by Amanda Quick
Monkcrest would be shocked if he knew what she was thinking. The tale of his short-lived marriage was part of the Monkcrest legend. Aunt Winifred, always a fountain of information on such personal details, had given her the essentials of the story.
“Everyone knows that the Mad Monks are an odd lot,” Winifred said. “Unlike most people, they follow their hearts in matters of love. I believe that the current earl was married when he was nineteen.”
“So young?” Beatrice asked, surprised.
“They say she was the woman of his dreams. A paragon of a wife and a loving mother. He gave his heart to her and she gave him his heir and a spare. But only a few short years later she died of a lung infection.”
“How sad.”
“It is said that Monkcrest was heartbroken. Vowed never to remarry. The Mad Monks love only once in a lifetime, you see.”
“And having gotten himself two sons, there was no pressing need for him to wed again, was there?” Beatrice said dryly.
Winifred looked thoughtful. “Actually, his story is very much like your own, my dear. A tragedy of great love found and then lost much too soon.”
Beatrice was well aware that her own brief marriage had been elevated to the status of a minor legend within her family.
She pushed aside the memory of Winifred’s gossip and glanced at Leo. He shifted his position slightly against the pillar. The small movement stretched the fabric of his coat across his broad shoulders. Beatrice wished that she was not quite so conscious of the way the well-cut garment emphasized the sleek, strong line of his physique.
It should not matter to her that the front of his linen shirt was unruffled or that he tied his cravat in a strict, stern style rather than in one of the elaborate chin-high arrangements so popular in Town. But it did.
He obviously did not concern himself overmuch with fashion, but his cool, supremely self-confident style would have been the envy of many. There was a dark, brooding quality in him that put Beatrice in mind of one of the heroes of her own novels.
She stifled a groan. This was ridiculous. It was only her writer’s imagination that caused her to envision deep, stirring depths in this man. She must keep her common sense and her wits about her.
She leaned forward to cradle a brilliant golden orchid in her palm. “You have a most impressive collection of plants, my lord.”
“Thank you.” Leo propped one shoulder against a wooden post. “My grandfather built this greenhouse. He was consumed by an interest in the science of gardening.”
“I have never seen orchids of this particular color.”
“They were a gift from an acquaintance of mine who spent many years in the Far East. He brought them back from an island called Vanzagara.”
“Gardening is obviously one of your many interests too, my lord.” Beatrice paused to admire a bed of huge, strangely marked chrysanthemums.
“I have maintained the greenhouse because it contains many curiosities. But gardening does not fascinate me the way it did my grandfather.”
“Did your father also conduct experiments in here?”
“Very likely, when he was young. But I am told that as he grew older, his interests concentrated on the study of mechanical matters. His old laboratory is filled with clocks and gauges and instruments.”
Beatrice moved on to a bed of cacti. “You did not follow in your father’s footsteps.”
“No. My father was lost at sea together with my mother when I was four years old. I do not remember either of them clearly. My grandfather raised me.”
“I see.” She glanced quickly at him, chagrined by her own tactlessness. “I had not realized.”
“Of course not. Do not concern yourself.”
She moved slowly down the aisle, pausing occasionally to scrutinize a specimen. “May I ask what led you to your study of ancient legends and antiquities?”
“I was intrigued by such things from my earliest years. Grandfather once said that a taste for the arcane is in the Monkcrest blood.”
Beatrice bent her head to inhale the fragrance of an unusual purple orchid. “Perhaps your scholarly interest in legends and the like arose because you yourself are a product of legend.”
He straightened away from the post with an irritated movement and started down the aisle that paralleled the one in which she stood. “You are an intelligent woman, Mrs. Poole. I refuse to believe that you put any credence in the ridiculous tales you may have heard about me.”
“I hate to disappoint you, sir, but from my observation, some of the stories appear to have a basis in fact.”
He gave her a derisive stare. “For example?”
She thought about some of the tales the innkeeper’s wife had told her. “It is said that the Monkcrest lands have always been unusually prosperous. The crops are abundant and the sheep provide some of the best wool in all of England.”
“That is most definitely not due to the influence of legend or the supernatural.” Leo gestured impatiently to indicate not only the greenhouse but all the verdant fields beyond. “What you see here on Monkcrest lands is the result of a never-ending series of agricultural experiments and the serious application of scientific techniques.”
“Ah, science.” Beatrice gave an exaggerated sigh of disappointment. “How very mundane. A bit of sorcery would have been so much more exciting.”
Leo cast her a sidelong frown. “Not all the men in my family have been as fascinated with the study of soils and plants as my grandfather, but we have all had a commitment to our responsibilities.”
“So much for the unnatural prosperity of your lands. Let me see, what other aspects of the Monkcrest legend have I learned?” She propped her elbow on her hand and tapped her chin with her forefinger. “I believe it is said that in the past, when there has been turmoil in other portions of the realm, the people of Monkcrest have been left in peace.”
“It’s true. But we owe that to our remote location. The monks who built the abbey at the close of the twelfth century chose this section of the coast because they knew that no one else would have any great interest in it. Because of their foresight, Monkcrest has never been much troubled by political matters.”
