Chase Family Collection: Limited Christmas Edition

by Lauren Royal

  Rand ran his tongue across his teeth, a sign of contemplation Ford remembered from their days at Wadham College. “A woman can marry at twelve with her father’s consent.”

  Ford thought of Jewel just six years hence. “A female of twelve is not a woman.”

  “Point taken.” Rand cleared his throat. “So what of this sister?”

  “She knows a language or three, you see, and she examined the book.” Ford rose, crossing to the desk to retrieve it. “She noticed a word she thought was Italian. For silver,” he added significantly as he opened the bottom drawer.

  “And that was enough to make you decide it was Secrets of the Emerald Tablet?”

  “You think me so simple-minded?” He handed the book to Rand, then sat again on the iron chest. “The moment I saw this book, I suspected it might be the one. Besides the book’s appearance and the clues on the title page, it includes diagrams that are clearly scientific. Other than that, though, I couldn’t really say why I think this is it. It just…feels right,” he added, suddenly feeling foolish.

  He’d always trusted facts over feelings. Until now, at least.

  “It does look quite ancient.” Rand turned the book in his hands, then opened it gingerly, reverently, as such an old book deserved. “You know, Old English is so different from what we speak today, it might as well be a foreign language.”

  “But I would still recognize a word here or there, wouldn’t I? Rose—Violet’s sister—thought it might be several different languages. And patterns.” His fingers worried the decorative metal strips on the chest. “I’m thinking it might be a code.”

  Rand looked up. “What is in there?” he asked suddenly, indicating the old iron chest.

  “I don’t know. It belonged to the previous owners.” Ford looked ruefully at the heavy lock. The key was missing, so it would have to be hacked off with an ax. One of the many things he had yet to get around to doing here at Lakefield.

  “Don’t you wonder if it holds something valuable?”

  “They wouldn’t have left it had it contained anything valuable. Do you see anything else they left around here that was worth keeping?”

  Scanning the shabby room, Rand laughed. “You have a point.”

  Ford wasn’t at all handy with an ax, and the book was much more important. “Rose said some of the lines are written backwards. And the letters are mirror images.”

  “Etruscan,” Rand said, glancing back down.

  “Pardon?”

  “Etruscan. A dead language. The people who spoke it lived in what eventually became Italy.”

  “Raymond Lully, the author, lived in Italy for some time.”

  Rand nodded thoughtfully. “The Etruscans wrote left to right and then right to left on successive lines, with the letters facing backwards and forwards.” He kept turning pages as he talked. “Etruscan is phonetic and easy to read aloud, but no one’s ever managed to puzzle out the words’ meanings.”

  Ford’s spirits plummeted. “Does that mean you won’t be able to identify the book?”

  “Not at all.” Rand looked up with a grin. “Your ladylove’s sister was right.”

  Violet wasn’t Ford’s ladylove, but in his rising excitement, he decided to let his friend’s annoying ribbing slide. “Right about what?”

  “About it being many languages. I’ve noticed two or three ancient words here—ones I can read. But not together. I believe you’re correct that it may be a code.”

  “And we both know how good you are at cracking those, to Alban’s constant aggravation.” Alban, Rand’s older brother, had been a cruel boy, Ford remembered. Rand had retaliated by constantly outsmarting him. “How is Alban these days?”

  “I don’t know, actually,” Rand said, his eyes still on the book. “I haven’t been home in four years.”

  “I see.” Reluctant to subject himself to his father and brother, Rand had often spent school holidays with Ford’s family instead. Apparently matters hadn’t improved. Ford hesitated to pry, though, as he knew it was a sensitive subject.

  He rose and moved to stand over Rand, leaning down to turn back to the first page. “Can you read the title?”

  Rand stared at the words for a moment, then frowned. “If this is a code, it’s a tough one.” He looked up, shutting the book. “Give me some time, man. Can you not feed a fellow before taxing his brain?”

  As if on cue, Hilda walked in, holding a folded piece of paper.

  “We’ve another for supper,” Ford told her.

