Rhys picked up one of the coins and held it up to the window to inspect it. “Roman.”
“Fourth century,” Septon said.
Rhys tossed him a glance before setting the coin back down and picking up another. “Before Arthur, if you believe he existed, of course.”
“Do you?” Septon leaned a hand on the back of his chair.
Rhys placed the second coin back on the pile. “I didn’t, but with everything we’ve now seen . . .” He looked at Margery.
“And what is that?” Septon asked them both, looking from Rhys to Margery and back to Rhys.
“The de Valery code exists. It leads to something.”
Septon’s brow furrowed. “We don’t know that for sure, but the fact that you deciphered words that led you here certainly seems to infer that there is a tangible treasure.”
“Or de Valery sent us on a wild goose chase,” Margery said, feeling unaccountably nervous and a bit frustrated.
“Perhaps. Let us sit.” He moved to the settee and a pair of armchairs positioned near the fireplace. He waited until Margery sank to the settee before taking one of the chairs.
Rhys looked at where Margery sat, but ended up settling in the other chair, as if he’d decided maintaining space between them was for the best. She couldn’t help but agree.
“What do you think the treasure might be?” Septon asked.
“I can only theorize,” Rhys said. “I suppose it could be something grand like the Heart of Llanllwch.”
Septon rested his elbow on the arm of his chair. “One of the thirteen treasures, you mean?”
Rhys sat straight, rigid almost. Was he feeling anxious, like Margery? “Perhaps. It could also be nothing—a whimsy. Though, given the cipher glass we found, de Valery went to a great deal of trouble to create the code.”
Septon leaned forward, his eyes bright with interest. “A cipher glass, you say?”
Rhys dug it out of an interior coat pocket and held it out to Septon. “We found it at his house on the Severn.”
Septon’s intake of breath was audible. “May I?” At Rhys’s nod, he took it from Rhys’s palm, his movements slow and almost reverent. He held it up to the light streaming in from the window. “De Valery’s brother was an alchemist. I wager he created this device. How does it work?”
“Look at one of your books over there—at one of the illustrations. It strips the colors from it. As you rotate the glass, it will remove all color except blue, then red, and then yellow. Doing so revealed numbers in one of the de Valery manuscripts, which we used to decipher the code buried in the other manuscript.”
“Extraordinary!” Septon leapt to his feet and tried the device on one of his books. “I should like to look at your manuscripts with this, see what you saw, if you don’t mind indulging a fellow antiquarian?”
Rhys smiled, his form relaxing into the chair. “Of course not.”
Margery wanted to protest. She didn’t want to share her book with anyone, which is why she hadn’t fetched it from the coach immediately. But that was selfish of her. This man wasn’t a threat; he was simply a scholar. She hoped that was all he was. What if he tried to obtain the treasure before they could? Then the entire adventure would have been for naught. She glanced at Rhys, who watched his friend with a mixture of amusement and shared excitement. Perhaps not completely for naught . . .
“If we could determine the meaning of the name Anarawd, we believe we could find the treasure,” Rhys said.
Septon returned the glass to Rhys and then retook his chair. “I wish I could help you, but I don’t know the name.” His tone was clouded with regret. “We should read through some books later. Will you come for dinner this evening? I’m sure my housekeeper can put something satisfactory together.”
“We’d be delighted, thank you,” Rhys said, without consulting her.
Margery’s impatience bubbled over. “Lord Septon, I wonder if you might tell us what you know of this Order of the Round Table. They’ve attacked us on three separate occasions and I’d like to understand why.”
Septon turned his attention to her, his expression grim. “They attacked you?”
Rhys answered. “Twice, they attempted to steal her manuscript, quite violently, I might add. The third time they tried to steal the cipher glass.”
Septon shook his head sympathetically. “I don’t know too much about them, just that they’re a group that believes in the existence of Arthur and his knights, hence their name, the Order of the Round Table.”
“Why did they try to steal my book?” Margery asked.
