by Lynn Messina
His eyes flickered in surprise as he said, “It’s a gorgeous piece, simply gorgeous. Made in the eighteenth century for the raja of Amer. It has a nephrite handle with rubies, pearls and emeralds. The blade is forged of steel and is fourteen inches long. It’s one of the highlights of Sir Walter Heatherton’s collection. The only item to surpass it is the Mahmud dagger from earlier in the century. It’s a gorgeous piece, simply gorgeous, with a lush floral pattern depicted in brilliantly colored enamel. The craftsmanship is dazzling to behold. The work was actually signed by the artist, which makes it even more precious and rare. Come, I will show it to you.”
Beatrice followed him through the series of rooms, debating whether to announce her lack of interest in the Mahmud knife. She was eager to discuss the object that had value to her but knew nothing could be gained by offending the librarian. If he wanted to share his excitement about a particular piece, she’d rein in her impatience long enough to appease him. Perhaps her enthusiasm might make him more inclined to provide the information she sought.
Twenty minutes later, she was forced to reassess her plan, for it was apparent that Mr. Goddard could spend the rest of his day—nay, week—enumerating all the ways the Mahmud dagger was precious and the Tiger sword was special and the sarissa from Macedonia was a marvel of ingenuity. He spoke at length about each one and gave no consideration to anything but his own zealousness.
Afraid the museum would close before she had a chance to speak again, she interrupted his dissertation on a Persian scimitar with a gold hilt. “Your knowledge is quite remarkable, Mr. Goddard, and I must own I’m quite in awe of all the details you’ve managed to commit to memory. I fear I would get them all muddled up if I tried. As impressed as I am, I would beg you to return your attention to my original query, which was about the knife from Jaipur.”
“Ah, yes,” he said, his nose jumping slightly in disapproval. “Eighteenth century steel blade made for the raja of Amer. Its handle is nephrite with rubies, pearls and emeralds. Gorgeous piece. One of our best.”
No, Bea thought, we are not playing that game again. But rather than protest the repetition and grumble about how much of her time he had wasted, she smiled sweetly and said, “Yes, sir, that’s precisely the one. How clever you are to know exactly what I mean. The placard says it’s one of a pair.”
“Indeed, yes,” he said as they walked over to the display case to admire the weapon. “They were made for Jai Singh II in honor of his fortieth year as ruler. He was by my own, as well as by many scholars’, accounting a most enlightened ruler, and some consider him to be the most enlightened ruler of India, even to this day. He was succeeded by his son Ishwari Sigh, who, sadly, lacked his father’s wisdom and did not last long, taking his own life after only seven years at the helm. He was in turn succeeded—”
Before he proceeded through the entire line of Indian rajas, she interrupted with an apology. “It occurs to me, Mr. Goddard, that I could happily spend the rest of the day listening to you discuss the remarkable artifacts found in this room. In fact, I can imagine nothing more pleasurable. But what about all the other people who want to know about the science of mounting animals or the history of the votive figurines in that very interesting-looking gallery we passed through to arrive at the Heatherton collection? All those poor people languishing in ignorance! I simply cannot reconcile the thought or allow myself to bear the responsibility. So please, Mr. Goddard, for the sake of my conscience, do let me squeeze in one more quick question before you return to your very important duty of educating the masses.”
The librarian accepted her comments with equanimity and remarked on the difficulty of sufficiently sharing one’s vast knowledge. “It’s the cross I must bear, I fear.”
“And you bear it so gracefully, as well, if I may be permitted to observe,” she said, suddenly aware of how the exchange would appear to Aunt Vera, who would unhesitatingly conclude she had set her cap for the bald-headed gentleman with the gap-toothed smile. He was, she imagined, precisely the sort of suitor for which her aunt believed she should aim—someone near to the bottom if not flanking the line. “Now, as I was saying, the placard describes the knife as being one half of a pair. Do you know where its mate is?”
He smiled confidently and assured her he did. “The information is in Sir Walter’s original notes, and the British Museum would never be so irresponsible as to lose the original notes of one our greatest benefactors.”
