The fact that he thought in terms of oscillations and not spirits proved he was still his father’s son. “I’ll remind you that I’m not you. Only some of us are single-minded.”
Max snorted. “Fine then, the brute couldn’t read or write, so building was all he could do. Let me know when you find the right date.” Max might not be able to read the lettering, but he knew how to open a vault without bringing the ceiling down on their heads.
“If I’m remembering Roman numerals correctly, this is the oldest section.” Gerard indicated a plate with several names on it—all female if he knew anything of medieval French.
“All right then, let’s see where this goes.” Using chisel and hammer, Max pried at the crumbling seal. “If I see any ghosts, they’d better speak English.”
“If they mean to curse us for interrupting their rest, I’d rather it be in a language I don’t recognize.” Gerard tried not to expect too much.
The manuscripts had been left to the inhabitants of Wystan—currently, that would be his family.
The metal plate clattered to the stone floor. The crypt was so old that little more than a hint of must and dust emerged.
Max grimaced at the black hole. “The honors are yours.”
The lantern light barely reached the interior. Gerard wasn’t wearing his gloves. Preparing himself for a shock, he extended one hand into the opening.
Happiness. Contentment. Singing. Without Iona, he had no real vision. But as other artifacts had, a box spoke to him. He couldn’t hear the words, but he sensed relief and encouragement as he fumbled around among the caskets—until he encountered a square metal box that shouted Yes. Finding a handle, he drew it out, praying it wasn’t a child’s coffin.
“Do we open it here?” Tools in hand, Max studied what appeared to be a small, elaborately embossed brass casket. “I’d hate to take a pile of bones to the ladies.”
Gerard held the box in his palms and shook his head. “This is it. I feel Wystan on it. It’s very strange. I didn’t know Wystan had a feeling until now.”
“It’s called home, old boy.” Max slapped his back. “I knew it the moment I saw Lydia.”
For a man who thought only in terms of duty, who knew the law inside and out, Gerard was torn in two as he carried the box to the great hall. This business of allowing emotion to speak hampered logical decision making.
Just watching Iona sweep in, wearing one of her new dinner gowns, carrying her kitten, looking more like a countess than any beekeeper should, Gerard knew what she would say. It would be the same reaction as all the other ladies of Wystan—of his entire Malcolm family. His own mother would side with Iona.
But he was a practical Ives. The box held the answer to his dreams: a refurbished Wystan, income for travel, a cushion against disaster. Even his family should concede it was more important to protect the Wystan library and provide a home for the women who lived there and had nowhere else to go. He could send Aunt Winifred to her son—
They would never allow him to sell books.
After setting the kitten down to sniff delicately at the treasure, Iona caught his arm and studied the darkened casket. “You found it.”
She said it with confidence. Only she understood that he wouldn’t mistake bones for books. How could he disappoint a woman like that? How could he not? Gerard covered her hand with his filthy one. She didn’t even notice his dirt but kissed his cheek, nicely removing the chill of the grave with a surge of warmth.
The entire household gathered in expectation. Iona made her vaporish twin sit down and pet the kitten. Even Phoebe’s husband appeared from the depths of whatever he’d been taking apart. Servants lingered in the doorways.
Max didn’t wait for permission but slammed a pick into the ancient lock, then stood back for Gerard to open it.
The leather-bound books looked as new as the day they’d been placed inside, centuries ago.
“Oh, my, do we dare touch them?” Iona breathed in delight.
She vibrated with awe. Gerard was learning to interpret his wife’s emotions—a truly terrifying prospect. “I think the Librarian should do the honors. As I understand it, Lydia is a Malcolm from Northumberland, so it was likely her ancestors who created them.”
That was one of the many arguments pounding in his skull. After so many centuries, the Malcolms of Wystan might number in the thousands.
With reverence, Lydia held her hands over the manuscripts, then shook her head. “We need gloves. I know how to tend our journals, but these. . .”
