“Yet Septon is the one who is actually part of an organization that is seeking to stop us from finding this treasure.”
“For good reason.” His voice climbed.
She fought to keep her tone even. “So he says. He could very easily be lying in order to obtain the treasure for himself.”
Rhys glanced at the ceiling, the muscles in his jaw flexing. “Please consider it. I’ll compensate you for your book.” He held up his hand. “No, don’t tell me you won’t take the money. It’s my fault it was stolen, and my reimbursing you for its loss doesn’t constitute any other sort of lurid transaction.”
She remembered using that word with him after they’d met. That seemed so long ago now, but it hadn’t even been a fortnight. “I can’t abandon the search. I won’t.”
His mouth pressed into a disappointed line. “Then we are at an impasse.”
Footsteps sounded in the hallway.
“You have to go,” she said.
He hesitated and sweat broke out on her neck—both at the fear of being discovered and because of the tumult in his gaze.
In the end, he turned and left, closing the door firmly behind him.
Getting fully dressed was almost painful in the oppressive heat, but it had been necessary in order to leave the inn. And Rhys hadn’t been able to suffer another moment in his sweltering room—or next door to Margery.
This afternoon had been an avoidable disaster. They’d both succumbed to a fever brought on by the temperature and their unquenchable desire. At least his was unquenchable. He’d wanted her again as soon as he’d climbed off the bed.
But then things had degraded, and it seemed a repeat of today’s blissful events would never come to pass. He scowled, moving into a grove of trees that provided some much-welcome shade. To his left, the inn rose a few hundred yards away. He turned and quickened his pace, eager to put distance between himself and the woman bedeviling his thoughts.
Blast it all, he couldn’t let her continue the search for the treasure without him, not when a faceless hazard lurked. He grunted. Not faceless. Digby would be with her, and for now, Rhys considered him a threat. Was that the reason for his distrust of the man—jealousy? Yes, but he had no cause for it since Margery didn’t seem interested in a permanent future with either one of them.
He was going to have to maintain the search with her, and Septon would have to keep the Order away from them. Meanwhile, Rhys would work to convince Margery to turn whatever they found over to the Order after they found it. Perhaps he could arrange things to have the Order pay her for the treasure—even if the money actually came from Rhys.
He loosened his cravat, uncaring that he might look less than dressed. Who was he going to encounter anyway?
Bloody Digby.
The gentleman, his own cravat hanging loose, walked toward him. He offered an affable smile. “Deuced hot. This is about the coolest spot to be had, here under the trees.” He gestured toward the canopy shading them.
Rhys wasn’t interested in Digby’s observations or small talk of any kind. His abject frustration boiled over. “What are you really doing in Caerwent?”
Digby stopped short and blinked at him. “I’m not sure what you mean.”
“I’m calling your bluff,” Rhys said softly, but with enough menace to make the other man’s eyes widen. “Are you a member of the Order of the Round Table? And don’t pretend you don’t know what I’m talking about.”
Digby’s features relaxed and he inclined his head. “I am not.”
Rhys was taken aback by the man’s admission, despite having demanded it. Which didn’t mean he was trustworthy. He glanced at Digby’s calf. “Prove it.”
Digby opened his mouth but then closed it abruptly. He walked to the nearest tree, leaned against the trunk, and removed his boot. After dropping it to the ground, he peeled his stocking down to his ankle and revealed his pale, untattooed flesh. “Will this satisfy?”
Damn it all to hell. Rhys would’ve wagered his library that Digby was a member, particularly if he was actually an Arthurian expert. “You’re at least aware of the Order if you knew to show me that.”
“I’m an Arthurian enthusiast.” He cocked his head as he drew his stocking back up his calf. “I know many things.”
Things he’d presumably told Margery if she’d consented to partner with him to find the treasure. When and how had that come about? Likely as soon as Rhys had said he was considering stopping the quest, something he now bitterly regretted. “Tell me some of these things.”
