“Then we shall claim it was all a dreadful misunderstanding,” Henri replied with more confidence than she felt, pulling her traveling rug more tightly around herself as another blast of cold air found its way through a gap in the door. “But we shall notbe discovered, because you are going to be absolutely brilliant at this. I have complete faith in your abilities.”
The praise brought a faint flush to Miss Dulwich’s cheeks, and Henri could see her wavering between propriety and loyalty. “I hope there is good reason to do this.”
“The best,” Henri replied. “A friend requires my help.”
Miss Dulwich was quiet for a long moment, her breath creating small clouds in the frigid air as she considered. Finally, she straightened her shoulders with the resolve of a woman stepping onto a battlefield. “Very well, Miss Bigsby. I shall do as you ask. But I pray we do not live to regret this day’s work.”
“Regret,” Henri said with a smile that was equal parts confidence and mischief, “is for people who never take chances.”
Eventually, Sir Alpheus Danbury’s estate rose before them like something from a Gothic novel, all towering chimneys and ivy-covered walls. Henri practically bounced with the excitement she was containing as they approached the imposing front entrance.
The butler who answered their knock was precisely the sort of austere figure one expected at such an establishment—tall, dignified, and possessed of the particular arrogance that suggested he considered most visitors beneath his notice.
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 spacewith 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.”
