Aunt Agnes nodded, her eyes sympathetic. “I understand, dear. Perhaps we should just travel to Monmouth to see Mr. Bowen about the book.”
“Forgo a letter, you mean?”
“No, we’ll still post the letter, but it will inform him of our arrival for an appointment—in say, three days. That will expedite the process of selling the book with the added bonus of saving you from Mr. Digby’s attentions.”
Margery felt a pang of guilt. Mr. Digby wasn’t a bad sort; he just wasn’t the sort for her. Who was? Did she even have a “sort”? “We’ll leave tomorrow?” Margery asked.
“The day after, I think. I daresay Harker won’t be able to prepare us for the journey that quickly.”
Harker, their housekeeper, cook, and ladies’ maid, was a gem, but to say she was overworked was an understatement. Margery looked forward to when they could hire someone to lighten her workload.
“The sooner we can sell this book, the better.” Margery bent down and picked it up. She caressed the worn leather and felt a jolt of sadness over having to part with something of such beauty and value, especially if it had been in the family for a long time.
Aunt Agnes’s blue eyes brightened with purpose. “I’ll speak with Genie.”
Margery was grateful for her understanding. “Thank you.” She looked down at the book and flipped to somewhere in the middle. “I can’t believe you both forgot about this.” Reverently, she stroked the page and drank in the gorgeously meticulous illustration.
“It’s extraordinary, isn’t it?” Aunt Agnes asked softly. “Though we haven’t looked at it in years, it’s a piece of our shared past. Genie and I had so many years apart and this reminds me of the time before, when we were young and innocent. I admit it will be a touch difficult to let the book go.”
Margery raised her gaze to her beloved aunt’s. “You don’t have to. I don’t want to ask it of you.”
“You aren’t.” She reached over and patted Margery’s hand, her fingers lingering over Margery’s knuckles. “You know that Genie and I would do anything for you, including selling a silly, old book.”
Margery tamped down a burst of emotion. “I feel precisely the same.”
“Yes, but you agree that marrying someone like Digby isn’t nearly as easy as selling a book. Our sacrifice is far less intrusive. It’s scarcely a sacrifice at all.”
“I would marry him, or someone else, if it was our only option.”
Aunt Agnes shook her head firmly. “It isn’t.” Yet. The word was unspoken, but it hung between them like a living, breathing animal. Margery was going to do everything in her power to ensure that never came to pass—she didn’t want to sell herself, even for financial security.
Margery’s gaze dropped to the book once more. The illustration of a knight slaying a boar was so vivid. She traced her finger along the edge. Centuries had passed since the person who’d drawn this had toiled over its creation. How long had it taken? Where had this story originated? Who had written it? She hoped Mr. Bowen could answer these questions in addition to providing the text’s value. He was a collector himself. Would he offer to buy it? Were her days with this book, already too short in number, limited to single digits?
“Margery, why don’t you take the book to your room?” Aunt Agnes suggested. “I can see you long to peruse it at length.”
How well her aunt knew her. Margery closed the book and hugged it to her chest. “Thank you.”
As they left the attic, another, more disturbing thought encroached. How many days did she have left with her aunts? When they were gone she would be truly alone in this townhouse—if she were lucky. If she were unlucky, she could be alone and destitute.
No, she wouldn’t think like that. This book was going to change their fortune and she’d do whatever necessary to ensure they lived in at least a modicum of comfort. Maybe they’d move out to a cottage in the country. Yes, she could see herself living a simple life, even after her aunts were gone.
Determined, she made her way to her room and vowed to keep them all safe and happy.
Rhys Bowen cracked an eyelid at the sudden invasion of light into his bedchamber. His valet, the beast, had opened the drapes on one of the windows just enough to illuminate a section of the room. Thankfully, the beam didn’t shine directly over Rhys’s bed.
He turned away from the window and pulled the cover over his aching head. “Was that really necessary?”
“I do this every day,” Thomas said stiffly.
