by Darcy Burke
“As you should be. Ah well, keep at it.” There was a slightly condescending tone to his words, but she was used to that. He didn’t mean to denigrate her work; he just didn’t find it as interesting as the Thirteen Treasures. Which was why Daphne had latched on to finding the cloak. It linked her passion—Morgan—with her father’s—the treasures.
“I read Rhys Bowen’s Elidyr text. I’d hoped to glean some clue as to the cloak.”
Father’s dark brows shot up. “You visited Bowen?”
She nodded. “He was most accommodating. His library is spectacular. Have you ever been?” It was a silly question that she already knew the answer to: no. Her father rarely went anywhere, which she found maddening considering his passion for finding artifacts. He was, however, content to allow others to do the finding for him.
Father shook his head. “Did you read anything else there?”
She wondered if he meant the Anarawd text. “No, there wasn’t time. It was the eve of his son’s wedding, and I didn’t wish to overstay my welcome.”
“Penn?” Father wrinkled his nose. “Pity you were rushed.”
Daphne wondered if her father’s reaction was due to Penn or the fact that she hadn’t the benefit of more time in Bowen’s library. “You don’t care for Penn Bowen? He seemed most pleasant.”
“Penn Bowen and I are often after the same antiquities, and—frustratingly—he usually gets there first. You didn’t mention that you were looking for the cloak, I hope.” His expression tightened as he awaited her response.
“Of course not. I’m not foolish enough to announce to the world that I’m searching for one of the Thirteen Treasures.” They’d discussed the need to keep that objective secret. Too many people wanted to gain the treasures for personal gain. Plus, there was the issue of the Order of the Knights of the Round Table. They kept the treasures safe and didn’t like when people went looking for them, not even members of their own order. Not that Daphne—a woman—would be allowed to be a member. “You’re certain the Order doesn’t know where the cloak is hidden? I find it so strange that they pledge to keep these items safe and yet claim not to know their location. How can they even be certain they exist?”
“You’re aware I can’t discuss the business of the Order with you to that degree.”
No, he could only tell her they didn’t know the location of the cloak and had been searching for it for centuries. Why she thought she could find it when a secret society dedicated to its protection couldn’t was perhaps overly optimistic. And maybe a trifle arrogant.
“I can continue to hope,” she said brightly. “Or maybe I’ll find the cloak, and the Order will be so grateful, they’ll offer me membership.” Now that was beyond optimistic.
And apparently not the least bit amusing to her father, given his deep frown. “They’ll never do that, and I pray you won’t attempt to extort membership in such a devious manner.”
“Of course I wouldn’t.” She’d never even mentioned such a thing. “You can be so paranoid sometimes.”
“I have to be, Daphne. You know that. The Order is my life, and I’m dedicated to its purpose.” He exhaled and flexed his hands atop the arms of his chair. “Let us move to a more important topic. I have found the perfect husband for you.”
Hellfire. He’d done it. She’d no cause to doubt he would, of course, but in the recesses of her mind, she’d hoped he wouldn’t. “You have?” The question came out higher than she would have liked.
“I finally found someone worthy.”
“He’s a descendant, then?” Of one of King Arthur’s knights. She’d known that was the expectation—and she’d exchanged the ability to choose her own husband for the freedom to pursue her research and live somewhat independently until such time as that marriage. Though she was quite old enough now to marry whomever she chose, she was a woman of her word. She would at least see if she and the man her father had chosen would suit.
“Of Gareth, I believe.” Papa’s gaze glinted with triumph. That had been his ultimate goal, but it was difficult to trace Gareth’s line. Until now, he hadn’t been able to find a male of marriageable age.
“How can you be certain?”
“He possesses certain…qualities. And his family is believed to have commissioned the de Valery manuscripts, which means they held the Anarawd text at some point.”
And it was largely accepted that Anarawd had given the poems to Gareth, the last of Arthur’s knights to die.
