“What is it?” Miss Derrington’s excited voice came from just beside him.
He turned, and her face was so close that he had to caution himself not to kiss her. “Look.” He handed her the glass.
With a bemused expression, she took it from him and studied the picture. Her gasp stirred his enthusiasm even further. “It takes all of the red out. I think I see . . . numbers.”
It worked on the red too? Just as it had removed the yellow from her dress. “Rotate the glass. It removes the red, the yellow, and the blue.”
She gasped even louder, then lowered the glass to stare at him in awe. “Creating this had to have taken an inordinate amount of time. What could the numbers mean?”
“I don’t know. Maybe when we write them down, we’ll see a pattern.”
The cock of a pistol chilled Rhys to his very bones. Stiffening, he turned toward the sound, where a man with a kerchief wrapped around his nose and mouth pointed a gun at him. He had a second tucked into his waistband. His hat was pulled low so that all Rhys could make of his features were two small, dark eyes.
The masked man directed his pistol at Miss Derrington. “Give me the glass.”
She clutched it tightly against her chest. “No.”
Rhys didn’t fault her for refusing, he would’ve done the same, but the bastard was pointing a gun at her and they had nothing to defend themselves with.
“I’m only going to ask politely once more and then I’ll do what I must to take it from you. Give me the glass.”
“Give it to him,” Rhys said, his mind working out ways to protect Miss Derrington and to try to regain the glass.
“Mr. Bowen,” she hissed, “we can’t just relinquish it!”
The brigand held out his hand. “I’ll count to three. One . . . two . . . “
Rhys snatched the glass from her and tossed it to the thief—hard. As hoped, it distracted him enough that Rhys launched forward. He yelled, “Craddock” to draw the coachman’s attention. Hopefully he’d bring one of the pistols from the coach.
Rhys and the man landed on the ground with Rhys on top. The man hit Rhys in the temple with the butt of the pistol while Rhys tried to wrestle away the glass.
He caught a glimpse of Miss Derrington’s skirt as she joined the fray. She tried to help him get at the glass.
The man hit Rhys a second time, causing his temple to throb and his sight to blur momentarily. It was enough for the thief to roll out from under Rhys.
Craddock appeared then, pistol in hand and fired at their assailant. Unfortunately, he missed and the bastard took off running.
Rhys jumped up, but Miss Derrington stopped him. “Let him go. I have the glass!”
Because his head was pounding, Rhys didn’t pursue the fleeing brigand. He set his hands on his hips and inhaled, trying to catch his breath.
“You all right, sir?” Craddock asked, his fair brows gathering over his pale eyes.
“Yes, thank you. Excellent timing on your part.”
“I’m sorry I didn’t get here faster.”
Rhys pivoted and took in the dirt smudging Miss Derrington’s skirt. “Are you all right?”
“Perfectly fine. More importantly, so is the glass.” She held it up in her fingers.
Relief coursed through him. That had been a near thing. Where had the man come from?
“Do you suppose he’s a member of the Order of the Round Table?” Miss Derrington asked, echoing the question in his own mind.
“It seems logical.” But that led to more questions. “How did he know we had the glass? Did he follow us?”
She frowned in the direction the man had fled. “Even if he did follow us, he didn’t go into the cottage with us. How would he know what we’d found?” She looked up at him, her hazel eyes intense. “If you didn’t know this glass existed, I can’t imagine anyone else did.”
“Anyone outside of this Order,” he clarified. “I would not be surprised to learn they not only knew of this glass but where it was located.” How else to explain the speed with which the man had accosted them? “We should return to Westerly Cross at once. I’d hate for him to come back with reinforcements.”
Miss Derrington gathered up her book, while Rhys picked up the other. As he climbed into the coach a moment later, he scanned the road, wondering how the man had tracked them. The entire encounter was unnerving—the timing, the man’s masked face, the fact that he’d known they had the glass.
Though he wanted very badly to decipher the code—now more than ever—and find the treasure, he began to consider that it may be too dangerous. At what point would he make that determination and abandon the quest? And if that moment came, could he actually do it?
That was a question he didn’t want to answer.
11
Margery watched Mr. Bowen surreptitiously from beneath the brim of her bonnet. The coach swayed as they traveled back to Westerly Cross, and she wondered if the movement caused him pain. She’d had to severely stifle the urge to look at his temple and gauge the damage the brigand had done. From a proper distance, she could at least tell that the skin wasn’t broken. He’d likely sport a nasty bruise, however.
She jerked her gaze to the window before he caught her looking.
They’d reached a tentative alliance, she thought. She wasn’t sure if he trusted her again—she doubted she would in his place—but they had at least agreed that they were committed to the hunt, together.
She squeezed her eyes shut briefly in an effort to banish last night. There hadn’t been any kissing, but she’d wanted there to be, and she’d spent far too long thinking about that after she’d gone to bed.
Her gaze darted to him again, but this time it connected with his and she went back to looking at the window. Those dark eyes of his seemed to bore straight into her soul, as if he could see things she didn’t even know were there.
But that was absurd. What would he see? That she was a heartless female, incapable of love? Was that how she saw herself?
