by Cate Dean
“Take a seat,” he waved to the chair Martin usually occupied, “as close to the case as you can get. I’ll be handing items to you while I do some rearranging.” Martin pushed the chair closer and eased himself down, his leg stiff and aching. “All right there, Professor?”
“The cold slows me down a bit. Nothing to worry about.”
Spencer studied him for a few moments, then shrugged and propped the case open. “I know how you ended up with the seal box. How did you meet the man who brought it?”
“Clive? We met when I was still a simple archaeologist.”
Spencer snorted. “You’ve never been ordinary, Professor.”
Martin smiled and leaned back, taking the artifacts as Spencer handed them over, carefully placing them on the floor. “It was May, twelve years ago now. I was in the middle of my own exhibit, at a small, private museum outside York. Clive came up and introduced himself, claiming to be a fan, asking all sorts of questions. I was young, and thought I had found a kindred spirit—until I learned several days later, after the most valuable items had been stolen from the exhibit, that he was a thief.”
“He was—casing the joint?”
Martin chuckled. “You have been watching Maggie’s American television.”
“Slightly addicting.” He smiled over his shoulder. “What happened?”
“Clive was caught, and I went in to identify him. I learned from the local DI that Clive had been arrested several times before, and he specialized in Roman antiquities. My guess at the time was that he stole them for specific clients. The artifacts were never recovered, so he most likely delivered them before he was caught.”
Spencer whistled. “I had no idea that still went on.”
“Acquiring and selling black market artifacts is quite lucrative, for the right individuals. Even someone like Clive could have—”
“Mr. Knight?” A young man wearing the white shirt and blue waistcoat of a museum guide interrupted them. “There’s a package for you downstairs, requiring your signature.”
“Thanks, Nicolas.” He handed Martin the lantern he was holding. “I’ll be back in a few minutes.”
Martin expected the guide to follow Spencer back to the stairs; instead, he wandered over to the case and peered inside. “This is going to be bloody amazing. Oh, sorry Professor Martin.” He glanced over at Martin, his cheeks flushed. “What’s going to be in the empty spot?”
Martin raised an eyebrow, looking at the case. The empty spot Nicolas was referring to would hold the seal box, but at the moment, other items monopolized that space. The boy had obviously seen the case before today.
“As far as I know, everything is here. You would have to ask Mr. Knight, since he is the one in charge of the exhibit.”
“Oh—I thought—” Nicolas hunched his shoulders. “No need to bother him. I was just—I thought if I knew, I could answer questions for—you know, our patrons.”
“Of course.” Martin waited for another question; instead, Nicolas glanced over at him, then walked back to the lift.
Quickly.
He nearly knocked Spencer off his feet trying to get into the lift.
“What the—” Spencer caught himself on the wall, one hand clutching a package. “Did you scare him off, Professor?”
“In a way. He was asking about the exhibit. Specifically, about what was missing from the exhibit.”
Spencer walked over to the display and set the package on top, peering inside. “How did he know there was something missing? The case is a bloody mess.”
“My thought exactly. When I asked him as much, he fled.”
Spencer turned to him. “Clive did warn Maggie that you were in danger.”
“I fear his warning may have been closer to truth than I first thought.” Martin ran one hand through his hair. Clive died trying to get the box to Martin; an act he never would have attributed to the thief. “The seal box is invaluable. Whoever took it from the site originally must be desperate to have it back, if they are recruiting museum staff to ask questions. My suggestion would be to keep it locked away until the last possible moment.”
“Trust me, that’s the plan.” Spencer let out a sigh, and waved at Martin’s leg. “Are you doing all right, Martin?”
His concern—and the use of his name—told Martin he was more worried than he let on.
“I am frustrated, to be honest. But I only have myself to blame. I was injured at the site, and I should have taken better care at the time.” He managed a smile. “Thank you, for giving me the opening to complain.”
“You don’t need an opening.” Spencer grinned. “I will be happy to keep a few secrets from Maggie, since she knows pretty much every part of my life.”
“Thank you.” He was genuinely grateful. Since leaving Oxford, he had few confidantes, aside from Maggie. Her best friend was the last person he expected to confide in. “Anything interesting in the package?” He waved at the box, still sitting on top of the display case.
“It was supposed to be a surprise, but since you’re here, I suppose I can reveal it now.” He pulled a knife out of his pocket and thumbed it open, the sharp blade easily slicing through the heavy tape. Martin was glad to be seated when Spencer pulled out the contents. “They will be for sale in the gift shop, along with the rest of your documentaries.”
He held a DVD of Martin’s in-depth exploration of the Roman occupation.
“I am—” Stunned was the first word that came to mind. “Thank you.”
“Hey—having a local celebrity is good for business. We might as well advertise that you actually do live here.” He winked at Martin, then turned back to the case. “Time to whip this display into shape.” His enthusiasm was infectious. Martin pushed to his feet and limped over, ready to lend a hand. “You up for this, Professor?”
“Absolutely.”
With a wide grin, Spencer clapped him on the shoulder, and they got to work.
