by Darcy Burke
Penn didn’t stop his movements, arcing the whip out until it snapped another rock from the top of the wall. “Found it.”
“Where?”
Another crack.
“Digging over by the trees.”
Penn had a habit of digging holes. If Rhys hadn’t known better, he might’ve thought he’d brought a dog with him.
Rhys looked toward the treeline where Penn had pointed, but didn’t see anything. “Show me.”
Penn took out the last rock and shrugged. He coiled the whip and loped toward the trees.
Rhys walked swiftly beside him. “You’re very good with that whip. And you just found it?”
“This morning.” The boy was frustratingly light of speech, but what could Rhys expect? Penn’s mother had begged Rhys to foster him, stayed for two nights, and then left him there. Rhys doubted he’d be able to find much to say in those circumstances either.
They reached the wooded area. Along the edge was a series of holes. Penn went to the one at the far end and stood.
“This one, eh?” Rhys asked, studying the boy. His hair was a bit too long, falling over his forehead, but Mrs. Thomas had insisted they not try trimming it until he’d settled in.
But how would they know he was settled? Rhys had no siblings and, of course, no children of his own. He hadn’t the slightest notion how to read a young person, particularly one who only spoke the bare minimum.
Penn didn’t say anything, nor did he nod. He just looked down at the empty hole.
Rhys couldn’t contain himself any longer. “Why do you dig?”
Penn looked up at him, the strands of his hair partially obscuring eyes that seemed alert, intelligent, though Rhys had seen nothing in his behavior to confirm that. The boy could read and do sums, but he showed no interest in continuing his education. This was a fight that was coming, however. Like his father before him, he’d ensure Penn learned what he must.
Penn shrugged. “I find things.”
“What else have you found?”
Digging into his pocket, Penn withdrew a fistful of items. He opened his palm and exposed them: a piece of metal, a bone fragment, a shard of pottery, and two coins.
Rhys had expected a verbal list, not the actual things. He leaned forward and examined the treasures. And they were treasures—at least the coins were. Rhys recognized them as Roman. He reached out to touch one, but Penn pulled his hand away. “Where did you find these?”
“I dug them up last year.” He gave his head a defensive shake and looked at the ground. “I don’t remember where.”
Rhys was frustrated by this answer, but not surprised. “You don’t have to hide things from me. When I agreed to foster you, I promised your mother you would be safe and that I would treat you fairly.”
When Penn raised his eyes, his gaze was wary. “I’m not hiding anything.”
Rhys endeavored to keep his expression open and friendly to keep the boy talking. “Did you dig up all of those things?”
“All but the piece of dish.” He turned the pottery, which had dulled to a murky gray, though some sort of etched design was visible on one side. “A man gave it to me. He said Wales was full of hidden treasures.”
Rhys nodded, thinking of whatever might be at the center of de Valery’s code. “He’s right. And you like doing that, digging for treasure?”
Penn shrugged again.
“You’re welcome to dig wherever you like around here, so long as you replace the dirt when you’re finished.” Rhys glanced at the holes as he made the gentle admonishment.
“Yes, sir.”
Rhys nearly smiled at the resignation in the youthful tone. How he remembered being a lad and not wanting to do the things his father required—calculations, memorizing scientific theories, learning Latin. Yet now he was incredibly grateful for his father’s care and tutelage, even if it had been demanding. Could he do the same for Penn? Did he even want to?
He was surprised to find he did. Maybe it was time for him to become less of a hermit. And he could think of no better reason. Penn had no one else—his mother was dying and his father was the worst sort of human being. Just as Rhys had grown up with only his father, Penn would grow up with Rhys. There was a certain poetic symmetry to it that appealed to Rhys’s ordered mind.
“I didn’t just come out here to talk about your holes,” Rhys said slowly. Though he hadn’t yet formed a bond with the boy, he felt a bit of regret over having to leave him so soon. “I need to take a trip for a few days—four or five at most.”
