Captivating the Scoundrel

by Darcy Burke

  She looked away abruptly. There was something vaguely familiar about him, but she wasn’t sure if that was true or simply her mind wanting to have a connection with him.

  “Did you find what you wanted?” the countess asked eagerly. “I love that story. Elidyr was an excellent writer.”

  “He was indeed. I’d heard of this version of the tale, of course, but I’m quite pleased to finally read it for myself.” Daphne hadn’t answered her question. She hadn’t found precisely what she wanted, but she also hadn’t found anything she didn’t want to find. Meaning, her theory was still possible. “I was hoping the text would name Arthur’s healer.”

  “The man who gave him the cloak?” the countess asked.

  Daphne’s mouth curled into a smile. “Who says it was a man?”

  The countess drew in a sharp breath. “You think it was Morgan. She is sometimes his healer, depending on what you’re reading.”

  “Precisely. Those tales are far closer to who she really was.”

  “Instead of the evil, manipulative woman later texts paint her to be.” The countess scoffed. “Have you written anything on the subject? I’d love to read it.”

  She had, in fact, not that anyone had ever read her writing. “You’d want to?”

  “Absolutely. If you’d consider sharing.”

  Delight and pride clashed with fear and anxiety. She’d long wanted to be recognized for her intellect and to be able to contribute to Arthurian scholarship, but she was, alas, a woman. “I…would…yes.” She couldn’t shake the hesitation and skepticism from her voice. Her father had supported her studies but hadn’t wanted her to share them—it was part of the devil’s bargain she’d made with him several years ago.

  “Should we have some refreshments?” Mrs. Bowen asked, rising from the settee in front of the window.

  “I don’t wish to keep you,” Daphne said. “You’ve a wedding to prepare for.”

  “Just stay for a bit,” the countess said with a smile. “I’d dearly love to hear your theories about Morgan as a healer.”

  Daphne glanced around at the wealth of knowledge these people represented and decided she could stay for a bit. Perhaps they would know something about the cloak. She smiled at the countess. “If you insist.”

  “Excellent. You must call me Cate. I feel as if we are going to be great friends.” Cate looped her arm through Daphne’s and led her to the settee her mother had vacated. Mrs. Bowen left the library, presumably to organize the refreshments.

  Penn’s betrothed, Amelia, sat on Daphne’s other side, while Penn and Mr. Bowen claimed two empty chairs, and a third was occupied by Lord Norris. Stratton didn’t leave his position near the bookshelf, nor did he abandon his book. She wondered what he was reading.

  Daphne drew off the gloves Mr. Bowen had provided. “I think it’s quite obvious that later stories featuring Morgan present an overdramatized version of her—to better serve the men’s stories.”

  “That sounds accurate,” Cate said, rolling her eyes. “You believe she was a real person, then?” Cate took the gloves from Daphne and set them on a table next to the settee.

  “Of course. Don’t you?” Daphne had presumed so, given the woman’s interest, but that was a supposition she perhaps should not have made.

  “I do, actually.” She flicked a glance toward her brother and another one toward the Earl of Stratton, who didn’t look up from his book.

  If they believed the people in these stories and legends were real, did they also believe in the Thirteen Treasures? That was something Daphne wouldn’t ask. The less attention those items received, the better.

  “Have you any definitive proof?” This question came from the woman on her left, Amelia.

  “Not in my possession, no.” But there was a text by a contemporary of Arthur and his knights—a monk named Anarawd—and she believed there must be mention of Morgan in it. Mr. Bowen purportedly had a copy of it, but denied its existence. Daphne looked at the bookshelves and wondered if it was there. It seemed likely the people in the room knew about this text, but again, she perhaps shouldn’t make assumptions. Which was why she wouldn’t bring it up.

  “But you still believe,” Cate said with a hint of admiration. “You mustn’t ever stop, even when people doubt you. I had a quest to find something once, and I persisted until I found it.” The pride in her voice was unmistakable, as was the glow of love between her and her husband as they exchanged a warm glance.