Digby drew on his boot, then turned and walked away from the inn. Rhys fell into step beside him, keeping a few feet of distance between them—as much as the copse would allow.
“I became interested in Arthur at Cambridge. I’ve spent a great deal of time researching everything to do with him and his knights. I’ve found several mentions of the Order.”
Why hadn’t Rhys ever heard of them? Because he hadn’t ever specialized in Arthurian texts. Not like his father, who’d sought them out periodically. Had he known of the Order? “What do you know of it?”
“It was founded in at least the eighth century—that’s the earliest writing I’ve found that references its existence. However, I believe it may be older.”
It was, according to Septon, but Rhys didn’t say so. “If you’re not a member of the Order, yet you are an Arthurian enthusiast, you must admit your presence here is rather coincidental when we are on a quest for Arthurian treasure.”
Digby removed his hat and wiped a handkerchief over his forehead. Like Rhys, he’d forsaken gloves in the heat. “My being here at this particular time is coincidence, I assure you. Caerwent is an important location in Arthurian legend, and I come here from time to time, always hoping I’ll see something new or make a discovery.” His smile was self-deprecating. “I haven’t been successful yet. I should tell you, however, that I tracked the de Valery manuscript to Miss Derrington’s aunts. It was the reason I tried to court her several weeks ago.”
Rhys gritted his teeth. The man had practically been stalking Margery. “That doesn’t exactly substantiate your claim that your being in Caerwent just now is a happy accident. Are you aware Miss Derrington’s manuscript has gone missing?”
Digby stopped and turned, the hat still in his hand. “Yes, because I took it.”
Rhys rushed forward and grabbed the man by the front of his shirt. He pushed him back against the nearest tree. “Where are they?” he ground out between his teeth.
Digby didn’t fight him. “Safe. I planned to tell Miss Derrington as soon as I could speak with her privately.”
“Are you aware that one of those books was entrusted to my custody as well as hers?” Rhys tightened his hold. “Why wouldn’t you tell me as well?”
“I wasn’t sure of your association with the Order. You and Septon are old friends.”
“You’re a treasure hunter,” Rhys spat.
Digby’s eyes flashed. He wrapped his hand around Rhys’s wrist and tried to extract his grip. “No more than you. I save Arthurian artifacts from the Order. Once it gains possession of something, the members tuck it away, hiding it from the world when the item should be studied and enjoyed.”
Rhys couldn’t argue with that. In fact, he reluctantly appreciated the other man’s opinion. He loosened his hold and let his hand drop away. “You make a habit of going around and plucking up antiquities before the Order finds them?”
Digby smoothed his garments. “What started as a hobby has become a bit of an obsession, I’m afraid.”
“And what do you do with these items?”
“It depends. Forgive me if I’d rather not say.” Digby didn’t trust him.
Rhys begrudgingly admired the man for not being stupid. “I’m not a member of the Order and I don’t plan to be.” He stepped away from Digby, who relaxed against the tree. “I’m inclined to agree with you regarding keeping these antiquities from being lost or forgotten.”
Digby exhaled. “Th
at’s relieving to hear. You must realize the Order is dangerous. Are you aware their ranks have included thieves and murderers?”
Despite the heat of the afternoon, a chill snaked down Rhys’s spine. The cipher glass suddenly felt heavy in his pocket, and Rhys resisted the urge to touch it to ensure its security. “Who and why have they killed?”
Digby’s gaze turned dark. “Anyone who opposes their objective. They tried to kill de Valery and succeeded in killing his brother.”
The perspiration along Rhys’s back and neck turned cold. “How do you know that?”
“I have a written account of a hanging just after de Valery wrote the manuscripts.” He nodded toward the inn. “When we get back, I can show it to you. De Valery’s brother was executed by the Order for crafting a device that could be used to decipher a treasure map.”
The cipher glass. Rhys’s fingers absolutely itched to take it firmly in his grasp. “The Order truly will stop at nothing.”
“Including killing their own. You see, de Valery and his brother were members of the Order.”
