Lady of Desire (Legendary Rogues Book 1)

by Darcy Burke

  Craddock opened the door and Rhys stepped out before turning to help Miss Derrington to the dirt track.

  They walked to the door, crafted of thick, weathered oak, and he knocked sharply.

  A long silence answered them, followed by the sound of trudging footsteps. The door creaked open to reveal a small man with very little hair. He looked up at Rhys and squinted. “My lord?”

  “No,” Rhys said. “I’m Mr. Bowen, and this is Miss Derrington. Unfortunately, Lord Nash was unable to join us.”

  “Ah.” The confusion that had clouded the man’s blue eyes dissipated. “I wondered why ye looked so young. Thought I’d lost me mind for a moment there. Everyone looks young to me anyway.” He opened the door wider. “Come on in then.” He turned and walked stiltedly into the main room.

  Rhys gestured for Miss Derrington to precede him, then had to duck to follow her over the threshold. Once inside, he was able to stand straight. He closed the door behind him and blinked to adjust his eyes to the dim interior. A window beside the door and another on the opposite wall provided the only illumination.

  “Have you lived here long, Mr. Hardy?” Miss Derrington asked as she took in their surroundings: a fireplace on the opposite wall, a small arrangement of rudimentary furniture, and, in one corner, a somewhat primitive kitchen.

  “Me whole life,” he said. “I was born in that room, though it’s me bedchamber now.” He pointed to the doorway on the right side of the cottage. Another door sat in the center of the opposite wall, leading to the left side.

  “And in that room?” Rhys asked, indicating the left chamber, trying to envision how this might have looked four hundred years ago.

  “That was our bedroom when we were children. I had eight brothers and sisters, most of them are gone now, though.”

  Rhys took a step toward his bedchamber and looked inquiringly at their host. “May I?”

  “Aye.” Mr. Hardy rubbed his mostly-bald head. “His lordship’s footman said ye wanted to search the house, but he didn’t say what ye were looking for.”

  Rhys smiled weakly, realizing how foolish this errand must seem. “We’re not exactly sure. A scribe lived here four hundred years ago and we’re looking for something he might’ve left behind. I don’t suppose there are any pieces of furniture that might be that old? A desk, perhaps?” It was far too much to hope for. He glanced at Miss Derrington, who stood near the fireplace clutching her book.

  Mr. Hardy’s eyes clouded again, looking as they had when he’d first come to the door. “I’m afraid there isn’t anything like that. No desk, anyway. I don’t rightly know how long me bed’s been here. It was me parents’. There’s a table in the other room, and I’ve only kept one of the small beds that we shared when we were young. Ye’re welcome to look about.”

  “We’ll be tidy about it,” Miss Derrington said, offering a warm smile. “You keep a lovely home, Mr. Hardy.”

  The old man shuffled toward her. “Not as lovely as ye, miss. Or, are ye married?” He glanced over at Rhys.

  Miss Derrington didn’t look at Rhys. “No, we are not.”

  Mr. Hardy cackled. “That means I have a chance then.”

  She grinned. “You most certainly do.”

  Rhys’s heart thudded in his chest as another chink in his emotional armor splintered. He turned abruptly to go into the bedchamber. “I’ll look in here.”

  The room wasn’t large and contained just a bed, a small fireplace, and a narrow armoire in the corner. He went to the piece of furniture and judged it to be far less than four hundred years old. The room had one window, which though clean, didn’t allow much light. The walls were whitewashed and undecorated.

  He glanced around in frustration. What had he expected? He walked back into the main room where Miss Derrington was poking about the cupboard in the kitchen area. She turned when she heard the floor creak beneath Rhys’s feet. He shook his head at the question in her eyes.

  As he crossed to the other room, he addressed Mr. Hardy, who’d sat in a chair and was watching them. “Is there anything extraordinary about the cottage? Any hiding places or unusual things you’ve noticed in your time here?”

  He pursed his lips and rubbed his pate again. “Not that I can think of.”

