Lord of Fortune

by Darcy Burke

  “You keep speaking of next times.”

  “Maybe I have plans after all.” His lips curved up just before he put the potatoes in his mouth.

  What the hell did that mean? He planned to what? She took a long drink of wine. “Do stop flirting.”

  “You’re the one who drew attention to my speaking of the future.”

  “But you’re the one actually doing it,” she said. “Speaking of the future. The future for us is tracking down my grandfather’s dagger and proving that the heart in the museum is real. That is our future.”

  “And maybe it will bring us back here to London, and we’ll have occasion to eat in the breakfast room. That’s all I meant.”

  She didn’t believe him for a moment. He wasn’t just flirting with her, he was teasing.

  She stood up abruptly. “I think I’m finished.”

  Before she could turn and leave, he jumped up and came to her side. His hand lightly cupped her elbow. “My apologies. I’m having fun—I thought you were too. Yes, I’m flirting, but I can’t help it. You’re exceptionally attractive to me in every way, and despite my intention to keep things professional between us, I find myself swept away when I’m in your company.”

  “So it’s my fault if you’re boorish?”

  He laughed softly. “Boorish? Is it that bad?”

  She suppressed a smile. Maybe it was fun. And maybe she could allow herself to have fun. “No.”

  He was very close. She could see his ink-dark lashes and how ridiculously long they were, spiking out from his alluring eyes. It would be so easy to sway into him, to allow that protection he’d so easily offered that afternoon. She’d shivered in the coach when he’d promised to keep her safe. He’d meant it, and she believed him.

  She held herself back. What good could come of an affair? Plenty, whispered a lonely voice in the back of her mind—a voice she chose to ignore. “This is a professional relationship, but we are friends. And nothing more.”

  “I’m not sure I can agree to that.”

  The heat flaring through her intensified at the promise in his gaze. She continued to ignore her body’s reaction. “Then perhaps we should end things.”

  “I definitely can’t agree to that, but for now, I am more than content to remain friends.”

  More than content. And she didn’t want to end things. For so many reasons. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

  “Good night, Mrs. Forrest.”

  His mouth curved into a seductive smile, and her resolve wavered. She wanted to know what it would be like to kiss him…

  “Good night, Mr. Bowen.”

  She turned and fled.

  Chapter 8

  The scent of polished wood and old paper filled Penn’s nose as they waited in the vestibule outside Carlton Burgess’s office at Oxford. Yesterday had been a long day of travel, and they’d arrived at Penn’s house rather late. After taking a small dinner, Amelia had gone directly to bed, her exhaustion overriding her initial protests about staying in his house.

  He’d argued that she was a widow, chaperoned by a maid, and safe from his advances. Never mind that all three of those arguments were quite flimsy.

  Not that he would make an overture, such as a kiss. But he’d be damned if he wasn’t thinking about it.

  They’d indulged their weariness and slept a bit late, and now here they were in the early afternoon awaiting their audience with the Keeper of the Ashmolean.

  Burgess opened the door to his office and gave them a wide smile. “How delightful to have you back, Penn.” He turned his attention to Amelia. “And this must be Miss Gardiner.”

  “Mrs. Forrest,” she corrected. “Thank you for seeing us.”

  “Of course, of course. Come right in, please.” He stood to the side, presenting his profile, which included a rather pronounced belly. Burgess loved sweets and port to excessive degrees.

  He closed the door once they were inside and gestured for them to join him in a seating area arranged in front of the fire. He moved to stand near the wingbacked chair, which Penn knew to be his preferred seat. In fact, Penn had never seen him sit anywhere else, and the chair reflected the wear to prove it.

  Penn waited for Amelia to sit on the small settee before dropping down beside her. “We’d love to hear about how you came to know Mrs. Forrest’s grandfather. Would you mind sharing that story?” Penn knew he wouldn’t—Burgess loved to talk. In fact, Penn sometimes worried he would accidentally betray a secret. However, it was now apparent that Burgess was capable of protecting information over great periods of time. Penn was surprised, and pleasantly so.