Seven
Maggie was thrilled that Martin could join her for the grand reopening of Blakeney Manor, even if the reason was not the one she would have chosen.
She stood with him in the foyer, admiring how he looked in a tux. “We need more excuses for you to dress up. You look so dashing.”
He studied her, amusement in his grey blue eyes. “Dashing? I believe you have been spending too much time around Spencer.”
“No—I came up with that all on my own.” She smiled, then stood on tiptoe and kissed him. “My dashing archaeologist.”
Who knew that nearly running over the popular Dr. Pembroke Martin would lead to this?
“You are quite stunning yourself, love.”
She ran her hands over the skirt of her bright blue dress. “You don’t think it’s too much?”
“Bright colors suit you as much as your untamable hair.” She had managed to wrangle the wild red curls into a neat bun, but she left a few tendrils free, since they would escape anyway. Might as well have them look intentional. “You are perfect.”
He leaned down to kiss her, and paused at the knock on the door. Maggie closed the distance, not caring that someone waited on the porch.
“Thank you,” she whispered, her cheeks flushed from the kiss.
Before she reached the door, Spencer walked in, waving at them. He was dressed in a suit she’d never seen before, and smiling at her. “You look incredible, Mags. Were you just running? Your face is all flushed—” He cut himself off, looking from her to Martin. “Oh—sorry to cut, um, whatever short.” It was his turn to blush. He waved to Martin, changing the subject, and Maggie bit back a smile. “Quite distinguished, Professor.”
“Maggie considers me dashing.”
Spencer raised both eyebrows as he looked at her. “Dashing? That sounds more like me than you.”
She managed not to roll her eyes. “Why do I already feel like I’m outnumbered?”
Spencer grinned, then stepped back and straightened his suit. “What do you think?”
“You look quite das
hing.”
He burst out laughing. “Exactly what I was shooting for. Are we ready? Your coach awaits.”
“Not the van?” She glanced at Martin, worried he might not be able to pull himself up.
“I rented a sleeker conveyance for the evening.” He bowed, gesturing to the front door. “After you, milady.”
Martin offered his arm. Maggie took it, ready to tighten her grip if he needed help, and let him set the pace to the door.
Kit was already with his sitter, a teenage girl who lived down the street, and had come highly recommended. It was her second time sitting with Kit, and he seemed to adore her. As much as Maggie wanted him with them, she would feel better knowing she was available if Martin needed help.
They followed Spencer outside—and Martin halted. She stepped around him, her mouth dropping open.
A long black limousine stood in the driveway.
“Spence—what did you do?”
“What you should have done—acquired a ride suitable for the owner of Blakeney Manor.” He strode over to the back door and opened it. “Come on—we have places to go.”
Maggie let Martin lead her over, and she peeked at the driver’s side as they walked past. A man she didn’t recognize, wearing a dark suit and a bowler hat, sat at the wheel. Spencer must have told him to stay put, since the driver usually opened the door as well.
Spencer helped Martin in first, then turned to Maggie and held his hand out.
“Thank you,” she said, standing on tiptoe to kiss him.
“This an important day. I wanted it to be special.” He lowered his voice. “How is the Professor?”
“Restless. Working with you at the museum keeps him occupied, but I know he’s anxious to get back to the dig site.”
“Is that what you want, Mags?”
“I want him to be happy. But I want him whole and healthy first.”
“He’ll get there, sweetheart. He has you.”
Spencer took her hand and helped her climb in, closing the door behind her. He obviously planned to ride up front, giving them privacy for the ride out to the manor.
“Maggie?” Martin cradled her cheek, and she blinked back the tears that stung her eyes. “What is it, love?”
She smiled at him. “Realizing I’m the luckiest woman in England.”
***
The grand reopening of Blakeney Manor was a huge success.
Hundreds of people waited for the official cutting of the ribbon, which Maggie shared with Ted Bayley. He had taken her vision and turned it into a mansion worthy of her ancestor’s name. After they opened the doors wide, Maggie and Martin wandered around the grounds, admiring the final details neither one of them had seen yet. One day, she hoped Anthea would find her way here, and see the manor she had once loved restored to its original glory.
“This is incredible, Maggie.” Martin kept reaching out to touch details—the curve of the banister, lovingly restored carvings on the pillars that framed the doorway of the formal dining room. “I saw enough to know the manor would be a stunner, but this—Ted is a magician.”
“I call him my personal miracle worker.” She led him to the library, stopping in front of the velvet flocked wallpaper. It looked as beautiful as the day it had been hung, and she knew Ted had found a way to keep it looking fresh and new. “We found this behind some hideous paneling.”
Martin leaned forward to study it. “It is in remarkable shape. I suppose we can thank Arthur Cragmoor for his unfortunate design style.”
She laughed and took his hand. “His love of fake wood saved so many original details.”
Her amusement faded as she thought of the old, cranky owner of what had been Cragmoor Manor.
“What happened to him had nothing to do with you, Maggie.”
She sighed, not surprised that Martin knew the reason for her silence. “If I hadn’t bought the book, or tried to bring it back to him—” She shrugged off the guilt. “I know it wasn’t my fault, but my actions put him in Patrick’s bookshop.”