“Are extremely valuable, possibly priceless,” the lanky marquess said with a pragmatism that overruled all the flowing emotions. “The value to scholars alone—”
“For women scholars.” Iona’s quiet wren of a sister spoke decisively.
Since Isobel seldom spoke, Gerard regarded her with curiosity.
“I doubt there are many female art scholars,” Rainford argued. “Why women?”
“Because that’s what the lady says.” Isobel’s eyes rolled back in her head, and she crumpled to the sofa. The kitten licked her lifeless hand.
Iona held Gerard back when he would have gone to help. “No. She’s fine. She’s learned to stay away from sharp objects and sit in soft places. She’s already coming around.”
“She hears voices on objects too?” he couldn’t help asking.
“No, Iona hears spirits. This lady must be exceptionally strong if she’s come back from centuries ago to reach Isobel. I’m almost afraid for us to touch the book. Lydia, are you hearing anything?”
The Calder librarian frowned and shook her head. “It’s not a Malcolm journal. If they’re Bibles, then there is nothing for them to say to me. I think they’re simply treasures for what they can show of us of that era and for the art. The gold leaf alone must have cost a fortune.”
And there it was. Riches untold awaited in that box. Gerard knew the law. Legally, he could defend the argument that they belonged to the inhabitants of Wystan, not their descendants. But Malcolms thought in terms of generations—hence the libraries. The creator of these Bibles wanted them for all Malcolms. At the time, only Malcolms had inhabited Wystan.
“Could we eat first?” he asked in resignation. “I’d like to spend a lovely hour or two imagining gold pouring into my coffers.”
Climbing to her feet with Rainford’s assistance, even Isobel looked sympathetic.
* * *
Days later, Iona flaunted her most fashionable gown, bustle, and petticoats—for a hunting lodge. “Balmoral is draftier than even Craigmore,” she whispered to Gerard.
She could feel the rumble of his laughter, but he dutifully faced his diminutive queen. Even Iona felt tall next to the monarch, but she lacked ruffles and jewels and would never possess Victoria’s regal presence.
“You do not mind that your wife is surrendering her claim to her grandfather’s title and estate, Ives?” the queen asked after the chancellor explained their request.
“No, your majesty. The expense of my own estate is quite sufficient.”
Iona bit back an inexplicable giggle at the queen’s complacent nod. Had her majesty even listened to what he’d said beyond “no”? That the queen had asked Iona’s husband and not Iona if she wished to give up her title had not escaped her.
Dismissing the rest of the affair, Iona studied the lofty chamber of the queen’s vacation home. She felt no loss as Isobel was appointed countess and caretaker of Craigmore. Isobel was her other half, after all, the one connected to the land.
Only when the queen addressed Gerard directly did Iona return to the conversation.
“I have been told you are in possession of a national treasure, Ives. Is this correct? You have uncovered a priceless medieval Bible?”
Iona almost bit off her tongue. They’d spent these last days arguing over what would be best for the relics. They’d even consulted the Marquess of Ashford, Gerard’s father, confidant of the queen—ah, of course. He’d told her.
“We are certa
in the Bible is genuine, Your Majesty, but we are still debating who should be chosen to verify it.”
Iona heard his wariness. Surely the queen could not appropriate personal property?
He was talking Bible, singular. There were two of them.
“A Bible of that significance should belong to all, should it not?” the queen suggested with a hint of steel. “We would find the finest experts to examine it and see it properly tended. It should be on display in the royal collection.”
Iona would like to object, but the Bibles belonged to her husband’s Northumberland side of the family, not her Scots one. And Lydia wasn’t here to present her arguments as a librarian.
“We would be honored if our family treasure could enlighten the minds and souls of many,” Gerard said in his best diplomatic tones. “But it would come at great cost to the women of my family, to whom it was bequeathed. They prize it greatly and wish to learn from it and pass on their knowledge to future generations. You have children of your own, Your Majesty. You’ll understand the desire to improve their souls.”