“And so another Monkcrest myth dissolves into mist.”
His jaw tightened. “Are there any other tales you wish me to explain?”
“There was something about the abbey being haunted.” She smiled expectantly.
He grimaced. “Every house in England that is as old as this one is said to be plagued with ghosts.”
“There was one rather odd rumor to the effect that the Mad Monks have been known to consort with wolves on occasion.”
Leo startled her with a crack of laughter. “There are no wolves here, only Elf.”
“Elf?”
“My hound.”
“Oh, yes, of course. He is quite large and fearsome-looking for an elf.”
“Perhaps. But he is certainly no wolf. Pray, continue with your list of Monkcrest legends.”
She cupped a strangely striped parson-in-the-pulpit in her fingers and wondered how far she should push the matter. She sensed that her host did not have a great store of patience for this subject.
“I assume I can dismiss those rumors of the Monkcrest males studying sorcery at an age when other young men learn Latin and Greek?”
“Absolute drivel.” Leo’s mouth curved with reluctant humor. “I admit that the men of my family tend to pursue their chosen interests with what some would call obsessive enthusiasm. But I assure you, none have employed sorcery in their pursuit of knowledge. At least not in recent years.”
Beatrice wrinkled her nose. “Why must you persist in turning an excellent legend into a series of very boring explanations?”
His amusement vanished so quickly, she could not be certain it had ever been there in the first place. She was surprised by the grimness that replaced it.
“You may take it from one who knows—legends have their drawbacks, Mrs. Poole.”
; “Perhaps. But they also have their uses, do they not?”
“What do you mean?”
She was well aware that she was about to tread into dangerous territory. She looked at him across a clump of exotic ferns. “A man who lives at the heart of an interesting legend no doubt finds it a simple task to manipulate the more gullible and overly imaginative sort.”
His brows rose. “Just what are you implying, Mrs. Poole?”
“No offense, my lord, but I think you are quite capable of using your own legend to achieve your ends.”
“Enough of this nonsense.” He planted both his hands flat on the bench that held the ferns. He leaned forward, his face set in lines of grim determination. “I did not ask you in here in order to discuss gardening or family legends.”
He was too close. She had to resist the sudden urge to step back. “I assumed as much. You wish to try to talk me out of my plans to make inquiries into my uncle’s death, do you not?”
“You are very perceptive, Mrs. Poole.”
“It does riot require any great degree of cleverness to deduce that you are opposed to the notion. I collected that much last night. May I ask why you are so personally concerned with my intentions?”
“I am against your scheme because it is potentially a very dangerous endeavor.”
“I believe the true danger lies in failing to uncover the truth,” she said.
“You do not know what you are talking about. I told you last night that men have died in pursuit of treasure.”
“Uncle Reggie may be among that number. If that is the case, I intend to discover who murdered him and then I will try to recover some of the money he lost.”
“I understand your concerns.” Leo straightened. “After thinking the matter over last night, I came to the conclusion that if the Rings exist, it would be best if they are found quickly.”
She watched him warily. “What are you saying, sir?”
“I have arrived at a solution that will resolve the dilemma.”
“Indeed, my lord?” She braced herself. “What is it?”
“I have decided to accompany you back to London tomorrow,” he announced. “I myself will make inquiries into the affair of the Rings.”
“You will search for them?” Beatrice stared at him in amazement. “I do not comprehend you, sir.”
“It is quite simple. You will stay out of the matter entirely. I will deal with it.”
Realization dawned. “You want the Forbidden Rings for yourself, do you not?”
“Mrs. Poole, even if it were possible for you to discover the whereabouts of the Rings on your own, which is highly unlikely, it would be extremely dangerous for you to possess them. I am far better equipped to handle that sort of thing.”
“How dare you, sir?” She drew herself up and glared at him over the tops of the ferns. “If you think for one moment that I will abandon my inquiries and leave the field to you, you are very much mistaken. Those Rings and the money they will fetch belong to my cousin Arabella. Uncle Reggie intended her to have an inheritance.”
“Damnation, it is not the money that concerns me.”
“I comprehend that perfectly.”
He looked slightly mollified. “I am relieved to hear that.”
“Money would never be a primary consideration for a man of your temperament.” She narrowed her eyes. “But there are other things which would no doubt arouse the, shall we say, acquisitive side of your nature?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Admit it, Monkcrest. You wish to get your hands on those Rings because you wish to discover the truth of the legend. You seek the treasure that is supposedly hidden in the alchemist’s Aphrodite.”
“Hell’s teeth, madam.”
“I do not blame you. It would be a brilliant coup, would it not? Just think of the paper you could write for the Society of Antiquarians. After all, how often does it come about that a man who studies legends gets an opportunity to prove one true?”
“The legend has nothing to do with it.” Leo took his hands off the plant bench and flexed his fingers with a quick, savage motion. “At least not directly.”
