Glory and the Rake

by Deborah Simmons

  Motioning them away with a gesture, Westfield took the same care with the opening of the case as he had recovering it, using a bent wire to lift the lid. Glory wasn’t sure what he was trying to avoid, but when nothing happened, Thad moved near.

  ‘What is it? Can you tell? Is it a crown?’ her brother asked.

  ‘Miss Thorpe claimed that the gift was a globe belonging to Dr Dee,’ Glory said, trying not to laugh at Thad’s reaction to that unwelcome news.

  But when the lid was raised, Glory could see neither the glitter of gold nor the sheen of crystal. In fact, she thought the box empty, whatever treasure it had once held long looted and sold. However, Thad was visibly impatient to make sure, and after various attempts with wires and hooks proved unsuccessful, Westfield finally reached inside. Glory held her breath, fearful that the lid might suddenly snap shut or crush his fingers.

  However, no calamity ensued, and the duke eventually removed what looked like a packet of letters, setting them carefully aside. They were followed by a sheaf of papers, tied with string that had decayed with age, proving that the materials could date back centuries.

  ‘Maybe those are the original deeds to the well or its surrounding lands,’ Glory said.

  But Thad did not share her sentiment. ‘If buried by Dr Dee, it’s probably a treatise on mathematics,’ he said, his disappointment obvious.

  ‘Papers? Nothing but papers!’

  The words rose into a high-pitched shriek, making Glory start, and she turned to see that Miss Thorpe had roused herself. Staggering wildly, the young woman lunged forwards and might have scattered the ancient documents, if Westfield had not bound her hands, apparently to avoid this very occurrence.

  Surging to his feet, the duke managed to subdue the wailing woman and give her over to his waiting valet, who was able to lead her away. Still, she hailed curses down upon the Suttons because there was no crystal globe, no gift from Dr Dee unless he had left behind a message in the writings that he, perhaps, had penned.

  Apparently curious now, Thad took a look at the pages from the box and shook his head. ‘Whatever it is, it’s not even in English.’

  Westfield walked back to Thad and glanced over his shoulder. ‘It’s not another language, but some kind of encryption.’

  Glory blinked in surprise. ‘You mean it’s written in some kind of code, such as Dee was famous for?’

  Westfield nodded absently as he studied the markings and Glory frowned. Someone, perhaps even Dee himself, had gone to a lot of trouble to bury these documents away from prying eyes and to make sure the secrets within them remained hidden. And he appeared to have succeeded.

  ‘I guess we’ll never know what was so important that it was locked away for centuries at the foot of Queen’s Well,’ Glory said. ‘Maybe we should pack them all up again.’

  ‘Oh, let me have a go at them first,’ Westfield said, eyeing the manuscript that Thad had abandoned. While her brother poked around the box and the hole in which it had been found, as though looking for something—anything—else, Glory watched the duke with interest.

  ‘Are you saying you know how to read such things?’ she asked.

  Westfield shrugged. ‘It’s really not that difficult.’

  ‘A hobby of yours, I suppose,’ Glory said drily. He made no comment, but she did not expect one. For she needed no further confirmation of the theory she had formed while pacing at her brother’s bedside.

  By itself, the ability to decipher secret messages might be unusual, but coupled with Westfield’s other telltale skills, it could only mean one thing: the man was a spy.

  Although Oberon rarely undertook the translation of mysterious documents, he felt fairly confident of his success. Spreading the materials out upon a table Pearson set up in his room, he first looked for any signs that code, the use of pre-arranged words or phrases, was involved. But if the writing dated back to Elizabeth, it was more likely a cipher, the kind used by Dee and others under Sir Francis Walsingham, the founder of England’s first secret service.

  And it was likely a substitution cipher, where different letters or numbers were substituted for the alphabet, a system that could be cracked through frequency analysis. With a knowledge of which letters and groups of letters appeared most often in English, Oberon simply substituted them for the recurring symbols on the pages before him. And while making his replacements, he watched for meaningless ‘nulls’ inserted to thwart decipherment, as well as the possibility of nomenclators or code words scattered throughout.

