And she had succeeded in capturing his interest. He left the horses and returned to sit under the tree, circling his knee with his clasped arms. "Where was the chateau?"
"Near Chantonnay, in the Vendee. He had a great library, you know. I gather he was something of an Anglophile—he often travelled to London to find volumes. That is how he met my father."
"And so he arranged your mother's marriage?"
"Oh, no, I don't think so. He wasn't so farsighted as that! But my mother knew no one else in England after the Terror. My father must have thought he owed it to his friend to take care of her. Mother always said he married her for her dowry."
"What was that?" Sir John asked quietly, leaning closer.
"She meant it ironically. She had no dowry. Everything was lost in the Terror. Except—"
She saw the silver flash of his eyes, the sudden tension of his body. "You know, don't you? You know about the trunk. Did Mr. Wiley tell you?"
He had the grace to look guilty, but that only lasted a moment. "No, he never mentioned it. The Prince Regent told me about your mother coming here as an émigrée. He said he sent them a Bacon letter as a wedding gift."
Automatically she murmured, "How good of him to remember." Conflicting emotions flooded her. As always, when she thought of her parents, she felt the wrench of loss, of incomprehension. They were unknown to her in so many ways. And she felt betrayed by this man, who withheld so much from her, even as he claimed to be an ally.
But, she thought, clasping her hands tightly around her drink, perhaps she was taking it too personally. She had been keeping much from him, too. It was only politic to test a potential ally before revealing secrets.
She studied him from under her lashes, wondering what else he knew about her family and her collection. "I did not realize that the Regent was aware of my mother's trunk."
Sir John shrugged and looked away. "Is it kept in the vault?"
"Yes. It's always been there."
"What's in the trunk?"
The question came too quickly, betraying him, and he must have realized it. He picked up his drink and assumed a careless expression, but she had already learned what she needed to know. Whatever he wanted from the trunk, he could only hope it was really there. She shrugged, just as he had, insouciant, unconcerned. "I don't know. No one does, as far as I know. It's never been opened."
"Surely there is an index of the contents somewhere."
"I've never seen one. There wasn't one attached to the will, I know that. I don't think that even my father knew what is in it."
Sir John capped his jar of lemonade, shaking his head all the while. "I don't understand your family at all. No catalogue, no index of the contents of the trunk—what if there's a fire? How will you know what to save?" In a sardonic tone, he added, "But then, you shouldn't have time, as you would have to go to the solicitor's office first to get the key. And how do you know that solicitor hasn't been conspiring with Wiley to steal works from the vault?"
Since that was Jessica's worst nightmare, she could only say, "I don't know. I have worried about that myself."
"Without an index, you'll never know. If I had been advising your father—" He didn't finish the thought, but his tone made it clear that they would all have been better off now. "Closing off treasures this way—why did your mother save those works from a conflagration, bring the trunk here, then lock it up for a quarter century?"
Jessica couldn't answer for a moment, torn between her sense of betrayal and her need for an ally. Common sense provided the answer. She couldn't defeat Mr. Wiley on her own. Sir John might have his own aim in this, but as long as it didn't conflict with her own, she would let him pursue it.
And besides, it was her parents' reclusiveness that caused all these problems, when they decided to tie up the collection in legal knots to keep the world away. Sir John was, by comparison, a veritable model of openness.
So finally, haltingly, she said, "My family has never been welcoming of the outside world. I don't know why. I am not that way. But as for the St. Germaine trunk, that was a test for my father, I think. My mother was not one to trust fate or other people. I suppose that was common in those who survived the Terror. She always said that she knew Father had married her to possess the trunk. She meant it jokingly, I'm sure, but she must have thought there was some truth in it. And Father always retorted that the day they were married, the trunk was sealed, and so he had never even gotten a glimpse of the treasures inside. He did love her, I think."
"He must have been mad about her." Sir John didn't sound as if he approved. "For it's madness, sure enough, to lock up—whatever it is they locked up. Are you sure your father didn't know what he was forgoing?"