Yes, but Rhys didn’t wake up with a thundering headache every day. Only when he infrequently attended one of Trevor’s bacchanalias, which Trevor threw for soon-to-be-married gentlemen who came up from London or somewhere. He hosted a few days of feasting, drinking, and whoring, then everyone embarked on a tour of the River Wye, except for Rhys. One night of debauchery was more than enough to tide him over until the next event a few months later.
Rhys peered up over the edge of the coverlet, sensing his valet’s presence near the side of his bed. “Would it pain you to skip it this morning?”
“You have guests arriving soon, if you recall.”
No, he hadn’t recalled. Blast, how had he forgotten that a widow and her spinster sister were coming to visit him about a medieval text they’d found in their attic? Because he wasn’t terribly enthused about seeing them. It was probably a forgery, like so many of the works brought to him, and his father before him, for estimation.
He sat up begrudgingly, wiping his hand over his chin. The scratch of his whiskers reminded him of last night—and of the woman who’d appreciated the feel of them against her flesh . . .
The sound of Thomas clearing his throat interrupted Rhys’s salacious thoughts. “Mrs. Thomas recently learned a recipe for a headache tonic and prepared a batch for you earlier.” Thomas left the side of the bed and came back a moment later with a mug he offered to Rhys.
Rhys took it, but looked up at his valet in doubt. “This smells like horse piss.”
Thomas didn’t dispute him. “Nevertheless, she assures me it will eliminate your headache in a trice. There are certain things one does not question Mrs. Thomas about.” He gave Rhys a haggard look.
Though he was purposefully unmarried, Rhys understood the state of matrimony enough to know that sometimes one absolutely did not question one’s wife. With a silent toast, he quaffed as much of the drink as he could. With a cough and a sputter he handed the mostly empty mug back to Thomas. He started to settle deeper beneath the coverlet, but Thomas’s sharp look froze his movements. “Now what?”
“Your visitors are arriving in a little over an hour.”
How long had he slept? “What time is it?”
“Half-noon.”
“Hell.” Rhys threw off the coverlet and set about his toilet. His day-old beard might have pleased his companion last night, but he doubted the widow and her spinster sister would approve. He might be a bit of a hermit, but he wasn’t a boor.
After a quick—because he unfortunately couldn’t summon an appetite after downing the vile tonic—meal, he awaited his guests in his office. The room was quite large, more a library really. Father had filled floor-to-ceiling bookshelves with ancient texts and academic papers, a collection Rhys had only enlarged in the three years since his death. A long table filled one side of the room, while a collection of chairs and a settee were situated in front of the windows that looked over a wide lawn.
The door opened and a young woman stepped inside. She was followed by a slightly older woman—but only slightly. These were the women who’d written him? He’d been expecting women past middle age at least. He supposed either one of these ladies could be a widow, but a spinster? The one who’d come in second lingered in the background and kept her head bent, so he couldn’t really discern her features, but the woman standing before him now was, in a word, breathtaking.
“Miss Roper?” he asked.
“No.” She shook her head, sending the honey blond curls that were just visible beneath h
er hat swinging. “My great-aunts weren’t able to make the journey with me. I’m afraid my Aunt Eugenie fell ill.”
Mrs. Eugenie Davenport. Her great-aunt. So this beautiful creature was neither a spinster nor a widow. As far as he knew. And, surprisingly, he wanted to know.
“Miss Margery Derrington,” Thomas intoned from the doorway rather tardily.
Rhys peered around his guest at his valet, who also served as his butler. “Thank you, Thomas, would you bring tea, please?”
He nodded in response and left the room. The other woman remained by the door.
Miss Derrington must’ve noted the direction of his gaze. “This is my companion, Mrs. Edwards.”
“Please join us, Mrs. Edwards.” He indicated the seating arrangement near the windows.
“I’ll just stand over here.” Her voice sounded pinched, nervous. “Thank you,” she added hurriedly.
Miss Derrington threw her a reassuring glance before moving to the settee, where she perched at the edge of the ruby-colored cushion. She set a book—obviously the item they wished for him to inspect—beside her.