  Daphne was moved and inspired by the woman’s confidence—and her success. “What did you find?”

  “Oh, just an old sword. I gave it to Penn.” Cate had hesitated just a bare moment, but enough to draw Daphne’s curiosity. She suspected it was more than just an old sword, but she also suspected further queries would go unanswered. Antiquaries could be incredibly verbose but occasionally tight-lipped when it came to matters of treasure. And so much of their world involved treasure—at least to someone. What was an old sword to most could be the most fascinating thing to someone else.

  Or it could possess value and import beyond anyone’s imagination, like the cloak Daphne was committed to finding. A cloak she believed Morgan had made. “Fulfilling your quest must have been incredibly gratifying,” she said softly.

  “Yes, quite. My husband would tell you it was the happiest moment of my life, but he’d be wrong.” She grinned at him.

  “I wouldn’t say that,” the earl said. “I’m arrogant enough to say the happiest moment is when you married me.”

  Cate laughed, along with most of the others in the room. “One of many happiest moments, along with you allowing me to sort through the former earl’s antiquities.” She leaned close to Daphne and whispered, “Elijah wanted to sell it all off.”

  Daphne had heard that a previous Lord Norris had possessed an astonishing collection. “What a travesty that would have been.”

  “Indeed, but we shall sell some of it. The estate came with a bit of debt, I’m afraid.”

  “If you find anything pertaining to Morgan, I do hope you’ll let me know,” Daphne said. She had no idea if the Norris collection included any such thing, but it was always worthwhile to ask.

  “Certainly. And how shall I write to you? We must establish a correspondence, because I definitely plan to read your papers.”

  “You can write to me at Hawthorn Cottage in Keynsham.” It had been her mother’s family’s home, and now it was Daphne’s primary residence. She’d moved there last year from Ashridge Court with her father’s permission. She had a small staff, including her personal guard, as well as her great-aunt Ellie.

  “Excellent,” Cate said. “And you may write to me at Cosgrove. We’ll be going back there after the wedding. I do hope you’ll come for a visit some time.”

  “I should be delighted.” Especially if she found anything relating to Morgan, though Daphne thought she would enjoy just talking with Cate and sharing information.

  Mrs. Bowen returned with the housekeeper. Each carried a tray laden with drinks and cakes and biscuits. The refreshments were arranged on a table near their seating area, and soon everyone was rising to fetch something to eat or drink. Daphne took the opportunity to peruse the bookshelves in case something spectacular leapt out at her—such as the name Anarawd. As if Bowen would keep such a valuable item out in the open or that it would be so clearly labeled.

  Instead, what leapt at her was the stoic Earl of Stratton. Well, not leapt, precisely, but he did approach her. “You look as though you’d like to spend the next week in here with Rhys’s books.”

  She pivoted toward him. “I would, in fact. I see your interest is similar.” She inclined her head toward the book in his hand. His forefinger was inserted between the pages to keep his place. “What are you reading?”

  “Just an old poem.”

  “Is that like Cate’s ‘old sword’?” The words fell out of her mouth before she could censor herself. “Pardon me,” she murmured, turning from him and edging away along the bookshelf. />
  “Are you suggesting this book and Cate’s artifact are more than what we say?”

  She shrugged. “I find with antiquarians, you can never be quite certain they speak the truth.” She cast him a cautious look, thinking she should probably stop talking entirely. Better still, she should take her leave before she said something truly regretful.

  He surprised her by chuckling. “You are, of course, correct. But this really is just an old poem.” He opened the tome and showed it to her. It was written in Middle English.

  “‘Pierce the Ploughman’s Crede,’” she said, recognizing the lines.

  “Very good. Tell me, if I pull a random text from the shelf and read a few lines, will you be able to guess what it is?”

  That sounded like a terribly fun game. And she wanted to play it—with him. Her heart picked up speed. “Probably.”

  “Astonishing,” he whispered.

  “Mrs. Guilford,” Cate said, “would you care for some tea or lemonade? My mother makes the best lemonade.”

