by Candace Camp
“If I were hiding a treasure,” Philip said, dismounting and coming around to help her down, “this is the spot I would choose.”
“Oh, yes,” Cassandra breathed, enchanted by the place. She looked up at him with wide eyes. “Do you think this is where Margaret chose?”
He shrugged. “It wouldn’t surprise me. It was well-known, a landmark that she would certainly have been shown, even though she wasn’t here long. If she went further afield than the estate grounds, this would be the most likely place.”
Cassandra looked around, her eyes glowing. “Oh, Philip—don’t you just itch to go looking for it?”
He chuckled. “Yes, but I cannot think how we would have a chance of finding it. We can’t just start digging up the ground everywhere around the abbey. Besides, we don’t have a clue that it is buried here—or even that it is buried at all. It could be in a room somewhere.”
“Behind a wall?” Cassandra suggested. “A hidden room, perhaps. Do you suppose the abbey has any false walls?”
“I am discovering more and more what a romantic you are, Miss Verrere.” He smiled and pulled her to him, wrapping his arms around her and squeezing. When he looked into her shining face like this, it was all he could do not to begin kissing her as he had the other day coming back from Silverwood. But he had promised himself after that torrid moment in the trap that he would not try to pressure or seduce her.
For the first time in his life, Sir Philip was not sure what he felt or what he wanted. He wanted to make love to Cassandra, he was certain of that much. When he had first gone to visit her and her family, he had to admit that an affair with her had been the uppermost intention in his mind. She had aroused his interest and his desire, and though it was usually his policy to avoid unmarried young ladies of quality, she was so different from the others that he had broken his rules.
Now, however, as much as he wanted her, he could not help thinking about the ruin that would face her if their affair were discovered or if she became pregnant. He had never worried about such things before, for the ladies he pursued had been experienced, as Cassandra had pointed out, and he had assumed that they would take care that such a thing did not happen. But Cassandra was different…in so many ways.
He was stuck, he thought, between Scylla and Charybdis, not wanting to ruin her reputation yet feeling sure that he could not bear not to have her in his bed. There was only one way out, of course, and that was marriage. There was something oddly intriguing about the thought of being married to Cassandra. God knows, life would never be dull if she was his constant companion. There would be passion, too, at least at first, and if it burned out, as all his passions for other women had, well, she would still be a witty, engaging friend. He supposed he had to marry sometime to ensure the succession of the line; it was one of the duties that a Neville simply did. And Cassandra came from a good family, however odd the Verreres sometimes were.
Of course, she had no money, but wealth was not really a consideration; he had plenty of that. She was not, he supposed, the sort of beauty others would expect him to marry—but to Philip she was far more beautiful, with her pale hair and intelligent gray eyes, than someone like Joanna. And the children she would bear him—his loins tightened at the thought of Cassandra pregnant with his child. They would be bright, laughing, wonderful children if Cassandra was their mother—pert little minxes like Olivia, if they were girls, or daring, engaging rascals like the twins, if they were boys. Would she give him twins?
He paused, amazed that he was even thinking of marriage. He had never done so before, not even in the throes of passion or when presented with a most suitable mate. He had always thought that he would prefer not to marry. His father had been a cold, unfeeling man, and his parents’ marriage had been unhappy. Philip had come of age determined that he would never allow himself to be in that sad state—tied in a loveless marriage to a suitable person, bored or miserable or furious. He had no real belief in love; it had never been part of his life, except for his mother’s fond, vague affection and Georgette’s childish doting on her big brother. It had never occurred to him to think that he could love a woman or be happy in a marriage. Until Cassandra…
Not, of course, that he was in love with Cassandra, he reminded himself hastily. But she was the first woman that he had ever thought he might marry without finding his life a trial afterward. It amazed him—and perhaps alarmed him a little—that he was thinking of marriage. It was, he thought, an indication of the depths of his turmoil over Cassandra.
Torn as he was, he was determined not to do anything until his mind was clearer as to what he should do. Much as he wanted her, and as difficult as it was to keep from touching and kissing her, he made himself refrain. He knew that if he began to kiss her and caress her, he might not be able to stop. Ever since that day after the visit to Silverwood, he had been careful not to give in to his impulses.
So today, as on other occasions, he released Cassandra without giving in to the desire to bend down and kiss her inviting mouth. He turned away, saying in a falsely light tone, “Well, we’d best be getting back for tea.”
“Oh, yes,” Cassandra said with a teasing smile, walking with him toward their horses, a little relieved that he had gone no further. She, too, was in turmoil over her feelings and desire. “I know that you must be most anxious for your afternoon tête-à-tête with Cousin Joanna.”
Philip groaned in response. Joanna had countered their frequent absences by practically pouncing on Philip every afternoon at tea and during the evening. He could not sit without her sitting next to him or move without her following, and any conversation with anyone else among their guests was always interrupted by Joanna after no more than two or three sentences.
