The Courtship (Sherbrooke Brides 5)

“It is something along the line of ancient Persian.” He straightened. “Does your father have any texts about languages?”

“Yes, but Persian? I doubt it.”

Lord Prith had nothing at all ever written east of Germany.

“It’s time we went to see Vicar Gilliam,” Helen said. “It will take us about an hour to ride there.”

Lord Beecham looked back at the leather scroll atop the desk. “I’m thinking that we should oil the leather, make it more pliable and more resistant to cracking and splitting, particularly when you and I touch it.” He paused a moment, then said, “You know, Helen, the chances are that this says nothing at all about the lamp. In fact I would say the odds are very much against it.”

She was shaking her head even as she said, “No, I don’t believe that. I believe that King Edward hid the lamp near Aldeburgh and that is where the cask was buried. The lamp is nearby, I know it is. What is the purpose of the leather scroll if not to explain the lamp? That must be it, don’t you see?”

“Then why would the scroll be written in ancient Persian and not in French, if it is indeed some sort of explanation about the lamp?”

“Robert Burnell, the king’s secretary, was vastly learned. He must have done it. He must have wanted the lamp to be difficult to find.”

Lord Beecham didn’t think that was the case, but he said nothing.

They used the almond oil that Helen poured into her bath. “I thought the scent was somewhat familiar,” he said over his shoulder as he gently rubbed his thumb in the oil and lightly touched it to the leather. He lifted his thumb to his nose. “It smells like you.”

“Keep rubbing, Spenser.”

“Just look at that,” he said after a moment. “It’s working.”

Together they oiled the leather, going very slowly until, finally, it was done. There were only three small tears and perhaps a dozen places where a single touch would split the leather and destroy some of the words.

They covered the newly softened leather with a clean cheesecloth, locked the door to the estate room, and remounted their horses to ride to Dereham to see Vicar Lockleer Gilliam.

They didn’t make it.

9

FROM ONE MINUTE TO THE next, as happened so often in England no matter what the season, the sky went from a soft, misty gray to the near black of nightfall, only there was no moon to light the way, just heavy black clouds rolling and tumbling in low, right over their heads.

“Oh, dear,” said Helen, looking up. “This is a new riding habit. One of your London modistes made it for me just last week. You would not believe what the peacock feathers cost.”

“Which modiste?”

“Madame Flaubert.”

“She is rather conservative, I have found, but the quality is excellent. Actually, given your size, I like the cut. Simplicity is—” He didn’t have time to finish his thought because at that precise instant lightning struck an oak branch that stretched over the narrow country road. Smoke billowed out as the branch snapped off and struck the ground not three feet from their horses. Thunder ripped through the silence. Luther, maddened beyond control, reared up on his hind legs.

“Helen, hold tight!”

Lord Beecham didn’t have a chance. When Luther twisted sideways and hurled his hindquarters in the opposite direction as he kicked out his hind legs, Lord Beecham flew off his back to land headfirst in a thick hedge on the side of the road. He heard her yell to him.

As for Helen, she had her own difficulties. Luther, his eyes wild and rolling in his head, slammed into Eleanor, who had already backed away, tripping over her own hooves. Luther bit her neck. Eleanor whirled about and skidded to a dead stop. Helen yelled as she went flying over her mare’s head. She landed at the edge of a ditch and rolled down to the bottom, coming to a stop on a carpet of luscious wild daffodils in full yellow bloom.

Lord Beecham, just slightly winded now, no bones broken, climbed down to her and went down on his knees beside her. He lightly slapped her cheeks. “Are you all right?”

She was lying flat on her back, a bunch of daffodils sticking up between her riding boots. Her left arm was over her head, showing the huge rent beneath her right arm.

There were two of him weaving above her when she managed to get her eyes to open. “Stop moving, it is making me dizzy. Please, just hold still.”

“All right. I am perfectly still now. Is that better?”

“Yes, thank you. Oh, dear, my riding habit, is it quite ruined?”

“Helen, I am worried that you might have broken something or hurt yourself internally, and all you can do is cry piteously about your damned riding habit. I will buy you a new one. I will even select the material and the style. Forget the habit. Yes, there is a big tear under your arm. It looks like you put a boot through the hem. Nothing important. Now, attend me. How do you feel?”