Lord of Fortune

by Darcy Burke

  Septon leaned forward and set his glass down on a low table situated in front of the settee with a loud clack. His dark gray eyes narrowed slightly as he looked at Penn. “Why would you think that?”

  “It’s painted, and I’m not entirely sure it’s tourmaline.”

  “It is tourmaline, and it was painted at one point to disguise it from those who sought to steal it.”

  “And yet my grandfather stole it anyway.” Amelia hated thinking of it in those terms, but what else could it be but theft?

  “How did that even happen without the Order knowing?” Penn asked, suddenly animated.

  “Sometimes these things happen,” Septon said evenly. “Despite our best efforts.”

  “Or, maybe the Order allowed him to take a fake artifact while the real one is kept somewhere safe.”

  Amelia heard the irritation in Penn’s tone but also the note of truth. That actually made sense—if she believed everything she’d learned so far about the Order. And the one thing she accepted as absolute truth was that they couldn’t be trusted—she would never forget what Grandfather had written in his journal.

  Septon inhaled deeply before saying, “That’s a rather cynical view.”

  “And likely accurate. I’m going to find the real heart.”

  Septon shook his head. “If you’re planning to start with the White Book of Hergest, I regret to inform you that it’s been missing for several years.”

  “Bloody hell.” Penn exploded out of the chair and stalked behind it. He kept walking, making a circuit to the fireplace and back.

  Amelia clenched her hands together and angled herself toward Septon. “Missing?”

  “Do you know what the book is, Mrs. Forrest?” he asked. “It was written in the middle of the fifteenth century, much of it by Lewys Glyn Cothi, who studied at the St. John Priory at Carmarthen.”

  “Carmarthen is where the heart was found,” Penn said from near the fireplace.

  “Yes. I believe your grandfather tracked it there.”

  Some of the pieces of the puzzle that they knew began to connect in her mind. “My grandfather visited Wynnstay. Is it possible he studied the tale of Ranulf and Hilaria in the White Book of Hergest there? Unless the book has been missing for a very long time.”

  “No, it hasn’t, and it was at Wynnstay before it was lost. Yes, I would guess Gardiner did study it there.” Septon’s brow furrowed.

  “What is it?” Lady Stratton asked.

  “I’ve seen the book myself, and I didn’t think it would lead anyone to find the heart—or the dagger. However, now I must wonder.” He pounded his fist on the arm of his chair. “Bloody travesty it was lost.”

  Penn had walked back toward Septon’s chair as he’d spoken. “How was it lost?”

  “It was sent to a bookbinder in London, and a fire in Covent Garden destroyed the man’s business, including the White Book. That was in 1808.”

  “Not so long ago.” There was a bead of excitement in Penn’s voice. Amelia didn’t know him terribly well, but he liked the hunt—no, he probably loved it, fed off it—and this information was something he could chase.

  Septon reached for his glass. “Mackinley was the bookbinder if you want to go to London to try to speak with him.”

  “You said the fire destroyed his business.”

  “It did, but he’s rebuilt.”

  Amelia looked up at Penn. “But if the book is lost, what’s the point?”

  His eyes gleamed, and the corners of his mouth ticked up. “Don’t give up too easily. Until Mackinley himself tells me the book burned up, I will keep a bit of hope alive.” He turned to Septon. “It’s curious, isn’t it, that the book may have led to the heart and it burned in a fire.”

  Septon held up his hand. “Don’t even think of laying this on the Order. We would never destroy an antiquity.”

  “That I believe,” Penn said.

  Septon drank the contents of his glass before getting to his feet. “I think this is a bit of a fool’s errand, my boy. I’ll be thrilled if you find the book, of course, but the heart in the Ashmolean is real. It’s been handed down from female descendant to female descendant. The Order has always tracked it.”

  “Until it was taken by Jonathan Gardiner.” Penn gave his head a shake. “I don’t think the Order is as in control of everything as they’d like. If they were, they’d have the dagger and they’d have Dyrnwyn.” He said the last with a bit of superiority.