“You minx,” Philip retorted feelingly. “You never do the slightest thing to help me, either, I’ve noticed.” They had reached their horses, and he untied them, handing Cassandra her reins.
“Why, you’re a grown man,” Cassandra responded with a laugh as Philip helped her back up into her saddle. “I am sure that you can handle a five foot, two inch woman.” She gave him a look of bland innocence.
Philip snorted inelegantly. “She may not be tall, but she’s got the damnedest long reach I’ve ever seen in a woman.”
With a laugh, Cassandra dug in her heels, and they started back toward the house.
* * *
AS THE DAYS passed, though, they grew more and more disheartened by their inability to find the “Queens Book.” They had come across a few biographies of Queen Elizabeth, as well as one about Queen Anne, but since Anne had not even been on the throne yet when Margaret fled England, and the two about Elizabeth had been written in the last hundred years, it obviously was none of those three. They had even looked through every history of England written before Margaret’s time, although Cassandra could not see why any of them would have been called a “Queens Book.” They had worked their way through the loft of the library and started on the bottom floor, but Cassandra was beginning to worry. The books on the lower level were all much more recent. Few of them had been written before Margaret’s elopement. The loft was the place where they should have found it.
Still, they kept on looking until finally one day they reached the end of the shelves of the lower level. Discouraged, they sat down and looked at each other.
“It’s not here.” Philip stated the obvious.
Cassandra sighed. “Is there anywhere else your family might have put any books?”
“My father and grandfather were not really readers. I suppose they could have taken out some of the old books and stored them in the attic. Ones that didn’t look as nice as the others. Their interest in the library was purely aesthetic. Father used it primarily as a cigar-and-brandy room.”
Cassandra groaned at the thought of digging through another huge attic.
“Worse, I am afraid that it might have
been thrown away,” he added discouragingly.
“But we cannot find the treasure without the second map!” Cassandra wailed. “I have looked at the other map till my eyes crossed, and I can’t make sense of it.”
“I know. Neither can I. I cannot connect that drawing to any place around here. I shall ask my mother if she remembers Father getting rid of some of the old books or storing them in the attic.”
It was galling to think that they had done so much work and gotten so close, only to be thwarted in the end by the sheer passage of time. Philip hated to admit defeat at any time, and it was frustrating to think that their mystery might never be solved. But worst of all, he realized, was that if they had to give up on finding the treasure, Cassandra would return home.
Desperate, he cast about in his mind for some solution. Suddenly he sat up straight, light dawning in his eyes. “Of course! Why didn’t we think of it earlier? The nursery!”
“What? What about the nursery?”
“The schoolroom. There are lots of old books there. Father would never have bothered to do anything about them. And where would you be likelier to find a book about queens than the schoolroom?”
Revived, they launched an all-out search of the schoolroom bookshelves and closets, accompanied by all four of the younger set. But, again, at the end they had to admit defeat. Though the schoolroom had contained many more books concerning various queens, as well as quite a few remarkably old books, none of them had proved to have any sort of map inside them.
Cassandra sat back with a sigh. “Well, I guess there’s nothing for it but to search the attics, then.”
Philip nodded. “I’ll ask Mother and Grandmother if they know of any other place where there might be old books stored.”
That evening before supper he went to his mother’s bedroom. He found her in her dressing gown, sitting in front of the vanity. Her maid was repinning her hair. Violet turned, delighted, when he came in.
“Philip! Darling!” She held out both her hands to him. “How nice. Do you remember when you were little how you used to come see me when I was getting ready for supper?”
“Of course. It is one of my fondest memories.”
“Come, sit down.” She gestured toward a chair close to the vanity, then turned to her maid. “Finish pinning it up, Mary, and then you may leave. I shall ring you when I’m ready to finish dressing.”
They chatted of commonplace things for a few minutes while the maid deftly pinned the remainder of the curls. When she was done, she left the room, and Violet leaned forward, smiling, and patted her son on the knee. “Now, what brought you here tonight?”
“Can’t a son come visit his mother?”
“Yes. You visit me often—in my sitting room or the drawing room or any of a number of rooms in the house. But since this is the one room in which you are assured that no one might unexpectedly come in on us, I assumed you wanted privacy.”
Philip smiled faintly. “You are very perceptive, Mother.”
“You know I am only vague about some things. Now, tell me, what is this about? Miss Verrere?”
“Cassandra!” He stared at her. “Whatever made you say that?”
Violet’s eyebrows lifted. “I’m not blind, Philip. Everyone in this house can see that you have a particular interest in the young woman. Even Sarah Yorke commented on it to me the last time she came to call. Of course, I told her you were only friends. I could hardly say anything else, since you have told me nothing about your intentions toward Miss Verrere.”
Philip’s jaw hardened. “I hardly see that it is anyone’s business other than mine.”
