by Darcy Burke
Because in the days since she’d laid her hands on the manuscript, she’d devoured every page dozens of times. That first night, she’d stayed up into the wee hours poring over every drawing and every line of text. After so much time with it, the thing felt like it was hers.
Too, there was his reaction. His interest had been evident, but the way he’d held the book from her had taken his interest to an entirely different plane. He desired this book quite fervently. Why?
She glanced at the open book where his long fingers splayed across the bottom corner. “You didn’t answer my question.” She was guarding her answers because she didn’t want him to know how desperate she was. Why was he guarding his? “Why is this book so special? Knowing that might help me come up with a price.”
He cleared his throat as if he were about to deliver an oration. “It’s a singular artifact. On their own, these stories aren’t necessarily original or extraordinary, but in this state, they are elevated to art. It’s the scribe who composed this book that makes it so important.” He pointed to a small, black drawing in the bottom left corner of the last page.
She tried to make sense of the swirled ink, but it just looked like the scribe had blotted his pen there. “What is that?”
“The scribe’s mark—Edmund de Valery. It’s hard to discern, but this is an E, D, and V written over each other.” He stood and reached for a magnifying glass sitting at the other end of the table and handed it to her. “Look.”
She held the glass between her eye and the page. “Yes, now I see the V and the branches of the E.” She turned to look at Mr. Bowen and realized just how close they were. She could feel his heat. His mouth was only inches from hers.
With a jolt, she set the glass on the table and averted her gaze from the absurdly handsome Mr. Bowen. He was an antiquarian, his nose buried in books all day. Why then did his appearance make her think of the knights in the book before them? Likely because he was uncharacteristically tall with broad shoulders. He had the look of a Welshman with his jet-black hair, earth-brown eyes, and dark complexion. If she hadn’t known his occupation, she might have assumed him some warrior of old.
She forced herself back to the matter at hand instead of romanticizing Mr. Bowen. “How did you recognize this?”
He kept his focus on the book, something she should endeavor to do. “I’ve seen his mark before. I have another document written by de Valery.”
She expected him to get it or at least offer to show it to her. That he didn’t filled her with suspicion, as did his reluctance to tell her why this book was so important to him. “May I see it?” she asked, infusing her question with sugary politeness and offering her most charming smile.
He blinked at her, his terribly long, ink-black lashes briefly shuttering his dark eyes. He studied her at length, then stood, though she sensed he was hesitant. His fingers pressed against the book before releasing it as he stepped away from the table. As he went to his desk, she resisted the urge to pull the book back toward where she was sitting.
A moment later, he returned with a slim, leather-bound manuscript and set it on the table in front of her. “This is a poem from the late fourteenth century. My father had it bound to protect the vellum. If you turn to the last page, you will see a better representation of de Valery’s mark.”
She hesitated and shot him a saucy look. “May I touch it, since I’m wearing gloves?”
The corner of his mouth lifted in the barest hint of a smile, and he tipped his head. “Please.”
Something about the way he delivered the word made her shiver. She opened the cover and flipped past a few blank pages before reaching the text. The document wasn’t illustrated, beyond colors used in some of the lettering, but the handwriting was an art form in and of itself. “I can only imagine how much time it took to compile these.”
“Years in some cases, though this poem probably only took several weeks. It’s not terribly long.”
No, just a handful of pages. As he’d said, the last page contained a larger, more legible version of the mark. She looked over at him. He was watching her. “Are you certain this is the same?”
“If you’d studied the written word for as long and as extensively as I have, you could identify the similarities in the letter shape and the stroke of the pen.” His tone was smooth, certain.
“Has anyone ever told you that you’re arrogant?”
He lifted a shoulder. “On several occasions.” His nonchalant response only underscored her assessment. “Has anyone ever told you that you’re immoderately direct?” The question sounded more curious than judgmental, maybe even a little bit flirtatious.
She decided his answer suited her just fine. “On several occasions.”