  “In a way, we do have Dyrnwyn,” Septon said softly. “You’re just keeping it safe for us.” He held his hand for Lady Stratton. “Come, my lady, let us retire.”

  Amelia stood along with the countess. “Thank you for allowing me to visit.”

  Lady Stratton gave her a warm smile. “Any friend of Penn’s is a friend of ours.”

  They all said good night, and their host and hostess left the drawing room. Amelia wasn’t quite ready to call it a night, and since Penn wasn’t heading toward the door, it seemed he wasn’t either.

  “When are we going to London?” Amelia asked.

  Penn chuckled. “Tomorrow morning, unless you think that’s too soon.”

  “Not at all. It’s probably unwise for us to travel together, however.” She’d meant it from a sense of propriety, but given what had nearly happened upstairs, she realized there were perhaps deeper risks. “I’ll go in my coach.”

  He inclined his head. “We’ll stay at my brother-in-law’s town house in Mayfair. He’s the Earl of Norris.”

  “Your brother-in-law is an earl?” She’d never met an earl.

  “Yes.” Penn moved toward her. “You look concerned. Don’t worry, he’s a nice enough fellow, if a bit stodgy. He was in the army. Anyway, he won’t even be there. He and Cate are still in Cornwall for another week or so, I think. And then, I believe, they’ll return to his estate in Wootton Bassett.

  That made her feel slightly better, but only slightly since Penn was suggesting they stay together. Although, wasn’t that what they were doing now? She’d come here knowing full well they’d be staying at Septon House. Together.

  But that had been before he’d almost kissed her. Before she’d wanted him to kiss her.

  Penn took another step, lessening the distance between them. “You seem hesitant. I want you to come.”

  “I want to come. I just wonder if it’s what I should do.”

  “Of course it is. We’re on a journey to find the truth. You want that, don’t you?”

  “I do.” Even if it meant that her grandfather had found a fake heart. He’d been passionate about the story of Ranulf and Hilaria, perhaps inspired by a visit to Wynnstay and a viewing of the White Book of Hergest. To find that missing tome, to see and touch the pages that had sent him on a life-long adventure, was an opportunity she couldn’t resist. “I do,” she said more firmly. “But, we must…” she searched for the right words, “behave appropriately.”

  His dark blue eyes sparked as he drawled, “Haven’t we?”

  Longing pulled in her belly. No one had ever looked at her the way he was looking at her now. It made her feel beautiful, desirable, and completely singular. As if she were the only woman in the world—his world.

  She struggled to answer. “Yes. For the most part.” Did she have to draw attention to what had happened, or almost happened, upstairs? “Let’s avoid small spaces.” There, that should make it clear.

  He edged even closer to her, until there was scarcely six inches between them. “Does it bother you to be too close to me?”

  “No.” She answered far too quickly—and honestly. “What bothers me isn’t at issue.”

  “Why? If it doesn’t bother you, why stop doing it? Dare I hope you may even like it?”

  Oh, this was too familiar. And yet…he had a point. She wasn’t some green, unmarried miss who needed to preserve her reputation. Still, kissing would change their relationship and affect their objective.

  She straightened her spine and held herself stiff. “I should like to
maintain a professional working relationship. We are on a quest to find the White Book of Hergest, and I would ask that we focus on that. I bid you good evening.” She turned on her heel and hurried from the drawing room before she lost herself even further in the smoldering heat of his gaze.

  Later, as she tossed amid the lonely bedclothes, she wondered if she was embarking on a colossal mistake or a life-changing adventure.

  Chapter 7

  Penn suppressed a smile as he glanced at the woman next to him in the coach. Amelia surprised him at nearly every turn. Although, he shouldn’t be any longer. She’d proved herself to be curious, eager, and nearly fearless.

  Only nearly because she was clearly afraid of what might happen between them. If they were too close. As they were now while they traveled the streets of London from Mayfair to Bow Street, where they would meet with one Hamish Mackinley.