“Some say they seek to obtain all items that may prove the existence of Arthur.” Just as Lord Nash had told them.
Margery set her palm on the settee cushion beside her skirt. “I don’t understand. If they believe in his existence, why do they need further proof? Why wouldn’t they want that proof made public, so that the mystery of whether he was man or myth could be answered permanently?”
“As I said, I don’t know very much about them,” he said. “I would guess they would prefer to have possession of all things that might lead to Arthur.”
Rhys shot her a glance. “The treasure must exist then.”
“If the Order has been pursuing you as you assert, then yes, it certainly seems they have something they are trying to obtain—or hide.”
Or keep hidden. Margery returned Rhys’s wary look. “Do you think they’re trying to prevent us from finding the treasure?”
“It’s possible,” Septon answered. “I’m sorry I can’t help you more than that. I can tell you the Order has been around for centuries. Before de Valery created his code.”
Rhys re-pocketed the cipher glass. “If they want the treasure to remain hidden, I imagine they weren’t too fond of de Valery’s manuscripts.”
Margery couldn’t stand another moment of not ensuring the books were safe. She stood, and the gentlemen jumped to their feet. “Please excuse me, I’m going to check on Jane and Craddock. It’s an awfully warm day; might I offer them refreshment, Lord Septon?”
He nodded profusely. “Of course, of course, I’ve been remiss. My housekeeper and valet have the afternoon off. I have some ale in the cupboard if that will suffice.”
“Thank you, I’m certain it will.” She smiled at both of them, lest either one detect the anxiety roiling inside of her. Then she departed the cottage and strode purposefully to Rhys’s coach.
Craddock and Jane were seated on the grass in the shade of a tree. They looked to be partaking of a small meal, which alleviated at least part of Margery’s concern.
Craddock jumped to his feet and met her near the coach. “Miss?”
“I’m just going to fetch the books from the coach.”
Craddock opened the door and she stepped up to grab them . . . only the seat was empty.
Alarm shot through her belly and expanded until she felt quivery and hollow. “Craddock, where are the books?” Her question came out thin and raspy. She turned from the coach and speared him with a distraught stare, knowing she must look terribly upset and not caring in the slightest.
His face blanched. “They’re not inside?”
“No.” She stepped down, her knees wobbly.
He scrambled up to where she’d just stood and looked for himself. “They’re not under the seats?” He removed both cushions and lifted the seats to the storage compartments.
Margery tried to see inside, but she couldn’t imagine how the books would have gotten there. They’d been on the seat when they’d departed the coach back at the church.
The church! Where the man from the Order had been sitting. Had he snuck into the coach and stolen the books? Margery’s insides shriveled as she contemplated the loss. The book was utterly irreplaceable—and the other book wasn’t even theirs to lose.
Craddock turned from the coach, his face white and his eyes distraught. “I’m so sorry, miss, they’re not here. I don’t know what to say . . . I take complete responsibility.”
> “You were with the coach the entire time at the church, were you not?”
He nodded. “Indeed. We sat in the shade, as we are here, but I kept it in my sight at all times.”
Jane had come over to join them. “Except when I coaxed you to look at the baby rabbits beyond the hedge.” She looked even more distressed than her brother, likely because she was afraid of failing at this opportunity to act as lady’s maid. “It’s all my fault, miss.”
Margery sought to console them both. “It isn’t, nor is the fault Craddock’s. The people who stole them were assiduous in their methods. We should have provided a better defense.” She was quite furious with herself for not carrying the book with her, as she’d done for so many days. Now that they’d solved the code, she’d gotten lazy. And that laziness had cost her.
She turned and went back to the cottage.
As she stepped into the cool interior, both men looked over at her.
Septon stood. “Let me get the ale.”
“That won’t be necessary,” Margery said, her tone deceptively even while her insides were a tumultuous mess. “Mr. Bowen, I’m afraid the manuscripts have been stolen.”