He inclined his head. “I didn’t mean to be arrogant; I take the study of manuscripts quite seriously.”
“It’s your life’s work,” she said, wondering what that felt like.
“It is.” His contentment and confidence conveyed an emotion that told her what it felt like, at least, to him. It also filled her with a sense of longing. She wished she felt like that about something.
She looked back at the scribe’s mark. “This is Edmund de Valery’s work, you say. But you still haven’t told me why my—our—book is important or valuable.”
He glanced at Mrs. Edwards, her neighbor from Gloucester who’d consented to accompany her on this errand when Aunt Eugenie had taken ill. Unease flashed in his eyes, as if he was reluctant to share his thoughts in front of the woman. He lowered his voice. “To any scholar this is a highly important text, but I am not any scholar. I believe this book might be one of a pair of the finest representations of medieval documentation ever created. As a singular specimen, the book is worth what I offered you. The books together are worth significantly more.” He leaned forward. “I want the book, Miss Derrington. Enough that I am willing to risk my coin to pay the elevated amount now, before I ascertain if it is indeed the text I believe it to be.”
She ought to just sell it to him, would be deranged not to, but she’d seen the gleam in his eyes before. It was the one a gentleman who was light in the pockets wore when he acquired the attention of a debutante with a fat dowry. Could there be more wealth involved than the amount she required to solve her immediate problem? Could there be enough to live independently without worrying about every shilling she spent? “Where is this other book?” Perhaps she’d appeal directly to that person.
“It belongs to my second cousin, the Earl of Stratton.”
Drat. She’d heard of Stratton, a dissolute beast with a penchant for drink and a constant stream of women who weren’t his wife. Every young lady, even those who couldn’t afford a Season, had been warned of Lord Stratton as an example of why to approach the Marriage Mart with great caution. He’d duped not one, but two young women into wedlock after wooing them quite earnestly. Not for their money or their position, but for their beauty. He saw women as objects for his lust and little more.
No, he was not the sort to deal fairly with a lady. She couldn’t risk going to him directly with her text. She was stuck then with Mr. Bowen—unless she could find another buyer. But first, they needed to appraise the book, apparently.
“It sounds as though the books ought to be compared side by side so that a true value can be ascertained,” she said.
“Yes, that is what I would propose. If you would consent to lend me your book, I’d be pleased to take it to Stratton Hall and conduct the comparison.”
Margery stared at him. Was he daft? “I’m not going to let you borrow it. I’ll go with you. I should like to see Stratton’s de Valery manuscript.”
Now he stared at her as if she were daft. “Out of the question. Have you any idea how loathsome my cousin is?”
“All of England does. That is neither here nor there. I’m not letting you take my book.”
“Your aunts’ book.”
She gritted her teeth. His condescension was quite frustrating. She kept her chin up and t
ried to exude a measure of hauteur. “You’ve no choice in the matter. If you wish to analyze the books together, you must take me with you.”
His jaw worked, and she could tell he didn’t like being forced, but that he also realized he was cornered. “Very well.”
She relaxed slightly, but kept her guard up. “When shall we leave?”
“The sooner the better,” he said, glancing at the book. “I can arrange for us to depart in the morning.”
This was happening so quickly. Margery thought she had enough money to pay for the journey, but wanted to be certain. “How long will we be gone?”
“Stratton Hall is outside the village of Leominster—two days’ travel to the north. We’ll have to lodge in Hereford tomorrow evening.”
Margery mentally calculated her funds. Yes, she had enough to suffice. She’d post a letter to her aunts explaining the extension of her trip. But would Mrs. Edwards consent to accompany her? If she did not, the entire enterprise would fail before it even began. And she believed it was necessary—both to determine the book’s true value and to ascertain what Stratton might pay her.