Penn’s gaze shot up, his pupils dark and heavy with vulnerability. Caution dropped its veil once more, hiding whatever his true reaction might be.
Rhys wasn’t sure why he continued, but maybe it was the regret. “I’m actually going after a bit of treasure myself.”
Penn brushed his hair from his eyes as he looked up again, this time his gaze full of unguarded interest. “Like my coins?”
“No.” At least not yet. “I’m going to decipher a code.”
“A secret code?” Excitement tinged Penn’s question as he leaned slightly forward.
Rhys smothered a smile at the boy’s response. Perhaps they’d find some common ground after all. “When I get back, I’ll show it to you. Would you like that?”
He nodded briskly. “Very much, sir. Thank you.” The lad’s manners and method of speech revealed he’d been well-born.
Penn squatted down and set his whip on the ground before he began to fill in the hole. Rhys blinked as a thought struck him: how odd it was to have a child before he had a wife. He’d never given marriage much thought, always thinking he had plenty of time, likely because his father hadn’t wed until he was forty. Also, Rhys had yet to meet a woman who piqued his interest enough to even consider it. Until today. Miss Derrington was quick-witted, capable, and, it seemed, adventurous. She was also beautiful into the bargain.
He shook the ridiculous notions from his head. He was no more ready for marriage today than he was yesterday, even with the presence of a young, now-motherless charge. Miss Derrington was a necessary component to fulfilling his aspirations and nothing more.
What he really ought to be considering was how he was going to face his cousin while fostering the son Stratton didn’t even know he had.
Chapter 3
The morning was cool and damp as Rhys’s coach turned onto the High Street in Monmouth. He heard the commotion before he saw it. He barely waited for Craddock to bring them to a halt before throwing open the door.
A line of coaches were stacked along the street, and a group of men clustered in front of the White Lady, where Miss Derrington was lodging. What the devil was going on?
Craddock met him as he stepped from the coach. “Sir?”
“Find out what’s happening.” Rhys moved toward the men, his body tensing. But then just as quickly, he relaxed as he recognized one of the gentlemen, then a second, then a third.
“Bowen!” Lord Alfred Trevor, one of Rhys’s oldest friends, stalked toward him, a wide smile curling his slender lips. “You’ve decided to join us.”
Blast, a lapse in memory from the other night’s festivities it seemed. “Ah . . .”
Trevor laughed heartily. “You don’t remember. I could see it in your eyes before your coachman dragged you off. Yesterday must’ve been a pisser, eh?”
“Somewhat, yes.”
“Come on then.” Trevor clapped him on the back and guided him forward to the group. “We’re just waiting for a slug-a-bed before we continue to the river. We’re off on the second half of the Wye Tour for Gillivray’s prenuptial celebration. Septon was most insistent that you join us.”
Now he remembered the event, if not the invitation to join them. His eye found Septon chatting with another gentleman. Five years Rhys’s senior, Septon was a close friend and a fellow antiquarian. Following the tour, he planned to visit the Roman ruins at Caerwent for several days of study.
The academic in Rhys wanted to tell Septon about Miss
Derrington’s de Valery manuscript, but the adventurer that was emerging from within him insisted he keep quiet. It was a shame, for Septon was particularly adept at ciphers and would undoubtedly thrill to the prospect of studying de Valery’s code.
Rhys turned toward Trevor, halting their progress and dislodging Trevor’s arm. “Actually, I’m afraid I must decline your kind offer. I am embarking on an important errand this morning.”
Trevor frowned, his disapproval apparent. “Something academically-related, I’m certain. You need to put aside your musty texts once in a while before life passes you by.”
“I just did that the other night. Pardon my preference for moderation,” Rhys said wryly.
Trevor laughed again, his rich, booming voice drawing the attention of some of the other gentlemen. “So you did.” He glanced at the doorway. “Good Christ, what is taking Howe so long?”
Rhys also scanned the inn’s entrance in search of Miss Derrington. Though she was suitably chaperoned, he didn’t want to advertise their joint venture to this group of rakehells.