  “And what makes you think I can provide on short notice?” She walked closer, scrutinizing Rand’s healthy physique. “I suppose you eat as heartily as this one?” she asked, indicating Ford.

  “Doubtless,” Rand said with a smile.

  With an exaggerated sniff, she held out the paper to Ford. “Here, I came to give you this.” When he took it, she added, “I’ll bring your guest some refreshments. For heaven’s sake, milord, you haven’t offered him so much as a drink.”

  “Why do you put up with her?” Rand asked when she had left.

  Ford shrugged. “She came with the house. Besides, she’s a kitten under the gruff exterior. Read this, will you?” He handed Rand the paper and went to the cabinet where he kept brandy.

  While he poured, Rand unfolded the paper. “‘Dear Lord Lakefield, The Ashcroft family would be honored to have you and Lady Jewel as our guests for supper this evening. If we do not receive your regrets, we shall expect you at seven o’clock. Yours sincerely, Lady Trentingham.’”

  Ford handed Rand his drink. “You’ll come along, of course. I’ll have Harry carry a note to warn them of the extra guest. Hilda will be relieved.”

  “Lady Jewel?” Rand sipped, his glance speculative over the cup’s rim. “Another woman? Lady Violet isn’t enough?”

  “Violet isn’t my woman,” Ford said irritably. “And Jewel is my niece. Long story.”

  Rand settled back. “I’m waiting to hear it.”

  Twenty-Seven

  A KNOCK CAME at Violet’s door. “Don’t you want to come riding?” Lily called through the oak.

  “No, thank you.” Seated at her dressing table, Violet flipped a page of her book.

  “You’ve been hiding in there for two days.” Rose sounded typically impatient. “Are your fittings that exhausting?”

  “Yes,” Violet called, just as impatiently.

  “Violet…”

  When Lily pushed open the door, Violet hurried to stuff the book under her bedcovers.

  Her eyes narrowed, Rose fisted her hands on her hips. “What were you reading?”

  “Nothing.”

  “I saw it. It was a little brown book.” She stalked over to the bed. “Let me see.”

  Violet pulled it out before Rose could. “Aristotle’s Master-piece. Philosophy. Nothing you’d find interesting.”

  “Aristotle’s Master-piece?” Lily breathed. Her blue eyes were round as the moon through Ford’s telescope. “Where did you get that?”

  Violet’s heart pounded. “Why? Have you heard of it?”

  “Have we heard of it?” Rose all but snorted. “The ladies whisper behind their fans about all its secrets. I vow and swear, Violet, you need to get out of the house. If you came visiting more often—”

  “Does Mum know you have it?” Lily interrupted.

  “No.” Perish the thought. “You won’t tell her, will you?”

  Rose’s lips curved in a slow smile. “We won’t if you share.”

  “You’re too young for a book about…” Violet peeked inside at the title page. “‘The Secrets of Generation in All the Parts Thereof.’” She slammed it shut, her fingers clenching on the leather cover.

  “I’m not so certain Mum would want you reading it, either.” Rose walked closer, and Violet held on tighter. “I think she’d be very interested,” Rose taunted, “to hear where you got that book.”

  There was nothing for it. “Come to the summerhouse,” Violet said with a sigh. “We can all read it toget
her.”

  “HOW DID YOU get it?” Rose asked when they were safely outdoors in the garden.

  Violet knew her father was in the study—they had walked right by him on their way from the house—but she was so used to seeing him out here that she glanced around, half expecting to find him lurking behind a bush.

  “Ford bought it for me in Windsor,” she admitted finally.

  Lily’s mouth gaped open.

  “It wasn’t like that!” Violet rushed to add. “He thought it was a philosophy book. We both did.”

  “Of course,” Rose said with a smirk.

  Violet clutched the book to her bodice. “It’s called Aristotle’s Master-piece. What was I supposed to think?”

  Rose looked unconvinced.

  “Never mind.” Lily’s shorter legs hurried to keep up with her older sisters’ quick pace. “Is it really that shocking?”

  “Well, yes and no,” Violet said. “Mostly it’s educational.”

  Rose grabbed for the book. “I need an education.”