  “Not at all,” Burgess said with an enthusiastic grin. “Your grandfather and I were good friends for many years, Mrs. Forrest. He was an excellent transcriptionist—that was how I met him. As you know, he copied books from French, Latin, and Old English into modern English. While I was studying at Oxford, I took manuscripts to him for transcription. We shared a passion for medieval stories. And fine port.” He chuckled.

  Amelia folded her hands in her lap. “It’s odd that we’ve never met before now.”

  “It is, it is. I regret that I didn’t visit Jon in the last few years. I don’t travel much myself—terrible gout. But we did maintain our correspondence.”

  “Yes, I know. I read many of your letters.” This didn’t surprise Penn, particularly if she was trying to learn about her grandfather and about Burgess. “Mr. Bowen gave me the letter my grandfather wrote to you in 1809. I would love to know why he trusted you with the location of the dagger and not me.”

  Burgess’s jovial manner dimmed a bit. “He felt the knowledge could be dangerous. He didn’t even tell me until after he passed, you know. Not until you sent me his letter.”

  Penn decided to cut right to the heart of the matter. “Did he think it was dangerous because of the Order?” He saw the flicker of caution in Burgess’s gaze. “She knows all about the Order. Gardiner mentioned it in his journal.” He turned his head toward Amelia. “What did it say again?”

  Amelia glanced from Burgess to him before reciting the entry, “The Order will stop at nothing to find the treasures. Why? They proclaim they are protecting them, but there is something off. If only I’d been able to read the book. I feel certain it would provide the answers I seek.”

  Burgess’s eyes widened briefly, and he lost a bit of his color.

  “This was written after the heart was already in the museum,” Amelia said. “In 1754. I don’t know, however, if the dagger was in his possession.”

  Burgess shook his head. “It was not. Are you aware of how he found the heart?”

  Amelia was completely fixated on Burgess. “No, but I should like to know, if you can tell me.”

  “Your grandfather was a bit obsessed with the tale of Ranulf and Hilaria. He was a student of medieval romances, but that one was his favorite, probably because it was so rare, I think. He became equally obsessed with the objects from their story: the heart and the dagger. Everyone told him they didn’t exist, but he believed they were real.” Burgess chuckled again, softly. “I don’t know what made him think that. I can only surmise that he was a terrible romantic. Is that true of the man you knew?”

  Amelia’s lips curved into a slight smile. “It was.”

  Burgess nodded as he continued, “Jon went to see the White Book of Hergest at Wynnstay. The family was kind enough to allow scholars into their library from time to time. The story was recorded into the White Book by Lewys Glyn Cothi. He studied at the St. John Priory at Carmarthen. Jon went there to learn more about him, and that’s where he found the heart.”

  “Did he say how?” Penn asked. This interested him most since he was convinced Gardiner had found a fake. But he wasn’t going to tell Burgess that.

  “He didn’t, and I did ask. Pity that secret died with him.”

  For the first time, Penn wondered if it was possible that Gardiner had fabricated the heart that was sitting down the street in the museum. Why would he do t
hat? Penn didn’t know much about the man, but he seemed a scholar and a man committed to finding these objects that had come to mean something to him. He wouldn’t have created fakes. It also seemed unlikely that he was aware they were fakes. If Penn’s instincts were accurate.

  “Have you any idea how he found the dagger?” Amelia asked.

  “Now that is the strangest part,” Burgess said, punctuating the air with his index finger. “Someone from Carmarthen brought it to him. Jon was told someone was looking for it, and this person didn’t want it falling into the wrong hands. So he took it to Jon, knowing he’d found the heart years before. And before you ask, I’ve no idea who this person was. Jon never said.”

  “When was this?” Amelia asked.

  “Oh, let me see. About forty years ago—1777 or 1778, I think.”

  “How long had the dagger been hidden in that cave?” Penn wondered aloud.