She was saved from further annoying introspection as the coach pulled into Westerly Cross’s drive. When the coach came to a stop, she scooted forward on the seat, impatient to disembark.
As they waited for Craddock to put down the stairs and open the door, Mr. Bowen said, “You’ve gone quiet.”
“Just thinking about what happened,” she lied. Why wasn’t she thinking about that?
“I was doing the same. Shall we take the books directly to the library and begin our research?”
“Yes, let’s.” That would keep her mind off Mr. Bowen and her inconvenient attraction.
Godfrey met them at the door. “His lordship wanted me to ask if you have anything to report.”
It seemed Lord Nash was as eager for information as they were.
“Indeed we do,” Mr. Bowen answered. “If his lordship is well enough to join us, we’ll be in the library.”
Godfrey nodded. “Would you care for tea?”
Mr. Bowen smiled politely. “No, thank you. I don’t allow liquid of any kind around the manuscripts I’m working with.”
“Very good, sir. You can find your way?” At Mr. Bowen’s nod, he bowed. “I will notify Lord Nash.”
The butler turned and went to the stairs, while Mr. Bowen led Margery to the library.
Once inside, he closed the door behind them. “We should keep what we’ve found between us and Lord Nash. I’d prefer the servants didn’t even know what we’re doing.”
She could well understand his reticence, and she shared it. They had no idea where or when the group would attempt to steal the books or the glass—or likely both—again.
They laid the books out, and Mr. Bowen went in search of writing implements. Finding none, he rang for a footman and requested them. He waited at the door for the footman’s return, received the items, and asked that they not be disturbed.
Margery considered pointing out that their being closeted alone together was highly inappropriate, but just about everything they
were doing was highly inappropriate. What was more, she didn’t care. What sort of reputation was she protecting? She’d never go to London and attend the Marriage Mart. Rumors and gossip still circulated in Gloucester, but she wasn’t an active member of its small society and doubted anyone would even be aware that she’d gone anywhere, let alone what had happened on her journey. In her letter to her aunts, she’d suggested they tell anyone who asked that Margery was visiting out-of-town relatives.
“Shall we start by going through each illustration and simply writing down all of the numbers we see through the glass?” he asked.
“That sounds reasonable.” She sat at the table in front of Nash’s book and waited for him to give her the glass. When he didn’t, she looked up at him curiously. “Did you want to look through the glass and I’ll write?”
“Let’s take turns, actually. I’ll look, you write, then you take the glass and review my work.” He sat beside her. “This will, hopefully, minimize any mistakes.”
He was quite thorough in his methods. She liked that. Which made her want to scowl. She’d prefer to stop learning things about Mr. Bowen that she liked.
Why was she so set on disliking him? Because he was a danger to her well-mannered life. He made her consider things she ought never consider, such as initiating an affair like her Aunt Agnes had done.
No. She could never.
“Five.” His deep voice jolted her to pick up the pen and record the number. He continued until he’d read all of the numbers from the first illustration, six in all.
He handed her the glass and she scanned the picture, reading the numbers she found. Just before she finished, the door opened and Lord Nash came in, leaning on a cane.
The baron’s blue eyes were animated, his mouth split into a broad smile. “You’ve found something!”
“We have.” Mr. Bowen stood. “Come and we’ll show you.”
Lord Nash took Mr. Bowen’s vacated seat, and they explained the glass and how it worked. When they were finished with the tale, Lord Nash shook his head in disbelief. “Mr. Hardy has had this glass all these years?”
“Yes, he had no idea what he possessed,” Mr. Bowen said. “Someone did, however. As soon as we left, we were set upon by a masked thief who attempted to take the glass.”
“The devil you say!” Lord Nash looked between them, his expression concerned. “You’re both all right?”
“Yes, thankfully.” Margery glanced at Mr. Bowen’s temple, which had started to turn purple.
Lord Nash sat back in the chair and stared at the open book, his mouth turned down. “I take it this brigand followed you to Hardy’s cottage?”
“It’s possible, but I find it strange that his goal was the glass and not the books, as if he knew its location and its importance.”
“Why didn’t they steal it from him?” Margery asked.
Mr. Bowen’s expression was troubled. “I don’t know, but someone knows an awful lot about de Valery’s code—more than we do, I’d wager.”
Lord Nash looked between them. “Do you think they know the glass is here?”
“Perhaps. Though, I don’t think we were followed after the brigand ran off,” Mr. Bowen said. “However, we didn’t realize we were followed from Mr. Hardy’s either. I’d like to know why the Order of the Round Table wants these items.”
“As would I,” Nash said.
Mr. Bowen’s mouth set into a grim line. “I’d like to speak with Septon.”
Margery sat straighter. Why did he keep mentioning this man who’d been on the list of potential suspects from Stratton?
Nash nodded. “Perhaps you should go to him as soon as possible. He’s in Caerwent, you say?”
“Is that really necessary?” Margery couldn’t help herself. “Mr. Bowen, you’ve already stressed the importance of keeping our findings secret.”
He looked at her and acknowledged her point with a slight nod. “Yes, it’s critical that we keep our work covert. Lord Nash, I think it’s best if your staff isn’t even aware of what we’re doing.”