  “Just wait,” Violet snapped, snatching it back. She rushed past Father’s blue and yellow flower beds, breathing a sigh of relief when they reached the circular red-brick summerhouse. She yanked open one of the small garden building’s four doors, and the girls scurried inside, shutting it behind them.

  They huddled together on a section of the benches that ran along the wall, Rose and Lily on either side of Violet. She placed the book on her lap. Large, arched windows over each of the doors illuminated the brown leather binding, but they were placed too high for anyone to see in.

  A perfect place for illicit reading.

  Violet drew a deep breath. “This was my first clue that it wasn’t the sort of book I’d thought,” she said and opened the cover.

  “Oh, my God,” Lily breathed. The frontispiece plate depicted a seated Aristotle with a nude woman standing beside him. “Is the book really by Aristotle?”

  “I’m sure not!” Rose stared at the title page opposite. “There’s no author listed, no printer’s name or date or even place of publication.” She gave a delicious shiver. “It must be truly scandalous. What does it say, Violet?”

  “Well, the beginning is only advice to parents.”

  “To parents?”

  “Of young girls. Listen.” She flipped a page, then cleared her throat. “‘It behooves parents to look after their children, and when they find them inclinable to marriage, not violently to restrain their affections, but rather provide such suitable matches for them, lest the crossing of their inclinations should precipitate them to commit those follies that may bring an indelible stain upon their families.’”

  “What does that mean?” Lily asked.

  Rose grinned. “It means Father and Mum should make certain I marry before I get myself with child.”

  “Rose!” Lily’s mouth hung open in shock.

  “Hush,” Violet said. “There’s more.” She swallowed and turned the page. “‘For when they arrive at puberty, which is about the fourteenth or fifteenth year of their age, then the natural purgations begin to flow—’”

  “They have already,” Rose said. “For all of us.”

  “Rose!” Lily’s cheeks stained red as the “purgations.”

  “Just listen,” Violet said. “‘…and the blood stirs up their minds to venery: for their spirits being brisk and inflamed when they arrive at this age, if they eat hard salt things and spices, the body becomes more and more heated, whereby the desire to carnal embraces is very great, sometimes insuperable.’”

  “Insuperable.” Rose nodded. “That’s what I am. Insuperable.”

  Lily huffed, a rare show of impatience. “What does it say after that, Violet?”

  “‘And the use of this so much desired enjoyment being denied to virgins, many times is followed by dismal consequences—’”

  “Dismal,” Rose emphasized.

  Lily and Violet glared at her.

  “‘…by dismal consequences, as a green weasel color, short breathings, trembling of the heart, etcetera. Also their eager staring at men, and affecting their company, shows that nature pushes them upon coition, and their parents neglecting to get them husbands, they break through modesty to satisfy themselves in unlawful embraces—’”

  “But I want to choose my own husband,” Lily broke in. “I don’t want my parents—Mum most especially—to get one for me.”

  “Either way, it must be done.” Rose stood and paced the small, round building. “Else can you see the consequences? Your spirits will become brisk and inflamed. The desire to carnal embraces is very great—”

  “Sometimes insuperable.” Violet could hardly keep from laughing.

  “Insuperable, yes.” Rose pulled the book from Violet’s hands, scanning the words. “Nature will push you upon coition, Lily, and you’ll break through your modesty to satisfy yourself in unlawful embraces.” She looked up. “We must get Violet married so we can find husbands ourselves.”

  “Oh, no,” Violet said.

  “Oh, yes. Otherwise, we cannot be responsible for the consequences—”

  “Girls, are you in there?” Father knocked on one of the doors. “Willets said he saw you heading this way—”

  Rose quickly sat on the book, folding her hands angelically on her lap while Violet went to open the door. “We’re just talking, Father. Do you need us?”

  “Do I need what?” Looking perplexed, he scratched his head. “Your mother sent me to find you.”

  “Why?” Violet asked.

  “Lord Lakefield has arrived for supper. With a guest. Lord something-or-other. I failed to catch the name.”

  “A man? A titled man?” Rose stood and slipped the book to Violet behind her back. “Gemini! We’d better go change our gowns!”

