Gabriel exhaled in excitement, the thrill of the hunt reawakening as he thought back to Horace’s final letter in which he had written that the Caxton first edition was not the original work. Horace had informed his visitor Miss Metcalfe about it and had stated that an original manuscript written by Malory himself would be markedly different from the published version.If Danbury was selling the original edition, Gabriel needed to see it for himself.
By Jupiter! This is fate itself.
He stared at the entry until the words burned themselves into his vision. Every instinct he possessed, instincts that had saved his life countless times in the chaos of battle, screamed that this was connected to Horace’s murder. A manuscript of Malory’s work, with unknown provenance, appearing for sale just weeks after his tutor had been killed for his interest in Arthurian texts and their connection to the mysteriousRegis Aeterniwas far too opportune to ignore.
I must see that manuscript. Whatever the cost.
Gabriel’s hands trembled slightly as he turned to the front of the catalog to check the auction date. January 28, 1822. Six days hence. The sale would be held at Danbury’s estate rather than the usual auction rooms, doubtless a concession to the old man’s standing and the prestigious reputation of his library.
For a long moment, Gabriel sat frozen, his mind racing through the implications. The timing was catastrophically inconvenient. The French negotiations were almost complete, requiring his constant presence. The marquis had staked his reputation on Gabriel’s involvement. To abandon the talks now would be viewed as the gravest betrayal, a breach of protocol that could destroy not only their current agreement but likely any possibility of future cooperation in regard to the release of the British agents.
This was the fourth attempt to reach terms over the past year, and with Gabriel and Étienne’s unique relationship, progress was being made for the first time. It was the very reason that he had been commanded to take the lead on this vital opportunity to sort the matter.
Men’s lives hang in the balance. English agents who have waited years for freedom.
But as Gabriel stared at the catalog entry, he saw not the diplomatic consequences but Horace’s cluttered study with its books scattered like fallen leaves, drawers ransacked, the life’s work of a gentle scholar destroyed by ruthless hands. If this manuscript held answers aboutRegis Aeterni, about the forces that had killed the only father he had ever known, could he let the opportunity slip away for the sake of politics?
Forgive me, Étienne. Forgive me, you brave souls rotting in French prisons.
His decision crystallized in his mind. He would leave for London when the Bourbon government closed for business on Thursday afternoon. He would see that manuscript, learn its secrets, pursue whatever trail it might reveal. The French would never know he had left Calais in the middle of the night, as long as he returned by Sunday night with no one aware of his absence.
Horace deserves justice.
Gabriel reached for his pen and began to write out a schedule that would see him to Danbury’s estate and back with no one the wiser. It could be done, with careful planning and determination. Then he drafted a letter to Captain Joubert to inform him of his plans.The Silhouettehad slipped him in and out of England in his guise as Monsieur Grantham several times over the years, and it would be an integral piece of his hidden return to English soil.
As he wrote, Gabriel allowed himself a moment of bitter amusement. He had spent years learning to navigate the treacherous waters of diplomacy, to balance competing interests with delicate precision. Yet here he was, risking everything on the chance that a medieval manuscript might hold answers to a modern murder.
Horace would appreciate the irony. Trust a dead tutor to lead me into the greatest gamble of my life.
The wind rattled the windows as Gabriel sealed the letter, and somewhere in the distance, a church bell tolled the hour. The moment negotiations closed on Thursday, the Bourbon court following the strictest hours as the good bureaucracy it was, Gabriel would have three days to reach Danbury’s estate and return before government hours resumed. London and back. Three days to uncover the truth aboutRegis Aeterniand the forces that had stolen Horace from him.
God help me, I pray the weather will be in my favor.
The longcase clockin Uncle Reggie’s study chimed, each note reverberating through the silent townhouse like the tolling of a funeral bell. Henri slumped deeper into the leather chair behind her uncle’s mahogany desk, staring at the pile of correspondence that had accumulated during his extended absence. Letters from minor MPs seeking clarification on procedural matters, dinner invitations requesting Uncle Reggie’s sharp wit to enliven the tediously dull, and endless appeals for meetings—none of these could she grant on his behalf.
When did my life become so wretchedly mundane?
She picked up the next letter, something about drainage improvements in a Derbyshire constituency, and immediately set it aside again. The words seemed to swim before her eyes, rendered meaningless by the crushing weight of her boredom. This was not the vital correspondence that usually crossed Uncle Reggie’s desk, the kind that shaped policy and influenced the direction of government. These were the dregs, the letters that normally waited weeks for attention while more pressing matters took precedence.
And here I am, reduced to answering drainage inquiries like some provincial clerk.
Henri rose from the chair and moved restlessly to the window, pressing her forehead against the cold glass. The street beyond was nearly deserted, most of London’s political elite still gone for the holiday season to their country estates. The very cobblestones seemed to mock her with their emptiness, a physical manifestation of the intellectual void that had consumed her life these past weeks.
She missed Madeline desperately. Her twin had married their neighbor, Simon Scott, now Lord Campbell, just two months ago and had departed immediately for Scotland to tour his estates. Henri had been genuinely happy for her sister, who had found both love and adventure in her unlikely match with the half-Scottish nobleman. But Madeline’s absence left a hollow ache that no amount of political correspondence could fill.
At least one of us escaped the tedium of spinsterhood.
Uncle Reggie’s continued absence only deepened her melancholy. In all the years Henri had worked as his private secretary, he had never left London for such an extended period. Even during parliamentary recesses, he remained in Town, hosting dinners for visiting dignitaries, consulting with ministers on forthcoming legislation, and maintaining the vast network of contacts that made him one of the most influential men in Westminster despite holding no official title.
But now … nothing. As if he has simply vanished from the political world entirely.
The King’s coronation had been the pinnacle of Henri’s professional life. Weeks of frantic preparation, delicate negotiations, and crisis management had required every ounce of her intelligence and diplomatic skill. She had thrived on the chaos, the sense that she was helping to orchestrate events of genuine historical importance. The memory ofthose exhilarating weeks last summer only made her current circumstances more unbearable by comparison.
Perhaps Uncle Reggie is planning to retire.
The thought worried her deeply. She had noticed signs of weariness in him following the coronation, a subtle withdrawal from the political machinations that had once energized him. At seventy-three, he had earned the right to rest. But where would that leave her? What purpose would her life hold without the intellectual challenges that had defined her identity for the past decade?
She would soon be nine and twenty, firmly on the shelf and in need of a new role if Uncle Reggie did announce his retirement. She supposed it was inevitable, but she had never taken the time to consider it. She could work with Maddy and their mother at Bigsby’s, but stone manufactory did not stir her blood in the least.