Rhys couldn’t prevent his sharp inhalation. “How do you know this?”
“Because the written account is from de Valery himself.”
“Where did you find such a thing?” That in itself was practically a treasure.
“As I said, I’ve made an occupation of locating important Arthurian artifacts. I tracked down some of de Valery’s writings several months ago—it’s how I determined that Miss Derrington’s aunts probably had one of his manuscripts.”
Rhys’s neck continued to prickle. “Wait. If you took the books, did you also steal the other manuscript from Stratton?”
Digby glanced away. His face was already red from the temperature, but the color deepened. “I did. I was afraid the Order was going to get to it first. But as you know, the book was a fake.”
Rhys advanced on him again, but Digby held up his hand in defense. “Were you behind the attempts to steal Miss Derrington’s books?” He was going to beat the man senseless if he was.
Confusion marred the other man’s features. “What attempts? I only took them yesterday when I saw you arrive at the church.”
“On two occasions, someone tried to steal her book, which put her at considerable risk.”
Digby frowned. “I understand your consternation, and I feel precisely the same. I guarantee the Order was behind it.”
“Septon assures me they weren’t.”
Blinking, Digby looked at him incredulously. “After what I just told you about the Order, you’d still take his word?”
Rhys had respected Septon enough to listen to his plea, and even be persuaded by it.
“You must also consider that Septon isn’t aware of every move the Order makes,” Digby warned.
Septon had said there were people above him in the Order. It wasn’t only possible that the Order was behind the attempts to steal the book, it suddenly seemed likely. Trepidation mingled with outrage. Rhys was first and foremost a historian and a scholar, and the value of this find was too important to ignore. The Order might try to stop them from finding the treasure, but Rhys was going to do it anyway. He had to—for himself and for Margery.
He turned and started back toward the inn. “What sort of scheme did you and Miss Derrington hatch? And when?” He hadn’t meant to say that last bit out loud and kept his other questions to himself.
Had it been this morning during breakfast, or had they met even earlier? Last night, perhaps, while Rhys had gone to Septon’s? He couldn’t wait to interrogate her about her plan.
Digby strolled beside him and kept his gaze fixed straight ahead. “You should discuss that with her.”
Had she promised Digby a share of its worth? As if it were her treasure to control. Yes, one of the books was hers, but the other belonged to Nash and he’d entrusted it to both her and Rhys to use to find the treasure. And they’d found the cipher glass—a necessary tool to their success—together. Not that any of those facts gave them ownership of a still unknown object.
“Do you know what the treasure is?” Rhys asked.
“I don’t. Like you, I can only theorize. I think we can assume it’s very important.”
On that, they agreed. A breeze stirred and Rhys removed his hat to welcome the cooler air. He stopped and pivoted toward Digby. “What do you want?”
“The same as you, I suspect: the truth.”
That was precisely what Rhys wanted. Facts and evidence were the tenets of his discipline. “You mentioned a map. There isn’t one. Just the code, which Miss Derrington presumably shared with you.”
Digby nodded, then a slow smile crept over him. “There is a map. We just have to figure out how to find it.”
20
Margery picked her way down the stairs behind Mrs. Powell. The innkeeper’s wife had come up to inform her that Mr. Bowen and Mr. Digby had requested her presence in the dining room. Nothing good could come from them being together. Nevertheless, she answered the summons and when Mrs. Powell turned to go toward the kitchen, Margery continued to the dining room.
The door was ajar. When she pushed it wider, both men stood from their chairs. An array of refreshments was laid out before them, including a pitcher of lemonade. Margery practically dove for it.
However, Mr. Digby rushed to pour her a glass first, saving her from committing a gauche act. The heat, it seemed, was turning her into a half-wit.
She accepted the glass with a smile and took a sip, though she wanted to down the lot in one gulp. “Thank you.”
Mr. Digby gestured to a chair. “Please, join us.”
