Lord of Fortune

by Darcy Burke

“Of course, but I’ve been unsuccessful in trying to open it.”

  “You’ve tried?” She shook her head. “Of course you have.” She looked around the small space. “What are we looking for?”

  “Anything to do with the Thirteen Treasures.” He went to one of the shelves and pulled down a book from the midsixteenth century that was in remarkably good condition. “This was copied from the Red Book of Hergest. It’s not the entire contents, but much of it. I recall that it contains Arthurian romances.”

  She stood close to him—there was no other choice in the tight space. “They’re all love stories? I didn’t realize that.”

  “Oh no, that definition is more recent. The term romance is used in this way to specifically describe a story that recounts the adventures of a knight—it comes from France in the twelfth century, I believe.” He suddenly recalled that Septon kept a list of Arthurian romances and where they originated. He turned and went to a different shelf, his gaze traveling over the spines until he found what he sought. It was a slender volume with black binding, if he remembered correctly.

  Seeing one that matched that description, he pulled it down and flipped it open. But it wasn’t the right book. Stashing it back on the shelf, he continued his search.

  “What are you looking for now?”

  “A list of Arthurian romances.” Another thin black book drew his attention. He pulled that down and, when he peeked inside, smiled. “This is it.” He went back to the trunk and, seeing the other text, handed the black book to Amelia. “Hold this.” After he returned the sixteenth-century book to the shelf, he took the list and opened it atop the trunk.

  She moved very close to him so that their sides touched. “I can’t understand some of this.”

  “It’s Welsh, some of it quite old. Septon is a stickler for using the original name of a text, even if it’s been translated into English, but see, he also lists the other names it might be known by.” Penn pointed to one particular entry, his fingertip barely touching the parchment, which had the Old Welsh name followed by medieval Welsh, French, and English. “And this is the text where it originated.” Penn moved his finger across the page to the name of the book.

  “And this is who wrote it?” She pointed at where it said “By” followed by a Welsh name.

  Their fingertips collided, and they both looked at each other sharply, as if a magnet had drawn their gazes to connect. The moment held, and ultimately, Penn forced out a “Yes.” He was unaccountably warm all of a sudden.

  They returned their attention to the list, both withdrawing their hands to their sides. It wasn’t long before her indrawn breath filled the space and sent Penn’s pulse climbing.

  “Look.” She pointed at one of the entries near the bottom of the page. It read “Ranulf and Hilaria.” Their eyes must have traveled across the page at the same time, because they both read the originating text aloud: “The White Book of Hergest.”

  “That’s it!” She sounded so buoyant, so excited… Penn didn’t remember sharing a moment of discovery that was more alluring. But then Egg wasn’t Amelia. In any way.

  He turned toward her slightly, his gaze meeting hers. At this proximity, he could see the scattering of gold flecks shimmering near the inner ring of her emerald irises. The book on the trunk fell away, and right now, the only thing crowding his mind was her. “You have the most extraordinary eyes.”

  She blinked, briefly shuttering them to his view, and he realized he’d said that out loud. Damn. He’d meant what he’d said earlier about not having much experience in polite society. Sometimes he said things he really oughtn’t.

  “Thank you,” she said softly. “You know so much about all this. I feel rather…dull.”

  He leaned closer. “I just said you were extraordinary, and you feel dull? How can that be?” Her lips parted to respond, and he realized his error. “I complimented your eyes, but it’s much more than that. We haven’t been acquainted long, but you strike me as an exceptionally intelligent person. In that way, you remind me of my sister. It’s a pity Oxford doesn’t allow women.”

  She looked up at him, the light of the lantern splashing across the elegant planes of her face. “I can’t even imagine having that opportunity.”

  “And that is a crime.” The smallness of the space, and their proximity, infused him with heat. Or maybe it was just because of her. Rather, his attraction to her. He wondered what it would be like to kiss her.

  “What is the White Book of Hergest?” Her question should have jolted him away from his errant thoughts, but he was too far gone.

