Lord Edward's Mysterious Treasure

by Lillian Marek

  “I know you didn’t want me to, but I can ask my father,” Ned said. “It’s the kind of thing he invests in all the time—new methods, new factories.”

  But Tony shook his head. “No, he’s done enough for me. There were all those years you took me home with you for school vacations—he was like a father to me. And when I wanted to study engineering, he convinced my family to let me study in Paris at the Ecole Centrale.” He managed to quirk a smile at that. “My grandfather did so want a proper gentleman in the family, one who went to Oxford and didn’t learn anything. And he was down on France since my own father had died before he could provide my mother with proper title.”

  “Well then, why not let him invest in your factory?” Ned asked.

  But Tony shook his head decisively. “No. I can’t become dependent on him.”

  He pushed himself away from the fireplace. “There’s only one thing for it. We have to find that blasted treasure.”

  “What?” Marguerite protested. “We don’t even know if it really exists.” She waved her hands about as if to shape something. “I’ve been thinking of it as a distraction to keep Delphine occupied.”

  “The old man is convinced that it exists. If we can find it, or find out what happened to it, he’ll provide the funding for the factory. It’s the only solution.”

  Ned looked dubious. “How far have you gotten with the search so far?”

  “Not very.” Tony grimaced.

  “It’s not his fault. We uncover a piece of furniture and start to examine it, and the first thing we know, Delphine has turned it into a little drama.” Marguerite lifted a shoulder. “And I find it simpler to let her do so. I have not been treating it as a serious search.”

  “But I need you to do so. Please, Marguerite. And you too, Ned. Have you found anything in the archives that might give us a hint?”

  “Not yet. I’m not sure there is anything there to find.”

  Tony turned away, looking frustrated.

  “How much time do we have?” Ned asked.

  Tony lifted his shoulders and his hands, suddenly looking very French. “I don’t know…a few weeks, perhaps a month. Yes, we have a little more than a month—until the first of the year—to come up with the rest of the money for the site.”

  “All right then,” said Ned. “We need to go about this more systematically. In the mornings, I will work on the archives, and Marguerite, you will work on your music.” Tony started to protest, but Ned cut him off. “No, she must have time at the piano. You can use the mornings to make a plan of the rooms and note any furniture that should be searched. Then in the afternoons we can proceed methodically, crossing things off as we complete the search.”

  Marguerite stared at Ned. He had realized that she needed time at the piano? Only her father had realized that. Even Tante Héloise did not truly understand.

  Ned was looking at her with a worried expression. “Is that manageable? Can you spare the afternoons for the search?”

  Her throat had dried up, and she was unable to move her mouth, so she nodded. She must have looked like some sort of idiot, sitting there bobbing her head, because his worried expression didn’t go away. She tried a smile. It must have worked, because his expression eased.

  “Afternoons. Only afternoons.” Tony was grumbling to himself quite audibly. He took out his cigarette case and struck a match to light another. He inhaled deeply and blew the smoke out in a slow stream. “It would be a damned sight easier if I had some idea what the size of this thing is. A thimble? A horse?”

  “A horse would be difficult to hide.” Ned looked relieved to have a chance to smile. “And I doubt an elderly priest would be able to carry anything too big.”

  Tony was too busy thinking to be amused. “The walls. Most of them are paneled, so there could be a secret compartment. We haven’t checked the walls at all, so even the rooms we’ve looked at have to be looked at again. I’ll start in the morning as soon as it’s light.” He discarded the cigarette in the fireplace and left, too deep in thought to bother saying good-bye.

  Marguerite barely noticed. She was still trying to come to terms with the fact that Ned thought her time at the piano was more important than the search for the treasure. Tony was his friend, had been his friend for a long time, and needed the treasure for his steel factory. Despite that, Ned thought her music was more important.

  He had put her first. Her desires, her needs came first.

