by Darcy Burke
“You should go,” she said, finally pushing herself to turn from him and go to the side of the bed. But she couldn’t actually get in it. Not while he was still standing there. Heavens, now she was imagining him watching her climb into the bed and joining her there . . .
He stood straight and shook his head as if cobwebs had formed between his ears. “Yes, I should. Again, pardon my intrusion. I just wanted to ensure you were all right.”
“Fine, thank you.” Did he suddenly feel as awkward as she?
“If you need anything . . .”
“I know where to find you.” She planned to scrutinize that corner as soon as he left.
He turned and went to the doorway, pausing to say “Good night” and to deliver the most provocative stare she’d ever received.
As soon as the door closed behind him, she rushed over with the lamp and studied the seam in the wall. She’d never have noticed it in the pattern of the wallpaper if he hadn’t come through. She also looked for a way to lock it from her side, but there was nothing. The chair that had tripped her in the first place was an option, but she suspected the noise of moving it would only encourage him to come back. Plus, it might wake Mrs. Edwards, who’d apparently slept through the entire encounter with Mr. Bowen. Chaperonage was not her calling.
Margery went back to the bed, replacing her lamp on the side table. This time, as she tried to find sleep, only one thing kept her from slumber: the tempting vision of a shirtless Mr. Bowen and those dark, dark eyes of his promising something she didn’t even know she’d wanted.
Chapter 5
Rhys paced the gallery for the fifth time as Miss Derrington and Mrs. Edwards sat on a bench near the center beneath a large painting of some former earl. Stratton kept his de Valery manuscript locked in a closet with other valuables, and they were waiting for his arrival. Post, stationed in front of the door, had directed them to come, but there was no sign of Stratton yet.
In an effort to keep from looking at Miss Derrington, Rhys tried to study the paintings on display. Despite this, his gaze kept straying toward her. Her hair was swept up, with curls grazing her neck, a smooth, pale expanse of flesh that longed for someone’s—his—lips to caress it. She wore a muslin gown with a yellow floral pattern that outlined her form and reminded him of the curves he’d glimpsed in her chamber last night.
That had been a near thing. She’d almost looked at him in invitation, certainly with curiosity. If she’d beckoned him closer, he didn’t think he could’ve resisted.
What folly. Or was it? Would she be open to courtship?
His thoughts were interrupted by the typically boisterous arrival of his cousin.
“Ready to see the book?” he asked loudly, offering smiles all around. He appeared freshly groomed, though his cheeks were ruddy and his eyes bloodshot, likely an aftereffect of his excessive evening.
Miss Derrington stood. “Yes, please.”
“I’ll just wait here,” Mrs. Edwards said primly.
Rhys came to a stop near Miss Derrington and escorted her to the closet, lightly touching the small of her back. Post turned and unlocked the door. Stratton went first. The room was equipped with shelves and cupboards. A small table sat in the center.
Stratton fixed Miss Derrington with a probing stare. “First, I should like to see your book.”
She held it beneath her arm, but hesitated, shooting a questioning glance at Rhys. He nodded. She went to the table and set the manuscript upon it.
Stratton moved forward and touched the cover. “It’s very similar to mine. But you’ll see that in a minute.” He flashed her a grin. Opening the book, he studied each page, making occasional remarks. “The stories are different, though it seems there are a handful in each book. Yours includes the Heart of Llanllwch.”
Rhys cringed at his butchering of Welsh. “It’s pronounced thlan-thlooch.”
Stratton waved his hand, unconcerned with such trivial things. “Have you seen it in the museum at Oxford?”
“I have not,” Miss Derrington said. “But Mr. Bowen has.”
The look Stratton cast Rhys was a mix of humor and disgust. “Of course he has. Bowen has bored himself with all manner of academic nonsense. The heart, however, isn’t nonsense. I saw it last year—it’s quite a treasure. Makes one wonder if the other items in these books might be real, doesn’t it?”