The voice of Aunt Eugenie, of common sense, railed inside Margery’s brain. She ought to sell the book to Mr. Bowen right now and return home. However, the voice of Aunt Agnes, of a romantic nature Margery hadn’t even realized she possessed, rose and demanded she embark on this quest. It was a risk, but if it paid off, she would solve all of their financial problems.
“I’ll send a note to let Stratton know we’re coming.”
“How will you explain my presence?” she asked.
“I’ll tell him you’re interested in seeing his de Valery manuscript. Sometimes the simplest explanation is the best.”
The truth, then, or at least a portion of it. “I need to speak with Mrs. Edwards. Please excuse me.” Margery stood and went to where her companion sat near the windows.
The woman, just three years Margery’s senior, lowered her empty teacup to the saucer perched on her lap. She showed no indication of having paid any attention to the discussion at the table. “Ready then? Too bad we can’t just return home now, but I suppose an afternoon of shopping won’t come amiss.” Shopping was all Mrs. Edwards had talked about during their journey from Gloucester yesterday.
“I need to extend my trip. Mr. Bowen and I must travel to Leominster.”
Mrs. Edwards blanched. “I agreed to this short jaunt, not a lengthy expedition. I must get back to my house, to Mr. Edwards.”
Margery supposed she could hire a new companion, but preferred not to. “I understand. You’ll be compensated for this additional time. It won’t be more than a few days and we’re going to see an earl.”
As Margery had hoped, Mrs. Edwards’ eyes lit up at the mention of an earl. “I suppose I can be away a little longer. But what will your aunts say?”
“They will support the journey. I’ll post a letter when we return to the inn.”
Mrs. Edwards glanced at the door, clearly eager to depart. “Are we going back to town now?” Their lodgings were in Monmouth, a short carriage ride away.
“Not yet. I’ll be just a moment.” She returned to the table where Mr. Bowen was studying the book and reclaimed her seat. “That’s my favorite page.”
Toward the end, this particular page bore the most elaborate illustration—a large group of people surrounding the knight kneeling before a beautiful lady dressed in blue robes. He offered her a heart-shaped stone as she beamed down at him.
Mr. Bowen’s fingers, so long and lean, traced the decoration at the edge of the page. “This stone is called the Heart of Llanllwch. It isn’t typically one of the thirteen treasures in these sorts of tales. It’s particular only to de Valery’s version. And unlike the thirteen treasures, this stone actually exists.”
“It does?”
“It’s in the Ashmolean Museum at Oxford. I’ve seen it, though it’s been dipped in gold and has five different gemstones affixed to its exterior.”
“Sounds lavish. And quite different from that one.” She pointed at the simple stone, a pale yellow, on the page just as he moved his hand. Their appendages collided and she felt the contact as though her hands were bare. Perhaps traveling with Mr. Bowen, even with a chaperone, wasn’t such a sound idea after all.
He quickly moved his hand back to the margin. “The stone was likely augmented later. Underneath the decoration, it’s a simple yellow tourmaline stone.”
“So de Valery somehow knew its original state?”
His brow furrowed as he stared at the page. “So it seems, which is intriguing, given the stone was just discovered less than fifty years ago.”
She began to see why Mr. Bowen was so fascinated with this text. “Do you think he saw the stone before—when he wrote this?”
He shot her a provocative glance that further kindled her enthusiasm. “I don’t know. I would guess he based this drawing on whatever source material he used to record these stories.”
She found herself drawn into his knowledge on the subject. Yes, he was arrogant, but about this, it appeared he had a right to be. “What sort of source material?”
He shrugged. “It could be another document or oral stories. Or de Valery could have simply made them up.” He closed the book and looked at her, apparently finished with their interesting discussion. “Where are you staying in town?”
“The White Lady.” She picked up the book and was mildly surprised when he let her take it without comment.
He stood from the table and went to his desk, where he opened a drawer and withdrew a sturdy linen bag. He came back and handed it to her. “Carry the book in this to protect it. Be ready to depart at nine.” No please or other politeness, just directives he expected her to follow.