The evidence seemed circumstantial at best, but further questions were foiled by the arrival of another guest. Daphne heard the door creak as it opened, and her father leapt up from his chair with a wide grin. “Ah, here he is! And garbed in his medieval best.”
“Only because you provided it,” a deep familiar voice responded.
Rising slowly, she pivoted as her father introduced him: “Daphne, allow me to present the Earl of Stratton. Lord Stratton, my daughter, Miss Foliot.”
This was the man her father intended her to marry?
He walked into the study and bowed far more elegantly than he had at Hollyhaven, presenting a muscular leg enclosed in a tight black stocking. He wore a black doublet shot with silver, and a black belt rode his hips. He was, as her father had indicated, resplendent in his attire.
“Good evening, Miss Foliot.” He put just the slightest emphasis on her last name, clearly referencing the lie she’d told at Hollyhaven.
“Good evening, Lord Stratton. It’s a pleasure to see you again.”
“You’ve met?” Her father looked between them.
“Just recently,” Stratton replied. “At Rhys Bowen’s house. Miss Foliot came to use his library.”
Father looked at her sharply, and she knew what he was thinking—that she hadn’t used an alias. She turned her head to the earl and rushed to say, “I apologize for misleading you about my identity. I find it’s easier to travel under the guise of widowhood.” She glanced toward her father, who, by the easing of lines between his eyes, had relaxed.
The earl smiled benignly. “I can imagine.”
“I shall hope your introduction went well,” Daphne’s father said. He looked to Stratton. “I was just going to tell Daphne about you, but I’m afraid your arrival stole my thunder.”
“My apologies,” Stratton said, nodding deferentially toward her father. “I was told you wished to see me as soon as I was ready for the banquet.”
Her father waved his hand. “It’s quite all right.” He turned to the footman who stood just inside the door. “Claret for a toast.”
The footman went to the sideboard where her father kept all manner of spirits and poured three glasses of the red wine.
Daphne’s father pivoted toward her as they waited. “How did your introduction go?”
She shot a glance toward the earl. What could they say? It hadn’t been terribly remarkable. Except for the way her knees had gone soft when they’d met or the thrill that had shot through her when their fingers had touched. Fine, it had been remarkable.
Before she could speak, Stratton answered. “I must admit I was…intrigued. A woman with purpose and intellect is most alluring.”
Her father grinned. “Splendid.” He looked expectantly at Daphne. Was she supposed to say the same thing? And did the earl really mean that? A fluttering in her chest nearly stole her breath.
“I found him most…interesting.” Was that the best she could do?
Yes. She wasn’t going to pretend she’d fallen in love with him the moment they’d met, because she hadn’t. To think her father expected her to marry this man she barely knew…
No, she wasn’t going to make it that easy. Especially when she’d been ambushed like this. Her father may not have intended for Stratton to arrive before he’d told her about him, but he would’ve come shortly thereafter. In either case, Daphne had no time to formulate her reaction into a coherent and thoughtful refusal.
“This is promising,” her father said as the footman delivered claret to them
on a tray. The footman retreated, and her father lifted his glass. “To an auspicious beginning.”
Daphne raised her glass and tapped it to the others. She tried to avoid looking at the earl, but it was impossible. He was like a magnet, drawing her to keep glancing his way. His gaze was absolutely inscrutable, his expression impassive. He stared at her over the top of his glass as he took a drink.
“I suppose we should discuss the expectations for this union,” her father said, returning to his chair. He indicated they should both sit on the settee. “We must go to the great hall shortly.”
Daphne lowered herself slowly to the settee, and once she was situated, Stratton sat beside her. The seat wasn’t overly large, so it was impossible for them to sit side by side without her skirt touching his leg. He was close enough that she could feel his warmth—and be drawn to it.
“I’ll announce your betrothal at the closing banquet.”
Before he could say anything further, Daphne cut him off. “So soon? Surely we should see if we suit.”