“Of course you would not,” Bea said with a sincerely amiable smile. “I never doubted you for a moment. Would you be so kind as to supply me with that information? I’m working on a very important project and can’t proceed to the next step without it.”
Mr. Goddard said no.
Inside she gaped at the audacity, for she had listened to him drone on for half an hour and surely that deserved some reward, but outwardly she smiled more brightly than ever. “I understand it might be a minor break with custom to provide that information to the public, but we’ve had such a lovely chat and gotten to know each other so well. I promise you, Mr. Goddard, I will put the information to good use.”
His expression changed only slightly—a quiver of an eyebrow, a flare of a nostril—but it was more than enough to convey his disgust. “Although I very much doubt that, miss, what you do with the information is not under discussion. The archives are for serious patrons only.”
“I am a serious patron,” she said hotly.
“You are female.”
Bea felt the color in her cheeks rise as she glared at the pompous librarian with his sneering disdain. How dare he disqualify her based on his paltry and arbitrary opinion of her sex! “Now, listen here, you preening windbag, I insist you present me to your superior at once so I may lodge a complaint about your small-minded understanding of the world as well as your inability to notice when your tedious displays of knowledge are quickly putting your visitors to sleep.”
“What Miss Hyde-Clare means to say,” insisted a familiar male voice behind her, “is that she understands you have the challenging duty of regulating access to the archives, for they are in great demand, and she’s confident that upon reconsideration, you will realize she is a serious patron and provide her with the information she seeks.”
At this ingratiating and inaccurate speech, Bea spun on her heels and found herself staring into the amused blue eyes of Damien Matlock, Duke of Kesgrave.
CHAPTER FOUR
The thrill Bea had felt upon hearing the smooth condescension of the Duke of Kesgrave’s voice could not be easily described, for she barely comprehended it herself. She was at once nonplussed to discover him peering over her shoulder with a look of faint amusement and entirely unsurprised by his presence. It was inconceivable that he had just happened to know exactly where to look for her, and yet the fact that he had managed to find her was perfectly in keeping with his air of unshakeable competence, which upon occasion feel like omniscience. She was excited to be once again in his orbit while genuinely peeved that he would insert himself so calmly into hers.
What was immediately clear to her, however, as she contemplated his handsome face—deep blue eyes offsetting a square jaw and sculpted nose—was that she had neither sought nor appreciated his attempt to appease the librarian on her behalf. “On the contrary,” she said darkly, “I meant to say that Mr. Goddard is an insufferable prig with an overly developed sense of his own importance. But I was too polite to utter such words.”
The duke kept his expression placid as he dipped his blond curls and called her a brat under his breath before addressing the other man. “Very well. What I meant to say, then, is I understand, Mr. Goddard, that you have the challenging duty of regulating access to the archives, for they are in great demand, and I hope you will grant me permission without doubting my level of seriousness as a patron.”
Mr. Goddard was so impressed with the commanding nature of the request, he literally jumped to do Kesgrave’s bidding, his feet lifting several inches off the floor.
“Yes, yes, of course, my…lord,” he said, his tone rising at the end as he tried to guess the newcomer’s status.
“Your grace,” Kesgrave corrected.
“Ah, yes, your grace,” the librarian said with satisfaction, as if the duke’s presence had been arranged for his pleasure alone. Then he darted a miffed look at Bea, whose unwelcome company diminished the singularity of the honor. “If you will come with me, I will arrange access to the archive immediately.”
“How very kind you are, Mr. Goddard,” Bea said archly, transforming her moue of annoyance into an overly gracious smile. Then, as he led them through the familiar rooms to the grand staircase, she entertained him with a seemingly endless list of facts about Sir Walter’s life. She started with his childhood in Jamaica, which a well-placed placard had described, and ended with his death in a volcanic eruption three years before, an almost universally known tidbit, as it was such a strange and conspicuous way to die. She imagined nothing she said was unfamiliar to the librarian, which was rather the point of her long monologue, for now he knew what it was like to be subjected to unsought information.
