Free A Matter of Magic by Patricia Wrede Page A

who is really responsible, there will still be those who believe I was behind it.”
    “I should think the word of the Earl of Shoreham will be enough to put an end to such gossip,” Shoreham said stiffly.
    Kim swallowed an exclamation and pressed herself against the rear wall of the wagon, wishing fervently that she had come out from behind the curtain as soon as Mairelon opened the wagon door. Robbery and intrigue were things she emphatically did not want to get mixed up in, particularly if there were Earls involved, too. The gentry were even more trouble than toffs.
    Mairelon’s laugh had little humor to it. “Nothing stops gossip, Edward; you ought to know that.”
    “If you would just—”
    “Let it lie, Edward. What else do you have to tell me? I assume you didn’t come all this way just to look at the Saltash Bowl and warn me that someone in the Ministry is too free with information.”
    “You’re still determined to go through with this?”
    “Would I be here, like this, if I weren’t?”
    “Oh, very well, then. We’ve finally traced the platter.”
    “And?” Mairelon’s tone was eager.
    “It’s in the hands of one of those new druid cults.”
    “Druid cults?”
    “There’s been a sort of half-baked revival going on for the past year or two. It’s all very fashionable—mistletoe and white robes under the new moon, with little golden sickles for everyone.” Lord Shoreham snorted. “Quackery, all of it; no science at all. It’s the sort of thing that gives magicians a bad name.”
    “Then why did it take you this long to find the platter?”
    “This group has one or two members who dabble a bit in real magic.”
    “I see.”
    “They call themselves Sons of the New Dawn, I believe,” LordShoreham went on. “They’re located in Essex, near Suffolk, at a place called Ranton Hill.”
    “I’m familiar with the area. Edward, if I’m going to Essex, why in Heaven’s name have you dragged me a day’s trip in the opposite direction?” Mairelon demanded.
    “To try and keep unwelcome attention centered in this area. The platter’s been there for at least two years; there’s no reason to hurry.”
    “Mmmm. It’ll take me at least two days to get there now—”
    “Three,” Lord Shoreham said blandly. “I’d rather you went around London instead of through it.”
    “If you insist.”
    “Under the circumstances, I most certainly do.”
    “Very well. Tell me about these druids, then.”
    Kim heard a sound like a sigh of resignation, then Lord Shoreham’s voice said, “There are only about ten members, mostly young men in it for a lark. The three most likely to have the platter are Frederick Meredith, Robert Choiniet, and Jonathan Aberford. I’ve brought a list of the others.”
    There was a rustling noise as the paper changed hands. “That will do, I think,” Mairelon said with some satisfaction. “I’ll leave in the morning.”
    Lord Shoreham cleared his throat. “Ah, there is one other thing. How well do you know the Viscount Granleigh?”
    “I don’t believe we’ve met.”
    “And St. Clair?”
    “The Baron and I . . . have met. Where is this leading, Edward?”
    Shoreham sighed. “I wanted to know whether you were likely to meet anyone who would recognize you.”
    “Then why didn’t you just ask?” Mairelon’s tone was infuriating in its innocence.
    “Richard! The Runners
are
still looking for you in connection with the original robbery, you know.”
    “It’s half the reason I left England. I take it Granleigh and St. Clair are likely to be in Essex?”
    “Possibly. Charles Bramingham is married to St. Clair’s sister, and hisson is St. Clair’s heir. His wife is a bosom bow of Amelia Granleigh, the Viscountess, and is addicted to house parties. It’s not beyond the bounds of probability that you’ll run into them.”
    “I know. I’ve stayed at Bramingham Place a time or two. Don’t go ruffling your feathers about it, it was years ago, and they’re