Chapter 4 #2
Henri presented her card with her most winning smile. “Miss Henrietta Bigsby to see Sir Alpheus, if you please. I am here on behalf of my uncle, Mr. Reginald Wells, regarding Monday’s auction.”
The butler’s expression shifted almost imperceptibly from dismissive to calculating. Uncle Reggie’s name carried considerable weight in important circles. “If you would be so kind as to wait in the morning room, Miss Bigsby, I shall inquire whether Sir Alpheus is receiving.”
The morning room proved to be a testament to Sir Alpheus’s eccentric tastes. Oriental vases competed for space with medieval tapestries, while classical busts gazed from every available surface. Henri had barely settled herself when rapid footsteps echoed in the corridor.
“Miss Bigsby!” Danbury greeted her with the sort of enthusiasm reserved for unexpected windfalls.
His thin, elderly frame practically vibrated with delight, and despite his eighty-two years, his eyes sparkled with the fervor of a much younger collector.
“What an unexpected pleasure. I trust your esteemed uncle is well?”
“Indeed, Sir Alpheus. Uncle Reggie speaks of you with the greatest affection.” Henri deployed her most charming smile. “He mentioned you might be parting with some treasures at Monday’s auction, and I confess myself consumed with curiosity about your Arthurian manuscript.”
An expression of pleased appraisal settled across Danbury’s features. “Ah, you share your uncle’s appreciation for the finer things. Come, come. Though I must warn you, the library light is rather poor at this time of the year. One must be exceedingly careful with such precious items.”
The library was a marvel of organized chaos.
Books climbed toward the ceiling in magnificent towers, and lavender was everywhere—tied in bunches from the ladder rails, tucked in porcelain jars atop the shelving brackets, and arranged in shallow blue-and-white bowls where one might expect inkstands.
The dried blooms served the practical purpose of repelling moths that might otherwise feast upon precious bindings.
“The manuscript you inquire about is quite extraordinary,” Danbury continued, producing a leather-bound treasure with reverent gloved hands. “An original work in Sir Thomas Malory’s own hand, written in Middle English. Your uncle would appreciate the historical significance immensely.”
“How magnificent!” Henri exclaimed, her enthusiasm only half-feigned. She nudged Miss Dulwich, who had gone rather pale and appeared to be questioning every decision that had led to this moment.
Danbury beamed at her appreciation. “Few young ladies possess such discernment. You must handle it with the utmost—”
“Sir Alpheus!” Miss Dulwich’s voice rang out with surprising if shrill authority.
“I believe I have discovered something most distressing in your hall.” She pointed dramatically toward the corridor.
“Pieces of gnawed leather. And there are more scattered about. Your hounds appear to have got into your library!”
The effect was instantaneous. Danbury’s face went ashen, then flushed crimson. “Impossible! The library is strictly forbidden to those beasts!” He rushed toward the door, then spun back in horror. “Which book? Dear God, which book have they destroyed?”
“I cannot say, sir, but you had best investigate immediately,” Miss Dulwich replied with admirable gravity. “Perhaps if I might assist you in tracking the trail? I fear there may be more damage than what I initially observed.”
“Yes, yes! Your keen eye might spot what I miss in my distress!” Danbury seized upon the offer with desperate gratitude, and Miss Dulwich shepherded him toward the corridor, leading him away from the library and leaving Henri blessedly alone.
Her lady’s maid had several more bits of evidence to sow as she searched the manor with the baronet.
The moment his footsteps faded, Henri pulled Signor di Bianchi’s sketch from her reticule and spread it beside the manuscript. Her heart hammered against her ribs as she studied the cryptic codes, searching for patterns, connections, anything that might—
“Hurry,” she whispered urgently to herself, bent over the ancient pages.
“There must be an answer here, some key that makes sense of it all.” The yellowed parchment mocked her haste, demanding the careful study of a scholar rather than the hurried examination of an intruder operating on borrowed time.