  No one had ever put her first before. Papa had understood about the music, but of course his own music came first. And Mama had always put Papa’s music ahead of everything.

  She was very near to crying. Now, wouldn’t that be ridiculous? She didn’t cry. No matter what happened, she didn’t cry. Tears were for the likes of Delphine, who could bring up tears whenever she wished. Tears were for those who expected someone to come to the rescue, not for those who had to save others.

  Except…except Ned had come to her rescue. Tony would have expected her to devote all her time to the search, and she would have had to fight for time for herself. He would have been angry and no one would understand that she needed that time to practice. She needed music.

  It had not been necessary to explain that to Ned. He understood.

  She could feel him beside her on the sofa. He was not close enough to be actually touching, but close enough for her to feel the warmth of him. It wasn’t a physical warmth, or at least it wasn’t entirely a physical warmth. But somehow, his being there wrapped her in comfort and safety.

  Delphine showed renewed interest in the search. The problem was that what she wanted to do was dress up in the gowns and direct the rest of them. Tony found this exasperating, and Marguerite had her hands full keeping the peace.

  She pointed out that even if Delphine stood by while the others searched, the beautiful gowns with their elaborate embroideries and intricate flounces would get hopelessly soiled. This Delphine could see would be most undesirable. She consented to wear her usual gowns and even to cover herself with an apron.

  “One would not wish to cause excessive work for the servants, is that not so?” Delphine smiled sweetly.

  Marguerite never quite trusted Delphine’s sweetness, but she agreed.

  Of course, Delphine could not be expected to work in silence, so before they had finished tapping even half the panels in the first room, Delphine had begun to chatter about the way it would be decorated once the treasure was found.

  Tony, like the idiot he could be, refused to ignore her.

  “You’re being ridiculous,” he told her. “If there is a treasure, it would be idiotic to waste it on restoring this pretentious pile. The old man and your relatives have spent far too much time living in the past. It’s high time to think about the future.”

  Marguerite groaned.

  Delphine’s head snapped up. “What are you saying? You cannot mean you would use the treasure for your factory.”

  “Of course. My factory and others like it will give France and its people a future.”

  “But a factory is ugly.” Delphine looked horrified.

  Her reaction simply made Tony grin. “It will not look ugly to the people who work there when it means they can earn a decent living.”

  Fortunately, Tony then turned away to peer down another corridor, so he did not see the look of venom Delphine sent after him. Marguerite was able to get a good grip on the girl, preventing her from flying at him.

  Penworth Castle

  When Lady Penworth came into the breakfast room, her husband was already picking an envelope out of the mail. This one had a French stamp on it—she could by now recognize a French stamp in an instant.

  “Ned is writing again? So soon?” She was definitely getting worried. Ned’s usual pattern when he was traveling was three letters in the first two weeks, then nothing until a telegram saying when he would be returning. Something was going on. Something definitely unusual.

  “Yes,” said Lord Penworth as he scanned the brief mis
sive. “Not a great deal to say this time. Just another request for information.” He gave his wife a crooked smile. “It seems our son thinks I have nothing better to do with my time than conduct investigations for him.”

  She sat down stiff-backed and shook out her napkin. “Another request for aid for Miss Benda?”

  He shook his head. “No. This time it’s Tony who needs help. It seems that one of their big backers has suddenly changed his mind without any explanation. It might be for a purely personal reason, of course, but Ned wants to know if I’ve heard anything.”

  Lady Penworth examined her husband. “You’re worried.”

  “No, no… Well, yes, I am a bit. It seems rather odd. First Miss Benda is having financial problems, and now Tony is. They’re cousins, admittedly not close, but still… It’s giving me an uncomfortable feeling.”

  “Right.” She nodded decisively. “We’ll be off to Paris then. You can have your secretary make the travel arrangements, and I’ll supervise the packing and see that there are no loose ends dangling around here. We will, of course, drop by to see Ned while we are in France.”