“Perhaps. But you must see, my love, that the way you have been in her company every day—in the library, out riding, seeking her out every evening after supper—those actions are enough to encourage any young woman to believe that your intentions toward her are serious. And you asked me to have that dress made for her and then pass it off as something I had bought—though, of course, no one knows about that. You were right—she does look lovely in it. But that is neither here nor there. What I am saying is that you must not lead her on, or you will break her heart and make her an object of pity or ridicule.”
“I would never do that to Cassandra!”
“Then what do you intend to do? Surely you are not planning to marry her?”
He scowled. “Why do you say it like that? Is the idea so preposterous? You have been after me for years to marry.”
“Well, of course you must do so, for the sake of the succession. I would not like to see Haverly House go to that weedy little Chauncey Trent. I have never been able to stand him or his mother. However, I would not have thought that…” Her voice trailed off as she met her son’s steely gaze. “Philip, really, you needn’t glare at me so. I have nothing against your Miss Verrere. She is a very nice girl, though sometimes, I admit, when she is talking about Shakespeare and things like that, I am really not sure what she is saying. She is a good woman, quite kind, and she seems most efficient. And, of course, her breeding is irreproachable. I never could understand why your father disliked the Verreres so much. But…”
“But what?” Philip crossed his arms over his chest and waited.
“She is not the most eligible female. You must see that. I have heard that her family is in utter financial ruin. And that aunt of hers!” Violet rolled her eyes. “An encroaching sort of female, and that daughter is even worse. ‘Fast’ is the only way to describe her.”
“We have some relatives that are rather odd fishes, as well,” Philip said. “And money is not my first requirement in a wife.”
“But, Philip, she has been out for years and, well, she did not take.”
“Other people’s tastes are not my concern, either, Mother. I find Miss Verrere most…unique. Intriguing.” His face softened as he spoke of her. “I find her…beautiful. She is not the common sort, I’ll grant you, but then, as you know, I have never been attracted to anything common.”
Violet stared. She felt as if the wind had been knocked out of her. “Philip…are you serious? Do you plan to marry Miss Verrere? I thought you were merely dallying—”
“I am not dallying with her. I—I don’t know what I’m going to do!” he said crossly. “I find Cassandra entertaining and refreshing, and I enjoy spending time with her. But I am not leading her on. She knows that. We are working on a project together. That is why we spend so much time together. Believe me, she would not build her hopes on marriage.”
“A project?” Violet looked confused. “Whatever are you talking about?”
“It is…something about our ancestors. It concerns the animosity that has existed between our families for years and the reasons for it.”
“Oh. A historical thing.”
“Yes.”
“I never understood why you found history interesting.”
“You are not alone. But that is one reason why Miss Verrere and I are friends. We can talk about things like that.”
“I see.” Her tone expressed anything but the meaning of her words.
“This project is why I came here this evening. I need your help.”
Her expression of confusion deepened. “You need my help about history?”
“No, no.” He smiled. “I had a question about this house. Cassandra and I have been looking for a certain book. Did you ever hear of a book in the house known as the ‘Queens Book’?”
Violet’s forehead wrinkled. “No, dear, but you know I know very little about books. Is that why you two have been spending so much time in the library?”
“Yes, but we could not find it. We searched the schoolroom in the nursery, too. Is there anywhere else in the house that books are stored?”
“Umm, I’m not sure, dear. The attic, perhaps? Was it an old book?”
“Yes, very old.”
“I suppose there could be some books packed away up there.” She stared off into space for a long moment, then shook her head. “Not since I’ve lived here, though. At least, I don’t think I ever stored any books there. Let me think about it. Perhaps I will remember something.”
He thanked his mother and left her with a kiss on the cheek and went down the hall to his grandmother’s room. His grandmother, as he had expected, was already dressed for the evening meal and was sitting in a chair by a lamp, doing needlepoint until it was time to go down for supper. She looked up questioningly as he came in.
“Philip. Well, this is unexpected.” She held out her hand for him to make a bow. The elder Lady Neville was one who insisted on the courtesies. “What brings you up here, you young jackanapes? Have you decided to offer for that girl yet?”
“What girl?”
She grimaced. “Don’t play the fool with me, young man. You know good and well what girl. The same girl whose company you have been monopolizing ever since you got here. The Verrere chit.”
“Is this all anyone ever talks about?” Philip wondered out loud.
“One takes what gossip one can in the country. But only a cake would think you could dance attendance on a woman all day long for two weeks and not be suspected of being in love.”
“I am not in love.”
“In a marrying frame of mind?”
“If I decide to marry, I promise that you will be the first to know. Well, perhaps the second.”
“Third, more like. Well, then, what brought you up here if it wasn’t to ask my advice about offering for a Verrere?”
“Cassandra and I are trying to locate an old book. A book about a queen or queens. It is at least two hundred years old.”
She gave him the full blast of her aristocratically cold face. “I hope you are not suggesting that I am old enough to know anything about that.”
He smiled. “Not about when it came to the house. Only whether you ever heard anything about it in the time you have lived here.”