Oh my. Under that layer of diplomacy, Gerard roiled with so many emotions, Iona feared he’d explode. How could any one man contain so much energy without a sign of it appearing in his voice or features?
Practice—a lifetime of practice. He knew precisely what he was doing. She squeezed his arm in reassurance. His stew of emotions steadied into a scent of. . . determination?
She murmured so only he could hear, “I love you, my lord. You are my heart and soul.”
His arm jolted a little, and then he covered her hand with his while the queen spoke.
“Of course, we are prepared to offer your family free access to the treasure at any time and reimburse you for your loss. There is a marquessate. . .”
Gerard bowed, effectively cutting her off. “If I may, your majesty?”
She gestured irritably. “You will tell me the expense of one marquessate is sufficient.”
Iona stifled a giggle. So, the queen had heard.
“Yes, your majesty. As is the upkeep of Wystan. The ladies there are rightful owners of the book. They are the ones who should be reimbursed, not me.”
The queen sighed heavily and turned to the chancellor. “I believe you have discussed what the royal coffers can afford?”
Iona’s jaw dropped at the sum named.
Thirty
Gerard assisted his flushed wife with rearranging her rumpled travel garments as his new carriage rolled down the rutted drive in the final leg of their journey. His carriage—a wedding gift from the marquess. His father had declared a wife needed one. Then the old nip-farthing had given Gerard his old growler and bought himself a sleek new brougham.
Gerard appreciated the sentiment. The marquess traveled about London and needed to flaunt his position. Gerard was taking up residence in the middle of nowhere and could have lived with a mule-drawn cart.
“I think I can come to appreciate this mode of transportation.” He helped Iona button up her bodice. “Having a wife as travel companion has proved most—enlightening.”
Iona laughed. He loved hearing her laugh. She’d been much too serious for too long.
“I appreciate any transportation at all. And having a husband is most—exciting. Look, the ladies are gathering on the portico!”
“In this gale?” Gerard peered around her as the coach rattled into the courtyard. “There will be no arriving unannounced anymore, will there?”
Strangely, he did not mind. Yes, his tenants were odd, but then, so was he. Now that they had the wherewithal to make improvements, he was eager to make changes—if the women approved. “I don’t think I even mind that you and the others are allowed to question my decisions. I’ll have someone else to blame if the choice is wrong.”
Iona laughed again and kissed his cheek, heating his blood even though they’d just christened the new carriage in satisfying fashion. “Your ancestor prophesies a land of milk and honey. The Bible illustration shows a man surrounded by bees being saved by such a concoction. We may cause harm, but we do strive to repair it.”
“Prophesies are so very illogical. Milk—we should buy more cows? We should fix the roof with leather from the cows and glue it with honey?” He laughed when she poked him for his rudeness.
“Despite all logical sense, I love you,” she declared. “I have not told you enough, I think. I love the way you think. I love your sense of duty. And I love waking up with you in the morning.”
As soon as the carriage door opened, Gerard handed out the kitten’s basket to the post-boy. Stepping out, he reached to lift his wife down. “And I love your sauciness and the way you make me see all sides, even when I know I’m right. And I love it when you. . .” He bent over and whispered in her ear.
She blushed and shoved him away, taking his arm to properly greet Wystan’s inhabitants. Gerard wasn’t worried about this prim reaction. He had learned that his bride was as adept at learning bedplay as she was everything else she set her mind to. She would apply herself to his preference with enthusiasm the instant they retired to his own private tower.
“You brought the Bible?” Little Mrs. Merriweather asked excitedly as they approached.
Iona laughed. “His lordship is bringing enough wealth to fix the roof, improve the chimneys, start another orchard, and give you each a stipend. And you ask about an ancient Bible?”