When they arrived at the room reserved for researchers, Mr. Goddard requested that they sign the guest book and invited them to take a seat at one of the unoccupied tables. Kesgrave deferred to her with a look, and Bea selected a pedestal table with green leather chairs next to the window. As she sat down, she glanced around the room, with its rich woods and frescoed ceiling, and examined its other occupants. There were four in total, all men and all appearing to be no more or less serious a patron than she.
“You haven’t asked how I found you,” Kesgrave said as he leaned back in the chair.
“No,” Bea agreed.
“You aren’t curious?”
As she was only human, Bea was extremely interested in learning how he had contrived to appear on the first floor of Montague House at the very moment she required a figure of authority to smooth her way, but she refused to give him the satisfaction of revealing it. “Not particularly.”
His lips twitched at the firmness of her tone. “I’m going to tell you regardless.”
“Well, naturally, you cannot resist the opportunity to show off,” she said.
Far from offering offense, her rude observation amused him further. “It would be futile to fight my true nature.”
“No doubt it’s a very impressive tale,” she observed with as much condescension as she could muster. “Perhaps you should wait until Mr. Goddard returns, for I think he would be a more appreciative audience.”
“Speaking of our librarian friend, you have yet to express your gratitude to me,” Kesgrave said provokingly.
Bea tilted her head and asked him for what she should be grateful.
“Access to Sir Walter’s papers,” he explained, “for you would still be berating that poor fellow had I not arrived when I did.”
Although she objected to his characterization of that caddish bore as a “poor” anything, Bea knew this to be true, and in a bid not to utter the words, she decided to flatter his ego. “Your impressive tale?”
“Your heartfelt thanks?” he said with the same air of expectation.
Bea stared at him silently, determined not to look away before he did, and felt an inexplicable flush of pleasure. The setting bore no resemblance to the fireside at Lakeview Hall, where they’d traded thoughts on suspects in the brutal murder of Mr. Otley, but she felt the same sense of camaraderie. As unwise as it was, she welcomed the feeling and she paused to wonder if he did too.
No, she realized, taken aback by the foolishness of the thought. Kesgrave had dozens of opportunities each day to establish an intellectual connection with his peers. Brooks’, gaming hells, the House of Lords—the possibilities for a gentleman to find stimulation were endless.
“Here we are,” Mr. Goddard said, placing a stack of papers wrapped with a dark blue ribbon in the center of the table and effectively bringing their impasse to an end. “All the material we have on the Singh dagger, as requested by his grace, the Duke of Kesgrave.”
“Toady,” she muttered, causing the duke to grin.
Impervious, the librarian added with aggressive obsequiousness, “Do let me know if there’s anything else I or one of my colleagues may supply to further assist you in your business, your grace.”
“Thank you, Mr. Goddard,” Kesgrave said solemnly. “I will not soon forget your kindness.”
The librarian seemed to glow with delight as he backed away from the table, reluctant to remove his eyes from such a gracious and serious patron.
“Your Lady Bountiful is exquisite,” Bea said satirically.
Despite her aim, the barb did not hit its mark. “Indeed. On my next visit, I’ll wear my coronet.”
As she had in the Lake District, Bea found herself taken aback by the arrogant duke’s willingness to laugh at himself. His manner was so high-handed, his condescension so complete, she kept expecting him to exist in a place beyond humor and frivolity. With every calculated provocation, she expected to draw forth the supercilious nobleman who had stood opposite her in the darkened library at Lakeview Hall, the corpse of Mr. Otley cooling between them, and insisted he could not be a suspect in the gentleman’s murder because he was a duke. To any number of things she’d said, he would be well within his rights to issue a stinging set-down and stride away in disgust.
And yet he didn’t.
Bea found it as troubling as it was bewildering.
“It was the notice,” he said as Bea reached for the papers Mr. Goddard had delivered.
“Excuse me?” she asked, looking up from the ribbon, which required little attention to untie.