  It would have been easier to simply ship off the pages to someone who specialised in such things, but they had more important work to do—even though Napoleon was locked away at last. And Oberon felt oddly protective of the materials, which probably had to do with Queen’s Well and therefore would mean something to Miss Sutton.

  He never expected them to mean anything to himself.

  But when Oberon began to transcribe the secrets, he found himself oddly affected. A year ago or even a month ago, he would have discovered nothing in common with a young man from another century, desperately in love with someone he could not have, or a woman whose circumstances prevented her from marrying and having a family of her own.

  Now, as he closeted himself away with the writings, emerging only rarely to eat and sharing nothing of his discoveries, Oberon felt a kinship with those, long dead, who had given up so much.

  And he became determined not to do the same.

  Glory had settled into a routine. Although Miss Thorpe was no longer a threat to the Suttons, Mr Pettit had insisted that they remain at Sutton House indefinitely. And since Westfield was there, as well, Glory didn’t have the heart to move back to the cottage. Besides, Thad was talking about making a home at the cosy residence with his intended bride, who had no interest in leaving her family and friends for London.

  That left Glory unsure of her future, but she made the best of the present. Instead of re-opening the Pump Room just yet, she returned to her place in the library, where she looked for information on Queen’s Well and any clues to the gift secreted beside it, simply for her own enjoyment. She wished that Westfield would join her, but he kept to himself as he pored over the documents they had found.

  Life slowed to moments to be savoured: a sunny afternoon in the garden, a walk with Thad, a game of cards with the duchess and Mr Pettit, and any time spent with Westfield. Her plans for Queen’s Well were put aside while she waited for the duke to report upon his findings. But her eagerness to hear them was tempered by the knowledge that he would not linger afterwards.

  And so when summoned by Westfield to the dining room, Glory felt mixed emotions as she gathered with the others. But she maintained a game face as she took a seat next to Thad, who appeared impatient to get back to the life he had made for himself, his interest in the Gift having waned considerably.

  Unless Westfield’s document led to some buried treasure, her brother was bound to be disappointed. And yet, he was as happy as Glory had ever seen him, maturing into a man prepared to take on the responsibilities of business and marriage. And she felt a sharp surge of pride, which was eclipsed only by the arrival of the duke.

  Although Glory knew she would never grow tired of looking at Westfield, she took special delight in these last opportunities to do so, her gaze lingering over his tall figure, his wide shoulders, the dark hair still in need of a trim, and the face that had grown more expressive of late.

  ‘I’ve called you here because of the mural,’ he said, and Glory reluctantly turned with the others towards the far wall. The room’s heavy curtains had been pulled, illuminating the old painting with a beam of sunlight, but Glory could not see anything new in the fading work.

  ‘Undoubtedly, this was commissioned by the well owners some time after Queen Elizabeth’s last visit to Sutton House, to record for prosperity something of their history that might well be forgotten.’ Westfield paused to draw a deep breath.

  ‘Miss Sutton was most nearly correct in her ass
essment,’ he said, and Glory glanced at him in surprise. ‘For she noted the queen’s hands were empty except for light, which might represent her patronage or approval. However, the beams stand for something far more important: royalty itself—the succession, if you will.’

  ‘But the Virgin Queen chose no successor,’ Mr Pettit said.

  ‘No, but she had one, a son, her own flesh and blood whose birth was kept secret from all except the very few who attended her here.’

  Glory blinked. In her reading, she had come across stories of the queen’s favourites courtiers, possible liaisons, and even hints of such a possibility, but Elizabeth had held firm against such slander. ‘You have proof?’

  Westfield set the old box upon the table, the letters and papers nestled inside. ‘I have the facts that were documented by Dr Dee, to assure the succession, should anything happen to the queen.’

  ‘It seems he hid the facts too well,’ Pettit said.