“Of course. That will happen during the festival. Plenty of time for you to become acquainted. Rather, better acquainted.” He winked at them, seemingly oblivious to Daphne’s concern. He couldn’t be, however. Though she’d agreed to wed a descendant, she’d also given him the caveat that she had to approve him. He’d understood, but had also made it clear that he’d be careful to select the perfect gentleman.
She slid a glance toward the man at her side. What made Lord Stratton that gentleman, at least in her father’s eyes? “Is that acceptable to you?” she asked the earl.
He pinned her with his gray gaze. “I’m confident we can determine whether we will suit in the next five days.” That told her nothing about whether he wanted to or not. Why would this man agree to wed her? She meant to find out.
“You are both dedicated to Arthur and his legacy,” her father said before sipping his claret. “You’re also quite clever—you’ll get on very well. Furthermore, Stratton is an earl. Or at least, he’s heir apparent. I suppose he hasn’t officially been given the title yet.”
Though they didn’t quite touch, Daphne felt the earl tense. His body stiffened, and there was a slight narrowing of his eyes.
She turned toward him. “Did your father just recently pass?”
“Yes.” His answer was a bit tight.
“I’m so sorry for your loss.” She looked back at her father. “Given that, we should probably wait a respectable amount of time before we wed.”
“I’m sure three weeks will be long enough,” Papa said. “I’d thought to purchase a license so you could wed as soon as you wish, but I suppose we could wait for the banns to be read. I’ll let the two of you decide.”
He’d let them? Daphne could see that in his mind, they were already married. Well, she’d have to disabuse him of that notion later. Wait, why later?
Taking a deep breath, she smoothed her hands flat against her skirts in an effort to ease the anxiety tripping along her muscles. “Papa, let us not get ahead of ourselves. Let us determine if we will suit, and then we can begin discussing wedding plans.”
Her father’s eyes took on a dangerous glint that she was well used to seeing—it signaled a fit of temper was on the horizon. Would he really show it in front of the earl? “Daughter, I am merely laying out the possibilities. I have no doubt your union will come to pass.” The statement wasn’t so much confidence as arrogance and directive.
But would he really force her to marry Gideon if she didn’t want to? He couldn’t—not really. What he could do was turn her out and take away her allowance. She’d always have Hawthorn Cottage, but without her father’s support, she’d be a pauper.
It wouldn’t come to that. Her father loved her, even if he was single-minded. If she really didn’t want to marry Stratton, he wouldn’t demand it.
The earl looked in her direction with a half smile. “We’ll take one day at a time, beginning with tonight’s banquet.”
“Listen to the earl,” her father said. “I told you he was wise.” He’d said clever, but she wouldn’t quarrel with him. “Now, I need to speak with Stratton for a few minutes. We’ll be down directly, my dear.” He stood, punctuating that she should leave.
Stratton also stood. “I look forward to dancing with you later,” he said, offering his hand to help her up.
She didn’t need it but couldn’t seem to stop herself from slipping her bare fingers—her costume didn’t include gloves—into his. “Thank you, my lord,” she murmured. She set her unfinished claret on a table near the settee, then sent her father a brief glance. “Papa.”
As she made her way from the study, she wondered what her father wanted to speak with the earl alone about. Would he extract the man’s promise to ensure the wedding happened no matter what? Or perhaps he had to fulfill whatever bribe he’d offered the man to marry her.
Did she really think her father was that unscrupulous? No, he was old-fashioned in his ideas about securing a marriage for her, and he could be paranoid in his obsession about Arthur and the Thirteen Treasures, but he’d been a kind and supportive father. Especially after they’d lost her mother.
Pushing away unpleasant memories of the distant past, she focused on getting to know the earl. She looked forward to determining if they would suit, plus she wanted to know what he knew about the Order and about the things that mattered most to her: Morgan and the cloak.
She also wanted to know why he’d agreed to this marriage. What could he possibly hope to gain?