  They’d departed Septon House in separate coaches early the previous morning, without even saying goodbye to Septon or Lady Stratton in person. It was just as well. Penn had grown up with Septon, considered the man a friend, but all this secrecy to do with the Order and their insistence that the Thirteen Treasures stay hidden was almost enough to damage the relationship. Even now, Penn doubted some things Septon had said last night—the fact that Amelia’s grandfather had found the heart and delivered it to a museum without the Order intervening just didn’t sit right.

  Last night, they’d stayed at an inn in Andover, arriving late and taking supper before retiring to their rooms and leaving even earlier this morning. Dawn had barely broken when they set out for London. Penn included staunch travel companion among Amelia’s outstanding qualities. “Thank you again for coming out straightaway.” They’d left his brother-in-law’s town house almost as soon as they’d arrived.

  “I’m just as eager as you are to learn what we can from Mr. Mackinley.” She peered at him askance. “You should know that about me by now.”

  Yes, they were getting to know each other fairly well. “You are correct. I won’t ever underestimate you again.”

  “I did want to talk to you about something.” There was a weight to her tone that gave him pause.

  He hoped it wasn’t the issue of their attraction or whatever she wanted to call it. Or not call it. She couldn’t deny it, but then that was likely why she’d felt compelled to set rules for their relationship. He’d never liked rules.

  She brushed her hand along her skirt, drawing his attention briefly to the barely perceptible curve of her thigh beneath the layers of fabric. “How much do you trust Lord Septon?”

  Had she been reading his thoughts? “I’ve known him most of my life,” he said carefully. “He and my father are friends. Even so, I know there have been times my father might have cheerfully choked him.”

  “Such as the time the Order put him and your mother in danger?”

  “Yes, that was one such time. They’d found an antiquity that ultimately led them to the only contemporaneous writings about King Arthur and his knights—a poem written by a sixth-century monk.”

  “That was the document you mentioned in Burrington? I didn’t know such a thing existed.” She paused briefly before cocking her head to the side. “Why is that?”

  “Because the Order insisted the poem remain secret.”

  “But they didn’t find it—your parents did. Or am I misunderstanding?”

  “You have the right of it. Septon was able to convince my father that publicizing such a thing would cause problems.”

  “But you aren’t convinced.”

  He shook his head. “I think knowledge belongs to everyone. When my sister found the flaming sword—called Dyrnwyn—I wanted to put it in the Ashmolean, but Septon, as a member of the Order, of course disagreed. He was insistent that people would fight over it.”

  “Isn’t that what’s happening in the Order? This Camelot faction has formed and now there are problems.”

  Penn couldn’t dispute what she said. “So you agree with Septon?”

  “I didn’t say that. But perhaps his fears and those of the Order are well-founded. Who do these treasures really belong to? I admit I am distressed to think my grandfather stole the heart.”

  “I don’t see it as theft. He was trying to share the heart with the people of England when he gave it to the Ashmolean. I think of him as liberating an important historical artifact.”

  “Liberating?” She was quiet a moment and glanced out the window. “Are we nearly there? I’ve only been to London once, and I scarcely remember it.”

  “Just once?” Penn had visited on many occasions, particularly to spend time in the British Museum. “What a shame. I wish we had more time. I’d take you to see the Rosetta Stone and the Elgin Marbles.”

  She turned toward him, her sharp inhalation spiking his awareness of her. “That would be wonderful.”

  “Next time,” he promised.

  “There likely won’t be a next time, Mr. Bowen. But perhaps we won’t be able to learn anything to help our cause and our journey will end here. I shall take the opportunity to visit the museum before I return home.”

  The coach slowed. “Try to be more optimistic, Mrs. Forrest,” he said softly. “About everything. I intend there to be a next time.” He gave her a pointed stare as the vehicle came to a stop. He reached for the door. “We’re here.”

  As he quickly climbed down, he wondered what the hell had gotten into him. He never planned for future encounters with women, and yet he hadn’t been able to stop himself with her. Perhaps she was right, that they ought to focus on keeping things professional. He turned and held up his hand to help her out.