"Yes. He presumed that it was the best of the collection, but Mother used to tease him, reminding him what an eclectic collector my Grandfather St. Germaine was. Whatever St. Germaine might consider priceless, the world might not agree." Despite the tension that gripped her, she felt the memories course warm through her, and, almost unaware, she smiled. "Father would groan and swear that he would go to the vault and break open the trunk. But he never did. So I think he never knew."
"Your mother must have been bewitching."
Jessica noted his sardonic tone, and wondered if he meant that he would never let a woman bewitch him that way. It would be interesting to test his resolve—but she wouldn't, of course. It would serve neither of their interests. "Oh, she was. I wish she'd have lived long enough to teach me some of her tricks, for she got away with the most outrageous things. And my father liked to speculate about what she was hiding from him. The lost plays of Sophocles! A fifth Gospel!"
"He thought, did he, that it was something lost? Something unknown?" When she was too puzzled to reply, he added, "He didn't speculate that it held another Guttenberg Bible, but an unknown gospel. Not just an early Latin translation of Oedipus, but one of the lost Sophocles plays. That's a signal, don't you think?"
"It's just that he knew more about the St. Germaine method of collecting than anyone else in England. He thought my grandfather was ripe for the plucking by any sharp, because of his predilection for oddities. And he disapproved, in principle. But he must have dreamt all kinds of dreams, imagining what that trunk could hold."
"Ah."
That was the last comment Sir John made for several minutes. He took to staring off into space as if he were silently calculating a string of variables. Jessica began gathering up the crumbs of the meat pie to throw out for birds, glad of the respite to consider what more she should tell.
For the time being, she had not choice but to trust him. But she would have to take care. Any more information about the trunk, he would just have to earn, by working for her purposes before his own.
Finally he broke his silence. "Does Wiley knows what is in the trunk?"
She took off her bonnet and smoothed the satin ribbons, considering this. "Why do you ask? Do you think he wants something from it? Something that might help his case against Shakespeare?" When he only shrugged in reply, she tied the ribbons into a bow, then pulled them loose. Then she looked up at Sir John. "I know that Mr. Wiley was the one who persuaded my father to allow it opened when I inherit."
"What do you mean?"
"After my mother died, my father revised his will. That is when he decided to keep the library closed to new purchases and sales until I was grown. Yet he spoke of leaving the trunk sealed. He picked out 1843 as the date of its opening, fifty years after my grandfather's death. But Mr. Wiley suggested that he make it twenty-five years instead."
"1818."
"Yes. And since the library was to transfer on my birthday that year anyway, Father just appended the disposition of the trunk to the trust conditions." Reluctantly, she added, "I suppose I should be grateful to Mr. Wiley."
Sir John smiled. "Don't strain at that, Miss Seton. I think you are right to think he has his own dreams of what that trunk contains. There are, I understand, conditions on your inheritance
?"
This abrupt change of subject silenced her. Finally, she said, "Just one."
"Your marriage."
Yet another indication that he knew more than he ought about her. He must have spent the last couple days studying up on her life. It would be flattering, if it wasn't so unsettling. "Yes. I must marry before my twenty-third birthday. Next month."
Now he was the one to be puzzled. He regarded her with the concentration he must have applied to a disputed text. "Why not just marry? Are you morally opposed to the institution? A Wollstonecraft disciple?"
She laughed hollowly. "I have nothing against marriage. I would be married six, no, seven times over, had I my druthers." At his confused frown, she added, "Oh, not literally, for that would be illegal, to have seven husbands. I mean that I have received seven proposals that were acceptable to me. But not to my uncle."
"But you are of age—" He broke off, then nodded. "I see. He must approve the marriage. Rather feudal of your father. Of these seven suitors, none suited?"
"They aren't ghastly, if that's what you imagine. They are all gentlemen, and good decent men besides. Some are family friends, in fact. But my uncle—
"His standards are more exacting than yours?"