Rhys’s heart seemed to stop for a moment. Did he know about the treasure, the code? He exchanged alarmed glances with Miss Derrington, but quickly looked away before Stratton could detect anything. If he wasn’t aware of de Valery’s code, Rhys didn’t want to alert him.
“One might also wonder if King Arthur is real,” Rhys said evenly.
“I think he must have been. What a boon it would be to find his sword, wouldn’t it?” Stratton looked between them. “He’s supposedly buried in Glastonbury. I presume you’ve been there, Bowen?”
“I have not.” It was not an academically important site, just a place where some medieval monks had claimed to dig up the bodies of Arthur and his queen, Guinevere. Some believed it to be real, but Rhys thought it nothing more than fancy to encourage pilgrims to visit the abbey, which was now only ruins, having been destroyed by King Henry VIII. From that perspective, it was an interesting destination.
“I think I might like to visit,” Stratton said. He turned the final page and closed the book. “This text is very similar to mine, perhaps a bit longer. It would be something to own them both together, wouldn’t it?” His fingers rested possessively on the cover, and Rhys could practically feel the tension emanating from Miss Derrington.
“It would.” Rhys lightly touched her elbow, hoping to assuage her concerns. “Although Miss Derrington is not interested in selling. I am, however, still interested in buying yours.” He hadn’t been certain if he would offer after Stratton had flatly turned him down three years ago, but presented with the perfect opportunity to ask, Rhys couldn’t pass it up.
Stratton smiled, baring his teeth in an inhospitable manner. “It’s not for sale.” He turned his head to focus on Miss Derrington. “Name your price. I’m sure we can come to an accord. I’m trying to build a little medieval library for myself. Once I learned how much Bowen’s library is worth, it inspired me to increase my collection.”
Rhys stifled a frown. Yes, his father’s library was extensive and quite valuable, but its true value lay in the academic riches it offered. The books were meant to be studied and broaden one’s knowledge, not line the shelves of some nobleman’s locked closet.
Miss Derrington flashed an inquisitive glance at Rhys before offering a placid smile to Stratton. She was either annoyed or had taken Rhys’s advice about not smiling too prettily. Both, probably.
“My lord, I’m afraid I couldn’t part with my aunts’ book. It really isn’t mine to sell. Our visit is purely academic. Might we see your book now?” she asked sweetly, deepening her smile, which only proved to accentuate her dimples, particularly the one in her chin.
It worked however, as Stratton seemed to relax. He held his hand out. “The key, Post.”
The butler, who’d been standing silently in the corner, handed him a key and Stratton went to a cupboard and unlocked it. He stared at it a long moment. “Post, have you been in here?”
Post rushed to Stratton’s side. “My lord?”
“I don’t see it. Where’s my book?” Stratton leaned in and studied the cupboard more closely. “Where is my goddamned book?”
Post began pulling books from the shelves inside. “You’re certain it’s not one of these?”
“I think I know what the bloody thing looks like.” His words dripped with such venom and he sent his butler a look of such contempt that Rhys grew uncomfortable. Plus, there was the language that was wholly unsuitable for a lady’s ears. However, he didn’t think it wise to mention that.
“Is it on one of these other shelves?” Rhys asked, turning to look for a book that resembled Miss Derrington’s.
Stratton
began rifling through the books, but it didn’t take long as there were only a dozen or so. “It’s not fucking here.”
Rhys couldn’t keep his mouth shut any longer. “Stratton, there’s a lady present.”
“A lady who has the partner to my most valuable book.” Stratton regarded her with a malice that was akin to the way he’d just looked at his butler. “Perhaps she found a way in here last night and stole it. Post, search her bedchamber.”
Rhys’s muscles tensed and anger spiraled in his gut. “Wait, you can’t do that.” But the butler was already gone. Rhys turned on his cousin, no longer caring if he offended him. “Stratton, you’re crossing the line. Miss Derrington did not steal your book.”
“How do you know that? Because you spent the night between her legs?”