“Rubbish. You have just told me that it is the nature of the Mad Monks to pursue their interests with obsessive enthusiasm. You are passionate about the investigation of ancient legends and I, fool that I am, have dropped the possibility of a fabulous discovery concerning one straight into your hands.”
“Mrs. Poole, this is not a game of hunt-the-treasure. We are discussing a potentially dangerous situation.”
She spread her palms wide. “What a bloody idiot I was to seek your help. Talk about walking straight into the jaws of the wolf.”
“Kindly forgo the melodrama. As it happens, you have come to the one man in England who just may be able to salvage matters for you.”
“Forgive me, my lord, I am overwhelmed by your modesty and humility.” She whirled and walked quickly toward the far end of the greenhouse. “The one man in England who could help me, indeed. I’ll wager there are any number who could assist me.”
“You know damn well that is not true.” He pursued her down the adjoining aisle. “I am the man you need for this venture. That is why you came here, if you will recall.”
She stopped and swung around to face him across a field of unnaturally large daisies. “Let me make one thing very clear, my lord. I came to you for information. You gave it to me, for which I must thank you. But that is all I require of you.”
“You need a good deal more from me, Mrs. Poole.” His eyes narrowed ominously. “And whether you like it or not, you’re going to get it. I shall accompany you back to London in the morning.”
“THIS IS A disaster. Utter disaster.” Beatrice was still fuming that evening as she joined Sally in the small sitting room that linked their bedchambers. “What on earth am I going to do with him?”
Sally, garbed in a faded wrapper and a yellowed muslin cap, reclined in a chair in front of the fire and sipped a glass of gin. “Ignore him?”
“One can hardly do that.” Beatrice was also dressed for bed. The hem of her chintz dressing gown swirled around her legs as she stalked back and forth in front of the hearth. “He is hardly the sort of man one can simply ignore.”
“Mais oui You can say that again.” Sally frowned. “Did ye ’appen to notice that his eyes are the same color as that great beastly hound of his?”
“A trick of the light, nothing more.”
“If ye say so. I still say it’s peculiar.” Sally swallowed more gin. “I’m sorry things ain’t goin’ the way ye planned. But look on the bright side, ma’am. If the Earl o’ Monkcrest escorts us back to Town, we’ll likely get a much better room at that bloody inn than we had on the way here.”
Beatrice went to stand at the window. She could hardly discuss the problem in depth with Sally, who knew nothing of the real reason they were in Devon.
She had been a fool to come here. In the process of consulting him on the matter of the Forbidden Rings, she had unwittingly dangled an irresistible lure in front of Monkcrest. The man was consumed by his passion for legends and antiquities. One had only to read his papers to know that.
What in the world was she going to do about him? she wondered. She had to keep him out of London. She could not let him find the Rings first.
TWO HOURS LATER she lay awake in bed, mulling over the same questions she had asked herself all evening. She was in the midst of devising a scheme to sneak away from the abbey before dawn, when her thoughts were interrupted by the unmistakable ring of a horse’s hooves on paving stones.
It was nearly midnight. She could think of no logical reason for a horse to be in the forecourt at that hour. Perhaps Monkcrest was about to receive another uninvited guest. It would serve him right. It might also divert his attention from her, which would be useful.
Curious, she tossed aside the heavy quilts and sat up on the edge of the bed. A shiver went through her when her bare feet touched the cold floor. Embers stil
l glowed on the hearth, but they no longer supplied enough heat to warm the bedchamber to a comfortable temperature.
She slid her feet into her slippers, pulled on her wrapper, and crossed the room to the window. A full moon illuminated the abbey forecourt.
She saw a horse and rider canter out through the gate. The stallion was a massive beast with a gracefully arched neck and muscled shoulders. The man on his back rode him with masterful ease. The folds of a black cloak swirled out behind him. A great hound, jaws agape, loped eagerly alongside the pair.
Beatrice folded her elbows on the windowsill and watched as the trio disappeared into the darkness.
She considered the matter for a very long while, but she could not think of a good reason for the Mad Monk of Monkcrest to ride out at midnight with only his hound for company.
HUNTING HIGHWAYMEN WAS similar to hunting any other sort of wild beast. One learned the creatures’ ways and habits and then employed the knowledge to set a trap.
Years of experience had taught Leo a great deal. He was aware that one of the members of the local country gentry had scheduled a house party that evening. Most of the guests would spend the night under their host’s roof. Inevitably, however, a few would brave the roads to drive home. Those who did would be wearing their best jewelry.
If that were not attraction enough, tonight’s full moon would tempt any ambitious highwayman who chanced to be in the neighborhood. Leo was almost certain that the villain who had attempted to rob Beatrice’s carriage was still in the vicinity.
He made it a practice to keep track of everything that went on in and around Monkcrest lands. Information, gossip, and news flowed into the abbey through maids, gardeners, and grooms. It was Leo’s habit, as it had been the habit of the Mad Monks who had come before him, to collect the information and sort through it.
Word of a rough stranger seen drinking at the inn had reached him that afternoon.
Highwaymen were common enough on the roads. Hunting them was a rather uncommon sport. But Leo reminded himself that everyone needed a hobby.