The Forgiven Duke (A Forgotten Castles Novel)

by Carie, Jamie

  Jane wasn’t confident in her ability to converse through lipreading and preferred to write it out. What are you looking for? Does this have something to do with Alexandria?

  His family had heard about the reason he had gone to Holy Island and then all the way to Ireland, but he’d told only Jane the full story. Her eyes had filled with shocked laughter and admiration when he told of waylaying the captain in Holy Island, then being shot before sailing off to Ireland. She’d shaken her head in amazement at Alexandria’s ability to stay one step ahead of him and clasped her hands in romantic glee when he told of the masquerade ball. She had been won by Alexandria’s steadfast quest to find her missing parents and admired the young woman already.

  “Yes.” He hesitated, not sure how much to tell her about what the Featherstones had been hired to find. “There is an important manuscript that has disappeared from the collection Hans Sloane gave to the British Museum. I find myself rather curious about it and the British Museum seems a good place to start asking questions.”

  Jane arched a brow at him and took back the book. “You’re worried about her, aren’t you?”

  Gabriel let out a breath, his attempts at being glib about the matter dissolving with her forthright, questioning eyes. “Well, yes I am. There are some very powerful men looking for that manuscript, and she has placed herself right in the thick of things.” He looked off into the far corner of the room. “I’m chafing at the regent’s bit here. Biding my time isn’t a specialty of mine, if you must know.”

  He turned a grim smile upon her. “I find if I don’t do something, at least feel like I’m doing something useful to help her, I will go mad.” He rubbed his chin, elbow propped on the table beside his plate, shooting her a side glance. “Would you care to join me on this wild adventure?”

  Jane laughed. The first real laugh since Matthew’s death. Even though Gabriel couldn’t hear the sound of her laughter, he could see it on her face and he was glad for that, so glad.

  “Well, eat up then.” He took a bite of eggs. “We’ll need our strength if we’re to skulk about London today.”

  She put her hand on his forearm. “Thank you, Gabriel, for everything.”

  He could only nod at her around the sudden knot in his throat and then motioned for her to eat. Which she finally did.

  GABRIEL AND JANE TOOK THE formal coach with the St. Easton coat of arms on the sides, pulled by four grays as it would be the most comfortable for Jane in London’s dreary cold, at least that was what Gabriel thought would be best. But she only sent him a small smile and a slight shake of her head when she saw that he’d ordered it.

  Charlotte, the oldest of the sisters, would have insisted on it. Mary, the middle sister, would have been embarrassed by the grandeur but too caring of his feelings to call him on the carpet about it. Jane rolled her eyes and hopped inside. Ah, women. Who could understand them?

  It wasn’t long before they pulled up to the elegant Montagu House where the British Museum was housed. Gabriel had sent word that he was coming and would like to meet with the principal librarian, so it didn’t surprise him when they were met in the front entrance hall by a man who promised to lead them to Mr. Planta.

  They passed rooms full of sculptures and busts, paintings and drawings, bookcases filled with every kind of book from the King’s Library, and every imaginable earthly curiosity from Captain James Cook’s objects of the South Seas to the foot of Apollo from Greece. They were finally led to the Manuscript Salon, where Mr. Planta rose and came over to meet them. He was an old gentleman but thin and agile with deep-set, intelligent eyes. He bowed to Gabriel and Jane, taking her hand and leaning over it.

  Gabriel waited while Jane explained the need for the speaking book as they had decided she would do. He could employ Meade with other tasks this day as Jane had a fair hand and a quick mind when interpreting what someone was saying, though she did go into much more detail than Meade, which slowed the process at times. Never mind; she needed to get out of the house and have a task that made her feel needed.

  They were directed to a seating area by the long row of windows and served tea.

  “How may I be of service, Your Grace?” Planta asked with kindness in his eyes. Older gentlemen, Gabriel was finding, had more compassion with “afflictions” and thought of them less as a weakness than an occurrence of change in one’s life.

  “Are you aware of the missing manuscript from Hans Sloane’s original collection?”

  “Yes, of course.” He nodded vigorously.

  “When did you learn it was missing?”

  “We catalog and inventory every spring. It was discovered missing about five and a half years ago. May of 1813.”

  That would make sense. The Featherstones were hired in October of 1817, time for all the players to learn of it and begin searching for it. But someone had managed to get ahold of a partial copy of it, and that copy must have been copied, sold perhaps, and now it appeared there were three partial copies, one in England, one in Spain, and another in France, if Brooke was to be believed. Did Mr. Planta know of the existence of the partial? Gabriel wasn’t sure he should tell him if he didn’t.

  “Were there inquires about it?”

  Mr. Planta launched into a lengthy description while Jane wrote furiously, trying to keep up. She finally passed it over to Gabriel. Yes, over the years there have been many, many inquiries since the manuscript was stolen. The Antiquities Society had been in an uproar, of course, and that had led to all sorts of speculation making the manuscript the most-talked-about item in the collection for a time. There had been questions from foreign dignitaries with speculation as to what exactly the manuscript had been about. There was even one time when Mr. Planta was quite sure he was being followed home each day, but seeing his routine so regular and perhaps, boring, they gave up. But he did start to carry a walking cane with a knife blade that popped out of the end. His wife had thought he’d lost his wits, but they had eventually left him alone. The most he knows about the manuscript is that it has a design for some sort of machine written in it, but no one to his knowledge had ever attempted to build it. He had told anyone who asked exactly that. Did the duke have new information?