  ‘Perhaps, or perhaps by the time the good queen died, her son had preceded her or was not a viable possibility,’ Westfield said. ‘Or perhaps those few who knew the truth would spare him such a life.’

  Glory glanced at Westfield in surprise, for, as a duke, he could hardly deny the responsibilities of noble birth, yet his expression clearly showed sympathy for the child whose destiny had been denied him.

  ‘And what of the man who won the heart of the queen?’ Pettit asked.

  ‘He was a minor courtier, who saved some of her messages, unsigned, of course,’ Westfield said, gesturing to the letters. ‘But by both his and Dee’s account, the romance was no casual flirtation.’

  ‘Which would explain why Elizabeth was so happy here,’ Glory said.

  ‘Perhaps that also explains how the waters got such a reputation for inciting romance,’ Mr. Pettit said.

  ‘Or rather, how its reputation became more well known,’ Glory said.

  ‘But the child put at end to all that,’ Westfield said, so soberly that Glory again glanced at him in surprise. ‘Before, they might have met in the middle, though clandestinely, a man of little consequence and his sovereign. But after the birth, the queen’s lover feared for his life and wrote of his plans to disappear to the Continent, rather than be murdered by those who surrounded the throne.’

  Glory frowned at such a bitter parting. ‘And the child?’

  ‘Your ancestor,’ Westfield said.

  ‘What?’ Thad exclaimed before Glory could even form the word.

  ‘He was given over to the owners of the well, the Suttons, to raise as their own,’ Westfield said.

  Mr Pettit and the duchess burst into speech, both amused and awestruck by the fact that Glory and Thad had royal blood flowing in their veins. While Thad made a great show of posturing, Glory remained silent, her gaze drawn to the mural.

  ‘Just think of the excitement this shall cause among royal historians,’ Mr. Pettit said.

  ‘To say nothing of the boost it will give Queen’s Well,’ the duchess said. ‘Miss Sutton, it appears that your success is assured.’

  But Glory shook her head as she turned to face them. ‘I don’t think we should tell anyone.’

  ‘What?’ Mr Pettit appeared surprised by her words, while the duchess only smiled.

  ‘It is their secret, not ours,’ Glory said. ‘I think we should put the documents back where we found them.’

  Glory looked to Westfield for argument, but his nod of approval assured her that she had chosen well, if perhaps not easily, in more than one instance. And in the ensuing quiet, her gaze returned to the mural, where a childless queen held out her empty hands.

  Deep in thought, Glory paid little heed when Thad and the others departed, leaving only Westfield to share the silence with her. Eventually, she heard his footsteps as he walked closer and halted beside her.

  ‘That was quite a story,’ Glory said softly.

  ‘Yes,’ Westfield answered. ‘It’s enough to give one pause, to consider making changes, to seize the day before the opportunity is gone for ever.’

  Glory glanced up at him in confusion, and he looked away, as though at a loss for words, before continuing. ‘I realise now that closing myself off from everyone was unfair to my family, my friends and myself. For while avoiding heartbreak, I also missed out on the joys, both small and great, that make life worth living.’

  Now he had Glory’s full attention, for Westfield rarely spoke of personal matters—or admitted to a mistake. She stared up at him in surprise as he once more turned to face her, his expression intent.

  ‘Miss Sutton, will you marry me?’

  Glory had imagined those words so often that she suspected that she had fabricated them out of whole cloth, a wistful wish to balm her weary heart. Shaken, she rose to her feet. ‘What did you say?’

  Westfield stood with his hands clasped behind him, perhaps because of the seriousness of his query or to keep from reaching for her, an action that would surely affect her answer, if she’d heard him correctly.

  ‘Will you marry me?’ he repeated, his deep voice dropping to a whisper.

  His seductive tone alone was enough to make Glory agree to anything and everything, so she dared not look at the man. Instead, taking a moment to gather her scattered wits, she walked to the tall windows, where the bright sunlight served as sharp contrast to the gloom that lingered in the corners. And she would have no such shadows between them.

