She inquired about borrowing my first edition of Le Morte d’Arthur, the one recently gifted to me by an appreciative patron to further my studies.
I informed her that while it is indeed a first edition, it differs markedly from Sir Thomas’s original script in Middle English. The printed version, I explained, cannot capture the nuances of the handwritten text.
She became quite agitated at this news and warned me that Regis Aeterni, a name I confess means nothing to me, might not understand my point of view about the book. Most disturbing, she suggested that a sect of this Regis Aeterni, the Dominus, can be violent when thwarted.
I fear I may have stumbled into matters far more dangerous than academic scholarship.
Gabriel moved to the bookshelf where Horace had proudly displayed the Caxton edition. It was missing, just as Gabriel had suspected it would be. His fingers traced the empty space where the volume had rested, his mouth forming a grim line.
Regis Aeterni.Eternal King. The name meant nothing to Gabriel either, but the implications were clear enough. Someone had wanted that book badly enough to kill for it.
He continued his orderly search of the study, looking for any clue Horace might have left behind, any indication of who this mysterious Miss Metcalfe might be or whatRegis Aeternirepresented. But the searchers had been thorough. Whatever secrets Horace had uncovered about that first edition had died with him.
Gabriel had his men attempting to uncover information about this secretive society or find this Miss Metcalfe involved in Arthurian studies, but her name was common up north, and no one of Horace’s acquaintance had heard mention ofRegis Aeterni. The only clue he could find in Horace’s home was what was not there. The missing book was the only confirmation of his suspicion that Horace had encountered this diabolicalDominusMiss Metcalfe had spoken of.
A surge of rage rose, white-hot and consuming. The only man who had ever shown him genuine affection, if a rather distracted and forgetful sort, and who had filled the role of father when his own family had cast him aside. For him to be murdered by strangers over a book … The injustice of it threatened to overwhelm Gabriel’s careful control.
He turned sharply and strode from the study, through the corridor, and out into the December afternoon. The cold air struck his face like a slap, but it did not cool the fury burning within him. Without conscious thought, he drew back his boot and sent a loose cobblestone skittering across the narrow lane with vicious force.
The stone struck the opposite wall with a sharp crack, and Gabriel immediately felt a wash of shame at his loss of control. He drew a steadying breath and straightened his shoulders. Horace was dead, and no amount of rage would bring him back.The proper course of action would be to return to London, meet with his secretary Samuel Tyne, and prepare for the diplomatic mission to Calais that required his immediate attention. The Crown’s business could not wait for personal grief.
But even important work could wait for the still living creatures depending on the old man’s care.
He turned back toward the house, remembering suddenly the soft mewing he had heard earlier but dismissed in his distracted agitation. Horace’s cats, Tacitus and Pliny, named after the Roman philosophers he so admired. Gabriel found them huddled together in the kitchen, a large tabby and a smaller gray, both thin and clearly distressed by their master’s prolonged absence.
“Hello, old fellows,” Gabriel said quietly, extending his hand. Tacitus, the braver of the two, approached cautiously and allowed Gabriel to scratch behind his ears. “You have been waiting for him to come home, haven’t you?”
The cats had been Horace’s constant companions, often curled in his lap while he worked or perched on his desk watching him write. Gabriel could not simply leave them to fend for themselves or rely on the cleaning woman to take care of them.
He moved to the larder and found some dried fish, which he set out along with fresh water from the kitchen pump. While the cats ate hungrily, Gabriel considered his options. His London townhouse was no place for pets. Too formal, too cold, and he was away too frequently on Crown business. But Trenwith Abbey, his country seat, had competent staff and grounds where the creatures could live comfortably.
“Mrs. Hartwell will look after you properly,” he told them, thinking of his capable housekeeper at Trenwith Abbey. “But first, you are coming with me to London. Horace would want you to be safe.”
It took some coaxing and a bit more dried fish, but Gabriel managed to settle both cats into the lidded basket Horace had fashioned for them. They mewed plaintively but seemed to sense his intent was kind. He gathered what remained of their food and a small blanket that smelled of Horace, then carried the basket to his waiting carriage.
“To London,” he instructed his driver, settling the basket gently on the seat beside him. “And mind the roads. We have precious cargo.”
Tacitus poked his nose through the wicker slats and meowed softly. For the first time since reading news of Horace’s death, Gabriel felt something ease in his chest.
But the thought of returning to his empty townhouse, of sitting across from Samuel discussing travel arrangements and coded dispatches while the hollow ache in his chest threatened to consume him, was suddenly unbearable. He needed … something. Some connection to life and cheer that might penetrate the cold isolation that had become his constant companion.
An image rose unbidden in his mind. Amber eyes bright with intelligence, honey-brown hair catching the afternoon light, a dimpled smile that could coax conversation from the most reluctant politician. Miss Henrietta Bigsby, private secretary to Reginald Wells and one of the most vivacious women of Gabriel’s acquaintance. She was on the shelf as she closed in on thirty years of age, which confounded Gabriel. Were the men of the British Isles imbecilic to leave such a woman shelved? It was incomprehensible.
He had first encountered her two years ago when Crown business had required him to consult with Wells on a delicate matter of French intelligence. Gabriel had expected to meet with Wells’s clerk, some dried-up scholarly gentleman, perhaps, or a younger man learning the political trade. Instead, he had beenintroduced to Miss Bigsby, who had demonstrated a grasp of parliamentary procedure and European politics that would have impressed a seasoned diplomat.
Their subsequent meetings had been professionally cordial but personally … challenging. Miss Bigsby had a way of looking at Gabriel as though she could see past his carefully constructed mask to something more interesting beneath. She asked questions that made him think, offered observations that surprised him, and treated him with a fondness that had nothing to do with his title or his usefulness to her employer. The fact that he sometimes took advantage of the lady’s loose lips to learn the secrets of Parliament pained him.
Despite his shameful manipulations, Gabriel had found himself looking forward to those meetings with an anticipation that was disconcerting. Miss Bigsby represented hope. Hope of a genuine connection with another human being, hope of something beyond the cold duty that had defined his life. Something beyond a forgetful tutor obsessed with his books. And hope was a distraction he could ill afford.
Yet as they trundled along the narrow Oxford lane where his beloved tutor had drawn his last breath, Gabriel found himself craving exactly that sort of distraction. Wells and Horace had maintained a correspondence over the years, bonding over their shared interest in Arthurian legend. The political man’s townhouse had always felt warm and welcoming during Gabriel’s visits, a stark contrast to the formal emptiness of his own residence.
It was nearly Christmastide, and Wells might well be away from Town. The journey could prove a complete waste of time. But perhaps fortune would favor him with their company. A brief visit to that bustling household might provide the human connection he needed to banish this overwhelming melancholy.
And perhaps, though Gabriel hardly dared acknowledge the thought, he might catch a glimpse of amber eyes and a dimpled smile that never failed to remind him that there was still joy to be found in the world.
Gabriel pulled out his pocket watch and calculated the journey time back to London. If they detoured a little, he could reach Wells’s townhouse by late afternoon. Samuel would simply have to wait until tomorrow to discuss the Calais arrangements.
For once in his meticulously ordered life, Gabriel Strathmore was going to allow himself the luxury of hope.
