The Courtship (Sherbrooke Brides 5)

“But why did you not simply take the writings to Oxford to Sir Giles Gilliam?”

“He died last year.”

“I didn’t know,” Lord Beecham said, and he felt a blow of guilt so swift and powerful it nearly bowed him to his knees. He hadn’t heard. No one had bothered to tell him because—because he was nothing more than a pleasure-seeking nobleman who didn’t give a damn about anything other than his own gratification. He looked down to see her hand on his arm.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I met Sir Giles once at his brother’s vicarage in Dereham. He was always talking, only it wasn’t to any of us. He was conversing with people who lived back then, in thirteenth-century England, and he was explaining to them that he needed to know more about this or that. Then, and I swear this to you, he would pause and it seemed that he was listening to someone speak who wasn’t there.

“The vicar told me not to pay any attention to Sir Giles. He said, however, that after Sir Giles’s conversations he wrote the most remarkable documents.”

Helen clearly saw Sir Giles, his head cocked to one side, listening intently to a shelf of books, a picture on a wall, a carpet at his feet. “It was disconcerting. When Sir Giles finally realized I was there with his brother, he said, and I will never forget this, ‘How magnificent you are. But that is not important. What is important is that you not allow your mind to become mulch.’ ”

Lord Beecham laughed, a free, full-bodied laugh this time that resonated throughout his head and into the air around him. It brought back marvelous memories of a young man of twenty, so very eager to learn everything Sir Giles knew. And Sir Giles had even told him once, patting his shoulder, that he was so very bright, and that Sir Giles was thankful that Spenser had given his brain over to him, Sir Giles. Ah, the medieval mind, there was nothing like it, Sir Giles would say, then drink down a snifter of delicious smuggled French brandy. But Spenser hadn’t remained at Oxford. His father had died, and he had become seventh Baron Valesdale and fifth Viscount Beecham.

He had left Oxford at the age of twenty-one. And become a nobleman.

“I remember,” Lord Beecham said, his voice rich with memory, “Sir Giles once telling me that the Catholic Church was quite wrong. A man didn’t need to give up lust in order to be obedient and holy and committed to God. He needed only to truly mean both his vows to God and his vows to a woman, and his life would be balanced and no part of him would ever wither.”

“I fancy that his brother, Vicar Lockleer, is relieved to be Church of England,” Helen said, smiling. “He has two children. His wife died last year, but he loved her very much. He is also a very practical man, unlike his learned brother.

“He didn’t know how to begin to translate the scroll. That was when he recommended you. What do you think, Lord Beecham?”

He was silent for the longest time. The big girl sitting beside him jumped up once, patted Eleanor’s nose, then returned and sat down. She began to tap her foot. She whistled.

“I have forgotten so very much,” he said at last.

“It won’t matter. You’ll see,” she said, still now, all her attention focused on him. “The vicar now has many of the translations, texts, and notes his brother made at Oxford. Perhaps there will be enough to help you remember.”

He said as he turned to take her hands between his. “I have never been a woman’s partner before. This should prove interesting. I want to see that iron cask and the leather scroll.”

“The iron cask is old, very old. Medieval? Very possibly. Perhaps even older. As for the leather, I am very afraid that it will crumble if we work with it very much.”

“We will take the greatest care.”

She rose and shook out her skirts. She gave him a brilliant smile. “Let’s go home to Court Hammering.”

Lord Beecham and Miss Mayberry elected to ride, since it was a beautiful, warm day. Lord Prith and Flock followed in the carriage behind them. Engulfed in their carriage dust in the second carriage was Lord Beecham’s valet, Nettle, and Teeny, Helen’s maid. He had given Pliny Blunder a short congé, telling him to exercise his wit on the seashore in Folkstone, where his parents lived. Lord Beecham had noted before they left that Nettle was casting interested looks at Teeny, much to Flock’s annoyance. At least Flock was riding with his master. That should keep poor Nettle safe.

As for Helen, she just couldn’t seem to stop singing. Everything was working out so very well. Her enthusiasm was catching, and even her father, Lord Prith, said to Flock, “There is a song in the air, Flock. It makes my thoughts turn to champagne and the trappings. I

fancy to attend another wedding. The last one was charming, surely it was, and the champagne was excellent. I just wish I’d known the participants.”

“Ah, it was Lord and Lady St. Cyre.”

“That’s right, Gray and Jack. Flock, you must find me a wedding where the principals are known to me so that I can trade jests with the bride and groom while we are drinking champagne. Then I will be dancing about and singing at the top of my lungs, just like my lovely little daughter is right this moment. It was always so. Put Helen atop a horse, provide a sunny day, and she’s singing.”

“Consider it done, my lord,” Flock said, looking out the carriage window to see Miss Helen laughing now, her hand on Lord Beecham’s arm. He didn’t think the sunny day was the main reason for Miss Helen’s high spirits. Lord Beecham was a man of vast experience, a man who knew what was what, particularly when the what had to do with women. On the other hand, it didn’t make much sense to worry about Miss Helen. She had three fellows working for her at her inn. All of them held her in awe. All of them, he suspected, were also deliciously afraid of her. If there was going to be any goose or gander sauce, he would lay his groats on Miss Helen.

He turned back to his lordship, whose head was only half an inch from the ceiling of the carriage. Whenever the carriage hit a rut, there was a pained grunt.

“I hope that damned Frog chef, Jerome, isn’t sniffing after our trail, eh, Flock?”

“I left the Frog in his kitchen, my lord. I doubt he will intrude on us again.”

“Delicious oyster dishes he prepared, though,” Lord Prith said, and sighed as he folded his arms over his chest.

“His aim with the oysters wasn’t your culinary pleasure, my lord—rather it was his attempt to seduce Miss Helen.”

“I know that, Flock. The poor fellow. My father used to say that you should always be careful what you wished for. Just imagine Miss Helen setting her eye on the Frog because he got her attention with his oysters.”