  ‘But what of your work for the…War Office?’ Glory spoke lightly, tossing the question over her shoulder, because she did not want to see him lie to her.

  ‘I don’t work for the War Office.’

  Glory turned to face him then. ‘The Home Office?’

  ‘Actually, it’s the Alien Office,’ Westfield said, and Glory felt some of the tension leave her body. At least, at last, he was being truthful with her. ‘I was recruited after my father’s death, and ever since then I’ve been doing some…’

  ‘Spying?’ Glory said.

  Westfield shook his head. ‘Listening, casually questioning, hosting events where certain sorts would feel comfortable and might let slip important information, bringing together those who do the real spying… But I’ve been thinking of retiring.’

  Glory’s heart leapt.

  ‘And what of your work with Queen’s Well?’ he asked.

  Glory smiled. ‘I’ve been thinking of turning it over to Thad.’

  Although Glory didn’t remember moving, somehow she was finally in his arms again, without an impending farewell to colour her joy. And this time, when he kissed her, there was nothing standing between them. Locked in his embrace, the words that they had never spoken spilled forth in heated whispers until the prospect of someone coming upon them made them break apart.

  ‘We can spend quite a bit of time here. It seems I own Sutton House as some sort of premature wedding gift from my mother,’ Westfield said. Eyeing her with one dark brow cocked, he shook his head and warned, ‘Don’t ask.’

  Glory swallowed a laugh before replying with all seriousness, ‘And we can stay in London, as well.’

  ‘Certainly,’ he said. ‘But I would most like to show you the family seat, Westfield, where perhaps we could…meet in the middle.’

  Randolph watched Miss Sutton give her brother a hug and was pleased to see the boy respond in kind. Thad’s brief flirtation with troubles behind him, he seemed to appreciate Philtwell, his family’s heritage and perhaps even his elder sister. The boy’s appreciation for her intended was obvious as he stepped back, shaking his head at the sight of the betrothed couple.

  ‘Who would have thought it upon your first meeting?’ Thad asked. Westfield’s brows shot up, and the three exchanged amused glances as if privy to some shared memory.

  But Westfield’s mother would not be excluded. ‘Once again, the well has proved its worth,’ she said, wreathed in smiles. ‘Despite what you might believe, the waters have worked their magic, Miss Sutton.’

  ‘Please call me Glory,’ Miss Sutton said, wit
h endearing informality.

  ‘Actually, it’s Gloriana,’ her brother pointed out, grinning like a mischievous sibling.

  But the duchess seemed struck far more by his words than his manner. ‘Oberon and Gloriana, just as in The Faerie Queene,’ she said, in a tone of awe. ‘Surely there can be no doubt that the waters have matched wisely.’

  ‘Or that Miss Sutton boasts a long and distinguished heritage,’ Westfield said.

  The young woman blinked, apparently having not made the connection between her rather unusual name and the queen who had once borne it. But then she smiled and turned towards Sutton House, as if in mute acknowledgement of her ancestor. Indeed, the presence of Elizabeth seemed to linger over the residence, despite the changes the years had wrought.

  Having become attached to the place, Randolph was glad he would be returning to hold the house for the Suttons, as he always had. But for now, he joined the duchess in a coach that would take them to Westfield and long weeks of wedding preparations. She had insisted Randolph be given his due as prime matchmaker, and he was looking forward to the festivities.

  He had barely settled into his seat when she squeezed his hand. ‘As a descendant of royalty, she will easily slip into her role as duchess,’ she said.

  ‘If the blood of Elizabeth runs in her veins, I think she can handle anything,’ Randolph said. Even you.

  However, just in case, he carried a little insurance with him. While Letty had been giddy with happiness over the impending nuptials, if she began meddling with her son and new daughter, he had just the thing to distract her. And he wasn’t afraid to use it—on Letty and the first suitable gentleman who came across her path.

  With a sly smile, Randolph patted the pocket of his coat wherein lay the flask Thad had slipped him. After all, you never knew when you might have need of the famous waters of Queen’s Well.

  * * * * *