Rhys sat in a chair across from her and stared at the tome, wondering why he hadn’t noticed it in her grasp straightaway. He’d been too entranced by his guest’s bright hazel-colored eyes, smooth cheekbones, and the clever little dimple in her chin. “You’ve brought the manuscript for me to review?”
“Yes. I realize it’s a bit presumptuous, not giving you an opportunity to decline our request, but I was most anxious to obtain your opinion.”
Presumptuous. Anxious. Beautiful. He directed his attention to the book instead of the provokingly lovely Miss Derrington. “Your aunts said it was a medieval Arthurian text?”
She picked up the book and held it in her lap. The way she touched it, the glide of her fingertips across the flat plane of the cover, revealed her affection. He recognized her attachment since he felt it for nearly every medieval manuscript he happened upon. In a moment, he’d ascertain whether this one was worthy of his interest.
“I understand you’ll be able to ascertain its actual age and perhaps its origin?” Her gaze was deeply inquisitive. She wanted to learn everything she could about this book. He could see the curiosity burning through her placid expression.
“Yes, and I understand you’d like to know its value, that you’re interested in selling it?”
Her fingers tightened ever so slightly around the tome. She looked at him skeptically. “Forgive me, I thought you’d be . . . older. My aunts said you’d been a scholar of medieval texts for decades.”
“That was my father, Alexander Bowen. He died three years ago.” And he was still the one they’d written to. “I’m Rhys Bowen, and I assure you I’m every bit as knowledgeable as my father was.”
She gave a subtle nod. “Where shall I put the book for your investigation?’
He’d thought he’d have to sit and endure tea for a few minutes, and was intrigued by her eagerness. More intriguing was the fact that he’d been looking forward to conversing with her.
“Let’s move to the table.” He already had several manuscripts out, including a text written in medieval Welsh that he’d been translating. He hesitated, wondering if she would hand him the book, but she didn’t.
She went to his work area and set the manuscript down. Rhys moved to stand beside her. He caught the scent of apples and honey and forced his attention to what she was doing, instead of at her directly.
Once it was out of her grasp, he could finally see the book in its entirety. Glorious illustrations emblazoned the edges of the pages, visible only while the book was closed. The title had been stamped on the front, but what would have been gilt at one time had worn away from centuries of dirty fingers and haphazard care. He just made out the letters:
The Ballads of Sir Gareth
Excitement pulsed through him. They hadn’t revealed the title in their letter. If they had, he would’ve jumped on his horse and ridden straight for Gloucester—and likely passed them on the way. If this book was what he thought it could be . . . His name would become as synonymous with the study of medieval texts as his father’s.
Rhys reached for the tome, but she flattened her palm atop the cover and turned to face him.
Her gaze was guarded, her hold on the book protective. “You must be gentle.”
Irritation dampened his enthusiasm. “Look around you. I deal with manuscripts like this every day. My hands have been thoroughly cleansed in preparation for touching this, though if its condition had been poor, I would’ve donned gloves. Do you take the same precautions?”
Her eyes widened slightly, and he felt a moment’s validation.
“Now, may I please look at it?” Rhys kept his tone even, though his pulse was racing. If this book was authentic . . .
She pushed it toward him slowly.
He settled himself in a chair at the table and brought the book in front of him. “Please sit.” He didn’t look at her, but knew there was a chair to her right. She dragged it closer and sat beside him.
With a silent prayer, he opened the cover. He lightly ran his fingers along the edge of the page. The workmanship was exquisite. This had to be the book he thought it was, written by the scribe he suspected. The formation of some letters was similar to his, if not identical. More importantly, the illustrations were reminiscent of a second book, but he’d only viewed it once and that had been three years ago, just before his father’s death.
Rhys turned his head and met her searching gaze. “How much do you want for it?”
She cocked her head to the side, her hands folded primly in her lap. “How much is it worth?”