  “Since about that time. I can’t say for sure. Jon wrote to me about the man bringing it to him. He asked what he should do with it. I said he should bring it here, to the Ashmolean, of course.” His brow darkened. “But someone ransacked his house shortly after that. Jon was certain they were looking for the dagger. Hearing about his journal entry from twenty years before that, it’s clear he knew about the Order of the Round Table.”

  Amelia frowned. “It’s also clear, at least to me, that he didn’t trust the Order.”

  Burgess nodded in agreement. “It certainly sounded that way from the journal.”

  Amelia glanced at Penn, but her question seemed to be for Burgess. “Do you think the Order ransacked his house looking for the dagger?”

  “It’s possible,” Burgess said with a shrug. He looked at Penn. “You know as well as I do the Order is unpredictable. I’ve no idea what they would and wouldn’t do—it seems to change depending on who’s in power.”

  “Do you know who that is?” Amelia looked between the men.

  “We don’t.” Penn had tried to find out, but it was, perhaps, their most closely guarded secret. If Septon was to be believed, even he didn’t know who the Prime Chevalier was. Penn turned his attention back to Burgess. “Is that when Gardiner hid the dagger?”

  “I don’t know exactly when he did that. I only know that he never brought it to the museum. When I asked him about it, he said it had been lost. I didn’t know if that meant someone had stolen it or…” His voice trailed off. “I didn’t hear another word about it until I received your letter, Mrs. Forrest.”

  “In which he told you exactly where it was located. But not why.” Her tone was edged in frustration.

  “That’s correct. Another mystery that’s lost to us now, I suppose.”

  Penn didn’t like unsolved mysteries. His mind turned back to the book. He just knew Foliot had it, that he’d stolen it during the fire ten years ago. “I’d like to talk about the book for a moment—the White Book of Hergest. Gardiner wrote in his journal about his frustration at not being able to read it. I’m convinced that’s the book he meant. What do you suppose that means? Was there something in a language he didn’t know? Or was it something else?”

  “I’ve no idea,” Burgess said. “And unfortunately, the book is lost now. It burned in a fire in London some ten years ago, I think?” He looked from Penn to Amelia and back again.

  “Yes, we’re aware of that.” Penn darted a glance at Amelia, silently communicating not to say anything. It wasn’t that he didn’t trust Burgess. He didn’t trust the factions at work here—the Order or Foliot and his Camelot group. Gardiner had been afraid that knowledge could be dangerous, and Penn didn’t disagree.

  “Can you think of anything else I should know?” Amelia smiled at Burgess. “I do appreciate your time.”

  “Of course, my dear. I was quite fond of Jon.” He pushed himself up from his chair and went to the bookcase behind his desk. Scanning the shelves, he selected a slim tome and went to hand it to Amelia. “I’d like you to have this. Your grandfather transcribed it for me. It’s a collection of French poems from the fifteenth century.”

  Amelia opened the volume carefully. Her lips curled into that soft, devastatingly beautiful smile again, and Penn’s gut clenched.

  She looked up at Burgess. “Thank you so much. I will cherish it.”

  He beamed down at her, clasping his hands behind his back. “I’m delighted.”

  Penn stood. “Thank you for your time this morning, Burgess.”

  “My pleasure, my boy. I’m terribly sorry about what happened with the dagger. Is there any chance at all of recovering it?” He gazed at Amelia with sympathy. “I’m sure it pains you to have lost your grandfather’s artifact.”

  “It does.”

  Penn offered his hand and helped her up from the settee. “I’m not certain we’ll be able to get it back, but we will try.”

  “If anyone can, it’s you, Penn.” Do let me know if there is anything I can do to help.”

  “We will, thank you.” Penn guided her from the office and outside into the bright sunshine. He steered her to the left down Broad Street.

  “I’m more confused than ever about my grandfather,” she said, frowning.

  Penn wasn’t sure what he’d expected to glean from Burgess, but he’d come away from the appointment with even more questions. He tried to be optimistic in the face of his own disappointment. “We did learn a few things. I think we can surmise he used whatever he found in the White Book to find the heart.”