She looked from him to Rhys, who’d moved toward the open window. Both men looked as if they could melt—their cravats lacked their usual starch—but she couldn’t say it detracted from Rhys in the slightest. He still managed to appear incredibly masculine, and the moisture at his temples only reminded her of earlier . . . something she’d do better to forget.
Turning from him, she took the chair Digby indicated. “Mrs. Powell said you both wanted to see me?” She sipped her lemonade, hoping it might somehow soothe the knot in her stomach as well as her overheated temperature.
“Yes.” Digby glanced at Rhys, who was still looking out the window, his features in profile. “We wanted to discuss the treasure.”
Margery smoothed her damp palms over her skirt. She wished she could see Rhys’s expression, but sensed he was angry. And if he’d been talking about the treasure with Digby, it seemed likely that he knew she’d already spoken to Digby about it. Anxiety curled through her. She struggled to keep her voice level. “What is it?”
Rhys pivoted, and she saw the ice in his eyes, so at odds with the summer afternoon boiling around them. “Digby and I have decided to work together to find the treasure—something I ascertain you’d already organized for yourself.”
Oh, yes, he was furious.
She forced a bright smile that threatened to split her face in two. “How splendid.” She longed to ask him what had changed his mind about pursuing the treasure, but suspected it had to do with his rampant jealousy regarding Digby. Although given his obvious anger toward her, that might not be the case any longer.
Rhys strode toward the table, his powerful presence seeming to dominate the room. “Digby, the books.”
Digby reached under the table to the chair beside his and lifted a pair of books—the de Valery manuscripts—which he set upon the table.
Margery stood. “My book! Where did you find it?”
“He didn’t,” Rhys said evenly. “He stole it.” The look he cast her clearly said, see, I told you he wasn’t trustworthy. Yet, he had to have said something to Rhys to persuade him they should work together.
Thoroughly confused, she looked between the two men, ending up glaring at Digby. “Why?”
He gave her an apologetic smile as he stood and came around the table. Taking her hand, he gave her fingers a squeeze. “I’m sorry I didn’t say anything last night. I was . . . nervo
us. Like I told you, I . . .” He lowered his voice, but Margery was fairly certain Rhys could hear him anyway. “I practically swallow my tongue when I’m around you. I’d planned to tell you this morning, but then Bowen came along with us.”
She glanced at Rhys, who was watching them with a clenched jaw. She’d never seen his eyes blacker. Extracting her fingers from Digby’s grip, she sat back down. “Why did you take the books?”
Digby exhaled, and he looked at the floor for a moment. “I’m not proud that I took them from you, but please know it was for a good purpose.”
Rhys cleared his throat. “He gads about taking Arthurian antiquities before the Order can whisk them away and hide them from the world.”
“Is that true?” she asked Digby.
He nodded as he went to sit down once more. “Mr. Bowen and I share a passion for antiquities and the desire to ensure that this treasure—whatever it is—isn’t lost to the Order. Again, I deeply regret taking your book, Miss Derrington. At the time, I wasn’t sure as to your motives.”
She didn’t forgive him for not telling her straightaway, but if Rhys had decided to work with him, that was good enough for her. Heavens, at what point had she put her faith in Rhys? She wasn’t sure, but was surprised by how good it felt. “What will you do once you find the treasure?”
“Once we find it,” Rhys said, “we’ll assess its value and determine what to do with it. The primary objective is to find it before the Order.”
Margery realized she might not see any reward from finding it, but that had been a risk all along. She thankfully had the book back and could still sell it to Rhys if necessary. She looked at Digby. “Have you formulated a plan for drawing the Order’s sentinel from the church?”
Rhys came to stand at the table, between Margery and Digby. “What plan is this?”
“Mr. Digby agrees that the treasure is likely in the church, given the clue, though we’re still trying to determine the importance of Anarawd.” She was trying not to look at Rhys, but flicked him a glance. “He’s a sixth-century scribe who may have known Arthur and his knights.”
Vote Then Read: Volume II Page 47