His tone was neutral, almost silky, but for some reason she took offense. "I know what you're thinking. What everyone thinks. That no woman of any sensibility could truly find seven different men acceptable as husbands. Well, I have no sensibility to speak of. I want what other women want, of course, a husband and children. But I want something more. My collection. I am no romantic, but I would be grateful to the man who helped me secure all that." Fiercely she added, "I would make any one of them a good wife, had I the chance."
"But your uncle will have none of them. Why not?"
"Because—" She gazed down at the napkin twisted in her hands. But she could feel his intense regard on her face. "My Uncle Emory would approve no man but Trevor."
"The sainted Trevor."
His tone was so deeply ironic that despite herself she smiled. "Yes, the sainted Trevor. Father and Uncle both meant me to marry him. That way the collection would remain in the family."
"I'm surprised your uncle doesn't just marry you off to his current heir."
"Oh, our cousin Gerard has been married for decades. He's much older than I. Besides, my uncle's refusal has nothing to do with the collection. He doesn't care about it very much. But my father knew that Trevor did care, and that my uncle would do anything for him. That's why my father had no hesitation putting Uncle in charge of my marriage. But when Papa died, he had no idea that Trevor would take up soldiering." Bleakly she added, "Neither did Trevor, of course. That was Uncle Emory's idea."
"To make a man out of the boy, I suppose."
She glanced up startled. "Precisely. How did you know?"
"I had a father too. Only he thought manhood had something to do with taking over his business. It would have been safer than Waterloo, I suppose." Then, quickly, as if he regretted the personal admission, he said, "So now your uncle is consumed with guilt over his son's death, and determined to make you suffer for it."
It was something she'd thought, of course, but never before put into words. "Yes," she said slowly. "It's as if he thinks that he can have no other son, so I should have no other husband."
"You don't need his permission to marry now."
She shook her head blindly. "That's what Damien said. He was the last one. He said we could just marry without Uncle's permission. But then I would lose the collection."
"You must see that you are very likely to lose it anyway."
"I do see that. I do." She forced some resolve into her voice. "But while I have a chance to change my uncle's mind, I will do whatever I can. If I can discredit Mr. Wiley, perhaps my uncle will be more reluctant to turn the family legacy over to hired hands. Or," she added bravely, "at the very least, another man will be given charge of the library, and it will be made available to scholars. Will you help me? My uncle might listen to you. You are a man, and the Regent's consultant, and neutral in the matter."
He did not answer directly. "Are you prepared to ruin Wiley?"
"Yes."
He regarded her not with censure, precisely, but with interest, as if she posed a particularly intriguing problem. "Really?"
She thought of the poison pen letters, the neglect of the library, the insolent way he denied her the use of her father's collection. "Yes. He would ruin me, if he could. I think he has tried. We are at odds in every way."
Her pronouncement must have sounded vainglorious, because he smiled one of those annoying masculine smiles. "In every way?"
She said, annoyed, "You would hate him too, if he were holding your life away from you and laughing."
The smile faded. "No. I am not one for hatred. If I feel that, it only lasts a moment."
"And what replaces it?"
"Intent." He added, "It is so much more effective."
"Well, then, Sir John," she said deliberately, "what do you intend to do?"
Again he didn't answer. She was learning that he was not one to commit himself. But as he took out his watch and glanced at it, she thought that he would not fail her. He had something at stake too, perhaps merely an altruistic love of Shakespeare, perhaps something more secretive than that.
"We'd best get back before your aunt calls out the watch. And it's coming on rain."
Jessica shook out her skirts and adjusted her sandals. He rose and held out his hand to help her to her feet. Then, absently, he touched an edge of the napkin to his tongue, and applied the wet cloth to the corner of her mouth. It was so intimate a gesture, but so automatic, that she could only accept it as causally as it must have been intended. "You must ordinarily picnic with children! Have you nephews and nieces?"
