by Lynda Hurst
But he really had no business minding Margaret’s choice in men when he had his own prospective bride to consider. Last season’s newest crop of marriage-minded misses had produced someone who would potentially be a true asset to him, his household, and his family. Lady Celia Harcourt was the very picture of feminine perfection and was aptly reputed to be perfect in everything she did. In contrast, Margaret possessed oddly disparate features that together melded into a uniquely striking vision of feminine beauty with large, soft brown eyes; straight, uncompromising brows; and an abundance of dark hair like her brother’s. Still, he was determined that his future bride will complement him with her perfection in her bearing, her upbringing, her social associations, and in her capacity to be his perfect wife.
When he had chosen Lady Celia and squired her about town for the past year, he knew that there were no feelings involved on either side. It was his hope that the only feelings involved on Lady Celia’s part concerning him would not go beyond affection, so that he would have no cause for drama in his life as a husband. It wasn’t that he wasn’t a believer in love; his parents were proof-positive that love was possible between a husband and wife. He just preferred not to have to dwell with such a volatile emotion that sometimes robbed his own mother and now, dearest friend in Faith, of all reason, rendering their own spouses deficient of their own wits along with them.
No, as his father, the current Earl of Ellesmere, was soon to pass on the title to him in favor of his recently failing health, Jackson was going to enter the matrimonial state on his own terms. And love need not be a factor if he could help it.
3
Revelstoke Place – Later That Evening
Margaret’s trips to Revelstoke Place had been frequent enough that Faith had urged Devlin to keep a small retinue of staff at the house to accommodate Margaret’s continued research when the fancy struck her. And with night already fallen, Margaret was able to continue her work without the interruption of the trip home. Lamps were lit in necessary parts of the house, such as the library, gallery, and the hall leading to a bedchamber for her use. Janet and Randall had already retired for the evening after a hot meal provided by Mr. and Mrs. Moir, the current caretakers of the property.
Today’s search of the library proved fruitful when she had stumbled upon a well-worn book whose cover spoke of its old age and whose pages of parchment had yellowed over time. Careful in its handling, Margaret was elated to find within its pages beautifully drawn pictures—depictions of pastoral scenes, of priests administering to men, women, and children, and of course the monastery which was to later become Revelstoke Place.
On other pages were finely executed script, quite possibly written by the monks who had lived here, as the words appeared to be in Latin. Margaret’s own knowledge of Latin was rudimentary at best, but since this treasure-hunting had started as an obsession for her, she had been receiving some instruction in Latin from the current vicar to aid her with scripts such as these.
Margaret was fascinated the most by the pictures portraying the monastery as it was during the lifetime of King John. Although the colors were slightly faded, they were still rich enough to draw the eye to the action of the illustrated scene. Bringing the lamp closer, Margaret marveled at the scene she beheld spread across two pages. Bricklayers, carpenters, and masons were busy at work, constructing the beginnings of the four walls that would soon house the pious monks who were to safeguard the Revelstoke family legacy. In the distance, where forest ended and hills began, a royal contingent on horseback seemed to watch the workers’ progress. The front rider wore a majestic crown so Margaret was given to assume the royal rider may have been King John.
Making use of the magnifying glass she had nearby, Margaret scanned the illumination slowly, taking in the details she missed at first glance. Bringing the glass to the scene of the workers, she noted the chapel and altar being erected first before the rest of the building. It made sense since the monks would have put God first in every aspect of their lives, and the chapel would be their first priority in its construction. Margaret thought it odd that the beginnings of the chapel had only its wooden beam framework but had the masons concentrated there more than any other part of the monastery, while the carpenters and bricklayers were off to the side.
Turning the page, another picture presented the monastery half-finished. This time, the masons were working together with sculptors within the chapel, fashioning an elaborate mural in high relief. Having never seen this mural in evidence within the house presently, Margaret studied the picture closer to gauge where in the house the relief would have been. With the help of the magnifying glass, she was surprised to see a symbol that in present-day England would be seen as incongruous with the Church of England. Starkly drawn above the masons and sculptors was the familiar symbol of Freemasonry: the Masonic square and compasses.
Questions about the history of Revelstoke Place rose to the fore within Margaret. Freemasons and monks together? What other secrets were left behind by the monks who were responsible for hiding a fortune in various places around the property? What parts of the monastery’s history have yet to be uncovered? There was so much Margaret wanted to know surrounding the Revelstoke legacy, and she scribbled her findings and queries furiously into her well-used notebook.
Glancing at the grandfather clock in the library corner, Margaret noted the hour was already late, and her lamp would soon run out of oil. Sighing, she closed the book carefully and swept it up under her arm to take with her. She elected to write to her friend from Cambridge University in the morning about her newest finding into her research, and stalked wearily to the bedchamber prepared for her. Drained from the mental exertion of the evening, her eyes had shut for merely seconds when her subconscious brought up dream images of builders, masons, and monks.