  Twenty-Eight

  AN HOUR LATER, Chrystabel set down her goblet. “Violet tells me Jewel is going home tomorrow.”

  “Yes.” Ford sprinkled salt on his spinach tanzy and returned the spoon to its little dish. “I hope she also told you I’ve invited her to an event at Gresham College.”

  “She has,” Chrystabel said, “and she’ll be delighted to attend. Monday evening, is it?”

  A tiny gasp escaped Violet’s lips. She’d never given Ford an answer, and she’d wanted to do that for herself.

  She nudged her mother’s foot beneath the table, but Mum pretended not to notice.

  “Yes, Monday.” Ford took an experimental bite of the rich spinach omelette, then smiled. “I trust you’ll be in London by then? I’ll need the direction of your town house.”

  “We’re in St. James’s Square,” Mum answered again for Violet. “In the northeast corner, the house of light gray stone.”

  “Excellent. The celebration begins at ten, so I’ll be by at half past nine.”

  “Half pastime?” Father murmured.

  Nobody paid him any attention.

  Violet stabbed a stewed prawn with her fork, a bit more forcefully than necessary. If her mother and Ford kept planning her life as though she weren’t around to hear it, she feared she might scream.

  Seated between her sisters across the table, Lord Randal Nesbitt gave her a sympathetic smile—a smile nearly as charming as Ford’s. It just lacked that hint of the devil that lit Ford’s eyes.

  Apparently noticing the glance that passed between Violet and his friend, Ford reached for her hand beneath the table.

  Faith, what if someone noticed? But it felt good. It reminded her of their stolen kisses.

  Feigning nonchalance, she smiled back at Rand. He was nice. He hadn’t even mentioned her spectacles. She wondered if that was because Ford had already told him about them, or if he was just very polite.

  “Pastime?” Violet’s father repeated. He turned to his wife. “What’s this all about?”

  She flicked a grain of brown rice off his cravat. “Darling, I told you we’re going to London, remember?”

  “I thought that was to order more gowns for Violet, since she’
s finally taking interest.” Father stirred some of the butter sauce from the prawns into his rice. “From that Madame Blowfont woman.”

  “Beaumont,” Rose clarified loudly, sprinkling cinnamon on her own rice.

  Egad, Violet thought, did Ford have to know that she’d never cared for clothes? Nobody would ever call Violet Ashcroft typical, she heard him say in her head—and her family was only confirming it.

  She wished she could slide beneath the table. And then melt into the floor. Especially when she caught Ford stifling a grin, indicating he was enjoying this discussion.

  “Gowns?” Mum said, trying to come to Violet’s rescue. “Of course she needs new gowns, but that’s not the focus of our holiday. Everyone knows my eldest daughter’s main interest is philosophy, not fashion.” She looked to Ford’s friend. “You must forgive my husband. He’s a bit hard of hearing and often misunderstands.”

  “What?” Father asked, proving her point.

  “Nothing, my love.” Chrystabel’s musical laughter tinkled through the room, a sound of relief. “See what I mean?”

  “Violet did have a new ball gown made,” Rowan said in defense of his father.

  Ford squeezed Violet’s hand.

  Rose flashed her dimples at Ford’s guest. “What brings you to visit, Lord Randal?” she asked, even though he’d told them all to call him just Rand.

  She’d been gazing at the man all evening. Not that Violet blamed her. Like Ford, Rand wore no wig, and he had the most gorgeous mane of long, dark blond hair. Besides that devastating smile, he was tall and lean, with a poet’s face and eyes of steely gray—the most intense eyes Violet had ever seen. When he looked at a person, he really looked at her, as though he could see right into her soul.

  In response to Rose’s question, he was looking at her now, and she seemed to all but swoon beneath his gaze.

  Eating single-handed, Ford used his fork to cut a bite of the tanzy rather awkwardly. “I’ve asked Rand to translate that old book for me, Rose. He’s Professor of Linguistics at Oxford—a renowned specialist in ancient languages.”

  “Languages?” Visibly perking up, Rose batted her long eyelashes, reminding Violet of Jewel.