  This was proving to be a complete waste of time. Rhys stalked into the other room, which was much brighter than the others. There were two large windows, which he found odd for a cottage of this age and size. And they weren’t new. He’d guess them to be from de Valery’s time. Had this been his writing room? The addition of so much light would’ve made a desirable workspace.

  Rhys stood in the middle of the chamber and surveyed the scant furnishings—just the bed and a rickety table set beneath one of the windows. He went to the table and rubbed his hand over the scratched top. It had once been an excellent piece, but the legs had been so oft-repaired that it didn’t sit square any longer. Could it date from de Valery’s time? Had he worked on this table?

  Rhys studied the top, looking for something that might not be random. But what would that even look like? Seeing nothing, he dropped to his knees to investigate the underside.

  “Did you find something?” Miss Derrington asked.

  Rhys looked up at her as she came farther into the room and stood beside the table. “No, just looking. This table could be from de Valery’s time, but I can’t say for sure.”

  The underside was rough, as if it hadn’t been finished in the same manner as the top. Again, he looked for any markings, but it was too dark underneath to see anything. He got to his feet and handed Nash’s book to Miss Derrington. Then he flipped the table to its side.

  She joined him to peruse the underside, but it revealed nothing. “There’s nothing here,” she said flatly.

  “I’ve always liked that table.” Mr. Hardy’s voice came from the doorway. “Our father taught us sums there. And we’d play games on it sometimes. We didn’t have much, not like you folk, but we had a good time.” He smiled and revealed a few gaps in his teeth.

  “Sounds like it,” Rhys said. He turned the table back upright and brushed his hands together. This couldn’t be the end. Perhaps they should investigate the exterior of the cottage. He withdrew a few coins from his pocket and held them out for Mr. Hardy. “I hope you’ll accept this as our appreciation for allowing us to intrude upon you.”

  “I can’t take yer money.”

  Rhys smiled at the man. “I insist. Truly.”

  The man frowned at the coins, then his face suddenly lit. “Can I give ye something in return?”

  “That isn’t necessary,” Rhys said, pressing the coins into Mr. Hardy’s wrinkled hand.

  “It’s me turn to insist.” He took the coins and tottered back to his room.

  “We can’t take anything from him,” Miss Derrington whispered, handing him back Nash’s book. “He doesn’t have much.”

  “I know, but we also can’t insult him.” Rhys gestured for her to go back into the main room.

  He followed her as Mr. Hardy was emerging from his bedchamber. “I found just the thing.”

  He came to Rhys and held out an object in his palm. Round and made of glass with a thin frame of metal, it was maybe three inches in diameter. It almost looked like a magnifying glass without a handle, but it was terribly scratched and the glass appeared clouded. The item appeared worthless, but if it gave Mr. Hardy pleasure to give it to them, Rhys would be happy to accept it.

  Rhys took the odd glass and inclined his head. “Thank you.”

  Miss Derrington peered at the glass with interest. “What is it?”

  “A curiosity,” Mr. Hardy said. “When ye look through it, colors change as ye rotate it. We had fun with it when we were children.”

  Rhys couldn’t imagine they could look through it anymore, not the way the glass appeared to have been damaged. He held it up and tried to see through it.

  Mr. Hardy shook his head. “It’s better if ye look at something with color, such as Miss Derrington’s d
ress.”

  Rhys felt strange doing so, but directed the glass toward Miss Derrington. He was surprised he could see her through the object, quite well in fact. He rotated it in his grip and gasped. The yellow flowers disappeared.

  “What is it?” Miss Derrington took a step toward him.

  Rhys lowered the glass. “When I turned it, the yellow flowers on your gown vanished.”

  “Let me see.” She held out her hand and pointed the glass down at her skirt. “I see the flowers, but nothing else.”

  He took the device back from her and looked again. He didn’t see the flowers. Confused, he turned the glass. The flowers came back. “It changes as you rotate it. The colors come and go.” He worked to contain his excitement. “Mr. Hardy, wherever did you get this?”

  “Found it under the floorboards beneath our bed one night. I might’ve been about ten years old.”

  Rhys and Miss Derrington exchanged delighted glances.