***
With Janet’s assistance, Margaret dressed for the day, eager to write her Cambridge contact about last night’s discovery, but she had at least stopped first to eat a hot breakfast provided cheerily by Mrs. Moir. Over toast and coffee, Margaret mused over the details of meeting her friend and collaborator.
After a dozen persistent letters to the university two years ago, Margaret was finally contacted by a scholar who was willing to help her with the information she sought. Abraham Mensforth answered her letter in a mildly interested tone, inquiring what spurred her sudden interest in Ancient Greek history, its mythology, and the artworks inspired by them through the ages. The reply Margaret had given him was vague at best, leaving out the words “Revelstoke” and “treasure” completely out of the picture she painted for him. Instead, she had stressed in her reply letter that she was merely feeding her newest passion, open to finding all she could about art pieces dedicated to the Greek goddess of the hunt. He had seemed to be satisfied enough with her answer, possibly accepting her deep curiosity of his own life’s work, as he was more than willing to help her in her quest for answers.
Over the course of the past two years, they had kept up a professional correspondence, and, on the occasion that both of them happened to be in town during the London season, they had arranged to meet to properly discourse over new additions to the Royal museum and galleries.
On their first meeting, Margaret hadn’t expected a dashing man in his early forties to be the studious scholar she had gotten to know through his written word. Her shock must have been written plainly on her face, as he had chuckled, “Your reaction is not at all unlike when a fresh batch of students enter my lecture theater for the first time. Nevertheless, my outward appearance disguises a mind worthy of my colleagues to hold me in some measure of esteem. And I believe, too, that there is more than meets the eye in your case as well.”
Blushing at his words and at having been caught agape at first sight of him, Margaret could not agree with his statement. She wasn’t a diamond of the first water nor was she uncomely in her opinion. Sharing her brother’s dark looks with raven hair and keen brown eyes, her looks were more reminiscen
t of a confirmed Italian ancestor than an English belle.
Together through regular correspondence and the few meetings they had been able to conduct, the both of them were able to compile a comprehensive list of various known pieces that indirectly linked to the Artemis clue.
Since last night’s discovery, Margaret theorized that the original monks who oversaw their monastery’s construction would have fashioned the clue around an object made around the same period of time. Hiding treasure within an older, more ancient piece of art would be much too fragile and risky, so it made sense that the sculptors were there to create something specific to the Artemis clue, hiding the treasure in plain sight for ease of retrieval for those who knew where to look.
Heading straight for the library’s writing desk, which was fully stocked with sheaves of paper, ink bottles, and quills, Margaret was suddenly put off-balance by the presence of someone standing there in her stead. The figure’s back was to her, clearly male, and quite large in build as his shoulders were broad, his waist narrow, and his whole body entirely encased in thickset muscles. His dark clothing was made finely if not the most fashionably cut, but his overall look was quite intimidating. He turned towards her upon hearing her approach, and Margaret vaguely was reminded of someone once she had caught a thorough glimpse at his face.
Green eyes bored into hers, suspicious and wary, but he remained silent in his perusal of the entirety of her. Finding her tongue, she said, “I beg your pardon, but who are you and what are you doing here? I don’t know you, and I do believe you are trespassing, sir.” She believed that straightforward questions would undoubtedly get you quicker to the truth, and it was an adage she lived her whole life by.
His eyes narrowed further at her admission, but this time in unmitigated rage, the likes of which she had never bore witness before today. Expecting an explosion from him, she braced herself, but was surprised when he finally spoke with a dead calm. “Trespassing, is it? Should I have waltzed to His Grace’s front door and asked permission first?” The sneer he gave her told her he didn’t care overmuch about what proper etiquette would dictate at that moment, but he clearly knew the current state of ownership of Revelstoke Place if he was referring to her brother.
“And who might you be?” he asked, not bothering with social niceties.
“I asked you first, and I still haven’t received an answer, sir,” she snapped indignantly. If he was going to be rude, she didn’t see why she had to keep up pretenses of being civil. “If you insist on remaining without a proper introduction, I will see you thrown out.”
He smiled, if a little darkly, and said, “Little kitten trying to be a lion, I see. Very well, I will do you the honor of at least knowing my name.” Sweeping her an elegant, courtly bow, he said, “Frederick Revelstoke, the current ‘impoverished and homeless’ Earl of Revelstoke, at your service. And may I have the honor of meeting…?”
“Lady Margaret de Chamblay, younger sister of the current Duke of Prestonridge,” she said, not dropping into a curtsy as would normally be called for. She watched his eyes flare at mention of her surname and of Devlin. “And I again remind you, that you are trespassing here, as I have permission to be here, and you, ‘my lord’, do not.”