He looked down at the new gravy stain on the handkerchief and hesitated for just a fraction of an instant. "One of each."
She remembered that Lord Devlyn had a son and a daughter, but only said, "Is it a brother or a sister who gave you these messy relations?"
"A brother." He stuffed the handkerchief back into his pocket. "Dennis. He took over the apothecary shop when my father died, and the house too."
Perhaps this unusual loquacity was meant to divert her from realizing that he had, in a way, disowned another brother, another nephew and niece. But she couldn't say that. It wasn't surprising, she supposed, that he would be close with that scandalous secret.
And it wasn't surprising that he changed the subject. "You have no siblings, have you?"
"No. There was only Trevor. He was my cousin, of course, but we were reared together, like brother and sister."
"And your parents expected you to marry?" He sounded as disapproving as when she confessed that her parents did not make lists. He was not, she realized, very impressed with her family.
"We expected to marry also." She had to pause to strip the defensiveness from her voice. "It's not unknown, you know, in our set, for first cousins to marry. It keeps the family holdings together for generations."
He gathered the remains of their picnic into the cloth and tied it up with quick jerky motions. "Other sets might see that as a strange reason for a marriage, almost incestuous, in fact. But then, I suppose, your set would regard that as a hopelessly middle-class perspective."
And before she could respond, he went off to untie the horses and lead them back to the cartpath. She gathered up the lemonade jars, feeling unjustly rebuked. She had not called him middle class. She was no snob, after all. She had proved that today, coming out with him without even a moment's qualms about his background. She might even admit to finding it exotic.
But he soon regained his composure. As he helped her into the phaeton, he said levelly, "I will help you. I will talk to your uncle, suggesting to him that the Regent or some of my other clients might be interested in my account of the library. If we can get a few hours in the library without Wiley hanging about, we can begin searching."
"For what?"
He didn't answer immediately. But when he had tugged at the reins to get the horses moving down the path, he admitted, "I don't know yet. I just know something must be in there that will help our case."
The anxiety that had plagued her since his cold dismissal of her class vanished. Our case, he said. Jessica still had her ally, one she could trust to be ruthless enough to match Alfred Wiley.
***
As Jessica entered the dining room for supper, she heard thunder roll in from the east and a sudden spatter of rain on the windows. She should have known better than to doubt Sir John's prediction.
She took her seat as the windows rattled from the force of a thunderclap. In the next moment, the room glowed eerily from a lightning flash, then dimmed again. Jessica thought of lightning fires and library destruction, and resolved, as soon as she inherited, to modernize the house's defenses.
Grace was interrupted by another thunderbolt. Aunt Martha shuddered. "And after such a lovely day. You saw no sign of rain, did you, Jessica, when you went on a drive with that Sir John?"
"No, Aunt. But he said there was a storm coming. He's a sailor, you know."
Aunt Martha leaned back to let the footman ladle soup into her bowl. "What an unusual man that Sir John is. Where did you meet him, dear?"
In Aunt Martha's parlance, unusual could mean unacceptable or simply uncommon. Jessica decided that to be safe, she'd best bring in the heavy defensive weaponry. "At a ball at Devlyn Keep. The princess herself introduced us."
"The Princess Tatiana?" Aunt Martha brightened. "Such a charming lady. And Sir John was at her ball?"
"Yes. He's a boyhood friend of Lord Devlyn, I believe."
Her aunt Martha accepted this identification without demur, but Uncle Emory hurrumphed, then went back to his soup. Jessica wondered if he had heard about that other connection between Lord Devlyn and Sir John, but knew better than to ask. Still, she had an inexplicable desire to discuss this enigma of a man, and so she turned back to her aunt, who loved harmless gossip. "He is very discerning, don't you think? He knew right away that portrait of Trevor was from Lawrence's studio."
Poetic Justice, a Traditional Regency Romance (Regency Escapades) Page 10