As Trevor was joined by a pair of gentlemen who were positing reasons for Lord Howe’s delay, Rhys edged back toward Craddock. “Would you go into the White Lady and see if you can escort Miss Derrington out via a less conspicuous door?”
With a brisk nod, Craddock hurried inside.
Several minutes later, a tall, slender gentleman garbed in a dark suit of clothes that was quite at odds with the bright colors worn by the rest of the lot exited the inn.
“At last, His Highness deigns to join us!” Trevor offered an exaggerated bow. “We aim to serve at your pleasure, my lord.”
The others guffawed while Howe’s lips curved into a regretful smile. “My apologies. I’m afraid I was busy . . . lording over the inn’s staff.” His eyes crinkled with his sarcasm. Howe had a reputation for trying to tumble anything in a skirt—good-naturedly, of course. He wasn’t a brute, just a charming viscount with a penchant for women.
The group erupted into even louder laughter, which was accompanied by slaps on Howe’s back as they ushered him toward the line of coaches.
Trevor paused before following them and turned to look at Rhys. “This is your last chance to abandon your boring academic quest and come with us.”
Rhys smiled and waved him off.
A few minutes later, Craddock called to him from down the street. He carried two valises—one in each hand. Miss Derrington, holding the protective bag he’d given her for the manuscript, and Mrs. Edwards walked beside him.
Rhys hurried to meet them.
Mrs. Edwards frowned at him. “Why did your coachman have to drag us through a back alley?”
Rhys frowned at Craddock. “Didn’t you explain?”
“Left that to you, sir.” He shrugged as he belatedly pulled down the steps of the coach before climbing up to his seat and securing the luggage.
Opening the vehicle’s door, Rhys held it ajar and offered his hand. “My apologies for the inconvenience ladies, there was some congestion at the front of the inn. Please allow me to assist you.”
Miss Derrington placed her hand in his and ascended into the coach. He provided the same service for Mrs. Edwards, who looked skeptically at the now-empty street but said nothing further about their detour.
Rhys climbed into the coach just as the ladies had situated themselves on the forward-facing seat. He deposited himself in the seat opposite.
“What precisely is our itinerary?” Mrs. Edwards asked.
As the coach moved forward, Rhys braced himself against the squab. “We’ll spend tonight in Hereford, and we should arrive at Stratton Hall by early tomorrow afternoon.”
“Is there shopping in Hereford?”
“I’m afraid we won’t be there long enough to do that,” Miss Derrington said. “Perhaps Leominster boasts some shops.”
Rhys vaguely remembered the small village and thought there might be a milliner’s, but couldn’t say for certain. “We shall find out when we pass through, and I’m certain we can make an accommodation for you to tour the village, Mrs. Edwards.”
“That would be most diverting, thank you.” She settled into her corner and looked out the window as the coach traveled down the High Street.
Rhys turned his attention to Miss Derrington. She appeared fresh and lovely today, garbed in a blue traveling costume edged with black velvet. A wide-brimmed bonnet shielded her blond hair, but a few curls brushed her temples.
He oughtn’t look at her so closely. They were business associates at best. At worst, adversaries vying for the same treasure, which she didn’t even know existed. Yet. He’d thought about whether he should have told her, but until he was certain there was even a code to decipher, why bother?
“We should discuss our visit,” he said. “You must never go anywhere alone, and you mustn’t do anything to encourage Stratton’s interest.” Though she’d likely do that by simply breathing.
Miss Derrington eyed him inquisitively. “I’m well aware of your cousin’s reputation. I shall be on my guard.”
“You must be. Stratton is a dissolute fiend. Make sure Mrs. Edwards is with you at all times. In fact, I will insist that you sleep in the same chamber.”
“There you go with ‘must’ and ‘insist.’ Have you always been so dictatorial?” she asked.
Mrs. Edwards shrugged. “It’s no trouble; we shared a room at the White Lady.”
Rhys gave Miss Derrington a look that communicated something to the effect of, not everyone thinks I’m dictatorial.