Rhys heard Miss Derrington’s intake of breath, but didn’t turn to look at her. “Your vulgarity only discredits you. We’re leaving.”
Stratton grasped Rhys’s forearm and squeezed. “Not until I’ve searched your chamber as well.”
Rhys threw him off. He had two inches on the man and an athleticism his cousin couldn’t hope to match. “For heaven’s sake, if we’d stolen your book, we would’ve left already. Why would we wait around for you to be sober enough to show us the manuscript if we’d taken it?”
Stratton’s jaw worked, but he didn’t say anything.
“Furthermore, how would we have gotten through the locked door?”
Stratton’s eyes glittered with malice. “Someone did.”
“Yes, someone did, but it wasn’t us.”
Now that the situation was at least partially defused, Rhys wanted to focus on the disappearance of the book. Finding it missing when someone had just tried to steal Miss Derrington’s book was disturbing. It seemed certain someone was after the code and the treasure. If the same person who’d tried to steal her book already possessed Stratton’s, they had the upper hand. Rhys didn’t like that scenario one bit. He was also disgruntled not to be able to see the book. The dream of deciphering the code and finding the treasure seemed just that—a dream.
He took a deep breath and addressed Stratton. “Perhaps we can try to figure out who stole your manuscript. When was the last time you viewed it?”
Stratton was quiet a moment, his mind working. “A month ago, perhaps?” He shook his head. “I hosted a party and some of the guests came in here to look at the books.”
Rhys glanced at Miss Derrington, who’d gone a bit pale. He knew she was worried. She wanted to find the code and the treasure as much as he did. “Do you remember who?”
Stratton massaged his temple. “There were several people. I don’t know . . . it was a hedonistic party.”
Did he host any other kind? “Perhaps Post will recall the guests and we can go from there.”
“You think one of them stole it?”
“I think it’s possible. Recovering it, however, will be difficult.”
Stratton bared his teeth again. “Horseshit. You find out who took it, and I’ll make sure the son of a bitch returns it. I’ll go talk to Post.” He turned to go, but stopped short. “You need to leave. I don’t trust anyone in here now.”
Miss Derrington plucked up her manuscript and exited first. Stratton locked the door behind them and took himself off without another word.
Miss Derrington wasted no time. She turned on Rhys, her gaze dark and troubled. “What are we going to do now?”
“Try to determine who might’ve stolen the book. It’s the only thing I can think of.”
“And then what? Encourage Stratton to storm into the person’s house and take it back? This is hopeless.”
He touched her arm again, then chastised himself. He couldn’t take liberties. Though she didn’t object. “Don’t think like that. We’ll find it.” He wished he believed that, but he was fairly certain she was right. And damn if that didn’t frustrate the hell out of him.
“In the meantime,” he said, lowering his voice, “you should give the book to me for safekeeping.”
She clutched it more tightly to her chest. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
“Didn’t we agree to trust each other?”
“You ordered me to trust you,” she said defensively.
“Am I that much of an autocrat? Have I not demonstrated that I have your best interests at heart? That I will protect you?”
“Me or the book?”
Frustration erupted inside of him, and he simply couldn’t stand still. “Walk with me.” He retreated and paced to the opposite end of the gallery, away from Mrs. Edwards, who was knitting, oblivious as usual.
Miss Derrington followed in his wake. Her suspicion was completely unfounded.
When he turned to face her, he barely kept a handle on his ire. “Yes, I omitted the purpose of the book when we first met, but I quickly told you the truth and have vowed to continue to do so. I’m afraid we cannot continue this alliance if you are going to doubt me at every turn. Furthermore,” he moved close to her, far too close for propriety, but he didn’t care, “if I wanted your book for myself, I could’ve had it a hundred times over and there is nothing you could’ve done to stop me.”
Her eyes widened and her breath caught. An overwhelming urge to kiss her leapt forward and he barely tamped it back.
She gave the smallest of nods. “What do you want to do now?”
