The Wyndham Legacy (Legacy 1)

“Another two weeks,” Spears said. “I understand your concern, but I have studied this thoroughly, my lord. Surely just another two weeks and she’ll be much improved. Mr. Badger is preparing excellent dishes for her to eat, and what she is managing to keep in her belly is very healthful for her and the babe.”

Marcus flinched whenever anyone mentioned the child. He still had no idea what he was going to do. Send her away when she was well again? To Pipwell Cottage? He cursed, which made both Badger and Spears regard him with some surprise.

“I had thought, my lord,” Spears said, “that this was a meeting with a purpose, namely, to relieve your mind of your wife’s continued illness.”

“You sound as austere as my mother, Spears. Incidentally, when is my fond parent to arrive?”

“Mr. Sampson said she would be coming the third week of July.”

“Oh God, can you just see my mother with Aunt Wilhelmina? She and that harpy from Baltimore will have a fine old time. Poor Aunt Gweneth—she’ll be buried along with the rest of us beneath the sweet poison darts those two will be flinging about.”

“Your mother isn’t at all difficult,” Spears said. “She is amusing. She doesn’t suffer fools, thus I wager that the harpy from Baltimore will quickly find herself at point non plus. I told Mr. Badger that she was fanciful, what with her adoration of Medieval legend and lore. Quite harmless, I would say, my lord, and charming.”

“Not only Medieval, Spears. She believes that Mary, Queen of Scots, is just one step earthward of the Virgin Mary, Queen of Heaven. I fear that she and Aunt Wilhelmina together will send all of us to early graves. My mother is sharp-witted, you know. She quite terrifies me.”

There was a cough at the door. It was James Wyndham and he was looking steadily at Marcus.

“Ah, James, do come in. Spears, Badger, and I were just conferring on the possible winners at Ascot next month. What do you think, Elysian Fields or Robert the Bruce? Both are strong in the chest and run faster than a storm.”

“I have always thought that Robert the Bruce—the man—was just excellent. I should bet on him.”

“Just so, Master James,” Spears said. “Now, Mr. Badger, it’s best that you get back to your kitchen. We will all endeavor to curtail our worrying.”

“What are we having for dinner, Badger?”

“Baked cod and smoked mussels, my lord. Many other courses as well, but I won’t bore you with the recital of them. Also, some glass pudding, a favorite of the Duchess’s. It’s light so her stomach shouldn’t rebel. I might try another Frog dish, perhaps some crème de pommes de terre aux champignons would sit nicely in her belly.”

“Potatoes and mushrooms? Yes, give it a try,” Marcus said, half his attention on James Wyndham, who was regarding Spears and Badger as if he’d suddenly stepped into a Drury Lane play and didn’t know his lines. Marcus supposed that the denizens of Chase Park weren’t exactly what one would expect, not that he cared a whit.

When they were alone, Marcus said, “What’s wrong, James? You look all tight in the jaw.”

“I’ve been thinking, Marcus, thinking and remembering and thinking some more. When I found the Duchess unconscious on the floor, that book wasn’t on top of the desk. I do remember that clearly. If you don’t mind unlocking the library, I think we should look in that spot in the bookshelves where she found the first one. Perhaps there are more volumes that just might give us clues about the Wyndham treasure.”

“Let’s go,” Marcus

said. He fetched the library key from Sampson and he and James went into the gloomy room. Marcus threw back the thick draperies. Bright afternoon light poured into the room. “Let’s open some windows as well. This place needs a good airing.”

He turned to see James on his knees gently pulling out books all along the second bookshelf from the bottom. There were no volumes behind the outside books.

While James replaced the books, Marcus removed those on the shelf above. Still nothing.

They continued, saying nothing much, until James let out a cry. “Goodness, here’s something, Marcus.”

He pulled a very old thick book, that sent up billows of choking dust when he lifted it. It was set behind sermons of a certain George Common, an itinerant preacher of the early last century.

“It’s just as old,” Marcus said. “Here, James, put it on the desktop.

“Well,” Marcus said after a few moments, “I’ll be damned and redamned. Your brain is good, James, very good.”

“My mother believes so,” James said with a cocky grin. “I’ll have to admit that she gave me the idea when she was carping on about the treasure and how to find it. And keep you from finding out, naturally.”

“Let’s see the back pages.”

“Marcus, I know you suspect my mother of striking down the Duchess. I know someone in the house is responsible—but my mother? It’s difficult to swallow.”

“There’s always Trevor or you or Ursula.”

“I see your point,” James said as he gently turned the pages.