Page 64 of Under Arthur’s Protection

Gwen

“Sorry, Gwen, but I’ve got bad news,” said Rachel over the phone. “There’s no Sir Edmund Hargrove of Hertfordshire. Not in any record I can find.”

That couldn’t be right. “Did you try variations on the name?”

“Hargrove, Hargreave, Hargreaves. With and without the title. I also checked the county records separately, since you said the document was French and there might be a translation issue.” Her keyboard clacked. “Nothing. No estate, no collection catalog, no mention in any peerage or gentry index I have access to.”

Across the room, Arthur turned back to the wall of windows. He hadn’t taken off his dark jacket despite the warmth inside, and his jeans clung far too nicely to his ass. He was so put together. Always in control.

And I was back to flailing. “Really? Nothing? Maybe the dates I have are wrong?”

“I expanded the search to 1710 through 1810 to cast a wider net.” More clacking. “Gwen, even if the name is completely wrong. If a man of his standing from Hertfordshire or the surrounding area owned valuable pieces in the 1760s, there’d be an inventory, records of a sale after his death, or… I don’t know, an exhibit he participated in? Regardless, I’d know where to look for the paperwork, but I can’t find him.”

“Okay.” My pen was in my hand, although I had no idea what I was going to do with it. I stared at the folio while Rachel’s words settled. No estate. No collection. No mention anywhere. “Thanks, Rachel. I appreciate this.”

“Of course. And Gwen? If you need me to run down anything else, don’t hesitate to call. I’d love to help.”

“I will. Thanks.”

“But now you owe me drinks when I’m in New York.”

“Deal.” I ended the call and set my phone on the table.

The folio sat open in front of me. The sketch, the careful handwriting, the provenance notes claiming a man—who Rachel said didn’t exist—had commissioned the inscription in 1761.

It didn’t make sense.

A gap in the records was possible. Obscure figures slipped through all the time. But Rachel was thorough. She was good at her job.

I tapped my pen against the folio, as though the tapping alone would help me make sense of it. Everything looked right, from the handwriting to the ink to the age of the paper. If the collector didn’t exist, either Rachel had missed something or the document was wrong about who owned the sword.

And if the document was wrong about the owner, what else was it wrong about?

I lifted the sword case onto the table. I should have been more discreet, but maybe the sword would share its truth with me.

The man at the corner table glanced over, his eyebrows rising.

It’s fine. He’s just curious.

When he finally went back to his work, I opened the case.

The sword sat nestled in its molded interior, the corroded blade dark and rough, the garnet inlay in the gold pommel catching the overhead lights. I positioned the folio beside the case and compared the sketch to the actual object.

The sketch was accurate and proportional, the work of someone who knew how to observe and record. The pommel shape and decoration matched. The ring attachment and the loop that held it were slightly distorted, but in the way circles weren’t always rendered perfectly by hand. The blade—corroded and jagged from centuries, if not millennia, of age—had been drawn faithfully. Whoever’s journal it was, they’d obviously had the sword in their possession while sketching.

Wait.

I leaned closer to the blade. Held the sketch next to it.

The corrosion pattern matched, too.

Oh shit. It was an exact match.

The lumps of rust along the fuller. The distribution of oxidation near the hilt. The uneven surface degradation, heavier on one side than the other. The sketch showed every detail of the sword’s current condition.

That was wrong.

Two and a half centuries of additional oxidation separated 1761 from today. An observer sketching this sword back then would have seen less damage. Less corrosion.