He exhaled, reining in the emotions that had overtaken him. He was a universally pragmatic and reticent gentleman, unmoved to passion. Yet, just a few days with Miss Derrington had provoked him to romantic sentimentality, lust, and now an emotional outburst. Perhaps he should sever their alliance.
“I’ll obtain the list of guests from Post and we’ll review the names. Perhaps one of them will lead us to think of something pertinent.”
“Do you think whoever stole Stratton’s book was behind the attempt to steal mine? That man at the inn never would’ve come to one of Stratton’s parties.”
He was impressed she’d come to the same deduction he had—that whoever had tried to steal her book in Hereford was a hireling. “I think it’s likely.”
She looked pensive. “I can’t imagine who that would be.”
“Hopefully the list will spark something. In the meantime, we have to assume this person will try again to steal your book, and if they’ve already successfully stolen from Stratton, they might be able to do so again.”
“Meaning we aren’t safe here.”
He pressed his lips together. “Not as safe as I’d like to be.”
Her gaze was cloaked with uncertainty. “And where would that be?”
He hadn’t thought it through yet. “I don’t know, but we should plan on leaving tomorrow in any case.”
“I suppose I should just go home. I know Mrs. Edwards is eager to get back.” She shot her chaperone a worried glance. “We can’t tell her about this. I don’t want to frighten her.”
“No, and for her safety, we should consider sending her back to Gloucester tomorrow. I can hire a coach in Leominster.” His gaze fell to the book Miss Derrington held so close to her chest. Would she consent to give it to him in the name of her own protection? “I don’t suppose you’d consider going with her and leaving the book with me? For safety’s sake?”
She shook her head. “You know I won’t.”
He sighed. “Yes.”
“I’ll be in my room with Mrs. Edwards. Let me know when you have the list.” With a prim nod, she turned and went back to Mrs. Edwards and they departed the gallery.
Rhys watched the sway of her hips as she went and desire fired through his groin. If they sent Mrs. Edwards away on the morrow, that would leave him alone with Miss Derrington. Just the notion was scandalous, but add in the way in which he wanted her and it was positively . . . lurid. How he was beginning to curse that word.
“I’m sorry this errand was for naught,” Mrs. Edwards said after they returned to their room. “Does this mean we’re returning to Gloucester in the morning
?”
“Yes.” Margery had thought about Mr. Bowen’s suggestion and agreed it was for the best. She didn’t want to frighten Mrs. Edwards and certainly didn’t want to endanger her.
Yet, would she allow herself to be endangered? Margery’s emotions had bounced back and forth since finding Stratton’s book missing. She’d been shocked, bitterly disappointed, and frightened by the larger situation they’d inadvertently stumbled into.
And she couldn’t dismiss the timing. Her aunts’ book had been forgotten until very recently. Then they’d shared its existence with Mr. Bowen and since then, things had become quite complicated. And perilous.
Did she really think Mr. Bowen was behind the disappearance of Stratton’s book or the attempt to steal hers? As he’d so aptly pointed out, if he’d wanted to take her book, he could’ve done so many times. She shivered as she recalled his proximity—he’d smelled of sandalwood and man, a scent she’d never dreamed could be so tempting. And the way he’d looked at her . . . It was more than just wanting her; she’d seen that look on men before, including their host. No, he looked at her as if he needed her.
“I’m going to rest for a bit.” Mrs. Edwards disappeared behind the partition into the maid’s room.
Margery set her book on the bed and hoped Mr. Bowen would arrive with the list soon. Was that because she was eager to peruse the names or because she couldn’t wait to be in his presence again? She chose not to answer that question.
A few minutes later a rap sounded on her door. She jolted, her pulse picking up speed as she moved through the chamber to answer the summons.
She opened the door and realized she should’ve asked who it was before doing so because it wasn’t Mr. Bowen.
It was Lady Stratton.
The countess tossed a furtive glance over her shoulder. “Might I come in?”
“Certainly.” Margery held the door open and then closed it securely after Lady Stratton came inside.