Margery slid the book into the bag and got to her feet. She hoped she wouldn’t regret not selling it to him immediately. “We’ll be waiting for you, Mr. Bowen.” And because she couldn’t bear to let his superiority win the day, added, “Don’t be late.”
After he’d written a letter to Stratton, Rhys set about organizing the details of their journey. He preferred to avoid visiting his odious cousin, but it was, unfortunately, necessary.
Was it, however, necessary to embark on this adventure with Miss Derrington? Apparently it was, since it didn’t seem she was going to sell him the book straightaway.
When she’d tried to leave, he’d reconsidered his position. She’d sensed how important the book was to him because he’d been foolishly excited about its existence. The lost de Valery manuscript. Paired with Stratton’s text, there would be a secret code that would lead to a treasure—if the legend were true.
And he wanted that treasure. If the de Valery manuscript on its own would elevate his reputation, solving de Valery’s secret code and discovering the treasure would guarantee his renown as a leading antiquarian. He felt sad that his father wouldn’t be able to share in his success, but the accomplishment still meant everything to Rhys.
Rhys looked at his workspace where her book had sat and frowned. Traveling with a young, unmarried miss—chaperone or not—bordered on scandalous. Yet, propriety wasn’t something he typically worried about. He was, as so many purported, practically a hermit.
Thomas entered the office, his black costume impeccable. “I have informed Craddock of your travel plans.”
“Thank you. Here is the letter to dispatch to Stratton.” He handed over the missive, which Thomas would have Craddock take into town for a courier to deliver.
Pinching the letter between his thumb and forefinger, Thomas made no move to leave.
“Is there something else?” Rhys asked.
Thomas’s brow creased. “Your charge is in the rear yard with a . . . whip.”
His charge. Penn.
Damn, he’d been so overwhelmed by first his aching head and then the arrival of Miss Derrington and her astonishing book that he’d failed to recollect the newest member of their household. “A whip you say?”
“A wh
ip. And he’s . . . how to put this . . . using it for target practice of some sort.”
Rhys pushed back from the table and stood. “I’ll investigate.”
“Mrs. Thomas is worried he’ll hurt himself.”
Of course she was. She’d been mothering the eight-year-old since Rhys had agreed to foster him scarcely a fortnight ago.
“Sir,” Thomas said somewhat hesitantly. “Are you sure taking Master Penn in was the right decision?”
Rhys paused on his way to the door. “What choice did I have?”
Without Rhys’s intervention, Penn would have nowhere to go, except to his father—who thankfully didn’t even know Penn existed—and Rhys had promised he wouldn’t allow that. He would never allow that. He might not appreciate the sudden invasion of a child into his well-ordered life, but he wouldn’t consign the lad to the alternative.
“You could send him off to school,” Thomas suggested.
Rhys had pondered that. In addition to agreeing to keep the boy safe from his father, Rhys had promised to see Penn educated—those were the two things Penn’s dying mother had sworn him to do. “I may, in time.”
Thomas nodded. “I suppose if you tried to ship him off now, Mrs. Thomas would likely revolt.”
“Yes, she would, and I don’t want to inflict that upon you, Thomas,” Rhys said.
Turning, Rhys made his way to the back of the house and onto the small terrace that overlooked a tidy garden. Beyond that, a green space stretched before a thick wooded area. Penn was whipping rock targets he’d set along the top of the stone wall that separated the garden from the greenway. He scarcely missed, each stroke of the whip knocking the objects down one by one. With long strides, Rhys approached him from the side.
Penn darted his bright blue eyes toward Rhys, showing that he was aware of Rhys’s approach.
Rhys eyed the whip. He had no such implement in his possession. Though Penn’s mother had assured Rhys that he was a well-mannered boy, Rhys didn’t know if he’d be inclined to steal. But from where? He hadn’t left Hollyhaven since arriving. “Where did you get that?”