Miss Derrington exhaled softly. “I suppose adjoining chambers will suffice. Thank you so much for consulting with us,” she said with false sweetness.
He ignored her sarcasm. Protecting her was his responsibility while they were traveling together, and Stratton was a legitimate threat to a young lady like herself. “I worry that I should have come alone,” he muttered.
“With my book?” She shook her head. “There was never any chance of that.”
Right. “Then you must adhere to my guidelines. You’ll leave the door between your adjoining chambers open so that Mrs. Edwards can hear you if you need assistance.” Rhys would request a nearby chamber as well, though that would undoubtedly pique Stratton’s curiosity.
In fact, perhaps Rhys ought to infer that Miss Derrington was already taken. It wouldn’t be foolproof—things such as marriage and engagements hadn’t always prevented Stratton from attempting scandalous behavior—but it might work. There had to be some honor among families, even for Stratton, didn’t there?
Was there honor in keeping a man’s son from him? For the boy’s well-being, yes.
Miss Derrington set her hand atop the bag that held the book nestled beside her. “I shall be cautious.”
They fell into silence for a good quarter hour or longer. Soft snores emanated from Mrs. Edwards’s corner.
Miss Derrington turned her head from the window to look at Rhys. “Are you and Stratton close? While you possess a somewhat irritating predilection for condescension, your behavior is at complete odds with his scandalous reputation.”
Rhys fought the urge to smile at her description of him. He ought to find her irritation annoying, but was instead charmed. He decided he might enjoy tormenting her—at least a bit. “Our familial connection is distant. I’ve only visited him a handful times: a few occasions as a child, his weddings, and once with my father to see his de Valery manuscript. I did attend one of his house parties, left early, and swore never to repeat the mistake.”
“I see. I understand Lady Stratton simply disregards his mischief?” Her tone held a strong note of disbelief.
Rhys had met her twice—the wedding and the house party—and found her to be lovely, if withdrawn. He felt sad for her lot and wondered what she would say if she knew the first Lady Stratton was still alive—at least for now. “She has little choice in the matter, unfortunately.”
“Indeed,” Miss Derrington murmured. “It doesn’t recommend the institution o
f marriage, does it? Is that why you are unmarried, Mr. Bowen?”
Her gaze found his, and he was struck by the frank curiosity in its depths. There was something more. Her eyes reminded him of a hothouse—a mix of earthy brown and vivid green. Exotic. Sultry. Perhaps he’d been reading too much romantic poetry of late.
“I haven’t felt the need to take a wife.”
She cocked her head to the side. “Too wrapped up in your books?”
“Perhaps.” Definitely. “And why do you remain unwed? I can’t believe you haven’t had offers.” She was far too lovely, too intelligent, too bewitching.
Bewitching?
“Believe it or not, I haven’t,” her answer came quick and carried a touch of irritation. “Furthermore, I haven’t felt the need to marry either.”
He’d been jesting with his answer. It wasn’t so much that he hadn’t felt the need, just that he hadn’t considered it at all. But with her, he imagined she had to have considered it—women in her position really had no other choice. Sooner or later, she’d likely marry. And he suddenly envied that faceless man.
Margery opened her eyes in the fire-lit room and took a moment to register her surroundings. The chamber at the inn was small, which was why she was huddled on a pallet between the narrow bed she’d given to Mrs. Edwards and the small fireplace in which the remnants of an earlier fire glowed orange. Based on the color of the embers, Margery hadn’t been asleep terribly long, but it wasn’t unusual that she would wake up when lodging in a strange place. Especially when the thin padding separating her from the floor did nothing to provide comfort.
Creak.
Now that was unusual.
Margery turned onto her back, expecting to see Mrs. Edwards getting out of bed perhaps. Yes, there was a dark figure. But it was much too tall . . .
A muffled screech, like someone was holding his hand over Mrs. Edwards’s mouth, drew Margery to sit up. She looked frantically for some sort of weapon. Her gaze landed on the fireplace poker.