  “Mrs. Guilford…” the earl mused. “Why didn’t Mr. Guilford accompany you today?”

  “Because he’s dead.” Nonexistent, actually, but dead would suffice. “And you needn’t apologize. We were wed briefly before he succumbed to a fever, and it was several years ago.”

  “So young to be widowed,” he said. “I wouldn’t put you at five and twenty.”

  “Next year,” she said, wondering how their conversation had become so intimate and yet felt so…normal. Daphne preferred to keep her secrets—and her lies—very close. “Please excuse me.” She turned and went to have a glass of lemonade before the astute earl learned anything else about her.

  When Daphne arrived on the other side of the library, Cate asked her what she wanted, then poured the lemonade. As she sipped the tart beverage, Daphne stole a glance toward Stratton. He’d gone back to reading his book.

  It was just as well. She didn’t have time, patience, or interest in flirting with anyone. Pity, because it had felt divine.

  It was past time to take her leave, unfortunately. Between the familial atmosphere, the tantalizing wealth of books, and the enigmatic allure of the earl, Daphne could have happily stayed until they turned her out.

  “I must be going,” she said. “I’ve intruded quite long enough.” She turned to Mr. Bowen. “Thank you so very much for allowing me to read the Elidyr text. It was most enlightening.”

  “I hope you’ll return another time—when we aren’t in the midst of a wedding. You look as if you’d like to spend some time perusing the library.”

  “You are too kind.” Indeed he was. Daphne’s own father wouldn’t have extended such an invitation. He guarded his books and antiquities with an almost paranoid obsession.

  “I’ll just fetch your bonnet from the hall,” Mrs. Bowen offered.

  Everyone bid Daphne farewell as she started toward the hall. Just as she crossed the threshold, a masculine voice came from behind her. “You forgot your gloves.”

  It was the Earl of Stratton, of course. His dark gray eyes stared down at her as if he could see well past her secrets and lies. It was rather unnerving. But also strangely intoxicating.

  She took the gloves from him, and their bare fingers touched. The connection dashed through her like a hummingbird taking flight. “You seem to be the bearer of gloves today.”

  “However I may be of service.” He offered her a slight bow. “Good day, Mrs. Guilford.”

  “Good day, my lord.” She dipped another brief curtsey before turning to take her hat from Mrs. Bowen.

  “Have a safe journey,” she said with a warm smile. “You’re not traveling to Keynsham tonight, I hope.”

  Setting the bonnet on her head, Daphne retied the ribbons beneath her chin while holding her gloves in one hand. “No. I’ll stay in Monmouth tonight and leave for Keynsham in the morning.” After spending the night at home, she’d continue on to Glastonbury, to Ashridge Court for her father’s medieval-themed house party.

  Mr. Bowen’s brow creased. “I’m sorry I can’t offer you a room here.”

  Daphne was a bit sorry too. Though she’d spent a short amount of time with them, she liked these people, particularly Cate. “I wouldn’t want to intrude on the wedding. It was kind enough of you to have me today. Thank you again.” Daphne took her leave and pulled her gloves on as she strode to the coach.

  “Find what you wanted?” Argus asked as he helped her into the vehicle.

  “Yes.” But not what she’d hoped. She was no closer to proving Morgan was Arthur’s healer or finding the cloak she’d made for him.

  As the coach drove away from Hollyhaven, she shook away the lingering effects of the Earl of Stratton’s attentions. She’d so wanted to find the cloak before her father’s party so that she could return home triumphant—and perhaps in possession of something to tempt her father to negotiate.

  That was not to be, however, and she chastised herself for nursing the foolish dream. She didn’t know if she’d ever find the cloak, and she was all but certain she’d never talk her father out of the marriage he intended to arrange for her. Still, meeting Cate, a woman of distinct courage and persistence, had given her a beacon of hope.

  She’d cling to that until she had nothing left.

  Chapter 3

  Gideon wiped a hand over his tired eyes. He’d read the poem a dozen times now and hadn’t gleaned a damned thing. There had to be something. It included one of the Thirteen Treasures—the cloak—and someone had come specifically to see it.

