Chapter 20 #2
“The manuscript,” their attacker groaned from where he lay sprawled on the limestone, blood trickling from his scalp. “Where is the manuscript? I’ve come too far … sacrificed too much …”
Gabriel looked down at the man who had terrorized his wife, feeling that primal rage threatening to surface again.
But Henri’s presence in his arms reminded him that there were more important things than revenge.
There would be time to deal with this threat properly once he had ensured Henri’s safety and finally told her everything she deserved to know about why this investigation had mattered so much to him.
“Gabriel,” Henri said quietly, searching his face with an intensity that made his heart race. “Before anything else happens, before we deal with … him … I need to know—”
Her question was interrupted by the sound of their attacker struggling to his feet, his pale eyes still burning with the fevered intensity. Gabriel moved to accost him before he could stand, quickly turning him over to plant a knee against the small of his back and grab hold of his wrists.
Henri followed Gabriel as he half-carried, half-dragged their dazed attacker back toward Grimsfell Hall, her mind still reeling from the violence she had just witnessed.
She had seen glimpses of Gabriel’s warrior instincts before, but nothing had prepared her for the primal fury that had erupted when he found her in danger.
The controlled diplomat had vanished entirely, replaced by a man who would clearly kill to protect what he valued most.
And apparently, Henri thought with wonder, what he values is me.
Gabriel maneuvered their captive through the kitchen door, depositing the man roughly on a wooden chair before binding his hands behind his back with his own cravat.
Henri watched her husband work with growing admiration for his competence under pressure.
Every movement was deliberate and controlled, suggesting considerable experience with such situations.
“Now then,” Gabriel said once their prisoner was secured, his statement carrying the kind of cold authority that Henri imagined had served him well. “Perhaps you would care to explain why you have been pursuing us.”
The gaunt man—Henri still did not know his name—looked up with pale eyes that burned with frustrated anger despite his obvious head injury. “You’ve no idea what you’re interfering with,” he said, his accent carrying traces of French that Henri had not noticed during their previous encounters.
“Then enlighten us,” Gabriel replied coldly.
Henri pulled up another chair and settled herself where she could observe both men, fascinated by this glimpse into Gabriel’s professional capabilities.
She had seen him charm information from innkeepers and merchants, but this was different.
This was interrogation, measured and menacing, by someone who clearly understood how to extract truth from unwilling subjects.
When the silence stretched on, Gabriel began to search around the kitchen. Eventually, he turned, holding a large butcher’s knife, his expression so cold and purposeful it fairly took Henri’s breath away. He stroked a gloved fingertip over the blade, his implication evident.
“My name is Alaric Devayne,” the man said at last, his gaze fixed for several seconds on the gleaming blade. “I’ve spent the better part of two years pursuing references to something known as Regis Aeterni.”
Gabriel’s expression did not change, but Henri caught a subtle shift in his posture that suggested the name meant something to him. “And what is your interest in this organization?”
Mr. Devayne’s laugh was bitter and entirely without humor.
“Organization? I’m not even certain it still exists.
I found some old journals hidden away in a forgotten room at the Bodleian Library in Oxford.
The ramblings of some long-dead scholar obsessed with Arthurian legends and a secret society who served the Eternal King. ”
Henri arched her brows. So this Regis Aeterni, Latin for Eternal King, was a reference to Arthur, then.
Which explained their strange quest to old landmarks of his reign.
The Bodleian Library was where any serious researcher would go to investigate medieval manuscripts and historical mysteries.
If Alaric had been working there, he might well have encountered the same sources that had led Gabriel to his interest in the Malory manuscript.
“These journals,” Gabriel asked carefully, “what did they tell you about Regis Aeterni?”
Henri realized that Gabriel did not seem surprised by the disclosure of the secret society, making her wonder just how much he already knew about this madness.
“Enough to know that they were supposedly the guardians of something infinitely valuable,” Mr. Devayne replied, his fevered intensity returning as he spoke.
“Something that has been hidden for centuries, waiting for the right person to claim it. The journals spoke of a powerful artifact, hidden away by this secret order until England has need of it again.”
