, I’d had to go to the dentist more often than I wanted to. But there was a vague sense of familiarity about it all. And the rain had stopped.
The footman who opened the door claimed at first that Lord Brompton was not at home, but Gideon convincingly assured him that he knew that wasn’t true and said that if the footman didn’t take us both to his lordship and his lordship’s visitors at once, he would lose his job that very day. He put his signet ring into the intimidated footman’s hand and told him to hurry up.
“Do you have your own signet ring?” I asked as we waited in the entrance hall.
“Yes, of course,” said Gideon. “Are you scared?”
“No, why? Should I be?” The coach ride had jolted me about so much that I couldn’t think of anything scarier for the moment. But just as he was saying that, my heart began thudding wildly. I couldn’t help thinking of what my mother had said about Count Saint-Germain. If the man really could read thoughts …
I felt my pinned-up hair. It was probably all untidy after that coach ride.
“It looks perfect,” said Gideon with a slight smile.
What was all this about? Did he want to make me feel nervous?
“Our cook at home is called Brompton, too,” I said, to cover up for my embarrassment. “Mrs. Brompton.”
“It’s a small world,” said Gideon.
The footman came running downstairs, coattails flying. “The gentlemen are expecting you, sir.”
We followed the man up to the first floor.
“Can he really read thoughts?” I whispered.
“Who, the footman?” Gideon whispered back. “I hope not. I was just thinking he looks like a weasel.”
Was that by any chance a bit of humor? Mr. High-and-Mighty Time Traveler actually cracking a joke? I gave him a quick smile. (Well, it was worth encouraging the possibility.)
“Not the footman. The count,” I said.
He nodded. “That’s what people say, anyway.”
“Did he read your thoughts?”
“If he did, I didn’t notice.”
With a deep bow, the footman opened a door for us. I stopped. Maybe I should simply think of nothing at all? But that was plain impossible. As soon as I tried not thinking of anything, millions of ideas flooded my brain.
“Ladies first,” said Gideon, pushing me gently through the doorway.
I took a couple of steps forward and then stopped. I wasn’t sure what was expected of me next. Gideon followed me in, and after another deep bow, the footman closed the door behind us.
Three men were looking at us. The first was a stout man who could only just haul himself out of his chair; the second, a younger man with a very muscular build, the only one of the three not to be wearing a wig; and the third was lean and tall, with features just like those of the portrait in the documents room.
Count Saint-Germain.
Gideon bowed, though not as deeply as the footman just now. The three men bowed back.