  “And yet there was something in the book that he felt held answers. Answers he wanted to find. What could that be?”

  “I don’t know. We need that book.” Determination hardened inside him. It was a familiar sensation that drove him on every one of his quests. This would be no different. Except for the fact that the book was likely in the possession of a dangerous group.

  He paused and looked up and down the street before escorting her across.

  She looked at him quizzically. “Where are we going? We missed Ship Street.”

  “I’m taking you to see the heart.”

  Her lips rounded into an O before forming a soft smile. “I’ve seen it. My grandfather brought me here when I was ten.”

  Penn suffered another stab of disappointment. He’d been looking forward to showing it to her. And yet, he got to see that smile again. “You light up when you think of him—when a memory comes to you, I think. He was an important figure in your life.”

  “He was, especially the last few years. With my parents gone and my grandmother gone, we were all each other had.”

  He stopped with her outside the museum, the warm summer day shining all around them. “And now he’s gone, and you’re alone. I’m so sorry, Amelia.”

  Her green eyes shimmered brightly. “You shouldn’t call me that,” she said quietly, her gaze never leaving his.

  “Probably not, but I like the way it feels on my tongue.” He was certain he’d like the way she felt on his tongue. He kept that prurient thought to himself.

  Her nostrils flared, and he wondered if her mind had gone in the direction of his. “You’re flirting again.” That answered his question.

  “Unintentionally. What can I say? I like you, Mrs. Forrest. Shall we go inside?”

  They went into the cool interior, and he led her to the exhibit where the heart was kept. It sat atop a column, cradled in a specially made device that allowed extreme visibility. Those viewing it were kept a few feet back from the display by rope fastened to posts. One could walk entirely around the heart to see it from all sides.

  “I don’t remember the ropes,” she said.

  “They were introduced about ten years ago. Too many people were touching it, and there was concern it was becoming degraded.”

  “Weren’t you concerned someone would try to steal one of the gems? Or the heart itself?”

  “Yes, that too. We do have guards that supervise the museum, and the heart is locked away at night.”

  She gazed at the artifact. “I wish I could touch it
. I didn’t back then.”

  “You will.”

  She turned to look at him, her eyes sharp.

  He smiled. “Tonight. I have access to where it’s locked up—because I’m the Keeper’s assistant. After dinner, we’ll come back here to my office.”

  “I get to see your office?” There was the hint of that smile again, and his body heated. “I’m looking forward to it.”

  So was he.

  * * *

  The late August night was warm and still as they walked from Penn’s house on Ship Street to his office at the museum. Over dinner, Penn had told her all about Oxford, and more than ever, Amelia wished she’d been able to attend university.

  His house wasn’t much larger than her cottage outside Bath, but it was spread over three floors, plus a scullery downstairs. Aside from Egg, he had a housekeeper and a caretaker, and it was a neatly kept abode, if rather stuffed with books and artifacts. His office also served as a library, but it simply wasn’t large enough to hold everything, which was why things had spilled into the other areas. Even her bedchamber had a bookcase, and one wall was covered with a large, somewhat tattered but very beautiful medieval tapestry.

  “Your house is charming,” she said as he unlocked a door at the back of the museum.

  He arched a brow at her as they entered the sconce-lit corridor. “Charming? That’s kind of you, but probably an exaggeration.”

  “Not at all.”

  He gave her a skeptical look. “It’s cramped. But then I’m not home long enough to care.” He led her up a creaky staircase.

  “That doesn’t bother you? To travel so much, I mean.”

  “Not at all. I become a bit anxious when I’ve been in one place too long. I think it stems from my childhood. Before I went to live with my father, my first mother and I moved around a lot. We never stayed in one place longer than half a year.” He turned into a corridor and stopped in front of a door, which he unlocked.

  “Why is that?”

  He paused, turning his head to look at her before moving inside. “I’m not entirely sure. I don’t remember too much about her, but she was a nervous person.”