The Bluestocking and the Rake (Hearts in Hiding 2)

Jemima put her hand to her mouth. “The man who came after me?”

Sir Richard shook his head. “Men who seek to gain from the work of others usually send a proxy to do their dirty work.” He regarded Jemima with a frown. “Poor child,” he said softly, before resuming in a more matter-of-fact manner, “Well, as your father’s home was en route from the docks to my own estate, I thought to warn him. Sadly, I was too late.” Reaching forward, he looked as if he might touch Jemima’s hand in sympathy. Maybe it was real. Jemima didn’t know what to think anymore. He desisted when she drew back, his look truly sorrowful, now. “My sincerest condolences, Miss Percy. I must have arrived within minutes of your capture. I was kneeling at your father’s side when one of the servants, who’d been tied up and locked in a cupboard, managed to make herself heard. As I released her bonds, she told me she’d heard a struggle and believed you’d been kidnapped. Immediately, I came looking for you. It wasn’t hard to understand I was just in time.” He didn’t say it in a manner that suggested he wished for thanks for being her hero.

“Is my father….?”

“He’s dead, Miss Percy. I’m so sorry.”

Jemima didn’t know what to say. She couldn’t even cry; the shock was so great. He rose suddenly and called into the passage for brandy and within moments, Jemima was relishing the hot liquid that burned her throat though it gave little relief from her anguish.

“Who are you, sir?” she whispered finally, putting the drained glass on a low table nearby and leaning back in her chair. “I mean, to my father? Are you friend or rival?” Her eyes told her he was a gentleman and her heart told her that she could trust him. But her father had just been murdered. Who could she trust?

He picked up the brandy bottle to refill her glass but she shook her head. She needed all her wits about her if she wasn’t to collapse into a bundle of nerves. Her father had been murdered and she was next? The litany kept running through her brain.

“My name is Sir Richard de Vere. I knew your father years ago as we shared the same interests.”

Jemima studied him while he spoke. He was of athletic build, a handsome, well-dressed man with a square jaw and eyes that were doing a good job of reassuring her that he meant her no harm. “You were a child when I last visited him but I heard subsequently that the professor had a daughter who involved herself with his work. You’re not about much in society, are you?”

Jemima shook her head. “I have no desire. I’ve always been content enough aiding my father in his endeavors.” She gave a little sob. “But now he’s dead. Murdered. He was such a kind and gentle man. Why would anyone do that?”

She glanced up as a servant deposited a tray of gammon and various pies, together with a carafe of claret upon the table.

“Sir Richard!” A tall stranger appeared in the doorway and Jemima drew back in fear. She was not used to being in the company of men and after what had happened today she didn’t think she ever wanted to confront another strange man. The sooner she could find sanctuary with her beloved aunt she’d devote the rest of her life to bringing up the little ones. She had no desire to venture forth into any kind of society that included unknown men who had no interest in her mind. It might be the kind of life that would appeal to her cousin Lucy but certainly not to Jemima.

“Please, don’t be afraid, Miss Percy,” Sir Richard reassured her. “This is my manservant, John. I sent for him the moment we arrived and he’s ridden post haste from the tavern where we put up for the night.” He turned to deliver instructions to the servant, his words striking even more fear into Jemima. “Stay in the passage and be on the lookout for anyone who appears suspicious or who asks after a young woman. I’m glad you were able to come so quickly though I knew I could trust you to act with the greatest haste. Professor Percy has been murdered, and now his daughter is in danger.”

“We must go back to Papa,” she whispered. “There are matters to attend to.” And then, because she still couldn’t believe it: “Are you quite sure he was really…dead?”

“I’m sorry, Miss Percy. There was nothing I could do to save him. The servants have been released, and they are tending to him. They’ll know who to summon and inform. Now, please, finish this. You’re shaking.” He refilled her glass with more brandy and pushed it towards her. “We can’t return to your home. Not until the perpetrators of this heinous crime are brought to justice. Someone is after you because you have what they want. I know what they want, and why, but I don’t know who they are and, until we do, you are in terrible danger. I take it you have the tablet?”

She was conscious of the smooth, cold disc within her bodice and again her mind swam with doubt and fear. Should she trust him? He was nothing like her father’s evil-smelling murderer, and he had apparently saved her life but…? In her vulnerable state, she would of course be dangerously susceptible to his calm, capable manner. He exuded charm and a sense of safety and she was warming to him with every minute but that didn’t mean he wasn’t as bad as the others and as anxious to have what they had killed for.

Jemima pushed back her shoulders as she looked Sir Richard squarely in the eye. There was nothing to suggest that he was on edge to acquire it; just that he wanted to protect her from it. His eyes were gentle and his smile surprisingly sweet. Surely not the hallmarks of a villain?

With a sigh, she touched her décolletage where the cool clay tablet seemed to burn a hole in her chest. “I have no choice but to trust you, sir. Yes, I have it hidden on my person so please turn your head away, and I’ll give it to you.”

When he complied, she dipped her hand into her bodice and retrieved the tablet from behind her stays.

“Here it is, Sir Richard,” she said, holding it out.

He took it, his brow furrowed as he ran a thoughtful finger over the indecipherable hieroglyphics. “You know what these words mean, don’t you?”

She nodded.

“You’d be the only one in the world, in that case. I’ve heard of your accomplishments from as far away as Constantinople where I’ve lived the past three years. I know that, since childhood, you have assisted your father, and that your knowledge of ancient languages is truly remarkable, crowned by your understanding of this ancient script.” He tapped the tablet, his wonder turning to a very real look of appreciation. “What an admirable achievement, Miss Percy.”

Jemima glowed with pride before her pleasure was quashed by the knowledge of what this achievement had cost her father. “There are three hieroglyphics on this tablet I have not yet translated. Recently, a great discovery was made—” She broke off. “Have you heard of the Rosetta Stone?”

“Of course. It will soon take its place in the Museum of British History. I have a similar stone.”

“You have?” She leaned forward clasping her hands together in her lap to still them.

“It’s smaller, and it has only two scripts, rather than three.”

“I believe if I had access to the three—though perhaps I could manage with two— texts, I could unlock the meaning of the last of the hieroglyphics that have eluded me.”

“And what would that mean for you now, Miss Percy?”

His question seemed to suck the air from her lungs. Without her father, there could be no great resolution. Glancing up, she saw the interest in the man’s face. Should his look not be one of concern? What did he want? She realized she was telling him too much; trusting him too soon. Perhaps he was in competition with her father, eager to learn that for which he could claim credit for her father’s life’s work. Just like the man who had crept into their home and killed him.