The Wild Baron (Baron 1)

“What ring?” Rohan asked. “I’ve never seen Tibolt wear a ring.”

“Neither have I,” Charlotte said.

“It was silver, flat on top. I remember thinking it was very odd-looking, so I tried to get a good look at it. I think there was a carving of a bishop in his mitre on the top of it.”

“Can you draw it?”

“Yes, certainly.” She started to rise, but he stopped her. “No, wait here, I will fetch foolscap and a quill.”

When he returned, it took Susannah only a minute to render the ring’s likeness. “There, this is as close as I remember. Also, there were words beneath the etching. I couldn’t make them out.”

“It is a bishop wearing a mitre,” Rohan said slowly. He was silent, staring at the shadowed painting of a long ago Carrington on the far wall. He said slowly, “Someone had to give George that half map.” He looked quickly up at Fitz and Mrs. Beete. Thank God they were speaking between themselves and hadn’t heard him. He would have to be more careful in the future. He said aloud to Susannah and his mother, “Why? For safekeeping, perhaps? In any case it must be someone in Oxford.”

Susannah said slowly, “Tibolt said something about ‘all those old fools protecting the secret.’ I just remembered George told me about a churchman he’d assisted, ‘a grand old man,’ was how he’d described him. Could there be a connection there?”

“Do you remember the churchman’s name?” Charlotte asked.

“Yes,” Susannah said. “It was Bishop Roundtree. Could he have given George the half map and the golden key?”

“I have never believed in coincidences,” Rohan said as he rose and stretched. “Tibolt is wearing a ring with a bishop in a mitre carved on it.” He kept his voice low. “George assists a bishop—the same bishop—and that in itself is quite a coincidence. George shows up with half a map and a golden key.” He reached out his hand to his wife. “Come, my dear, it’s time for you to rest. We will go to Oxford tomorrow. I very much want to meet Bishop Roundtree.”

“Dearest, what you are thinking is very disturbing,” Charlotte said, still staring at her slippers. “Tibolt and a bishop both involved in this mystery.”

“Yes, it is, but I can see no other course open to us. You may be certain that my brother is no longer at Branholly Cottage.”

“My lord.”

“Yes, Fitz?”

“Mrs. Beete and I have discussed it. We recommend sending Augustus to Branholly Cottage, to spy out the lay of the land. He’s a good lad and if there’s anything to discover, Augustus will sniff it out. He’s got that Welsh nose.”

“Very well. I trust that neither you nor Mrs. Beete will mention any of this to anyone?”

“Not a word, my lord!”

“Never, my lord. None of it, not even those bits about Master George we’ve heard you mention. You can trust us.”

“Thank you both. As for George, well, he’s dead. Bringing him into this would solve nothing.” The two old servants nodded. Rohan turned. “Mother, are you ready for your bed?”

She didn’t respond.

“Mother?” Alarmed, Rohan went to her. She was crying, not making a sound, the tears simply streaming down her face. “I’m sorry, Mother, so very sorry.” He pulled her to her feet and enveloped her in his arms. “It’s all right. Everything will come about, you will see. I’m so sorry.” He kept speaking, low and quiet, rocking her against him.

Mrs. Beete sniffed back her own tears. Fitz looked fit to kill, his arthritic hands fisting and unfisting at his sides.

As for Susannah, she felt as if she’d been pounded into the ground. She leaned her head back against the lovely blue brocade settee and closed her eyes. She heard Rohan’s soft voice as he spoke quietly to his mother. Poor Charlotte. What a blow for a parent. Two of her three sons—rotters. She just prayed that Tibolt wasn’t more than a rotter. But of course he was. She lightly touched her fingertips to her cheek. It still throbbed.

“How will I ever get my crenellated tower built if you two keep kidnapping me for your treasure hunt?”

“No treasure hunt just yet. We’ve lost both our half of the map and that bloody little key. And you know Oxford so very well, Phillip. You are the perfect confederate. Come, don’t whine. It doesn’t become you. You are pale. You need to be outdoors. We will entertain you.”

“You know Oxford as well as I do, Rohan. What is it you really want from me?”

Susannah laid her hand on Phillip Mercerault’s sleeve. “We wish to visit Bishop Roundtree. We believe he is somehow involved in all this.”

“Bishop Roundtree? He’s a thundering old curmudgeon who hates everyone—particularly the fairer sex—and thinks everyone—particularly the fairer sex—is destined for Hades. He tries his best to exhort all the students to forgo the pleasures of the flesh and adhere to their books. I’ve always thought he was rather mad, but harmless. You honestly believe he could be in the thick of these shenanigans? With your vicar brother? You say Tibolt broke into your house and struck down Susannah? Astounding.”

Rohan nodded. “Yes. As for this bishop, it seems to be our only path to follow right now. God knows where Tibolt has gone to ground.”