But perhaps most of all, she wanted to know why her heart sped when he was close, and what would it feel like if he kissed her?
Gideon watched his potential bride walk from the room, the sway of her hips artfully moving the fabric of her gown as it draped her slender form. She was a beautiful woman, petite, with a delicate frame and pale skin. But her hazel eyes held a fire and her carriage a bold spirit that cautioned one not to discount her based on her size.
He had the sense she wasn’t entirely committed to the marriage, which gave him hope. If she didn’t particularly want the union, perhaps they could avoid it altogether. He’d cling to that thought.
“So you met my daughter already,” Foliot said, retaking his seat.
Gideon sat and sipped his claret. “As Mrs. Guilford. I had no idea she was your daughter.”
“Bowen didn’t either?”
Which Bowen he meant wasn’t clear, but Gideon supposed it didn’t matter. “No. Though they’ll learn soon enough if we are to wed.”
“Yes, that will be unavoidable.” He twitched a shoulder. “I don’t like her traveling under our name. I’m sure you can understand why.”
Because a Foliot inquiring about Arthurian folklore or antiquities would raise eyebrows, particularly within the Arthurian community. He was acknowledged to be a likely member of the Order and, for those who were particularly informed, the leader of the Camelot group, whose objectives were only vaguely suspected. The consensus, however, was that they were not benevolent.
And from everything Gideon had seen, that was true. From theft to kidnapping to murder, there was nothing they wouldn’t do to achieve their ends. Which was why Gideon had to stop them.
“Certainly, I can,” Gideon said, answering the man’s question that hadn’t really been a question. “I admit I’m surprised you allow her to travel at all.”
“She’d find a way to do it. She has a mind of her own, but don’t let that dissuade you from taking her as a wife.”
Despite what Gideon hoped, he feared he wouldn’t be allowed to be dissuaded. Foliot had made it clear he expected Gideon’s cooperation to demonstrate his loyalty. Failure to do so would not end well. Of that, Gideon was convinced.
“I appreciate confident women,” Gideon said judiciously. And truthfully. Rose had possessed a quiet confidence in herself and in those around her. She’d believed in Gideon and his capacity for goodness when no one else had, not even himself.
“Wise man, just as
I told Daphne. Her mother was confident. Independent. Incomparably radiant.” His voice trailed off, and there was a sheen to his eyes that made Gideon lower his gaze and drink his claret.
Foliot cleared his throat and sipped his wine. “Let me get to the heart of why I wanted to speak with you.” He laughed. “The heart.”
Gideon struggled not to roll his eyes. “If you’re asking whether I have it, I do. In my chamber.”
“You left it unguarded?” Foliot’s eyes nearly popped from their sockets.
“No, I asked one of your ‘footmen’ to stand guard.”
Sitting back in his chair with a sharp exhalation, Foliot blinked. “I should hope so. Let us fetch it before the banquet. You should have brought it with you.”
Gideon looked down at his costume. “And where should I have put it? On a chain around my neck so I can advertise its presence? I didn’t realize you wanted me to bring it to you before the banquet.”
Foliot pursed his lips. “Very well. We’ll go now, then. I’m anxious to lock it away in the vault.” He finished his claret and set his empty glass on the small table beside his chair.
Gideon tossed the rest of his wine down his throat and followed his host from the room.
Ashridge Court was a stately country home dating from the late Tudor period. Though refurbished, with two wings added on in the mideighteenth century, Foliot decorated it in medieval and early Tudor fashion, making the house feel older than it really was.
Foliot’s apartments, of which his study was a part, were on the first floor in the center of the house with a view over the back lawns. Gideon’s chamber was located in the east wing, in a corner that afforded him a view of Glastonbury in the distance.
The footman Gideon had assigned to guard his room stood at the door and inclined his head at Foliot as they arrived. Gideon went inside and strode to the dressing area, separated by a screen from the room, where he’d left the heart wrapped in a cloth, which was how Penn had given it to him.