  “Er… Just drop by? In Brittany?” He smiled. “Of course. May I finish my breakfast first?”

  “Certainly, my dear. I wouldn’t want to rush you. But I want to see this Miss Benda for myself.”

  Lord Penworth put his hands on her shoulders and turned her to look at him. “Anne, my dear, aren’t you overreacting a bit? There is nothing to suggest that Ned has lost his head over this young woman. And even if he has, what of it? Are you going to object to a musician in the family?”

  “No, not that. But what if she is taking advantage of him?”

  He considered, and then shook his head. “Possible, but unlikely. Ned may be a bit of a romantic, but he is not a fool. Have you ever known anyone to take advantage of him?”

  Lady Penworth set her shoulders firmly. “Perhaps not, but there is always a first time.”

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Marguerite awoke in the dark from a dream of Ned. This was happening far too frequently. They were not unpleasant dreams—far from it. But they were disturbing nonetheless.

  Ned. She was thinking of him as Ned now, and not Lord Edward. That was probably not wise. She laughed to herself. Of course it was not wise, but she was beginning to think that the time for wisdom had passed. Wisdom, prudence, caution, good sense—they all vanished, poof! the moment he came near her. She was as addled as Delphine, it seemed.

  And she didn’t care.

  She was not foolish enough to think he could marry her. That was his foolishness.

  She had seen enough of the world to know that aristocratic families, no matter how liberal in their thinking, did not welcome an artist into the family. An artist might be a friend, might even be invited to dine, though that implicitly assumed that one way or another the artist would perform to entertain the other guests.

  Her parents had frequently been invited in just that way. They had been greeted, included in the conversations, treated with every courtesy, but sooner or later came the moment when they were expected to perform, to sing for their supper, so to speak. Papa had joked about it, but Maman had been less amused.

  An artist could never be considered an equal, part of the family. Her mother’s parents had taught that lesson. Delphine might sound ridiculously arrogant, but her attitude had some basis in reality.

  Even if there were no chasm of class separating them, the fact remained that she could not marry anyone. Not while she had Delphine to care for. She was bound by the promise she had given her mother, her dying mother.

  Did that have to mean she must deny herself any chance for love and passion? Did it mean she had to live like a nun for the rest of her life? That was too cruel.

  But perhaps, just perhaps, there was something she could do.

  Because she was an artist, she had more freedom than many women. Almost by definition she was not respectable. At least, people assumed she was not respectable. Therefore, she did not need to protect her reputation in the same way other women did.

  She would not sell herself, or even become some man’s mistress. That would make her dependent on a protector’s whims—a humiliating form of bondage, with less freedom than a wife had.

  But she had to do something.

  What she could do was take a lover, a lover of her own choosing. She would be discreet, not flamboyant. Even if it became known, it need not harm her. Many knew, or at least suspected, that Brahms had long been Clara Schumann’s lover, and no one thought any the less of either of them.

  What was important was that it had to be her own choice. And her choice was Ned.

  They could be lovers.

  Nothing less could ease the fever that was consuming her. Every waking minute of the day she longed to be in his arms, to feel his touch. And at night, in her dreams—she woke from those dreams in a turmoil of frustrated desire. For them to become lovers was the only solution, at least for her.

  A problem remained. That Ned desired her was unmistakable. She was not the only one who was left shaken by their kisses. Even without that, she could see the hunger in his eyes when he looked at her, just as he could no doubt see the hunger in her eyes. The problem was that he was too honorable to offer an irregular arrangement. He was insisting on marriage.

  If she wanted him in her bed—and she did—she would have to seduce him.

  She swung her legs out of the bed, lit the lamp, and went over to the dressing table. Her first look in the mirror almost sent her straight back to bed. Anything less like a seductress would be hard to imagine.

  The livid bruise that had circled her eye and covered half her cheek had faded. Almost a week later, it was now yellow and blue. These were not her best colors. She would have to go to him in the dark, lest the sight of her frighten him.

