“There have been many of them and it seems that Spears knows all of them. But you are a woman, Duchess. How do you know it, and by heart?”
“Ursula just told us that Spears was singing it. I do listen occasionally. I have an excellent memory. Most ladies do, Marcus.”
She was lying and he simply didn’t know why. She was mocking him, another unexpected result of the attack in the tack room. She’d changed, but perhaps not. Damnation, but she fascinated him. He frowned at her even as he accepted a cup of tea from his worshipful cousin, Fanny, who fluttered her long eyelashes at him, eyelashes that would slay many a young gentleman when she had her Season in London in three years. Was it three years? He must remember to ask the Duchess. His wife.
“It’s clever but you don’t sing it well,” Aunt Wilhelmina said. “Ursula here has a lovely voice. I trained her myself.”
“Oh, Mother! The Duchess is perfect. Did you hear her recite the ditty? She’s wonderful.”
“Not all the time,” Marcus said. “No, there are many sides to her, and after this afternoon, I have discovered that not all of them are what a man would expect.”
She had no intention of staying in her bedchamber that night to see if he would come to her. He was a man who was used to being in control. Truth be told, she was afraid that if he touched her she would melt all over him. She couldn’t allow that. She moved to the small bedchamber at the end of the east corridor known as the Gold Leaf Room and burrowed beneath covers that were old and musty and smelled of years of disuse. She couldn’t sleep, but not because of the strangeness of the bed. When her thoughts weren’t of Marcus and what the devil she was going to do, they were of the Wyndham treasure—what it was and where it was. A treasure from the time of Henry VIII. That there had been such a treasure she now accepted completely.
She sighed, threw back her covers. In a few minutes, she was walking quietly into the vast Wyndham library, her single candle casting little useful light throughout that room with its high bookcases that stretched from floor to ceiling. Where to begin?
She lit a branch of candles then began at the left-hand side of the door with the books at the very bottom.
A clock in the corridor outside the library chimed four strokes when she at last looked up. She had no idea it was so late. She held the huge volume in her arms, still not believing her luck. She felt elation at her discovery. When she’d come to the library, she’d really not believed she’d find anything. Ah, but she had. Carefully, she eased it down on the massive mahogany desk and gently separated the pages.
It was the same tome that Mr. Burgess had, all in Latin script and with those strange drawings.
She’d found it quite by accident just moments before when she’d dropped an incredibly old book whose pages weren’t cut, but had still been dusted once a month by the industrious house staff, but never read. And behind that old book had been this tome, layers of dust on it, obviously not seen or read for as many years as it was old.
Who had hidden the book and why? She felt her heart begin to pound as she turned those final pages. The drawings were just a bit different, but to be expected since each tome had been done one at a time. St. Swale’s Abbey still appeared unutterably depressing, drawn in such stark black, and the scene in that village square was as strange as the other. Slowly, she turned the page. There were final pages here, not ripped out as they’d been in Mr. Burgess’s copy.
It was in Latin, naturally, and there were two more pages.
She leaned down, bringing the branch of candles close to study the words. She could make out some of them. There was the name Cromwell, ah yes, the vice-regent for Henry VIII, and something about men he’d sent, arrogant young men who owed their souls to their master, Cromwell. She skimmed her finger down the page, stopping when she recognized the word for tree and cistern. Defeated with the remaining text, she turned the final page and to her surprise, there was one more drawing. It showed an incredibly old oak tree, gnarled and bent, towering over an ancient stone well. There was an old leather-bound bucket attached to a chain from the crossbar above. There were piles of rocks in the background, not set at random, but rather planned. But what did they represent? The oak tree dominated and it was on a small rise. The sky was blackly ominous, seeming to bear down on the scene, the stroke of the quill strong, the stark black lines still as black as sin.
Then, quite suddenly, she heard something, naught but a small sound, perhaps just the wind whispering, but not here, not in this immense, closed library, but there it was again, that small sound, as if someone were breathing softly, but it was still in the back of her mind, not alerting her really until it was too late. She was turning when she glimpsed a shadow and felt a rush of panic just at the moment the pain against her temple sent her into blackness.
19
SHE OPENED HER eyes to see Marcus’s face very close to hers. He looked worried, definitely worried. About her? No, Marcus didn’t care enough about her to worry. She blinked and yet again she saw the lines of his face deepened, his blue eyes darkened even more. Why
would Marcus be upset? It made no sense. Besides, he was blurry, so she had to be wrong. Without warning, a shaft of pain nearly sent her back into the darkness. She moaned with the shock of it.
“Marcus,” she said. She raised her hand, but felt him gently draw it back down. “Shush,” he said. “Just hold still. I know it hurts. You’ve a huge lump behind your left ear. Hold still, all right?”
She wanted to speak, but knew if she did, the pain would redouble in its force. She nodded and closed her eyes against it.
She felt his fingers on her face gently pushing the hair from her forehead, smoothing it behind her ears. Then she felt a cool, wet cloth cover her forehead. “Spears said that soft muslin soaked in rosewater would help reduce the pain. Badger says that you can’t have laudanum yet, not until we’re certain you didn’t scramble your brains with that blow you took.”
He cupped her cheek in his palm then, and without thought, she turned her face ever so slightly to press against his warm flesh. “That’s right, try to relax. When you’re better you can tell us what happened. James found you unconscious on the library floor, the candles guttering on the desk above you. It was the candlelight that brought him into the library. He thought you were dead.
“I must say, Duchess, you gave me the fright of my life, not to speak of what poor James felt. He was stammering with fright, white-faced as any famous castle specter. Don’t do that again. You must have fallen and hit your head on the edge of the desk. It was after four in the morning when James found you. What were you doing there? No, keep quiet, I forgot. Just be still. We’ll sort all this out later. Keep your eyes open for me. That’s right. And relax. Badger says we’re to keep you awake. That’s why I’m carrying on like a crazed magpie.
“Now, tell me how many fingers I’m holding up.”
She saw the fingers, blurred, but she saw them. She wet her lips and whispered, “Three.”
She gasped with the pain that simple word brought her.
The cloth was lifted from her forehead and another laid gently in its place. It felt wonderful. She wished she could tell him that it felt so very good, but the pain was leaching at her senses and she knew just keeping awake would require everything in her.
She felt his large hand against her breast, heard him say quietly, “Her heartbeat is slow and steady, Badger. Stop hovering, man, she’s fine.”
“I know, I know,” she heard Badger say. “I knew her heartbeat would be strong. No surprise there. She’s a strong girl, she always was. Keep the covers to her chin, my lord. We’ll keep the lass warm and quiet. But awake. She must stay awake.”