Marcus looked at her closely, decided she was being honest, and said, “Very well, so your belly isn’t going to revolt in the next two minutes. Here is the book James found. You’ll note there are no pictures, just writing. I’ve gone through it completely and translated it as best I could. The monk or monks who wrote it and the other two tomes tells us here where to find the abbey treasure. His rhyme is about as intelligible and lucid as my translation of it.
“Look above to find your sign.
Look hard to find the number nine.
Take it to the shallow well.
Beneath the oak tree in the dell.
Bring a stout bucket and a cord.
Prepare to kill it with your sword.
Lean down deep but do beware.
The monster lives forever in his lair.
The Janus-faced nines will bring the beast.
But be quick or be the creature’s feast.”
“My translation is adequate at best, but what is this about a monster? The beast lives in the well? And a nine that is Janus-faced? A deceitful nine? That’s a kicker, isn’t it? What do you think, Duchess?”
“That oak tree and well I’ve been looking for—why, that’s it, Marcus.”
“Well, it can’t be that simple. There’s still this nonsense about looking up to find this number nine, whatever the devil that means. And the monster in the well—”
“My lord.”
“Yes, Spears, what is it?”
“Mr. Trevor Wyndham wishes to see you.”
“Shall I allow him in your bedchamber, Duchess? The bloody rake just might get the wrong idea. He’s a man and he’s got too much experience for my peace of mind and you’re looking particularly fetching and vulnerable, a combination to drive any man wild with lust.”
“Do show Mr. Wyndham in, Spears,” she said. “My husband will surely protect my virtue.”
He was huge and dark and excessively handsome, this cousin of hers. She realized that Marcus was regarding him with a vicious look and said, “Hello, Trevor. Have you come to see the book James found?”
“You look lovely, Duchess. You’re feeling more the thing now? Has this boorish dolt been wearying you? Shall I remove him and perhaps challenge him to a duel of wit?”
“My wit, Trevor, will always make yours look like a withered stump. However, I have a dueling pistol that trains its sights automatically on bloody Americans. Particularly hungry Americans who look like slavering wolves at my wife.”
“You mean, Duchess, there are other men just like me who slaver like wolves at you?”
“If there were others, they’re long gone now. Being vilely ill tends to dampen ardor, I should say.”
“Your repartee is grating on my nerves,” Marcus said, rising. He found himself staring right in Trevor’s eyes. “Damn you, I wouldn’t have minded you being a fop, a mincing little dandy. Then I could have mocked you or ignored you, as the mood took me.”
Trevor grinned his white-toothed grin, saying, “Sorry, Marcus, but the last time I was little I was five years old. Now, you two, James showed me the rhyme. Nothing else but that? An entire volume filled with nonsense about the abbey’s woes with signing the Act of Supremacy, their worries that King Henry would accuse them of owing their allegiance to the pope and not to him, which was, naturally, quite true. Then at the end, just that fool poem about the treasure?”
“That’s about it,” Marcus said. “I can’t imagine that you’d have any ideas. You don’t, do you?”
“Let me see the book and I’ll tell you.”
After ten minutes, Marcus said sharply, “Take the bloody thing and give it to your mother. We’ve got the poem that is surely an aberration of our mad monk’s mind. There’s nothing else that James or I could see helpful. A monster in a well, a nine that is Janus-faced—two nines together yet facing apart. It seems like a mess of nonsense.”
“It does, but I’ll give it to my mother. She’s nearly bursting her seams with curiosity, and fury at James, of course, for drawing you into it, Marcus. The poem will keep her occupied, at least for a short time.”