  “I thought you said you didn’t recall anything unique about this cottage?” Rhys asked, wondering how credible the man’s memory was.

  Mr. Hardy’s already wrinkled brow creased even more. “I did? I might’ve misunderstood. I do that from time to time.” He tapped his head with his forefinger. “Me mind doesn’t work quite the way it used to.”

  “Are you sure you remember this correctly?” Miss Derrington asked gently. “Is there a chance you didn’t actually find this object here?”

  “No, that I can tell ye for certain. It’s funny, but I recall the old stuff pretty easily.”

  Miss Derrington shot Rhys a skeptical glance, and he couldn’t deny sharing her doubt. Still, if what he said was true, could this object somehow fit into de Valery’s code work?

  Perhaps if they heard the tale of Mr. Hardy’s discovery, it would provide some details. “Will you tell us how you came to find it?”

  “Me brother Peter used to like to hide under our bed—the one I shared with me brother James. He thought he could scare us by pretending to be a monster or summat.” Mr. Hardy shook his head as a smile tugged at his lip. “Peter was so little, we went along with it and acted terrified. One night, Peter wasn’t in his bed so James and I assumed he was playing his game. But when we got into our bed, we waited and waited. We got worried, so we climbed down and looked under the bed and saw a hole in the floor. We had to move the bed—real quietly so our father wouldn’t hear. One of the floorboards had been taken up and moved to the side. The space was just wide enough for Peter to slip beneath the floor. Poor bloke got stuck, but was too afraid to shout for help. When we pulled him out, he had that.” Mr. Hardy inclined his head at the object Miss Derrington still held.

  “He found it under the floorboards?” Rhys asked.

  Mr. Hardy nodded. “Said it was his treasure.”

  Rhys couldn’t resist looking at Miss Derrington, whose lips had curled into a jubilant smile. “Mr. Hardy, would you mind if we looked beneath the floorboards? Do you remember where you found it exactly?”

  “Sure I do, it’s still loose. Over in the corner.” He led them back to the other room, to the far corner on the outer wall. “Third one over,” he said. “I’d get down and pull it up for ye, but me back’ll likely give out.”

  Rhys was already kneeling. “It’s no trouble. You’re doing us a favor by allowing us to look.” He pulled up the wide plank and peered underneath, but it was too dark to see. “Miss Derrington, might I ask you to fetch—”

  “A lantern?” she finished.

  “I’ll get it,” Mr. Hardy said, ambling from the room. A few moments later, he returned and passed the light to Rhys.

  “Thank you.” It was tricky, but he was able to get his arm down the hole with the lantern. He couldn’t see terribly far—and he certainly couldn’t fit between the planks like Hardy’s brother had done.

  “Do you see anything?” Miss Derrington asked.

  “No, but it’s devilish hard at this angle.”

  “Mr. Hardy,” she said, “I wonder if we might remove a few more boards so that I can look beneath the floor. It’s terribly important.”

  “Let me see what I can find to help you pry them up.” His uneven gait sounded across the room as he went in search of a tool.

  Rhys sat back on the floor and set the lantern beside him. “I daresay Mr. Hardy is enjoying this.”

  Miss Derrington smiled, clearly enjoying this herself.

  A sense of glee filled his chest. He’d never expected to be so inspired on this quest or to delight in Miss Derrington’s company so thoroughly.

  Several minutes later, he pulled up the floorboards until there was a large enough space for Miss Derrington to fit. “Are you certain you wish to go down there?” he asked.

  Her answering look was almost coquettish. “Someone has to.” Her indomitability astounded him.

  Unfortunately, her daring was unnecessary, as she found nothing but dirt and some sort of—thankfully empty—nest. As she stood back in the room and brushed off her dress, she thanked Mr. Hardy again.

  “I’m sorry ye didn’t find anything.”

  “It’s quite all right. I think we have what we need.” She glanced at Rhys, who’d stashed the glass device in his coat pocket and was now restoring the floorboards. “Are you sure you want to part with your glass?” she asked, voicing the thought that had just risen to Rhys’s brain. Though she was the better person, because he wasn’t sure he could ask. He was too overcome with what this discovery could mean.