This book alone was an excellent specimen of medieval illumination and worth a decent sum. But if he could get his hands on the other book and put them together, the value was incalculable. He didn’t want to get ahead of himself. He offered what the book was worth on its own. “Twenty-five pounds.”
Her mouth turned down—not a frown exactly, but an expression of disappointment. He couldn’t help but stare at her pink lips for what was probably a moment too long.
“That’s not a paltry amount,” he said.
“No,” she said slowly, wariness creeping from every corner of the word. “However, I was hoping. . .” She reached out and tried to take the book. “Perhaps coming here so hastily was a mistake.”
He couldn’t let her leave with the manuscript. “No, it wasn’t.” He gently rested his palm across the page, as she’d done with the cover. “I have the impression the book belongs to your aunts—they didn’t even mention you.”
“Yes, it belongs to them.” She pressed her lips together, which accentuated the dimple in her chin. “I should’ve waited for my aunt to feel better before coming. This isn’t my decision to make.”
He didn’t believe her. She’d come with the intent of striking a deal. If she didn’t have the authority to make the decision, why would she have come at all? “Well, since you are here, why not let me make my full assessment? You do want to know more about it, don’t you?” He watched the battle behind her eyes. This book wasn’t hers, but she wanted it to be. Why were her aunts selling it if she wanted to keep it so badly? Because they likely didn’t have any other choice. They were in a perhaps desperate situation—one that he could turn to his advantage if necessary. Not that he wanted to cheat them. He was prepared to compensate her fairly for the book.
“Yes.” She cleared her throat. “I should like to hear what you know of it.”
Thomas came in with the tea tray. He stopped short at seeing them at the table instead of at the window. “I’ll just set the tray over here.” He indicated where Mrs. Edwards perched on the settee near the window. Thomas knew better than to serve refreshment on Rhys’s sacred workplace, where spilled tea or an errant cake crumb could cause irreparable damage.
Rhys nodded. “Thank you, Thomas. I’ll ring if we require anything further.” He doubted they’d get to the tea tray at all, not when Miss Derrin
gton looked as if she was going to snatch the book up and dash back to Gloucester.
The sound of Thomas departing was accompanied by the clink of dishware as Mrs. Edwards saw to her tea. “Will you be having tea?” she asked them.
“I won’t, thank you,” Rhys answered. He turned back to Miss Derrington and noted that her gaze was pinned to his hold on her book. Rather, her aunts’ book. He exhaled, his fingers tingling as he realized anew what he was touching. The lost text by Edmund de Valery, which some scholars doubted existed. Clearly it did—but did it contain the secret code that supposedly led to an Arthurian treasure?
A sense of alarm slammed into him. “Does anyone else know you have this?”
Her brows drew together. “No. At least not that I’m aware of.”
He relaxed against the back of his chair. Good. If certain others knew that this book had surfaced, they’d go to great lengths to possess it. Just as he was prepared to do.
He turned the page to an illustration of several knights battling a giant. “These tales are a series of tasks that a knight—Gareth—had to complete in order to win the hand of his true love. He obtained several items, which her father demanded as her bride price.” He pointed at one knight in particular. “This is Arthur.”
“Yes, I’ve read it.” She leaned closer, and once again her scent assailed him. “Is that Excalibur? It doesn’t say.”
He shook his head, turning another page. “This story is before Arthur purportedly found that sword. Every tale is a bit different.” And based on pure fantasy. There was no actual Excalibur and no King Arthur.
“Why is this book so special?”
He felt her eyes on him, wondered how she’d detected that this book was indeed special. He had no plans to tell her about the code, particularly when it might not even exist. “It’s an excellent piece. I assume you’ve studied it intently.”
Her brilliant eyes met his. “Every word, every stroke, every color.” Her passion for the book was palpable. Perhaps equal to his own. But no, that couldn’t be possible. His entire life had been dedicated to books like these, and this was the discovery of a lifetime. A discovery that would do much to establish Rhys as a leading scholar outside of his father’s shadow, even without the code or treasure.
Vote Then Read: Volume II Page 24