The scent of old leather and parchment filled her nostrils as she bent closer to the text, her eyes darting between the pages and the mysterious symbols on Signor di Bianchi’s sketch.
Each minute felt like an eternity, and the silence of the library pressed against her ears.
The sound of Sir Alpheus’s alarm had grown more distant, but she knew it was only a matter of time before he exhausted the planted evidence and returned to his precious books.
Henri forced herself to focus on a series of intertwined letters that seemed to match a portion of the sketch.
Her finger traced the delicate brushstrokes, noting how different this was from Uncle Reggie’s Caxton edition.
This was the original Middle English, unaltered by the printer’s modern sensibilities.
The archaic spellings and authentic medieval script held the key to understanding the cryptic markings before her.
The connection was there, she could feel it, but the meaning remained frustratingly elusive.
“Step away from that book, miss.”
The voice was soft, cultured, and absolutely terrifying.
Henri gingerly closed the sketch between the pages of the manuscript, grasping it close, then spun to find a tall, angular man standing in the doorway, a flintlock pointed directly at her heart.
His sallow skin and dark-rimmed eyes gave him the appearance of a scholar who had spent far too many years squinting at illegible writings in poorly lit rooms.
“Who are you? What do you want?” Henri’s words emerged steadier than she felt, though her mind raced with confusion. How had this stranger appeared in Sir Alpheus’s library? Why was he threatening her?
“Someone who has been watching your activities with great interest.” His smile was thin and cold. “Hand over the manuscript, if you please. Along with that rather interesting sketch you seem so eager to examine.”
“I do not know what you mean,” Henri replied. “This is Sir Alpheus’s library, and I am his invited guest. You have no right to be here.”
“Rights are for those with power, miss,” he replied coldly, never wavering in his aim. “I have both the means and the motive to take what I require. You, I fear, have neither. Now, hand over Malory’s manuscript and the sketch.”
Henri clutched it closer to her bosom, her mind racing through possibilities, none of which seemed likely to result in her continued good health. “I am afraid I cannot do that. You see, I am rather fond of my continued existence, but these possessions are not mine to give.”
“How unfortunate,” the man replied, his finger moving toward the trigger. “I was rather hoping you would prove more reasonable.”
Gabriel left his carriage concealed among the trees beyond Danbury’s estate and approached the manor on foot.
He had retrieved the vehicle from a discreet inn near Sandgate Cove where it waited for occasions such as this, when his work required him to travel incognito through England.
Dressed as a common coachman, he would attract no notice.
The manuscript within these walls might hold the key to understanding the forces that had killed Horace. Gabriel could not return to Calais empty-handed, not when captive English agents depended upon the success of his negotiations.
Avoiding the manor’s occupants, he found the library along the northern wall, where tall French doors opened onto a stone terrace. Through the glass, Gabriel could see the reflecting mirrors and towering shelves that marked Danbury’s famous collection.
Movement inside made him freeze. A woman stood pressed against the far wall, while a man loomed before her with something glinting in his raised hand.
Gabriel tested the door handle. Locked, but the aged mechanism yielded to his blade worked between frame and wood. The voices within became clear as he eased inside and shut the door to prevent a draught from alerting the weapon-wielding fiend of his presence.
“Rights are for those with power, miss,” came a cultured voice. “I have both the means and the motive to take what I require. You, I fear, have neither. Now, hand over Malory’s manuscript and the sketch.”
“I am afraid I cannot do that,” the woman replied with remarkable composure, her voice striking a chord of memory which he could not place. “You see, I am rather fond of my continued existence, but these possessions are not mine to give.”
Gabriel saw the man’s finger move toward the trigger of his flintlock and moved without conscious thought.
Three strides carried him across the library as the man spun toward him, eyes widening.
Gabriel seized the would-be killer by the throat, his grip finding precise pressure points, while forcing the pistol-wielding arm down.
As he rendered his opponent unconscious, the pistol discharged harmlessly into the floor.
Only then did Gabriel turn to face the woman he had rescued.
“Lord Trenwith?”