16
After obtaining a pair of adjoining rooms at the Bear and Hound, Rhys paced his chamber. He could hear Margery and Jane moving about next door, but he wasn’t as concerned for their safety now that the Order had obtained what they wanted.
Yet he found himself wanting to comfort Margery about her book.
The look on her face when she’d come back into Septon’s cottage had nearly sent him running to her side. She’d appeared agitated, alarmed, and . . . defeated. He knew how much the book had come to mean to her, and he was damn well going to get it back for her.
Septon had been horrified by the loss. He’d felt bad for Margery, but his distress came from a purely academic place. Losing both de Valery manuscripts was a blow to the collection and study of antiquities. Rhys didn’t want to contemplate how distressed Lord Nash would be when he learned his family’s treasured book was gone.
And they were no closer to finding the treasure. Without it—and the book—Margery’s quest to improve her fortune would end in failure. Regardless of what she said, Rhys believed she needed that treasure for financial purposes. If she had to return to Gloucester empty-handed, he wasn’t sure what he might do. He doubted her pride would allow him to simply give her and her aunts money, but he couldn’t see them suffer because he’d failed to keep their manuscript safe.
He held out hope that they’d find the treasure and that it would be worth something. He only prayed it was enough to compensate for the loss of the book, though he doubted anything would ever come close.
The sound of a door closing jolted him. It had come from Margery’s room. He went to the adjoining door and knocked. A moment later, Margery answered.
“Is everything all right?” he asked, trying to peer around her. “I heard a door.”
Margery’s gaze was guarded. “Yes, Jane has gone to fetch water.”
For a bath. He tried not to think of her peeling her gown away to reveal all of the tempting delights beneath. “I wanted to apologize again for the loss of your book.”
“It’s not your fault. I blame myself for not keeping it with me.”
Her unfaltering accountability never ceased to amaze him. “I’m going to get it back.”
Her lips formed a sad smile. “I appreciate the sentiment, but I have grave doubts as to the likelihood of that happening. I only wish we didn’t have to inform Lord Nash that his book has been stolen. He’s going to be devastated.”
“No more than you,” Rhys said softly. “I know how much it meant to you.”
She kept her chin up, but he sensed the depth of her disappointment was far greater than she would admit. “It was a valuable piece. Irreplaceable.”
“If you would allow me, I would compensate you for its loss.”
Her eyes widened briefly. “No, I couldn’t let you do that. As I said, it wasn’t your fault.”
He wanted to argue, but he’d had enough of arguing with her, particularly when their fortunes had taken such a downturn. “Will you be ready in an hour to depart for Septon’s?”
She fidgeted with the edge of the door. “I’ve decided to take dinner here.”
“You have?” He leaned against the doorframe. “But what of researching Anarawd?”
“I’m quite fatigued from the journey, and losing the book has just . . . well, it’s taken a bit out of me, I’m afraid.” She offered him a weak smile. “No, please don’t worry—I can see that you’re considering it—worrying, I mean.”
He stepped away from the jamb and toed the threshold. “I don’t think you should be alone.”
“I shan’t be. Jane will stay with me. Besides, it’s not as if the Order cares about me any longer. They have what they wanted.”
“I still have the glass.” He patted the front of his coat and felt the interior pocket that held de Valery’s brother’s device. “They might come after it. I’m going to leave Craddock here to watch over you and Jane. I’ll walk to Septon’s, it’s not far.”
“If you insist.”
“I do. Insisting is one of the things I do best.”
Her head snapped up, a glint of humor lighting her eyes, but it was gone too quickly.
“It’s strange to not be spending the evening together,” he said.
Her eyelids fluttered. “Yes, I suppose it is. After so much time in each other’s company.”
For ten days, they’d spent an inordinate amount of time together, particularly since they’d started this journey as strangers. They were far from that now. “I’m sorry about what happened today, but I don’t regret this expedition, and I hope you don’t either.”
One side of her mouth turned up. “No.”