  Then there was her nightgown—her nice warm nightgown, buttoned up to her neck and with ruffles at the wrist to cover her hands. Very comfortable, very practical, but hardly seductive.

  Now that she thought about it, she had no seductive nightwear. She had never needed it. Quite proper of her, no doubt, but of no use at the moment. She would simply have to leave it off.

  She also took off her nightcap, and undid her braid. Loose hair, flowing down to her waist, was almost certainly the appropriate way to approach a lover. Or so she had heard. She brushed it out thoroughly and drew some of it over her shoulder so that it could shadow her cheek.

  She unbuttoned the nightgown, drew it over her head, dropped it on the floor, and looked at herself in the mirror. The heat of her blush made her feel as if she were on fire. Never had she seen herself completely naked like this. No one had ever seen her like this. But this was what a lover would want to see.

  She snatched up a robe and wrapped herself up in it. The wool felt scratchy on her skin. She huddled in it for a long minute before she lifted her head, turned down the lamp, and went to the door.

  She could do this.

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Marguerite closed the door of Ned’s room carefully behind her. The slight click did not seem to have disturbed him. The fire had almost burned down—only a few embers still glowed—and she shivered in the cold. She hadn’t worn slippers so she would be able to move silently down the hall, but the stone floors of the corridor had been icy. Still shivering, she waited until her eyes had grown accustomed enough to the dim light for her to reach the bed without bumping into anything.

  His arm was on top of the covers. His bare arm. The faint glow from the embers was enough to illumine the hairs on that arm.

  Lord Edward—Ned—did not wear a nightshirt.

  Was that a good omen or not? Good, she decided. It might make this easier.

  Dropping her robe on the floor so that she was as naked as he, she lifted the covers and slid in beside him. He gave a short grunt, but did not otherwise seem to notice the intrusion. Ah, the warmth felt so good. Even before she touched him, she could feel the heat rad
iating from his body. He even smelled warm, if that was possible.

  Hesitantly she lifted her hand. It hovered for a moment and then skimmed gently along his side, barely touching him, from hip to shoulder. His skin was smooth, but underneath he was hard and solid. Her breath grew shorter and her caress became bolder. He moved slightly into her hand and gave a soft moan of pleasure.

  The nearness of him excited her. Hardly able to breathe, she moved her head into the hollow of his shoulder and pressed a kiss on his neck. In response he leaned over her, inserting his knee between her legs. “Marguerite,” he murmured her name softly, almost a prayer. A moan escaped her lips.

  His eyes opened wide with shock, and he sprang away from her. “Marguerite!” This time her name was an expression of anger, not longing. “What the devil do you think you’re doing?”

  Horrified, she snatched at the sheet to cover herself, although there was nothing that could hide her hideous embarrassment. She had obviously made a mistake of grotesque proportions. Shame wrapped itself around her, and tears stung her eyes. “I am sorry,” she whispered. “I thought…I thought you wanted me.”

  “Oh my God.” He fell on his back and closed his eyes. “Of course I want you, you idiotic creature. But…” He still sounded angry, but not quite so much. “What do you think you’re doing?”

  “I thought, perhaps, we could be lovers.” She spoke carefully, cautiously.

  “Lovers!” He covered his eyes with his forearm. “Marguerite, you are going to be the death of me.”

  “I don’t understand,” she said. The tears were too close to falling. “You say you want me but you do not.”

  He made a noise that was something between a growl and a groan and rolled over. Propped up on one elbow, with his hand cupping her face, he stared down at her for a long minute. “Want you? Want you?” he whispered. “I am dying for you every second of the day and night.” He snatched up her hand and pressed it against his erection. “Does this feel as if I don’t want you?”

  She gasped in surprise, or perhaps in shock. She had known in theory, but she had not realized quite how large it would be. Not just large, but warm. She spread her fingers to explore, just a little. No, not warm. Hot.