  Yes, the duke did, Gabriel thought dryly, but he dared not breathe a word of what he’d seen in the palace. “Not really, just a matter of some treasure hunters hired to find it, and now they’ve come up missing. Nasty business, that.”

  Jane wrote as Mr. Planta talked. Oh, my. No one knows who might be behind their disappearance?

  “Sadly, no. They’ve vanished from the face of the earth it seems, and I’ve been appointed guardian to their daughter. She has a keen desire to find them, as I’m sure you can understand. I thought you might know something useful.” Gabriel braced his elbows on his knees and rubbed his chin with one hand, looking off into the distance, deep in thought.

  Jane started writing again. She passed the speaking book over with wide eyes. He says there is one thing he always thought odd about the whole affair. A letter came to the museum one day. He hasn’t shown it to anyone because he thought it must be a prank as it wasn’t signed.

  “May I see it?” Gabriel asked him.

  Mr. Planta nodded and went off to fetch it.

  They waited, sipping tea that had gone cold as the gray light of London’s skies hovered around them. Jane shivered, looking at him with a mix of worry and anticipation. Wonderful. She was smitten, he could see it. She would end up like Alexandria, taking on cases of mysteries to be solved and getting herself in the middle of trouble. Never mind. If it chased the shadows from her eyes, it would be worth it.

  Planta returned and held out a small note. Gabriel looked at the address on the outside and his heart began to thud. It was Alexandria’s handwriting. He was sure of it. He lifted it closer and studied the postmark. It was from Italy. Florence, Italy. How could that be?
>
  “How long ago did you receive this letter?”

  “Six months ago, give or take. It was the end of June, I believe.”

  Could Alexandria have been in Italy in June? It seemed impossible, but he had learned long ago that when it concerned her, nothing was impossible. Gabriel opened the letter and read the one line, etched out in that same flowing hand.

  We’re very close to finding it, but they are watching us. Send help!

  He looked up at Mr. Planta, who raised his eyebrows in silent question. The realization hit him like a bludgeon to the head. This wasn’t from Alexandria; it was from her mother. If she looked like Alexandria, then couldn’t they have similar handwriting? He imagined Ian and Katherine Featherstone in Italy, in trouble.

  God help them. Alexandria was right.

  The Featherstones, if they were still alive, were in great danger and needed their help.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Astonishment, perplexed and angry astonishment, filled her. Why was she angry? Alexandria stood and thrust the book back at Enoch. “Can you read it? Tell me this story.”

  So many thoughts swirled through her mind. Had her mother known Alex would follow them? And was she trying to tell her something? Something about this book? What did that mean? Why would her mother do such a thing? That letter, the last one from her mother that she’d written from Ireland . . . she had done it purposefully, leaving that clue in Alex’s hands, knowing she would follow them here. But why so mysterious and strange? Why couldn’t they have just taken her with them?

  “Please, Enoch. Tell me the story in this book. There might be a clue.”

  Enoch nodded his old, white head and sat down cross-legged beside her. “This is not an Icelandic Saga, no, no, no. This is a tale more recent but still hundreds of years ago. This is a tale of a man named Augusto de Carrara told by his only friend, a monk called Oswald.”

  “How did you come by this book?” She wondered now if her mother had given it to him.

  But he shook his head and frowned at her. “Listen.”

  He opened to the first beautifully illuminated page and read in a clear, sane voice.

  Once upon a time, there was a man, a brilliant and coldhearted man, who lived in the hills of Tuscany. No one dared go inside his house, nor visit his blacksmith shop unless the need was desperate. It wasn’t that he lacked the skill to fix a wagon wheel or straighten a bent sword, no, he could do those things very well. It was because of his furious temper.

  One day two boys crept into his shop and hid behind some wooden boxes of tools. They watched Augusto work for a long time unnoticed, then escaped unharmed. The story they told the village instilled even greater fear and was wondered at by all the people for many years to come.

  The boys said he took out a music box and wound it up as far as it would go. A strange music came from the box, making the boys feel peculiar and frightened, but they sat transfixed as Augusto threw himself into his work. The fire raged from the brick furnace; the hammer pounded on silver so bright it hurt their eyes to look at it. They crept closer until they could see what the craftsman was working on.

  Enoch held his hands wide and stared at Alex in a way that caused a chill to run down her spine.

  A very great machine stood in the middle of the room. It whirled and turned inside and light flashed from it. Terrified, the boys ran away thinking the man was no man but an angel or a demon with supernatural powers. The townsfolk were frightened and decided to rid themselves of this creature. So in the darkest part of night, they burned down his shop and the house where Augusto slept.