“Godfrey will be the soul of discretion, but I will tell him this is particularly important.”
“Thank you,” Mr. Bowen said. “Miss Derrington, as for Lord Septon, he is completely trustworthy. We may need his help with this code in any case.”
She wasn’t ready to say that yet. “We’ve barely started. It may be that we can solve this on our own.” She didn’t flinch from his gaze. Her opinion mattered, and she would ensure he knew that.
“Shall we get back to it?” he asked.
“Let’s.” Lord Nash looked between them. “How can I help?”
They took turns decoding the numbers hidden in all of the illustrations. By the time they were done, they’d assembled a list of eighty-four numbers. At first glance, the list made no sense whatsoever.
“What do we do with this now?” Margery asked, feeling a mix of satisfaction at having completed the task and frustration at the next step not being immediately clear.
Mr. Bowen looked up from studying the list. “I would think these numbers would apply to something in your book.”
“But there aren’t any numbers in the book,” she said.
“No, there aren’t.” Mr. Bowen rubbed his hand over his eyes and flinched as his fingers brushed his temple.
“I am quite famished for luncheon,” Nash declared. “Let us take a break and perhaps we’ll come up with something. Mr. Bowen, might I have a word?”
He hadn’t said so, but the question implied he wanted to speak with Mr. Bowen privately. Margery glanced at Mr. Bowen, but his answering look was one of curiosity, as if he didn’t know why the baron wished to speak with him.
“Certainly.” Mr. Bowen stood as Margery got to her feet.
She picked up her book—if they’d hoped to look at it with the numbers without her, they were to be disappointed. Now more than ever, she wasn’t letting the text out of her sight. “I’ll see you shortly for lunch.”
As she left the library, she wondered if the men were colluding to exclude her from the treasure. But why would they do that? Mr. Bowen had already stated his intention to work with her to find it, even after she’d tried to exclude him.
Stop being so suspicious. You can work with Mr. Bowen without encouraging something more . . . intimate.
The problem was that while she could, she was afraid she wouldn’t. The more time she spent with him, the more she enjoyed his intelligence, his wit, his touch. And right now, that seemed far more threatening to her than anything this mysterious Order could do.
After the door closed behind Miss Derrington’s delectable backside, Lord Nash drew Rhys from thinking about her finer attributes—something he really ought to stop doing without assistance.
“I didn’t want to discuss this in front of Miss Derrington, but I think you should leave as soon as possible. These people know you have the cipher glass and the books. I fear they’ll come here, and I’m not . . . prepared to fight them.” Lord Nash’s eyes drooped. “I wish I were younger.”
Rhys clapped the baron on his shoulder in an effort to convey his sympathy. “It’s all right. I understand your position. We’ll leave for Caerwent at once.” He fetched Nash’s cane, which rested against one of the bookshelves and held it out for the man.
Nash put a hand on the cane and held his other out for Rhys to help him up. “Miss Derrington seemed reluctant to talk to Septon.”
Yes, she’d stated such on multiple occasions now. Was there another reason behind her hesitation, or was it simply Septon’s presence at Stratton’s party? He thought it was probably just the latter, but she’d already demonstrated her ability to deceive. He’d do well to remember that.
“We can leave immediately after luncheon.” Rhys eyed the baron, who now leaned on his cane. Would he let them take his book? Though they’d already extracted the numbers from it, Rhys couldn’t be sure they wouldn’t need it again. “Would you allow us to borrow your manuscript?”
Nash surprised him by nodding vigorously. “I think you must. I’d like to have it back when you’re finished, of course. I’d also like to ensure Stratton never learns he had a fake. Things could become . . . difficult for my daughter if that were known.” Nash’s eyes clouded, and his expression was pained.
Rhys understood and felt a surge of compassion for the man. “I’ll make sure he doesn’t. I do think it’s best if the book came with us. That way if these men come calling, you can simply tell them you don’t have any of the items they want—assuming they even want the books. The man today only wanted the glass.” Rhys had put up quite a fight, so perhaps the brigand had decided having the glass was enough. Without it, the code couldn’t be deciphered. “I would love to know why they’re so opposed to anyone solving the code.”
“Yes. Hopefully Septon will have information for you,” Nash said. He stroked his chin. “One other thing . . . I’m not sure how to say this. Traveling with Miss Derrington as you are isn’t terribly appropriate. Rest assured that I will keep your visit secret—for a variety of reasons, not the least of which will be to protect her reputation. However, the longer you travel alone together, the more you risk scandal. Please don’t take my comments poorly. I’m a father, after all, and seeing as Miss Derrington hasn’t one . . .”
Yes, she was an orphan. Not completely alone, since her aunts had raised her, but she had no male figure in her life. She’d given Rhys just the cursory overview of her parents’ death and going to live with her aunts. He sensed a lingering sadness, but perhaps he was seeing his own grief in her. He’d taken the loss of his father hard and didn’t think he’d ever completely recover. For as long as he could remember, it had been just the two of them, and despite his father’s high expectations, he couldn’t imagine a better mentor or friend.
Vote Then Read: Volume II Page 36