Anger once again simmered in the depths of his eyes, and this time, he found no need to hold back the tide. He raged, “Your family has caused mine nothing but grief and misery! I will make your brother pay for all of the years of suffering he has caused me, and he will rue the day he ever crossed me!”
Helplessly, Margaret cried, “You can’t! Ruining him would be the same as ruining your own blood!”
“What? What the hell does that mean?”
“Haven’t you heard? Your youngest sister, Faith, has married my brother and they have a child. Your nephew, two years of age only recently.”
“Little Faithie?” he asked quietly, stunned at her news. “I thought she was in Scotland with Erica all this time. Married? To Prestonridge? James and I left so abruptly and neither of us had the time to write and inquire, or I would have…” His lost train of thought was obviously avalanched by this unexpected development way-laying his plans.
“Just to clarify, she managed to survive on her own without outside help until Devlin managed to convince her she should become a duchess instead.”
“But she was just a child when I left! How was that possible?”
“She wasn’t without means of gaining income, and she did so through honest employment. She became a profitable writer.” Of course, Margaret hadn’t known that at the time and had once assumed she had a “gentleman friend” who met her financial needs.
“I see. And now I’m to welcome a new brother-in-law into our fold?” Margaret already foresaw that forgiveness was still far off in the distance for Frederick and sighed heavily. He continued, “I can’t forget the years of living hand-to-mouth, hoping for a scrap of kindness in order to live to see the next day. Your brother put James and me in hell, and I demand retribution!”
Matter-of-factly, Margaret replied, “I don’t see how you can achieve that without hurting Faith or our nephew, Grayson.”
Sneering once again, Frederick seethed, “Oh, you don’t, do you? Before me is a plum target, ripe for my revenge against your brother!”
Gasping in outrage, Margaret exclaimed, “Are you issuing a threat, as veiled as it is? I will never let you get away with it! I am not without my own resources to guard against whatever you dish out!”
Frederick smiled balefully. “Then, I look forward to witnessing your efforts, little kitten.” After clutching her under the chin as though she were still a small child and not a full-fledged adult, he hastily removed himself from the room and out the front door.
“Ooooh!” she cried, steaming at the ears at his audacity.
Devlin and Faith needed to know Frederick was back from the Colonies but not before she could pen the letter to Abraham. While she still had the ideas and theories fresh in her mind from the night before, she quickly jotted down a quick note, requesting information on a completely different historical period relating King John to the Donnesbury area.
Knowing Abraham would probably raise a brow at the side road she was taking in their continued research, she wrote that the inquiry related to a personal matter involving their family’s ancestral history. Only she was deliberately leaving out the fact that it actually belonged to Faith’s family and not her own. What he didn’t know from what she intentionally left out, so far, hadn’t hurt him or their ongoing research, and she looked forward to his response letter, hoping it would showcase what he could unearth for her.
4
Running haphazardly through unknown terrain, dodging trees and low branches, the terrified girl pumped her legs faster to get as far away as she could from the men chasing her.
It wasn’t right that he had tricked her into believing he loved her while scheming to lure her here for their unholy sport. After believing for so long that she was unlovable, she chastised herself for falling for the first man who showed her the least bit of interest.
Neither of her parents knew she secretly met with her new beau on more than one occasion; they certainly weren’t aware of her whereabouts now, not with the lie she had told them. If they thought to look for her, they would have first sought out Cousin Anne, whom she claimed to be visiting due to her recent illness. Only Cousin Anne knew of her new beau, the dashing Mr. Keenley, as she was her only confidante closest to her own age.
No one would think to find her here, running like mad through the woods at night, armed with a bow and a single arrow as her only offensive weapon. None of her education prepared her for a moment like this, nor had it taught her to properly wield a charged bow. Regardless, she held onto it like it was her only lifeline to safety.
If she could survive until dawn, she would be set free.
He promised.
Not knowing where she was, or what direction to run to, she only knew to run away from where the hoots and whoop
s of the men could be heard.
Grateful that they hadn’t hurt her, and for the chance to save herself from this farce, she continued through the trees, hoping to find safety in a hiding place. But there were only never-ending trees whose trunks were illuminated by the pale moonlight.
“Lisbeth!” she heard a voice call. Her “Mr. Keenley”, whom she now knew had used a false name, was the only one who knew her name and must have been the one calling out to her. “You can’t run forever, sweetheart. We’re in the mood to play!” Drunken laughter accompanied his own drunken slurs.
Monsters, all of them, she thought, continuing to race headlong through the trees. But none of them frightened her as much as their leader. When she had been brought into their midst, their leader intoned such fanatical twaddle about her being a symbolic representation of the Moon Goddess. She had been close enough to witness the maniacal look in his eye, bloodthirsty and insane, and it chilled her to see that there would be no reasoning with the man as he had built up the blood thirst of his companions through his zealous yet cultured speech.