A ridiculous warmth spread in his chest. He leaned close so he could bask in her scent and her heat. “And it’s not over yet. We’re going to find the treasure.”
She looked up at him, her eyes dark and sultry. “I almost believe it when you say it.” Her voice was pitched low, and it did strange and marvelous things to his groin.
He lifted his hand to touch her cheek. “Margery.”
She evaded his touch, not jerkily, but with a slow, smooth movement that ended in a head shake. “Rhys, I think we both know what will happen if you touch me. We’ll kiss and things will . . . progress. Jane will be back at any moment.”
Did that mean that if it weren’t for Jane, Margery would invite his kiss? It didn’t matter. They’d agreed to keep their hands off each other.
He took a step back and schooled his features. She was too alluring, too seductive, and he was far too susceptible to her charms. “I didn’t mean to overstep. I only meant to console you. Have a pleasant evening—I’ll see you for breakfast and we can discuss what Septon and I uncover.”
She arched a brow at him. “If you uncover anything.”
Cheeky thing. “I’ll see you in the morning.”
With a slight nod, she closed the door. Rhys stared at the wood. It seemed as though their exciting adventure—and their partnership—had come to an end. Though he knew it would happen, he hadn’t expected the hollow feeling expanding inside of him. The manuscripts weren’t the day’s only, or even worst, loss.
Margery turned from the door and urged her rising ardor to cool. The slightest provocative look, the hint of a touch . . . these were things that shouldn’t elicit such a strong response. However, it seemed she was utterly vulnerable to Rhys’s seductive power.
Keeping him at arm’s length not only kept with their agreement, it was necessary. It was also an excellent reason for not accompanying him to Septon’s tonight.
Though it paled next to her primary reason for staying at the inn: she didn’t think Septon would help them find Anarawd in some book. Her intuition said the answer to the mysterious name was in the church, precisely where the other clues pointed them. She considered going there to inve
stigate the interior further, but had no notion of where to start.
Besides, there was the issue of the Order perhaps watching it. How sinister was this group that they had members protecting key places—de Valery’s house and the Caerwent church? Since de Valery’s house had yielded the cipher glass device, she had to assume the church contained something of equal importance. Yes, the church was critical to the puzzle.
Perhaps the inn’s staff might be able to provide some information about the church or about Anarawd. After tidying up with Jane’s assistance, Margery went downstairs.
The inn offered a small, well-appointed dining room for its guests. Margery arrived just before dinner was due to be served.
The innkeeper’s wife, Mrs. Powell, greeted her with a welcoming smile. “Good evening, Miss Derrington, I’m so pleased you’ll be joining us for dinner. There will be one other attendee, I hope that’s all right.”
“Then I shall have company,” Margery said. “I wondered if I might ask—”
“And here he is.” Mrs. Powell looked past Margery. “Good evening, my lord.”
Margery turned to make the other guest’s acquaintance and nearly fell over in shock. “Mr. Digby.”
Tall, with queued brown hair graying at the temples, he wore a muted costume of dark brown relieved only by his ivory shirt and cravat. He bowed gracefully over her hand. “Miss Derrington, this is an unqualified boon. I was so disappointed that you weren’t in Gloucester. To find you here . . . Well, I am the luckiest man in Britain.” He smiled, his eyes crinkling at the edges.
“I’m pleased to see you, as well, Mr. Digby.” She wasn’t really, since he’d foiled her investigative plans. Now, she’d have to reserve her questions for Mrs. Powell for another time.
Beneath his widow’s peak, his brow gently creased. “I was sorry to hear your aunt was ill, but so relieved that she was recuperating.”
Was she? Now that was welcome news. “Thank you for telling me. I haven’t received a letter from them, so I’ve been anxious to hear how she’s doing.” Margery felt a pang of remorse over not returning to Gloucester to check on her aunts. When had she become so selfishly driven? No, that wasn’t fair. She was undertaking this entire expedition to solve their financial woes.
Vote Then Read: Volume II Page 42