  “I’m happy to give it to ye. Peter passed when he was fifteen. Caught an ague and died within a few days. I never had any children of me own, so it gives me pleasure to give this to someone who might appreciate it.” There was a touch of sadness to Mr. Hardy’s eyes. Rhys imagined you never fully recovered from the death of a loved one, whether it had happened the day before or a lifetime ago. “Besides,” Mr. Hardy continued, “The memory’s what’s important, not the thing. I’ve still got what I treasure most.”

  Rhys hoped he could live to be as wise and grateful as Mr. Hardy. After replacing the final board, he stood. “Thank you. I think it’s time we take our leave.”

  They said their good-byes and when they got outside, Rhys instructed Craddock to drive them somewhere private, but not back to Westerly Cross.

  Miss Derrington sat in the forward-facing seat and arranged her skirts. “Why did you ask him to do that?”

  “Aren’t you impatient to look at the books with this glass?”

  “Yes, of course. You can’t wait until we get back to Westerly Cross?”

  He cocked his head at her, surprised by her question. “Can you?”

  She shook her head as a smile split her lips.

  Rhys pulled the glass from his pocket. “This is astonishing."

  “Have you ever seen anything like it?” Miss Derrington asked.

  “Never. I thought it was opaque.”

  “So did I. Then to be able to see through it . . .”

  He loved sharing this wonder with her. “And the effect it produced . . . Astonishing.” He couldn’t imagine how it had been manufactured. And he was skeptical that it was actually from de Valery’s time.

  The coach turned, slowed, and came to a stop. Craddock opened the door a moment later. “There’s a little clearing here next to the river, with some rocks. Will that do?”

  Rhys peered outside. The rocks were large enough to lay the books upon. “Perfect, thank you.” He climbed out, then helped Miss Derrington.

  They carried their books to the rocks and set them down. “Which one shall we start with?”

  “Mine,” Miss Derrington said.

  He smiled faintly. “I thought you might say that.” Holding the glass in front of his eye, he opened the book and looked at the first drawing. He squinted his other eye, but there was nothing to be seen except an oddly colored illustration. He rotated the glass slowly, but it failed to reveal anything.

  “You look disappointed,” she said.

  “There’s not
hing there.” He turned the page and tried again. Still nothing. Another page. Nothing. Halfway through the book, his frustration threatened to boil over and he considered hurling the glass into the river rushing not twenty feet from them. Of course he wouldn’t, but it was tempting.

  He put the glass down and took a deep breath. “Perhaps we should try the other book.” He left her book open so as not to lose his stopping point.

  She opened Nash’s book on a second rock beside the other. It was shorter than the first rock, so he had to bend slightly over. As soon as he looked at the first drawing he blinked. Could he be seeing what he was seeing? The glass removed all of the blue from the illustration and, if he wasn’t mistaken, the voids that were left formed numbers. What could they mean?

  “What is it?” Miss Derrington’s excited voice came from just beside him.

  He turned, and her face was so close that he had to caution himself not to kiss her. “Look.” He handed her the glass.

  With a bemused expression, she took it from him and studied the picture. Her gasp stirred his enthusiasm even further. “It takes all of the red out. I think I see . . . numbers.”

  It worked on the red too? Just as it had removed the yellow from her dress. “Rotate the glass. It removes the red, the yellow, and the blue.”

  She gasped even louder, then lowered the glass to stare at him in awe. “Creating this had to have taken an inordinate amount of time. What could the numbers mean?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe when we write them down, we’ll see a pattern.”

  The cock of a pistol chilled Rhys to his very bones. Stiffening, he turned toward the sound, where a man with a kerchief wrapped around his nose and mouth pointed a gun at him. He had a second tucked into his waistband. His hat was pulled low so that all Rhys could make of his features were two small, dark eyes.

  The masked man directed his pistol at Miss Derrington. “Give me the glass.”

  She clutched it tightly against her chest. “No.”

  Rhys didn’t fault her for refusing, he would’ve done the same, but the bastard was pointing a gun at her and they had nothing to defend themselves with.