  Even so, he could answer. Maybe if he did, he could stop himself from doing what he wanted. “An old Welsh text, similar to the Red Book—they’re named for the color of their bindings.” He was intent on her mouth and its color, so pink and lush. Her lips had to be soft as down. Softer maybe.

  “Is it here?” she asked, sounding rather breathless, which only fed Penn’s desire.

  “The Red Book is at Oxford. I’m not sure where the White Book is, but we’ll find it.” At the moment, he could barely remember why…

  Penn bent his head as her lids began to sink, and her delicious lips parted…

  The sound of a man clearing his throat—loudly—filled the room like an explosion. Penn jerked back and noted that she did the same, moving to the other side of the trunk.

  Worse than being caught in a near kiss, the interloper, though he wasn’t really one at all, was none other than the owner of this secret library: Lord Septon.

  Chapter 6

  A hot wave of embarrassment shot up Amelia’s neck and threatened to set her face aflame. She prayed the dimness of the small room would make it hard to see the depth of her discomfiture. A moment later and she might have been kissing him…

  Her gaze strayed to Penn, but he was staring straight at the man who’d entered. The man who had to be Lord Septon.

  “Septon, good evening,” Penn said, sounding far more at ease than Amelia felt. How was that possible? Or fair? “May I present Mrs. Amelia Forrest? She is the granddaughter of Mr. Jonathan Gardiner, a recently deceased antiquary you may have known.”

  “Of course I knew Gardiner.” The baron bowed to Amelia. “It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mrs. Forrest.”

  Amelia dipped a curtsey and murmured, “Good evening.”

  Septon turned his attention back to Penn. “Peverell told me you were here and that you’d disappeared from dinner. When I couldn’t find you, I wondered if you might be here.” His gaze dipped to the open book on the trunk. “Looking for something?”

  Penn closed the book gently. “We’ve found what we’re looking for.” Now he dashed a glance toward Amelia, and she couldn’t help but note his use of the word “we.” Penn turned and replaced the book where he’d found it.

  “I look forward to hearing all about it. Artemisia is downstairs in the drawing room. Join us for a nightcap.” He offered a welcoming smile before turning and exiting the small chamber.

  Amelia finally let out a deep exhalation. She looked over at Penn. His brow was creased, and his lips were pressed into a flat line. “What’s wrong?” she asked.

  “He doesn’t like that I brought you here, I think.” He turned toward her, and his expression softened. “Don’t let that trouble you. Everything’s fine. Hopefully, he’ll be able to tell us where we can find the White Book of Hergest. Come, let’s go downstairs.” He gestured for her to precede him from the tiny library.

  Amelia did so slowly, moving back through the doorway into the office. Penn followed her, drawing the portrait closed behind them. As he turned to insert the key into the dog’s eye, she wondered what she was doing. She’d become wrapped up in the prospect of an exciting adventure and lost sight of her original quest—finding her grandfather’s dagger and keeping it safe.

  “How will the book help me regain the dagger?”

  Penn turned from the portrait. He opened his mouth, then closed it again. It was a moment before he spoke. “
It won’t,” he said with measured care. “But I promise we will find it.”

  “You’ve said that. Am I to understand that trying to prove the heart my grandfather put in the Ashmolean is fake takes priority?”

  “No, we’re doing both at the same time. And Septon can likely help us with both matters.” Penn went to the desk and returned the key to its hiding place. He looked up at her as he finished, straightening his coat. “I apologize if I…caused you concern in the library.”

  Concern? He’d caused her heart palpitations and a considerable rise in temperature, but, surprisingly, not a bit of concern. She’d been ready—nay, eager—to kiss him. And that should concern her.

  “Not at all. Let us go downstairs, shall we?” She turned and exited the office without waiting for his reply.

  He caught up to her as they made their way back to the gallery.

  “Is Artemisia Lady Septon?” Amelia asked.

  For the first time in their acquaintance, Penn looked slightly uncomfortable. “Er, no. She’s his mistress. They’ve been together for several years now.”

  How odd. “Why aren’t they married?”

  “Because her husband is still alive.”

  How outrageous. “And their relationship is simply accepted?”