“He may have ended up there, regardless. Stasia Moody was determined to retrieve those books.” He freed his hand and wrapped his arm around her waist. “I would love to see what magic you wrought in the gardens.”
She managed a smile, leaning into his side. “I would love to show you.”
As they headed out of the library, Martin moving more smoothly than he had in days, Maggie knew, no matter what they faced, they would come out the other side together.
***
Ted Bayley came looking for Maggie, wanting her opinion on some ideas he had, should she decide to turn the manor into a bed and breakfast. Martin shooed her off, more than aware of her passion for the manor.
He wandered the gardens, impressed by the transformation. What had once looked like a wild tangle had become neat, beautifully tended gardens. Each turn of the crushed shell path revealed a fresh view, along with the surprise of a whimsical fountain, or a bench tucked under the shade of a tree, waiting for someone to linger.
His leg gave him the perfect excuse to do so; hours spent on his feet between the museum and here had been too much standing for one day. He limped toward the bench—and froze when he heard leaves rustling behind him.
Instinct shouted at him, and he whirled—just before a figure slammed into him. They flew off the path, hitting the grass and rolling.
Martin ended up on his back. He yanked his cane free and swung it, catching his attacker on the left shoulder. A male voice uttered several curses. Before Martin could escape, a gloved hand ripped the cane out of his grip and pressed him into the ground.
“Where is the box?” The voice was muffled—too much so for Martin to place it. “Answer me—where is the seal box?”
“Somewhere safe.” Pain roared through Martin’s leg. Even if he was able to free himself, he would not get far. “This is not the way to negotiate for it.”
The man stilled, and Martin’s eyes began to adjust to the darkness. A mask covered his attacker’s face, but something about him struck Martin as familiar. If only he could see a bit more—
“I will return for the box. Do not disappoint me again.”
He let go and stood, running deeper into the gardens.
With a groan—and a few curses of his own—Martin sat, looking for his cane. It rested on the crushed path, well out of reach.
Resigned to crawling across the grass—in his best tuxedo, no less—he made his way toward it, his throbbing, useless leg dragging in his wake. By the time he reached his cane, he wanted to stretch out in the cool grass and take a short nap.
Instead, he slowly, painfully pushed to his knees, then to his feet, letting the cane take most of the weight on his right side. He stood in one place for a few minutes, not all that certain he would be able to reach the manor. Not until his leg stopped shaking.
Remembering the bench, he eased around, tightened his grip on the cane, then hopped over to it. Sweat slid down his face before he was halfway. Finally, he reached for the curved, wrought iron arm, gripping the cold metal like a lifeline.
Just as he started to ease down to the bench seat, a glint caught his eye. He made his way along the side of the bench, and stilled when he saw what had drawn his attention.
A body sprawled in the space behind the tree, blood soaking the blue waistcoat, just over the heart. Even without the badge pinned to the waistcoat, Martin would have recognized him.
The victim was Nicolas, the inquisitive guide from the museum.
Eight
Soon after Martin rang Ian, the gardens turned into a crime scene, with at least a hundred spectators.
“Martin!” Maggie pushed through the crowd, running as soon as she spotted him. He still sat on the bench he had stumbled to after finding Nicolas, his leg too wrecked to even consider going any farther. She crouched in front of him and framed his face, her clear blue eyes dark with worry. “Are you all right?”
“I have been better.”
“Who—” She swall
owed. “Who is it?”
“A guide from the museum.” Martin closed his eyes briefly, horrified again by the senseless death. “He was asking questions about the box.” Because of all the noise, he didn’t hesitate to tell her outright. “He should not have known about it.”
“Someone did—and wasn’t happy with his answers. Oh, Martin.” She sat beside him and wrapped her arm around his shoulders. “I wish I’d been here with you.”
“I am relieved that you were not.” He opened his eyes and faced her. “Someone attacked me. Most likely whoever killed him.”
Before he finished speaking, Maggie started running her hands over his arms. “Where are you hurt?”
“Nowhere important. Maggie,” he caught her wrist. “I was knocked to the ground and threatened, nothing more.”
“Your leg—”
“Took a bit of a beating, but will be fine.” Eventually.
“They wanted the box.” It was not a question.
“They did.” He sandwiched her hand, angry that his attacker had spoiled her evening with his greed. “I can’t stay here.”
“Martin.” She searched his face, and he knew she understood he did not mean the manor when tears filled her eyes. “I don’t want you to go.”
“You and Kit will be safer for my absence.”
She let out a sigh, the tears slipping down her cheeks. “I wish I could say you were wrong. You’re going to accept Geoffrey’s offer.”
“It makes the most sense.” He gently wiped at the tears, and held her when she pressed her face against his shoulder. “I will be isolated, with no possible way for an assailant to surprise me.” As long as he did not become too absorbed in his work.
She sniffed, lifting her head. “I guess it would be hard to sneak across an open field. I’m just—I’m so scared for you.”
He gathered her in, wishing Clive had never brought him the bloody box. “So am I, love. So am I.”
Nine
Cataloging the dig proved to be more satisfying than Martin expected.
