Eighteen
As soon as he was alone, Jonathan grabbed a clean sheet of paper and rewrote the alphabet, using the Regent’s Consul code for all correspondence exchanged between members.
Perdita.
The lost princess of The Winter’s Tale—as invisible and forgotten as the actress who had captured King George’s heart when he was only a lad. Mary Robinson was tossed aside less than a year later. For many in the Regent’s Consul, the code word served as a warning: everyone was replaceable.
It took Jonathan no time to discover Wedmore hadn’t used the Regent’s cipher.
He cursed under his breath and dropped the quill, ink splattering across the paper. Whatever Wedmore was up to, he didn’t want anyone in the Regent’s Consul knowing about it—including his godson.
“Margrave,” Jonathan murmured.
The viscount was one of the good ones. Loyal, duty bound, staunch in his belief in the cause. Godfather be damned, Margrave would have fulfilled his mission if he had been assigned. And he would have had an easier time getting close to Wedmore, so why did Farrin send Jonathan?
Why had he threatened Jonathan’s fiancée unless he accepted the mission? Even now, Margrave was keeping watch over Eve and her husband, Ben. The viscount sent quarterly letters through the Consul to keep him apprised.
They were written in cipher, too, but not with a polyalphabetic system. It appeared to be idle chitchat to outside eyes, but there was a pattern. Margrave was certain his contacts wouldn’t pass their letters along to Farrin, but if they did, the correspondence would appear harmless initially.
Neither of them trusted the leader of the Regent’s Consul. Farrin was arrogant and power-hungry, but his longstanding friendship with the King made him untouchable. Clearly, Wedmore didn’t trust Farrin either, but the question was why.
Was Evangeline’s uncle involved in a plot to rescue Napoleon, or could there be another explanation for his secretive actions? If Jonathan could decipher the damned journal, maybe he would get answers.
He sighed, pushing away from the desk and crumpling the sheet of paper before throwing it into the unlit hearth. Returning to the desk, he pulled out another sheet and tried Evangeline’s mother’s name. He deciphered the first entry and sat back, lifting the paper to study it.
Gatherinxkqmyeopzfvlackgjyhrkdmidnighrnmbggeoffrecarvxyrsattwepvfljsntyalodkfyrvanmidzbfkjhtwaitsimlafyxproombmratfhdisappeevbglmabackrmbtjxlhagroucmyqfgonlyrevbnbsfsmytheyknqbqports.
“I think we are on to something,” he mumbled.
The first word was clearly gathering, and he saw midnight. Isolating the words he recognized and leaving blanks to fill in missing letters, he was left with: Gatherin__, midnigh__, Geoffre_, waits, room, back, they, __ports. Or perhaps it was simply ports. Either way, it was still unreadable.
Was Wedmore meeting someone named Geoffrey, or was he following him?
Jonathan sped through the next entries, hoping he would have something useful to show Evangeline.
They could isolate the words together. Maybe something would spark a memory or uncover information she wasn’t aware she had.
He was halfway through the journal when Dom’s valet reminded him that it was time to dress for supper.
Dom had kindly offered to share the man’s services, assuring Jonathan that the servant could be trusted.
After the valet helped him dress, the man nodded toward the hearth. “Do you wish to burn that with the household rubbish, sir?”
He had forgotten about his failed attempt from earlier, and it was best that Evangeline not discover it.
“Yes, thank you.”
The valet gathered the crumpled paper and carried it from the room.
Evangeline’s sister and brother-in-law didn’t accompany her to supper that evening, though Regina was reportedly recovering after sipping the restorative broth. The meal passed quickly, and Dom excused himself soon after, claiming talk of antiquities was too boring to bear.
“Forgive my bluntness, Miss Darlington,” he offered, not appearing the least bit apologetic.
“No apologies are necessary, my lord. You would only slow down the discourse.”
Dom drew back, mouth agape. But when Evangeline chuckled into her glove, his expression softened and he laughed, catching on that she was having a bit of fun.
“It seems we are birds of a feather, Miss Darlington. Neither of us minces words.”
“That we do not, sir.”
Once they were alone, Evangeline turned to Jonathan. “Did it work?”
“Partially,” he said.
“Oh,” she whispered, her eyebrows shooting up.
Jonathan stood. “Accompany me to my study, and I will show you.”
They encountered no one as they walked the corridor in silence. Upon reaching the private sitting room he used as a study, he ushered her inside and closed the door.
“Your mother’s name garnered results, but it isn’t complete. Come see.”
He retrieved her uncle’s journal and the papers he had been deciphering before supper. She sat at the desk once more to peruse his work.
“I see what you mean now. There is something more.” She glanced up. “Perhaps her surname? Isabelle Darlington…or Wedmore.”
“Should we try both? You take Darlington.”
She picked up a quill, already jotting down the alphabet. Jonathan pulled a chair to the desk and sat at her left. Unfortunately, neither surname yielded results.
“Drat,” she muttered.
“Do you have any idea what the code might be? Isabelle…”
“My mind is blank right now.” She tapped the end of the quill to her lips, drawing his attention from the paper. “What if we fill in the missing letters to make complete words? Maybe it will make more sense.”
He shifted on the chair and pushed his paper closer for her to inspect.
“Look,” she said, pointing at a string of letters.
Their heads leaned together for a better view. Her sweet scent drifted across the sliver of space between them.
“This appears to be a date,” she said, touching a fingertip to the page. “And does this word look like ‘passenger’ to you? Perhaps it’s the date he left London.”