  “Lady Stratton—her husband is the Earl of Stratton—was desperately unhappy in her marriage and began to fear for her safety. She’d fallen in love with Septon and decided to leave her husband.”

  Amelia could scarcely believe such a scandal—to do with an earl, no less. “Stratton allows this?”

  “Stratton is an inveterate blackguard. Think of the worst man you’ve ever known and multiply his sins by a factor of ten. It’s probably still not bad enough to equal Stratton, but it’s close.”

  Amelia blinked as they started down the stairs. “I see why she left.” Her mind strayed to the worst man she’d ever met, and she nearly stumbled. She’d gotten rather good at not thinking of her husband, but when he did enter her mind, she invariably suffered a shock of anger and deep regret. Still, she wouldn’t have left, not like he did.

  They entered the drawing room to find Septon standing near the fireplace and Lady Stratton seated on a settee, her dark blue traveling skirt pooling around her feet. It seemed they hadn’t changed from their journey, but then Amelia supposed her and Penn’s presence had been a surprise. But was it an unwelcome one?

  Lady Stratton was a striking woman with an elegant bearing—a long, aquiline nose defined her face along with a pair of pale gray eyes that shone with welcome. Her dark hair was liberally streaked with gray, and Amelia would estimate her age to be somewhere in her late forties. “Good evening, Mrs. Forrest. We’re so pleased to welcome you to Septon House. And you are always welcome, of course, Penn.” She greeted them as if she were Lady Septon.

  Septon was exceptionally tall, and his hair, of which he had plenty, was entirely gray. His eyes were also gray, but a darker, flintier color than those of Lady Stratton. “What can I get you to drink, Mrs. Forrest? Madeira, sherry, whiskey, something else?” he offered pleasantly.

  “Sherry, please.”

  Lady Stratton patted the settee beside her. “Do come and sit.”

  Amelia glanced at Penn, who nodded almost imperceptibly, before taking a place on the settee.

  Penn went to the sideboard where Septon was pouring drinks. A moment later he delivered a glass of sherry to Amelia, then took up a position behind a chair opposite their settee, a glass of whiskey cradled in his hand.

  After giving Lady Stratton a sherry, Septon took a chair angled near the settee and sipped his own glass of whiskey. He looked over at Penn. “What were you able to find in my private library?”

  The ownership in his tone was unmistakable, and Amelia suffered a pang of doubt at being there.

  “Allow me to start at the beginning,” Penn said.

  “Yes, do,” Lady Stratton said. “But would you mind sitting so I don’t have to strain my neck?” She smiled sweetly.

  Penn came around the chair and sat down. He took a drink of whiskey. “I found the dagger, but it was stolen from me”—he glanced at Amelia—“us—and we want to recover it.”

  She noticed he said nothing about wanting to prove the heart in the museum was a fake. Why would he keep that from Septon?

  “There were four thieves—three were obviously hired brigands, but one was a well-spoken gentleman. I wondered if he is a member of the Order.”

  Septon’s brows arched briefly. “You want to know if I’m aware of the theft. Or behind it.” His tone carried a hint of dispassion. “I’m aware you don’t like the Order or our mission, but we aren’t common thieves.”

  A loud bark of a laugh escaped Penn’s mouth. “Tell that to my parents, who were accosted by the Order when one of them sought to steal the decoding glass. Though it was more than twenty years ago, I’m sure you remember it.”

  Septon’s nostrils flared. “Your point is valid. At least it was. After that unfortunate incident, we’ve changed our procedure.”

  Amelia leaned toward Septon. “Are you saying it wasn’t the Order who stole my grandfather’s dagger?”

  “It wasn’t the Order, but neither is it your ‘grandfather’s dagger,’ my dear.” He gave her a smile that bordered on patronizing, but she refused to let it bother her. “The dagger is an historical artifact. It belongs to history.”

  Penn snorted, drawing Amelia’s attention. “How convenient for you to say that, and yet the Order seeks to ‘protect’ the Thirteen Treasures from the public. I would argue that does nothing to preserve history and everything to bury it.”

