The de Valery Code (3 page)

Her gaze was guarded, her hold on the book protective. “You must be gentle.”

Irritation dampened his enthusiasm. “Look around you. I deal with manuscripts like this every day. My hands have been thoroughly cleansed in preparation for touching this, though if its condition had been poor, I would’ve donned gloves. Do you take the same precautions?”

Her eyes widened slightly, and he felt a moment’s validation.

“Now, may I please look at it?” Rhys kept his tone even, though his pulse was racing. If this book was authentic . . .
 

She pushed it toward him slowly.

He settled himself in a chair at the table and brought the book in front of him. “Please sit.” He didn’t look at her, but knew there was a chair to her right. She dragged it closer and sat beside him.

With a silent prayer, he opened the cover. He lightly ran his fingers along the edge of the page. The workmanship was exquisite. This had to be the book he thought it was, written by the scribe he suspected. The formation of some letters was similar to his, if not identical. More importantly, the illustrations were reminiscent of a second book, but he’d only viewed it once and that had been three years ago, just before his father’s death.

Rhys turned his head and met her searching gaze. “How much do you want for it?”

She cocked her head to the side, her hands folded primly in her lap. “How much is it worth?”

This book alone was an excellent specimen of medieval illumination and worth a decent sum. But if he could get his hands on the other book and put them together, the value was incalculable. He didn’t want to get ahead of himself. He offered what the book was worth on its own. “Twenty-five pounds.”

Her mouth turned down—not a frown exactly, but an expression of disappointment. He couldn’t help but stare at her pink lips for what was probably a moment too long.

“That’s not a paltry amount,” he said.
 

“No,” she said slowly, wariness creeping from every corner of the word. “However, I was hoping. . .” She reached out and tried to take the book. “Perhaps coming here so hastily was a mistake.”

He couldn’t let her leave with the manuscript. “No, it wasn’t.” He gently rested his palm across the page, as she’d done with the cover. “I have the impression the book belongs to your aunts—they didn’t even mention you.”

“Yes, it belongs to them.” She pressed her lips together, which accentuated the dimple in her chin. “I should’ve waited for my aunt to feel better before coming. This isn’t my decision to make.”

He didn’t believe her. She’d come with the intent of striking a deal. If she didn’t have the authority to make the decision, why would she have come at all? “Well, since you
are
here, why not let me make my full assessment? You do want to know more about it, don’t you?” He watched the battle behind her eyes. This book wasn’t hers, but she wanted it to be. Why were her aunts selling it if she wanted to keep it so badly?
Because they likely didn’t have any other choice.
They were in a perhaps desperate situation—one that he could turn to his advantage if necessary. Not that he wanted to cheat them. He was prepared to compensate her fairly for the book.

“Yes.” She cleared her throat. “I should like to hear what you know of it.”

Thomas came in with the tea tray. He stopped short at seeing them at the table instead of at the window. “I’ll just set the tray over here.” He indicated where Mrs. Edwards perched on the settee near the window. Thomas knew better than to serve refreshment on Rhys’s sacred workplace, where spilled tea or an errant cake crumb could cause irreparable damage.

Rhys nodded. “Thank you, Thomas. I’ll ring if we require anything further.” He doubted they’d get to the tea tray at all, not when Miss Derrington looked as if she was going to snatch the book up and dash back to Gloucester.

The sound of Thomas departing was accompanied by the clink of dishware as Mrs. Edwards saw to her tea. “Will you be having tea?” she asked them.

“I won’t, thank you,” Rhys answered. He turned back to Miss Derrington and noted that her gaze was pinned to his hold on her book. Rather, her aunts’ book. He exhaled, his fingers tingling as he realized anew what he was touching. The lost text by Edmund de Valery, which some scholars doubted existed. Clearly it did—but did it contain the secret code that supposedly led to an Arthurian treasure?

A sense of alarm slammed into him. “Does anyone else know you have this?”

Her brows drew together. “No. At least not that I’m aware of.”

He relaxed against the back of his chair.
Good.
If certain others knew that this book had surfaced, they’d go to great lengths to possess it. Just as he was prepared to do.

He turned the page to an illustration of several knights battling a giant. “These tales are a series of tasks that a knight—Gareth—had to complete in order to win the hand of his true love. He obtained several items, which her father demanded as her bride price.” He pointed at one knight in particular. “This is Arthur.”

“Yes, I’ve read it.” She leaned closer, and once again her scent assailed him. “Is that Excalibur? It doesn’t say.”

He shook his head, turning another page. “This story is before Arthur purportedly found that sword. Every tale is a bit different.” And based on pure fantasy. There was no actual Excalibur and no King Arthur.

“Why is this book so special?”

He felt her eyes on him, wondered how she’d detected that this book was indeed special. He had no plans to tell her about the code, particularly when it might not even exist. “It’s an excellent piece. I assume you’ve studied it intently.”

Her brilliant eyes met his. “Every word, every stroke, every color.” Her passion for the book was palpable. Perhaps equal to his own. But no, that couldn’t be possible. His entire life had been dedicated to books like these, and this was the discovery of a lifetime. A discovery that would do much to establish Rhys as a leading scholar outside of his father’s shadow, even without the code or treasure.

Rhys flipped ahead, though it pained him not to linger over each page. There’d be time for that. He’d pay any price to make sure of it.