  Someone with dark auburn hair and eyes the color of sherry ringed with moss. And a touch that had sparked something he’d long thought extinguished.

  Snorting in disgust, he flipped back to the start of the poem. He hadn’t meant to flirt with her that afternoon. It had been a long time since he’d flirted with anyone. But old habits were apparently very hard to break, especially when in the presence of someone who stirred the man he used to be.

  The man he refused to become again.

  “What the devil are you doing in here at this hour?” Penn came into the library carrying a lamp, which he set at the opposite end of the table.

  Gideon sat back in his chair and blinked at his half brother. “I’m reading. The more important question is what you’re doing in here. You’re getting married in a matter of hours.”

  “Which is why I needed a drink.” Penn went to the sideboard at the other end of the library in the corner. “Whisky?” He didn’t turn as he asked the question.

  “Please.” Gideon rose, stretching his back and massaging his nape.

  Penn returned and handed him a glass, then they moved to the seating area—drinks were not allowed at the worktable. Rhys had very stringent rules about his library, which both Gideon and Penn had heard about since they were boys.

  “Looks like you’re reading the Elidyr text,” Penn said, dropping into a chair while Gideon sprawled on the settee, crossing his feet on one end while he leaned on the other.

  “I was.”

  “There’s nothing in there,” Penn said. “Since we returned with the heart a few days ago, we’ve scoured this library for clues about the Thirteen Treasures.”

  “Then why did Mrs. Guilford want to read it?” Who the hell was she anyway?

  Penn sipped his whisky. “Because she’s obsessed with Morgan. You know how these things work. You remember my sister’s obsession with Dyrnwyn. Which made your stealing it from her especially egregious.”

  Gideon flinched. “I shall never live that down.”

  “Of course you will.”

  “But I shouldn’t. I can never atone for what I did.”

  “I’d argue that risking yourself to help us find the Heart of Llanllwch was a fairly good attempt.” Penn narrowed his eyes at Gideon. “It’s time you told me how you got the dagger.”

  Since arriving the day before, Gideon had shrugged off their questions in the interest of focusing on the wedding. There was no way he was going to reveal
that he’d agreed to marry some unknown chit. “I had to give him the sword.” At Penn’s look of fury, Gideon scowled and held up his free hand. “Save your outrage. It’s a temporary loan.”

  Penn’s dark brows pitched low over his eyes. “Does Foliot know that?”

  “It doesn’t matter. That’s what it is. And I need the heart.”

  “I told you I would give it to you. But not so you could give it to him.” Penn practically growled the last.

  “I have to prove my loyalty,” Gideon said. “You’re going to have to trust me that I’ll get it all back. I have a plan.” If he could find the cloak, which he must since he intended to find all the treasures, he could use it to steal the items back. The cloak would make him invisible.

  “I don’t suppose you’d care to share that plan?”

  “Not just yet.” Gideon didn’t want their help. Not because he didn’t trust them, but because he didn’t want to endanger them. “This is my responsibility, Penn. I have to find all the treasures and keep them safe from the Order and especially from Camelot.”

  “And yet you’ve delivered one right to them and plan to give them another. Damn it, Gideon, you shouldn’t do this alone.”

  “I should involve you and Amelia?”

  “Me, yes, but not Amelia.”

  Gideon let out a harsh laugh. “You really think she’d let you do it without her?”

  It was Penn’s turn to scowl as he took a drink of whisky.

  “I promise I will ask for help when—and if—I need it,” Gideon said. “Now tell me about how your man Egg plans to find this vicar.”

  Penn blew out a frustrated breath and kicked his legs out straight from the chair, crossing them at the ankles. “He’s going to leave immediately after the wedding. The vicar was last seen in Gloucester.”

  “And you have someone stationed in London?”

  Penn nodded. “Charlie—my most loyal assistant at Oxford. He’s loitering about the Lord Chancellor’s office to see if the vicar shows up.”

  “And what if we don’t find him?” It was a possibility they had to accept—and discuss.