  “Yes, I’m aware of your opinion on the matter, and we must accept that we disagree. Rest assured that the Order had nothing to do with the theft of the dagger.” He frowned. “This is most concerning.”

  Amelia would agree. She’d been concerned about the Order, particularly given the note her grandfather made in his journal, but if it wasn’t them… “If it wasn’t the Order, who could it have been? Who else would even know about the dagger, let alone where it was located? It’s not a famous treasure. It’s only ever mentioned in the story of Ranulf and Hilaria.”

  “That’s correct,” Septon said. “The only people who would even think to look for the dagger would be people familiar with the Thirteen Treasures and the dagger’s place in their lore.”

  “Most—if not all—of those people are members of the Order,” Penn said sternly.

  Septon gave him a scolding look. “You aren’t.”

  Penn pressed his lips together but said nothing.

  Septon turned to Amelia. “I know it must be distressing to lose this artifact that your grandfather had found. I wish I could tell you that it could be easily recovered, but tracking it down will be most difficult. I fear it may have been taken by the Camelot group.” He sent a dark look toward Penn, whose lips moved in an inaudible curse.

  Amelia looked between the two men. “What is the Camelot group?”

  “A rogue faction inside the Order,” Penn answered before Septon could. “They’re made up of only descendants of the knights. They hate having people like Septon in the Order, and they hate hiding the treasures. They’d rather put them to use.”

  She blinked at both men. “Do they have a specific use in mind?”

  “Not that we’re aware of,” Septon said. “They are a dangerous group, however. Led by a dangerous man—Timothy Foliot.” The baron sipped his whiskey before turning his steely stare on Penn. “I’d wager some very valuable pieces in my collection that he’s behind the theft of the dagger.”

  “Which means it will be difficult to regain, but not impossible. Cate was able to recover Dyrnwyn.”

  “Thanks to Kersey.” Lady Stratton spoke for the first time. “He gave it to her.”

  “The transaction wasn’t quite that pleasant,” Penn said, prompting Amelia to wonder what had happened and why Lady Stratton would care. And she clearly cared as evidenced by the color leaching from
her face. “As I was saying, it won’t be impossible to get it. We simply need to find Foliot.”

  Septon released a hollow laugh. “I can tell you exactly where he is—holed up at his estate near Glastonbury. That won’t help you, however. He will never grant you an audience.”

  Penn lifted a shoulder. “Everyone has a price.”

  Amelia’s head spun. It certainly sounded as though it might be impossible to recover the dagger. And if it was fake, did it really matter? “If you’re convinced it’s an imitation and trying to recover it would be dangerous, why bother?”

  Penn swiveled his gaze to hers. “Because it belongs to you.”

  Warmth spread through her, and she worked to keep a smile from lifting her lips. His words made her ridiculously happy.

  “Hold on,” Septon said, pitching forward as he looked sharply toward Penn. “You say it was a fake dagger anyway?”

  Penn tossed back the rest of his whiskey and set the empty glass on the table next to his chair. “The carvings on it aren’t more than four hundred years old.”

  Septon visibly relaxed, his shoulders sinking back against the chair. “It isn’t fake, for the dagger was made much later than the heart. The story of Ranulf and Hilaria is the only one that contains it, because the dagger was enchanted relatively recent to the midfifteenth century, which is when the White Book of Hergest was compiled.”

  Amelia, still quite skeptical, looked at the baron. “So it’s not from the same time period as the Thirteen Treasures, but it counteracts the power of the heart to compel someone to fall in love with someone else.”

  “Yes.” Septon turned his whiskey glass in his hand and looked down at the amber liquid briefly before glancing between Penn and Amelia. “Upstairs, you were researching the White Book of Hergest.”

  It wasn’t a direct question, but it was still a query. Now would Penn reveal his insistence that the heart was a fake? Amelia quickly had her answer.

  Penn rested his hand on the arm of his chair as he pinned Septon with a direct stare. “I believe the heart in the Ashmolean may be an imitation. To prove it, I’m going to find the real one.”