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Mr Finlay dallied with a kitchen knife. “Sidlow parted with that knowledge…” His blue eyes were now of a January lake. “Once they’d got yer married, they planned to sell these effects and split the proceeds. I dunno what it is about them nobles and spending.”
“No appreciation of what they have, I suppose,” she ventured, removing the boiling kettle to steep the tea.
Seth rose, and for the first time that day she felt his nearness and then his touch, a hand upon her shoulder. “So, Matilda, do you have any clue what is in those vaults?”
“Well… I suppose it might be… I’d not realised they were still there but…” She screwed her eyes shut. “Father kept a selection of old books, you see, in a vault. If I remember correctly, the 1477 edition of The Canterbury Tales, a manuscript comprising Da Vinci’s own writings, and, er, I believe various copies of Shakespeare’s Folios, amongst some other bits and bobs. Illuminated manuscripts, Saxton’s maps and so forth. Oh, and some old jewel of Anne Boleyn’s.”
“Folio…” Seth’s eyes widened. “Shakespeare’s First Folio, you mean?”
“Well, yes. Father acquired one of those. In calfskin. But I presumed all his chattels had been sold at some point.”
“Never mind the bloody Folio,” interrupted Mr Finlay. “What about the jewel?”
“Well, I don’t know too much. It was given to an ancestor who was a lady-in-waiting. It’s been passed down the female line. I thought never to marry, you see, and I’d never sell it, of course, hence it would be inherited by my thrice-removed half-cousin’s daughter. Phyllis is her name. Her father is the Duke of Aberdare. I told you about him at the interview.”
Seth breathed deep. “Matilda, all this must still be in those vaults then and will be yours on your birthday, and if you marry, would, of course, become the property of your husband. These have much value.”
“Do you think? But they’re items to be treasured for future generations, not to be bartered for gambling debts.” She scowled and paced the kitchen floor. “Are you saying that Cousin Astwood attempted to kidnap me in order to leg shackle me to a mutton-mongering buck fitch, just so he can sell my books? What an utter…shagbag!”
“It would appear so, lass. Astwood has sold all that’s not entailed or nailed down, but ’tisn’t enough. He owes money to a villain not to be messed with, one who’s becoming a mite impatient. It’s his life we’re talking about.”
She crossed her arms and muttered.
“Kian believes Astwood will try and take you again as he’s running out of time.”
The Scotsman leaned back in his chair, causing the spindles to creak. “My idea is to draw him out. Easier and quicker to catch the smetchet in the act rather than guarding yer all hours. Then we can fetch the magistrate.”
“He wants to use you as bait,” Seth grouched, seating himself once more with crossed feet and folded arms.
“Well, ’tis either that or I…get rid of him, but I thought yer might not approve.”
“Hmm…” Matilda tapped a lip. “But no, I don’t believe we’d best do that, Mr Finlay.” She rummaged for three mugs. “So instead you want to use me as a worm on a hook. Good idea. As you said, you cannot guard me all hours.”
“Exactly so,” he agreed. “And we’ll take good care of yer. But tell us, lass, how smart is this cousin, d’yer reckon?”
With a certain weariness abruptly taking its toll, Matilda sat. “He’s not stupid, by any means, but arrogance causes him to blunder.”
“Most likely he’s got someone keeping an eye on us,” rumbled Seth.
Mr Finlay poured the tea with expert aplomb. “I reckon if we attend a few events about Town, or lurk in some theatre gaffs, he won’t be able to resist another attempt to grab yer. There’s a Gaelic saying… ‘Desperation drives on cowards’, and I reckon yer cousin to be both.”
Seth’s gaze remained sombre. “But are you sure, Matilda?”
“Yes, quite sure. And besides what choice do I have?”
“Well,” muttered Mr Finlay with a smirk, “if yer married a certain someone at Gretna post-haste, that’d end it.”
With a bashful smile, Matilda peeped to Seth, to exchange a clandestine wink or wait for him to tell his mischievous friend to mind his own business, but…
Silence.
Those hazel eyes weighty and troubled, a hostile scowl upon his lips.
Matilda’s smile wilted.
Confusion and doubt, that treacherous doubt, filled the void where elation had earlier dwelled.
“I…” She placed her own mug down. “I don’t believe I will join you for tea after all. I’ll–”
