As the carriage trundled away from where Horace Pelham had lived and died, Gabriel tried to release his dark thoughts by anticipating his arrival at the one place where he might find a moment’s peace from the ghosts that haunted him.
CHAPTER 2
“For all men may not have all things, after their desire.”
Sir Thomas Malory,Le Morte d’Arthur
The midafternoon was winter pale, and Henri could see her breath forming small clouds as she stood at the front window of Uncle Reggie’s townhouse. The narrow street near Parliament was moderately busy despite the December chill, though many of the political set had already departed London for their country estates to celebrate Christmas. The weak sunlight struggled through the overcast sky, casting everything in shades of gray and silver while she awaited the Blackwood carriage after they had agreed the gentlemen should delay their arrival for the sake of propriety. Fortunately, this street was well-accustomed to lengthy meetings and not the customary fifteen minutes of polite society calls.
A familiar clatter of wheels announced the arrival of their carriage, its deep black lacquer gleaming despite the muted light. Henri watched as the vehicle drew to a halt before the townhouse, steam rising from the horses’ nostrils while they stamped their feet against the cold. The coachman, wrapped in a heavy greatcoat, adjusted his position as Lord Sebastian emerged first, his tall frame elegant even in the simple act of stepping down. Then the Italian alighted with that barely contained thrum of energy she had observed in the garden. Even from this distance, she could see the intensity in his bearing, the way he moved with purpose rather than leisure.
Why does he remind me of a bumblebee?All humming energy and restless purpose, as if stillness were foreign to him?
“Miss Henri.” Miss Dulwich’s voice carried a note of gentle reproof from behind her. “You should not be gawking out the window like a housemaid. It is unseemly.”
Henri turned from the window with a rueful smile. Miss Dulwich had served as her lady’s maid and unofficial companion and chaperon for the better part of two years. A compact woman of thirty with brown hair always neatly coiled beneath a mobcap, she carried herself with the timid efficiency of someone who knew her place in the household order.
“I was merely observing the arrival of Uncle Reggie’s guests,” Henri said with mock dignity. “Surely, there is nothing improper in being prepared to receive them?”
Henri could see the worry in Miss Dulwich’s brown eyes, though she maintained her properly respectful expression. “Indeed, miss. Though I suspect your interest has less to do with proper household management and more to do with a certain handsome foreign gentleman.”
Heat rose in Henri’s cheeks at the unjust rebuke, there being only one gentleman who turned her head, and she had not encountered him in some time. But before she could forma suitable retort, the brass door knocker sounded with crisp authority. Henri smoothed her hands over her morning dress and nodded to Miss Dulwich.
“Shall we?”
The butler, Thompkins, was already moving to answer the door with his usual dignified efficiency. Henri positioned herself in the entrance hall, close enough to greet the visitors properly but far enough to maintain decorum. The cold December air swept in as the door opened, carrying with it the scents of frost and coal smoke.
“Lord Sebastian. Signor di Bianchi.” Henri offered a welcoming smile as the two men stepped inside with their greatcoats buttoned up against the elements. “How good of you to come.”
Lord Sebastian removed his hat and offered a polite bow. “Miss Bigsby. Thank you for arranging this meeting.”
But it was the Italian who captured Henri’s attention. His dark eyes burned in juxtaposition to his polite exterior, and when he took her gloved hand in greeting, she could feel the barely restrained energy radiating from him.
“Miss Bigsby,” he said, his accented voice fond despite the formal words. “I cannot express how grateful I am for your assistance. The opportunity to examine your uncle’s Caxton edition … it may be the key.”
Henri smiled broadly. Finding something useful to do after Uncle Reggie’s prolonged absence? It was as if heaven itself was favoring her!
“I have prepared everything in Uncle Reggie’s library,” she said, leading them through the narrow corridor lined with shelves stuffed with political treatises and parliamentary papers. “Though I confess I am somewhat anxious about whether we shall find what you seek.”
Miss Dulwich fell into step behind them, her presence a comforting reminder of etiquette even as Henri’s pulse quickened with anticipation.
The library was her great-uncle’s pride and joy, a cozy room lined floor to ceiling with books, warmed by a cheerful fire that Thompkins had laid earlier. The precious Caxton edition ofLe Morte d’Arthurlay open on the reading table, its aged pages yellowed but still clearly legible. Mirrors had been arranged to reflect adequate light without endangering the ancient text with the use of oil lamps or candles.
“Magnificent,” Signor di Bianchi breathed, moving immediately toward the book. His reverence was evident as he approached the table, hands clasped behind his back as though afraid he might inadvertently damage something precious.
Henri watched as he withdrew the sketch they had discovered hidden in the painting’s panels, unfolding it with infinite care beside the open Caxton edition. The parchment looked small and fragile in the dim light, its coded letters and numbers mysterious as hieroglyphs.
“Now then,” Henri said, settling into the chair beside him while Lord Sebastian positioned himself where he could observe their work. Miss Dulwich claimed a seat near the fire, producing her needlework with the pragmatic efficiency of a lady’s maid who knew how to remain usefully occupied while properly invisible.
“Shall we begin with the first sequence? What appears to be K-12-7?”
Signor di Bianchi’s finger traced the letters on the sketch. “This twelve … it refers to a knight, perhaps?”
Henri delicately turned the pages of the Caxton edition to a section describing the fellowship of the Round Table, her finger running down the list of names as they appeared in that passage.“IfKstands for knight, then twelve might indicate the twelfth named in this telling?—”
“Sir Gareth,” Lord Sebastian read over her shoulder, comparing the sketch to the page. “But then … what of the seven?”
For the next two hours, they worked with growing frustration, attempting every method they could devise. Henri wondered if the numbers might refer to book and chapter divisions, to particular verses, or to lines within a speech. They tried using the knights’ names as keys for various ciphers, read passages backward, and sought patterns in the letters themselves.