  The villagers thought they had put an end to Augusto and went back to their quiet lives, but Augusto knew the boys were watching him and he knew the small minds of the townsfolk so he prepared himself. After the boys left, he had gathered his most precious books and manuscripts, his plans and paintings, and fled his home. He roamed the hills of Tuscany for many days until he found an enormous cave, the marble caves of Carrara, where he started over, building his furnace and making his tools, living in hiding.

  One day, a very great man from the Medici family, whose riches and power extended over all the world, heard of Augusto’s inventions and asked him to come to Florence and be his military engineer to invent all sorts of armaments and the trace italienne, star forts to withstand their enemy’s cannons. Augusto did not want to live in the city—he was afraid of what people thought of him and hated being in society, so he said he would send weapons and the plans to build them to this man for a price. They agreed and for many years Augusto worked in his caves, making the Medici family a strong military force that helped the empire flourish.

  But Augusto’s heart grew cold and dark as he invented these death machines, and his mind became twisted with evil thoughts. The only thing that tied him to the innocence of his childhood and kept him sane was a special music box. The music box he always played while inventing.

  One day his music box wouldn’t work and in a rage he threw it against the cave wall, breaking it into many tiny pieces. Augusto roared with anger and despair, looking at the broken pieces on the floor of his cave. And then he had a terrible memory come back to him.

  “Augusto, come inside.” His mother had called to him from the open doorway of their little cottage in the town of Massa. Augusto turned from his latest obsession, a delicate building of sticks, and ran through the sprinkling rain to his mother’s side. He had been playing for a long time and was hungry and his mother was sure to have dinner waiting for him.

  He hugged her legs through her skirt, his love for her bursting in his young heart, and sat at his chair beside his sister, Maria.

  Suddenly, his father burst through the door. His eyes were wild and his face looked as if he’d put on a mask of rage.

  Augusto froze in his seat, his heart pounding with terror. “Papa?” his little voice murmured, but no one heard him.

  His father roared and rushed over to his mother and grasped her by her hair. He jerked her head back while she screamed. He lifted his arm high in the air shouting, “You whore. You filthy, rotten harlot! I’ll kill you! I will kill you for this!”

  She screamed again. “No! Whatever you mean, it is not true.”

  His father didn’t listen. He plunged the knife into her chest. Blood spurted out, making red drops on the table.

  Augusto looked down at his sleeve and saw the red dots there too. The next thing he remembered was waking up at his grandfather’s house—alone. He never saw his sister or father again.

  His grandfather was a very old man who rarely spoke to him, but he showed Augusto the power of fire and metal and gave him the one thing that meant everything to little Augusto—his mother’s music box.

  So Augusto became an old and bitter man, a man with hands covered in the blood of thousands. With the music box gone, his mind snapped and his soul crushed him. He stared at the broken pieces, remembering everything, and broke into great sobs. For three days he railed against God, shaking his big fists at the sky and daring God to kill him. For three days he worked on putting the tiny pieces together and could not. On the third day he lay on the hard floor of his cave and cried out for God to save him if He wouldn’t take his life and end his pain.

  And God did. God sent a peace so great into Augusto’s heart that it melted the anger and grief and gave him new hope.

  The next day Augusto packed up his things and vowed not to work with the Medici family ever again. He wanted to go home, so with God strong in his heart, he conquered his fears and bought a house in town. Back in Florence the townspeople were astounded that he was alive and so changed. They were careful of him at first but soon grew used to his odd ways.

  Looking for answers, Augusto visited the town church where he met a monk named Oswald. Oswald was very glad to call Augusto friend, and they spent many hours together reading the Gosp
els and talking about God and His Son, Jesus. They ate together and talked of things that Augusto had kept in his heart and never shared with another person. They laughed together and became very great friends, the only true friend Augusto ever had.

  Augusto began working on another invention. He would tell no one what it was, and he made many journeys around the world for special materials to build it with. He worked day and night to create his most intricate machine. When he finished it, he asked his friend to come and see it. Oswald was very curious to see what Augusto had been working on those past years and knew it was a great privilege to be invited to see it.

  On the night Oswald went to Augusto’s house to see the invention, there was a great moon and it was very bright. As he came to the door, he felt the earth vibrate and shake so that he could hardly stand. He was very afraid, but he opened the door and saw something he could hardly fathom.

  A huge crystal machine stood in the center of the room with Augusto standing before it, his hands outstretched on it. A whirring of wheels and gears shook the little house as a low sound started to hum from the machine.

  Oswald’s heart raced. He took a few more steps into the room. Seeing that a hundred or more candles made the crystal so bright, he had to turn his eyes away and shield them with his hand.

  “What is it?” he shouted to Augusto, but his friend didn’t hear him.

  He was concentrating so hard, his hands moving over the crystal, that he didn’t even see Oswald in the room. Before Oswald could walk over and touch his arm, another sound came from behind him, a loud racket of horses and men.

  Oswald shrank back as soldiers poured through the door toward them. The machine was humming and moving, so bright they all stopped and gaped at it, their faces drained of color, their eyes bulging out with terror. They pointed their swords and shouted at Augusto, but he seemed to be in another world, as if a trance had come over him. He did not even notice the soldiers and ignored their warning.