She truly was brilliant. The date matched when Wedmore was observed leaving his town house. Later, he boarded a ship bound for Alexandria. Ten days after that, Jonathan was on his trail.
“What do you make of this part?” He shuffled through the papers until he found what he wanted. “D-E-A-T-H.”
She stiffened, setting him on alert. He studied her closely.
“What is your uncle referencing? Did you lose someone recently?”
“Erm…” Her tongue darted across her lips, leaving them shiny in the lamplight. “I—I believe he means the Black Death.”
“The plague?” he asked cautiously.
When she shook her head, his heart sank. She shouldn’t know about the mercenary group.
“They are a group from ancient Egypt,” she said. “A fable.”
He kept his expression neutral, not daring to interrupt.
She took a deep breath, glancing toward the doorway before speaking in a quiet voice. “Uncle Charles is trying to prove they truly existed, and someone is after his work. It started in London, and now they have followed him here.”
He rocked back in the chair.
“I found his notes about them in his desk,” she said, rushing to explain what he already knew about the group.
Mercenaries.
They earned their name by slipping silently into an enemy camp and leaving destruction in their path.
Men and women warriors trained alongside each other from childhood.
Deadly. Precise.
What she didn’t seem to know was that the group wasn’t just a legend. They were real—and still active.
“If your uncle was worried about another antiquarian stealing his work, why leave his notes lying about?”
“I…” A furious blush spread across her cheeks. “He didn’t. I picked the lock to the drawer.”
He chuckled, not surprised in the least, especially after she bypassed the locks on Wedmore’s trunk.
“You’re not horrified?”
He shook his head. “I’m impressed once again.”
She laughed, ducking her chin shyly.
“Did your uncle write anything about someone trying to steal his research?”
“No, but he is clearly hiding something. Otherwise, his journal wouldn’t be in cipher. And I found a torn sheet with similar writing in the library at Wedmore House.” She lowered the quill, her hand shaking slightly. “A-and my brother-in-law tried to steal a map from my uncle.”
“Xavier Vistoire?”
She winced. “It isn’t what you think. He had no choice.”
Evangeline recounted how Xavier had been held captive when he was mistaken for a French spy. He was offered his freedom in exchange for sneaking into Wedmore House to retrieve a map leading to the Black Death.
“At least that is what we believe,” she said. “We never found it, but Lord Geoffrey was rattled enough to come after Regina and Xavier on their wedding night.”
Jonathan shook his head, still stuck on the part where Xavier was a thief. And Evangeline’s sister married him.
“It’s a lot to process,” she said. “Events transpired. Xavier wound up concussed. Blah, blah… They fell in love.”
He laughed outright. “You are not a fan of lyrical writing, are you?”
“I prefer getting to the point,” she said, laughing too.
When the moment passed, he asked, “Do you think Lord Geoffrey is still pursuing your uncle?”
“I doubt it. Let’s say he has shuffled off this mortal coil. See? I can be lyrical.”
“Touché! What happened to him?”
She shrugged. “He was murdered by a madman. You must wait for volume two to learn the details.”
“A story in fifty words or less, I presume.”
“You really do understand me.”
They shared a smile, hers fading before his.
“There is something else," she said, her fingers tightening around the quill. “At the market today, before the riot... a man accosted me. He demanded that I take him to Uncle Charles.”
Tension coiled in his chest, cold spreading through him. Just as he had feared, Farrin had sent someone else after her uncle. Evangeline and her family wouldn’t be spared if they stood in the way.
“Did he hurt you?”
“No,” she said, color draining from her face. “He might have, but I ran into the crowd.”
“Evangeline, no.”
When she shivered, he cradled her face. Her soft skin heated beneath his palms. “Love, you should have told me sooner. Dom will place guards outside.”
“I should have, but…”
“But?”
She squeezed her eyes shut and shook her head. “I—I forgot about him after everything. I’m sorry. We have placed the household in danger.”
“You are safe here. Everyone is,” he murmured, his thumbs tracing her cheekbones. “But we will take precautions.”
Her eyes fluttered open, the brightest blue he had ever seen. Her chin quivered, and she pressed her lips together to try to control it. Her vulnerability dug a crater into his chest, empty—a loneliness he always carried but never allowed himself to feel until now.
“When I think of what could have happened…” He couldn’t finish the thought aloud.
Evangeline leaned into his touch, the smallest movement as she lifted her face. He hesitated only a moment before lowering his head, his lips brushing gently against hers.
The contact was brief. To comfort her, he lied to himself.
When he began to pull away, her hand came up to rest against his chest, her ink-stained fingers lightly gripping his lapel.
“Kiss me again,” she whispered.
Unable to resist, he pressed his lips against hers. It was no longer about comfort but a surrender to what he’d wanted since the moment he spotted her at the docks. Her scent surrounded him, leaving him dizzy, as if he’d drunk too much wine. Her sweet sighs caused his heart to race.
When she slid her arms around his neck, he pulled her closer, holding her securely.
She melted into him. It felt right, her presence filling the void she had uncovered.
Belonging to the Regent’s Consul had brought him no peace; nor had any of his digs.
He had been alone in the world since his parents died, but now…
He drew back slowly but didn’t let go. Her eyes were hazy, filled with a dreaminess that shattered his resolve. Farrin had to be wrong about her uncle. Why would Wedmore campaign for the destruction of England when he had this most precious woman to protect? It made no sense.
Jonathan would find the truth. But first, they needed the keywords to decipher his journal.