There were more stories. An illustration of men around a table.
 

Her hand fluttered over his. “The round table.”

“Mmmm.” He turned the pages faster, using great caution so as not to damage the aged vellum, eager to reach the final page to confirm that this was, in fact, the treasure he believed it to be.

Finally, the last page. And there it was, in the corner, so small as to be mistaken for a smudge or a bit of graffiti. He lightly touched the mark, as if he could feel the imprint of the man who’d made it centuries before.

“What?” She’d caught his reaction and leaned closer. “What is it?”

He turned his head. If the excitement coursing through him hadn’t pushed him to the edge of joy, her proximity might’ve done so. She was lovely. And desperate—but for what? He realized he didn’t care. He only knew he had to have this book, even if it didn’t conceal a secret code that led to a mysterious treasure.

“Name your price, Miss Derrington.”

Chapter Two

If Aunt Agnes and Aunt Eugenie were here, they’d ask for maybe fifty pounds, he’d likely accept, the book would trade hands, and they’d be on their merry way. But the words stuck in Margery’s throat. Why couldn’t she just name a price?

Because in the days since she’d laid her hands on the manuscript, she’d devoured every page dozens of times. That first night, she’d stayed up into the wee hours poring over every drawing and every line of text. After so much time with it, the thing felt like it was hers.

Too, there was his reaction. His interest had been evident, but the way he’d held the book from her had taken his interest to an entirely different plane. He desired this book quite fervently. Why?

She glanced at the open book where his long fingers splayed across the bottom corner. “You didn’t answer my question.” She was guarding her answers because she didn’t want him to know how desperate she was. Why was he guarding his? “Why is this book so special? Knowing that might help me come up with a price.”

He cleared his throat as if he were about to deliver an oration. “It’s a singular artifact. On their own, these stories aren’t necessarily original or extraordinary, but in this state, they are elevated to art. It’s the scribe who composed this book that makes it so important.” He pointed to a small, black drawing in the bottom left corner of the last page.

She tried to make sense of the swirled ink, but it just looked like the scribe had blotted his pen there. “What is that?”

“The scribe’s mark—Edmund de Valery. It’s hard to discern, but this is an E, D, and V written over each other.” He stood and reached for a magnifying glass sitting at the other end of the table and handed it to her. “Look.”

She held the glass between her eye and the page. “Yes, now I see the V and the branches of the E.” She turned to look at Mr. Bowen and realized just how close they were. She could feel his heat. His mouth was only inches from hers.

With a jolt, she set the glass on the table and averted her gaze from the absurdly handsome Mr. Bowen. He was an antiquarian, his nose buried in books all day. Why then did his appearance make her think of the knights in the book before them? Likely because he was uncharacteristically tall with broad shoulders. He had the look of a Welshman with his jet-black hair, earth-brown eyes, and dark complexion. If she hadn’t known his occupation, she might have assumed him some warrior of old.

She forced herself back to the matter at hand instead of romanticizing Mr. Bowen. “How did you recognize this?”

He kept his focus on the book, something she should endeavor to do. “I’ve seen his mark before. I have another document written by de Valery.”

She expected him to get it or at least offer to show it to her. That he didn’t filled her with suspicion, as did his reluctance to tell her why this book was so important to him. “May I see it?” she asked, infusing her question with sugary politeness and offering her most charming smile.

He blinked at her, his terribly long, ink-black lashes briefly shuttering his dark eyes. He studied her at length, then stood, though she sensed he was hesitant. His fingers pressed against the book before releasing it as he stepped away from the table. As he went to his desk, she resisted the urge to pull the book back toward where she was sitting.

A moment later, he returned with a slim, leather-bound manuscript and set it on the table in front of her. “This is a poem from the late fourteenth century. My father had it bound to protect the vellum. If you turn to the last page, you will see a better representation of de Valery’s mark.”

She hesitated and shot him a saucy look. “May I touch it, since I’m wearing gloves?”

The corner of his mouth lifted in the barest hint of a smile, and he tipped his head. “Please.”

Something about the way he delivered the word made her shiver. She opened the cover and flipped past a few blank pages before reaching the text. The document wasn’t illustrated, beyond colors used in some of the lettering, but the handwriting was an art form in and of itself. “I can only imagine how much time it took to compile these.”

“Years in some cases, though this poem probably only took several weeks. It’s not terribly long.”

No, just a handful of pages. As he’d said, the last page contained a larger, more legible version of the mark. She looked over at him. He was watching her. “Are you certain this is the same?”

“If you’d studied the written word for as long and as extensively as I have, you could identify the similarities in the letter shape and the stroke of the pen.” His tone was smooth, certain.

“Has anyone ever told you that you’re arrogant?”

He lifted a shoulder. “On several occasions.” His nonchalant response only underscored her assessment. “Has anyone ever told you that you’re immoderately direct?” The question sounded more curious than judgmental, maybe even a little bit flirtatious.

She decided his answer suited her just fine. “On several occasions.”

He inclined his head. “I didn’t mean to be arrogant; I take the study of manuscripts quite seriously.”

“It’s your life’s work,” she said, wondering what that felt like.

“It is.” His contentment and confidence conveyed an emotion that told her what it felt like, at least, to him. It also filled her with a sense of longing. She wished she felt like that about something.