  She took it, but there was wariness in her gaze. When she was on the ground, he said, “I didn’t mean to overstep. I get rather excited about things in the museum. I would very much like you to go there someday and if I’m able to join you, so much the better.”

  “Because you’re an expert in these things?” she offered helpfully.

  He smiled, knowing that she knew he was trying to rectify a potentially awkward situation. “Just trying to keep things professional.”

  “Which I appreciate.” She turned toward the building they’d stopped in front of. “Mr. Mackinley’s Bookbindery.”

  “Let us see what we may learn.” He offered her his arm, and they went into the small shop.

  The scent of parchment and leather filled Penn’s nose as the door closed behind them. A large man, both in height and breadth, stood behind a wide table, where he could stand to do his work. He looked up. “Good afternoon.”

  Penn moved farther into the shop. “Good afternoon. Are you Mr. Mackinley?”

  “I am,” he answered in a dark, throaty burr. He looked down at their hands. “Did you bring a book?”

  “No, we came to ask about a book that was in your possession some years ago. Around the time of the fire.”

  He exhaled—it was a sound of deep remorse. “If I had it before the fire, it’s gone.”

  Penn grimaced, hating to think of such a treasured object incinerated. “We’re hoping you might be able to tell us about it. The book, I mean. It was rather distinctive—the White Book of Hergest.”

  Mackinley grunted. “Every so often, one of you Oxford types comes in here asking about it.”

  Surprised to hear this, Penn stepped toward the table. “They do?”

  “Most of them are far younger than you—maybe still in college. They think they’ll somehow be able to find a lost masterpiece. They fancy themselves heroes maybe.”

  “Well, that would be rather heroic.” Amelia had come forward to join Penn. She offered Mackinley a wide smile that would have disarmed even the most cynical of men. “We’d like to ask you about the manuscript itself, specifically the story concerning Ranulf and Hilaria. My grandfather used to tell me the tale when I was a child. It holds a great deal of sentimental value for me.”

  Mackinley, who was probably nearing fifty, was not immune to her charms. He smiled in return. “I do
remember that manuscript, of course. The Williams-Wynn family are excellent clients. Their library is extensive. I was quite devastated when that book was lost.” He grimaced and shook his head.

  “I’m so sorry,” Amelia said, taking another step toward the table and resting her gloved fingertips upon the edge. “Such a tragedy.”

  “Indeed it was. The theatre was a complete loss, of course. That’s where the fire started.” His gaze clouded, and it seemed he was chasing a memory.

  Penn moved to Amelia’s side, and they exchanged glances before he said, “Is there any chance you recall anything special about the story in the White Book?”

  Mackinley nodded, returning to the present. “Yes, back to your wife’s request.”

  Penn and Amelia exchanged another glance, but this one was far more charged. She opened her mouth, likely to correct him, but Penn shook his head gently, urging her to remain quiet. It was best not to draw attention to their alliance. Despite her widowed status, he wouldn’t want their activities to reflect poorly on her.

  “I’m afraid I don’t recall anything special. That story was written like all the others, but I will say it’s one of my favorites too.” He gave Amelia another smile.

  The door opened once more, and Mackinley’s gaze moved past them to the new arrival. “Afternoon, Mr. Edwards. I’ll be right back with your book.” He looked back at Penn and Amelia. “Please excuse me.”

  As Mackinley disappeared through a doorway into the back of the shop, Penn moved away from the table. Amelia joined him, her forehead creased.

  “Well, that wasn’t helpful,” she said, sounding as disappointed as Penn felt.

  “Not terribly,” Penn said, frowning.

  A slight man with a stooped back followed Mackinley from the rear doorway. While Mackinley went to meet with Mr. Edwards at the table, the other man, who was at least twenty years Mackinley’s senior, his head topped with a shock of bright white hair, ambled toward Penn and Amelia.

  “Hamish wanted me to see if there was anything else I could help you with?”

  “I don’t think so,” Penn said.