But today, they had finally reached an agreement, and the crucial document was on its way to Paris to be authorized. Despite his frustration, Gabriel knew he needed to maintain his patience. Men were relying on him. Loyal English operatives who had been captured years earlier during the chaos of Napoleon’s final campaigns. After multiple failed negotiations, when diplomatic relations had crumbled like week-old bread, Gabriel had been specifically requested by none other than the Marquis Étienne de Beaumont. The newly appointed lead negotiator for the Bourbon monarchy had insisted that only Gabriel could represent English interests in these delicate talks.
And God help me, I actually respect the cunning French bastard.
He and Étienne had first encountered each other in the aftermath of Waterloo, opponents across numerous negotiating tables, circling each other like wary wolves. Yet somehow, despite their opposing allegiances, they had discovered common ground. Similar in age and interests, both ruthless in pursuit of what they believed right, both sharing a mutual abhorrence for the needless bloodshed of war.
Their acquaintance stretched back even further than their professional dealings. Étienne had spent a year under Horace’s tutelage when his family fled Napoleon’s France as royalists in exile. Gabriel remembered the arrogant French boy who haddisrupted the quiet rhythm of Horace’s household, bringing Continental sophistication and fierce political debates to their scholarly sanctuary.
A mutual trust, fragile as spun glass but genuine nonetheless, had grown between them as they successfully penned agreements on behalf of their respective governments. As much as one could trust an opposing representative, Gabriel had come to rely on Étienne’s word. These negotiations were too important to abandon, no matter how much he longed to pursue Horace’s killers.
Yet Gabriel had endured weeks of the French government’s maddening devotion to procedure. The Bourbon monarchy operated with a bureaucratic precision that would make a church deacon weep with envy. Every document required three signatures, every decision filtered through endless committees, and every meeting scheduled with ritualistic formality that bordered on the theatrical. The negotiations could only be conducted during prescribed hours, in designated rooms, with proper witnesses present and the correct seals affixed to every piece of correspondence. All of which was laughable because outside of those meetings, he had to pretend to be Monsieur Grantham, a merchant from Britain, as they continued their secret negotiations. But this was the meeting point between London and Paris, and Calais was a city of secrets.
By God, they move slower than a funeral procession in a blizzard.
Gabriel was a man of action, accustomed to decisive moments and swift resolutions. This endless minuet of diplomatic niceties tested his patience like Chinese water torture. When he had expressed his frustration to Étienne just two days prior, the marquis had merely shrugged with that particular Gallic resignation that suggested centuries of experience with governmental inertia.
“My friend, you must understand the Bourbon court survived revolution and exile by clinging to order like a drowning man clings to driftwood,”Étienne had said, gesturing with his coffee cup.
“Protocol is not merely preference. It is survival itself. We have learned that chaos leads to the guillotine.”
His dark eyes had held a trace of sympathy.“But I assure you, we have made more progress in these weeks than the previous negotiating teams achieved in as many years.”
That progress, however, came with an unspoken understanding that had been delivered with the casual tone of a man discussing the weather.
“Any deviation from proper procedure, any appearance of disrespect for our methods—it would be viewed not merely as poor diplomacy, but as a personal affront to the Crown itself. Such things cannot be overlooked, Gabriel. Not by me, not by anyone. The King’s ministers would have my head, and rightly so.”
The warning had been clear. Étienne had staked his considerable reputation on these negotiations. A breach of protocol would not merely end their talks. It would destroy the marquis’s standing at court and delay the release of loyal agents.
Duty before personal desires. Always.
But that knowledge did not ease the restless energy that consumed him. Gabriel turned from the balcony and made his way back into the cramped study that served as his temporary office, the weight of unfinished business pressing down upon him like lead.
His secretary, Mr. Samuel Tyne, stood beside the desk, sorting through a modest pile of correspondence with his usual meticulous efficiency. A man of forty years, thin and scholarly, with prematurely gray hair and the perpetually ink-stained fingers of his profession. He had served Gabriel faithfully forthree years, managing the tedious details of his diplomatic work with unflappable competence.
“Any word from London regarding the book?” Gabriel asked without preamble, settling into the chair behind his desk.
Tyne looked up from the letters, his pale eyes brightening slightly. “Indeed, my lord. A rather promising development, I believe.” He withdrew a leather-bound catalog from the stack of mail. “The latest auction catalog from Leigh and Sotheby’s has arrived. Sir Alpheus Danbury is liquidating a portion of his library to fund what his agent describes as an acquisition of singular importance.”
Gabriel accepted the catalog, noting the weight of the fine paper beneath his fingers. Sir Alpheus Danbury was renowned among collectors for both the veracity and rarity of his manuscripts. If he was selling, it meant the old man had found something extraordinary.
“The negotiations?” Tyne inquired delicately. “I trust they continue to progress favorably?”
Gabriel’s smile was grim. “The agreement was reached this afternoon and dispatched to Paris. I am hopeful it will receive swift authorization.”
“Very good, my lord. Will there be anything else this evening?”
Gabriel waved him away with a distracted gesture, already turning his attention to the auction catalog. He waited until Tyne’s footsteps had faded down the corridor before opening the leather binding.
What would you make of this, old friend?
The irony was bitter as wine left too long in the cask. Gabriel no longer possessed any genuine interest in Arthurian lore. Not without Horace to share discoveries with, to debate interpretations, to bring the ancient legends to life with hispassionate scholarship. Yet here he was, searching for clues among medieval tomes like some treasure-hunting antiquarian.
He leafed through the catalog, scanning the descriptions. Danbury’s collection was indeed impressive—illustrated books of biblical themes, philosophical treatises, chronicles of the Crusades. But it was near the end of the listings that Gabriel found what had drawn his attention.
Lot 127: Caxton’s Le Morte D’Arthur, First Edition, 1485. Fine condition, lacking only the final leaf. Provenance: Library of the Earl of Westmorland.
Gabriel’s pulse quickened. Finally! A possibility of getting his hands on a copy of the book Horace had been brutally killed for. But it was the next entry that made his nerves tingle with intuition.
Lot 128: The Hoole Book of Kyng Arthur and of His Noble Knyghtes of the Rounde Table. Manuscript. Attributed to Sir Thomas Malory. Vellum. Late 15th century. Written in the author’s hand in Middle English, with unique variant readings not found in printed editions. An extraordinary survival from the medieval period, offering insights into Malory’s original conception of the Arthurian legends. Provenance unknown. Estimate: £2,000–£3,000.