“Of course.” Aunt Winifred gestured for everyone to return inside, out of the chilly wind. “It was exceedingly generous of the Calder librarian to cede ownership to Wystan. We are isolated here. Malcolms will have to travel some distance to study it. It must have been difficult for her to give it up.”
“We could charge room and board if travelers wished to stay beyond one night,” Mary Mike mused. “That will allow us to refurbish more rooms.”
Gerard chuckled and hugged Iona, who listened with equal amusement if he judged her vibrations correctly. “The beekeeper and I found the lost treasure, so we request our fair share of the reward for repairing the roof first and our share of any profit for improving crops after that. And I demand the deciding vote in any other decision since I’m the one who takes the blame. And why is Ceridwen wailing?”
He liked to establish his authority, but the banshee cry echoed through the halls, disrupting his planned arguments. The wail did not sound quite as mournful as he remembered from earlier.
“She’s weeping in happiness,” Grace decided. “Let us see the book.”
So much for prepared arguments.
Lowell carried in the trunk. Gerard gestured and the valet opened it while the ladies gathered around. “Mrs. Merriweather, if you will do the honors?”
Reverently, the librarian lifted the box from the trunk shelf. “It’s talking to me already,” she said in awe.
Iona looked up at him expectantly. Gerard shrugged, then bowed his head in acknowledgment. “Actually, since we reached Northumberland, the book has not shut up. Our ancestor has a great deal to say.”
Isobel had apparently woken the lady’s spirit, but it was Gerard she’d chosen to enlighten. Now that he no longer had a Roman soldier in his head, he had a harridan who spoke medieval French—if he held the book. He didn’t think he’d do that often.
The women turned their stares to him. “You hear her?” they all asked at once.
There, he’d admitted it to one and all. There was no turning back. He was one of them.
“She’s just one more female scolding me,” he said with nonchalance. “Mrs. Merriweather, I hope you have a nice chat, but please don’t recite all my foibles to her. My first rule is that I don’t follow the orders of dead people. Live ones are more than enough to test my patience.”
Leaving his astonished tenants spewing questions, Gerard swept his giggling wife from the hall and back to the privacy of his suite—and that immense bath designed for two.
“Let’s shed a little travel dust, shall we?” he whispered as she hurried beside him.
“Together?” Her tone was decidedly wicked.
“I don’t think I’ve told you enough—I love the way your mind works.” Reaching the back hall, Gerard lifted her in his arms and carried her over the threshold to his tower.
Her laughter christened the old walls with hope.
And he still had a map to a possible Roman fortress. Who knew, maybe his talent would find more treasure to keep Wystan in good repair for his children and his children’s children.
They’d have a jolly good time finding out.
Characters
Gerard Ives, Earl of Ives and Wystan, heir to Duncan, Marquess of Ashford
Lady Iona (Nan) Malcolm Ross, heir to Countess of Craigmore
Lady Isobel (Belle) Malcolm Ross, Iona’s twin
Jasper Winchester, Marquess of Rainford, heir to Duke of Sommersville
Avery, Gerard’s steward at Wystan
Great-Aunt Winifred, Gerard’s relation, writes articles
Grace, weaver at Wystan
Simone, spiritualist at Wystan
Ceridwen, ghost/banshee
Mrs. Faith Merriweather, Wystan librarian
Mary Michaela Wilson (Mary Mike), lives at Wystan
Ralph Mortimer, Iona and Isobel’s stepfather
Arthur Winter, Iona’s suitor
Lydia Wystan Ives, librarian of Calder Castle
Maxwell Ives, Lydia’s husband
Lady Alice, duplicitous widow
Lowell, Gerard’s valet
Zane, Lord Dare—doctor, professor, viscount
Azmin, Lady Dare—photographer
Lady Phoebe Blair and Andrew Blair—friends of the School of Malcolms
School of Magic Series
Lessons in Enchantment
Book 1 of School of Magic
Can a straitlaced engineer, three psychic children, and a lonely witch find love?
* * *
Entrancing the Earl Page 25
