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Mr. George stopped. “The Florentine Alliance? Who mentioned that to you?”
“No one, really,” I said, sighing. “But now and then, I catch people saying something about it. I was only asking because … well, I’m scared. It was those Alliance guys who attacked us in Hyde Park, wasn’t it?”
Mr. George looked at me gravely. “Maybe, yes. In fact probably. But there’s nothing for you to be afraid of. I don’t think the two of you need fear an attack today. Together with the count and Rakoczy, we’ve taken all imaginable precautions.”
I opened my mouth to say something, but Mr. George got in first. “Oh, very well, or you won’t give me any peace: we do indeed have to assume that in the year 1782 there’s a traitor among the Guardians, maybe the same man who leaked information in previous years that led to the attempts on Count Saint-Germain’s life in Paris, Dover, Amsterdam, and Germany.” He passed his hand over his bald patch. “But that man is never mentioned by name in the Annals. Although the count successfully crushed the Florentine Alliance, the traitor among the Guardians was never unmasked. Your visits to the year 1782 are intended to put that right.”
“Gideon thinks Lucy and Paul may have had something to do with it.”
“There are indeed indications that such an idea isn’t too wide of the mark.” Mr. George pointed to the door of the Dragon Hall. “But there’s no time for us to go into more detail now. Whatever happens, keep close to Gideon, and if you do happen to get separated, hide somewhere you can wait safely until you travel back.”
I nodded. Suddenly my mouth felt very dry.
Mr. George opened the door and let me go first. I could hardly get past him in my hooped skirt. The room was full of people staring at me, and I felt so embarrassed that the blood shot into my face. Apart from Dr. White, Falk de Villiers, Mr. Whitman, Mr. Marley, Gideon, and the unspeakable Giordano, there were five other men in dark suits, with serious expressions, all standing under the huge dragon on the ceiling. I wished Xemerius was here to tell me which of them was the home secretary and which was the Nobel Prize winner, but Xemerius had been sent off on another mission. (By Lesley, not me, but more about that later.)
“Gentlemen, may I introduce Gwyneth Shepherd to you?” announced Falk de Villiers solemnly. It was probably a rhetorical question. “She is our Ruby. The last time traveler in the Circle of Twelve.”
“This evening traveling under the name of Penelope Gray, ward of the fourth Viscount Batten,” added Mr. George, and Giordano murmured, “Probably to go down in history, after this evening, as the Lady Without a Fan.”
I glanced quickly at Gideon, whose dark red embroidered coat really did go very well with my dress. To my great relief, he wasn’t wearing a wig, because all tensed up as I was, I’d probably have burst into hysterical laughter at the sight of it. But there was nothing ridiculous about him. He looked simply perfect. His brown hair was tied back in a braid behind his head; one lock fell over his forehead as if by mistake, cleverly covering up his injury. As so often, I couldn’t really interpret the expression on his face.
I had to shake hands with the unknown gentlemen one by one. Each told me his name (which went in at one ear and straight out of the other; Charlotte was right about my brain capacity), and I murmured something like “How do you do?” or “Good evening, sir,” to each of them. All in all, they seemed a very serious bunch. Only one of them smiled. The others just looked as if they were about to have a leg amputated. The one who was smiling must have been the home secretary. Politicians do more smiling than other people, it’s part of the job.
Giordano looked me up and down, and I was expecting some kind of comment, but instead he just sighed very heavily. Falk de Villiers wasn’t smiling, either, although at least he said, “That dress really suits you beautifully, Gwyneth. The real Penelope Gray would have been glad to look as good as that. Madame Rossini has done wonderful work!”
“That’s true—I’ve seen a portrait of the real Penelope Gray. No wonder she never married and she spent her life out in the wilds of Derbyshire,” Mr. Marley blurted out. Next moment he went bright red and stared at the floor in embarrassment.
Mr. Whitman quoted Shakespeare—at least, I strongly suspected it was Shakespeare. Mr. Whitman was crazy about the man. Something like Oh then, what graces in my love do dwell, that she can make a heaven into hell? “No need to blush, Gwyneth,” he added.
I gave him a cross look. Silly Mr. Squirrel! If I’d gone red before, it was certainly nothing to do with him. Apart from which I didn’t understand the quotation—you could take it equally well as a compliment or the opposite.
Unexpectedly, Gideon came to my aid. “The conceited man overestimates his own deserts,” he told Mr. Whitman in a friendly tone. “Aristotle.”
Mr. Whitman’s smile turned a little tight-lipped.
“Mr. Whitman only meant to say how terrific you look,” Gideon told me, and the blood promptly shot into my cheeks again.
Gideon acted as if he didn’t notice. But when I glanced at him again a few seconds later, he was smiling to himself in a satisfied way. Mr. Whitman, on the other hand, looked as if he was having difficulty suppressing another quote from Shakespeare.
Dr. White looked at his watch. Little Robert was hiding behind his legs, gazing at me wide-eyed. His father looked at his watch. “It’s about time we started off. The priest has a christening at four o’clock.”
The priest?
“You’re not traveling back to the past from the cellars here today,” explained Mr. George. “You leave from a church in North Audley Street instead. That will save you time getting to Lord Brompton’s house.”
“And it will also minimize the danger of an attack on the way there or back,” said one of the strangers I’d met, earning himself a glance of annoyance from Falk de Villiers.
“The chronograph is ready,” said Falk, pointing to a silver-handled chest standing on the table. “There are two limousines waiting outside. Well, gentlemen…”
“Good luck,” said the man I thought was the home secretary. Giordano heaved another heavy sigh.
Dr. White, carrying a doctor’s bag (what for?), held the door open. Mr. Marley and Mr. Whitman took one handle of the chronograph chest each and carried it out as solemnly as if it were the Lost Ark.
Gideon was beside me in a moment and gave me his arm. “Come on, young Penelope, let’s introduce you to the cream of London society,” he said. “Ready?”
No. I wasn’t ready in the least. And Penelope was a horrible name. But I had no choice. I tried to seem as relaxed as possible as I looked up at Gideon. “Ready when you are.”
I vow to be honorable and courteous,