“The method by which I found you here,” he explained. “I saw the death notice in the London Daily Gazette for an unfortunate young man named Theodore Davies and knew it at once as your work.”
Bea, who had, only a little while ago, believed she could be no more surprised by anything than his sudden appearance in Heatherton Hall, gaped in shock at him now. In what possible way could she have revealed her authorship in those few benign lines?
Kesgrave was clever enough not to acknowledge her astonishment, which, naturally, caused her to feel it all the more keenly. “As Miss Otley made sure everyone in the manor heard your tragic tale of thwarted love, I knew in an instant who must have placed the notice,” he said simply.
As he explained, Bea wondered if she should be flattered by his insight or insulted by his assumption. What did it say about her that he’d known at once that her beau could only be an elaborate fiction?
“I had meant to congratulate you,” he continued, “on creating such a useful story—Miss Otley seemed particularly moved by your young clerk’s dramatic scar—but events intruded and I never had the chance. Indeed, we had no opportunity to speak privately before you left Lakeview Hall, a development that I deeply regret. Do let me congratulate you now, even as I offer my condolences. I feel compelled to ask, however, if it was entirely necessary to treat him so cruelly? Having served his purpose as a man of straw, could he not be allowed to pass the rest of his days in domestic bliss in St. Giles?”
“It was Cheapside,” she said, blushing slightly, for whether or not he intended it, she felt the implied criticism: that she had been compelled to take revenge on a man who, real or invented, had found happiness with another woman.
“Ah, yes,” he said, “comfortably set among the merchants.”
“Mr. Davies’s existence had become untenable, as my aunt was determined to meet him in an attempt to discover more information about me,” she explained. “As a story, Aunt Vera had found him a little too useful. So I wrote the notice and placed it in the paper my uncle reads every morning.”
“And while you were there, Fazeley suffered a fatal knife attack and fell at your feet,” he said.
This time she was not surprised by Kesgrave’s astuteness. “Opened his mouth as if to speak and then dropped like a brick.”
He was quiet for a m
oment and then said gravely, “That must have been horrible for you. Otley’s death was brutal enough for a young lady to endure, and to have to go through it again seems remarkably unfair.”
“I agree,” she said, “and yet I am here at the British Museum, extending the horror by trying to locate the owner of the knife. So clearly fate has a small idea of what it is doing.”
The duke nodded. “I had wondered what you were up to, for I came to your house earlier to offer my respects on your loss and observed your leaving with a maid. Rather than derail your activity, I chose to follow.”
Again, she marveled at the frivolity—not that he’d indulged in a wild-goose chase out of a sense of playfulness, for she did not believe he was motivated by an impish spirit. No, it was rather that he, with all his accomplishments, felt compelled to show off his cleverness. Impressing her with his deductive powers regarding Mr. Davies’s unfortunate demise paled in comparison to appearing in Heatherton Hall as if by magical incantation to impress her with his revelations.
“Come now, your grace,” she said with a cynical smile, “I can’t believe you don’t have something better to do with your day.”
As if he’d wondered the same thing, he said with a bemused smile, “Neither can I.”
It was the confusion in his tone—just enough to convey sincerity—that threw her own thoughts into disarray, and she looked down at the pages she’d freed from the ribbon. “I cannot know how much of my conversation with Mr. Goddard you heard, but the knife in the collection here, this knife, which hails from Jaipur in India, has a twin. I believe that twin was used to kill Lord Fazeley. I did not get a close-up view of the weapon, but its design was unmistakable, even at a distance of six or seven feet. This means that if we find out the name of the man who owns the twin, we will find out the name of the man who murdered the earl,” she explained, then immediately flushed at her presumption. Despite how it might feel to her, they were not at Lakeview Hall and this was not a redux of their investigation into Mr. Otley’s death. “That is to say, I will find the name of the killer. I am, of course, grateful for your helping in arranging access to the archive. I trust you won’t feel obligated to remain beyond your interest. My maid accompanied me so the proprieties have been observed.”