Henri exchanged a glance with Gabriel, recognizing the same mixture of skepticism and interest in his expression that she felt herself.
King Arthur was the stuff of legend, but they had already followed a trail of very real clues to very real locations.
Perhaps there was more truth to the old stories than either of them had initially believed.
“And you thought you could find this legendary artifact by pursuing the Malory manuscript?” Gabriel asked.
“The journals mentioned specific texts, specific clues that would lead to the hidden cache,” Alaric said, desperation edging his reply. “Malory’s work was supposed to be one of the keys. I’ve sacrificed everything! My position, my reputation, my future … chasing this opportunity.”
Henri found herself almost pitying the man, despite the terror he had caused her. There was a tragedy to his obsession, the way it had clearly consumed his life and driven him to increasingly desperate acts.
“You threatened my wife,” Gabriel said, his tone growing colder. “Might you have done worse?”
Alaric’s expression crumpled, and for the first time since Henri had encountered him, he looked genuinely remorseful rather than merely frustrated. “There was an old scholar in Oxford. Horace Pelham. He had access to a first edition of Le Morte d’Arthur.”
Henri saw Gabriel go very still, though his expression remained unchanged. The name clearly meant something to him, something important enough to cause such a reaction.
“I went to see him,” Alaric continued, apparently unaware of Gabriel’s response. “I thought I’d convince him to share his knowledge. But the old fool was stubborn, suspicious. He refused to discuss the book I was interested in, claimed he had never heard of Regis Aeterni.”
“So you killed him,” Gabriel said with a deadly calm that made Henri’s skin prickle with apprehension.
“It was an accident!” Alaric protested, his composure finally cracking completely.
“I never intended for anyone to be hurt. I only wanted to search his study, to see what materials he might have hidden away. But he returned unexpectedly while I was there, and when he threatened to summon the authorities …”
Alaric trailed off, but Henri could fill in the rest of the story from Gabriel’s expression. Whatever had happened in Horace Pelham’s study, it had ended with an old scholar’s death and this desperate man’s flight into obsession.
“But you did not find what you needed in the book. Then you learned about the Danbury auction.” Gabriel still spoke with that menacing calm.
“I thought it was providence,” Alaric responded bitterly. “The very manuscript I needed, appearing at exactly the right moment. I was prepared to do whatever was necessary to obtain it.”
Henri remembered the terror of that morning in Danbury’s library, the way this man had been willing to use violence to get what he wanted. He had already killed before. She shuddered to think what might have happened if Gabriel had not arrived when he did.
Gabriel moved with fluid grace, to stare out the kitchen window at the darkening sky. Henri could see the tension in his shoulders, the way his hands clenched and unclenched as he processed what they had just learned.
“Gabriel,” Henri said softly, recognizing that her husband needed a moment to regain his composure. “Should we send for the magistrate?”
Gabriel turned back to face her, and Henri was struck by the careful mask that had fallen over his features. The passionate man who had rescued her in the garden was gone, replaced once again by the controlled diplomat who revealed nothing of his inner thoughts.
“Yes,” Gabriel said after a moment. “I will lock Alaric in the pantry and ask our coachman to return to town and bring back the proper authorities. Mr. Devayne will have much to answer for.”
Once Mr. Devayne had been stowed in the windowless pantry, Gabriel moved toward the kitchen door, then paused and looked back at Henri. “Will you be all right here to stand guard for a few minutes? I need to give instructions to our coachman.”
Henri nodded, though she felt a stab of disappointment at Gabriel’s return to formal politeness. For a brief moment in the garden, she had glimpsed the man beneath. Now, faced with the revelation about this Horace Pelham’s death, Gabriel was retreating behind his shields once again.
When he returned to the kitchen, he settled across from Henri. The silence between them stretched uncomfortably as her husband seemed to wrestle with thoughts he probably had no intention of sharing.
“Gabriel,” Henri said finally, unable to bear the distance that had opened between them again. “Who was Horace Pelham to you?”
Gabriel’s jaw tightened almost imperceptibly, but he did not answer immediately. Henri watched him struggle with the decision of whether to trust her with whatever painful truth lay behind his reaction to the old scholar’s name.