The de Valery Code (21 page)

Penn glanced up at him, his blue eyes wide. Rhys held his breath for a moment, wondering if he’d said the wrong thing. They barely knew each other, but he’d agreed to manage the lad’s welfare and Rhys took the assignment very seriously. Penn said nothing, much to Rhys’s satisfaction.

Miss Derrington offered a curtsey. “How do you do, Penn?” She shot Rhys a quizzical look, clearly asking why he’d never mentioned Penn.

“Pleased to meet you, Miss Derrington.” Penn bowed before quickly turning his attention back to Rhys. “Did you find it? The treasure?”

Miss Derrington sent Rhys another look—this one sharp with surprise.

Rhys captured the boy’s gaze. “Not yet, but we are well on our way. This is just between us, though; you understand?”

Penn nodded. “I won’t tell a soul.”

Rhys gave him an encouraging smile. “Very good. Now, Miss Derrington and I would like to rest after our journey. I’ll see you in a while, all right?”

After another bow toward Miss Derrington, Penn turned and took himself off, though with considerably less enthusiasm than when he’d arrived.

“Shall I show you to your chamber, Miss Derrington?” Thomas asked.

“I’ll take her,” Rhys said. He extended his elbow, which she took, and they ascended the stairs.

As they neared the top, she sent him an inquisitive glance. “Why didn’t you tell me about Penn?”

Because he was just beginning to adjust to the change. Because the true reason behind Penn’s being here was something he couldn’t share. So many reasons. “He only came to live with me a short time ago. His mother is dying, but he doesn’t know that. She wanted to ensure her son was cared for after she was gone.”

“Why did she choose you? Is he yours?”

Rhys nearly stumbled on the last step as they reached the landing. “No. Heavens, no. I realize you don’t know me, but my reputation is that of a hermit—and rightly so. She chose me because of my academic reputation.” That seemed as good a reason as any. “She wants her son to learn and to go to school.”

Her brow furrowed. “She trusted you to raise her son, and yet you have no prior relationship with her at all?”

He understood her skepticism and hated lying to her at this point in their association, but he wouldn’t endanger Penn. “None.” That wasn’t exactly a lie. He’d only ever met the first Lady Stratton at her wedding to his cousin, but he’d apparently left a positive enough impression that she trusted him to raise her son. She’d also chosen Rhys because he could verify her identity and that of Penn—when the time came for him to claim his place as Stratton’s heir.
 

“You have to admit it’s intriguing.”

“I suppose.” He was desperate to change the topic. “In this case, though, the explanation is really as simple and mundane as it sounds.”

She inclined her head and they started moving once more. “I’m surprised you told him about the treasure, since you’ve been so keen to maintain secrecy.”

Again, he understood her doubt. “He’s a lad who likes to dig for treasure. I thought it would interest him.”

She shot him an inquisitive glance. “What do you mean, he digs for treasure?”

“He digs holes in the ground and finds things. Coins, bones, things like that.”

“What a fascinating boy.” She stopped as they’d arrived at her chamber. “Do you think he’ll be able to keep this secret?”

Rhys chuckled as he withdrew his arm. “What do you think he’ll do, share what he knows at the next meeting of antiquaries? Or perhaps at the next district social event?”

“Of course not, I was merely asking,” she said evenly. “Children can be unpredictable.”

“What do you know of them?”

“Nothing, but then neither do you. We need to be careful. We agreed we wouldn’t discuss this with anyone.”

He frowned. “That agreement came after I’d told him. Anyway, he’s no danger to our endeavor.”

Margery nodded, but Rhys couldn’t tell what she was thinking, whether she accepted that Penn could be trusted. He gave her a penetrating stare. “I sense you’re uneasy about this. Why? I’m beginning to think you’re looking for reasons not to place your faith in me. What can I do to prove my loyalty, that I am guarding both of our best interests?”

Her eyes widened slightly—only slightly—but it was enough for Rhys to know he’d hit a nerve. “I’m . . . It’s not easy for me to trust people. I find it’s better to keep to myself.”

Feeling as though he’d won a hard-fought battle, he suppressed a smile. He was enjoying peeling away the many layers of Miss Derrington. What would he find when he’d stripped them all to her core? Would she even let him get that far? He hoped so—whether she was frustrating him with her skepticism or impressing him with her intelligence, he was utterly captivated by her.

He opened the door to her chamber and her intake of breath was both satisfying and exhilarating. “What a beautiful room.”

The view was not the sole reason they called it the garden room. It was decorated in a palette of colors that reminded one of a summer garden—greens, yellows, purples, reds, and blues. They shouldn’t have worked together, but they did. As did the wallpaper with the dainty garden scenes and the two paintings of gardens that adorned one wall.

“My mother decorated it. She passed within a day of my birth. I worried you might find it old-fashioned.” Because his mother had died nearly twenty-nine years ago, which put the décor at something between dated and ancient.

She turned her head, taking in the entire room. “Not at all. It’s classic and inviting. You never knew your mother, yet you keep this room as she wanted. That’s . . . nice.” Her tone had turned a bit wistful. She moved to the windows and surveyed the grounds below.

“I used to come in here when I was young. That’s her portrait, there.” He pointed to a small painting on a table against the wall. Elena Bowen stared back at them, her eyes dark and her hair darker.

Miss Derrington studied her a moment. “She was very lovely. I see where you get your eyes.”

“I liked to sit and talk to her, pretend she was actually here.” Why was he telling her this? He’d never told anyone about his mother. “It was foolish.”

“I don’t think so,” she said softly, turning toward him with understanding warming her gaze. “I have miniatures of my parents and I still talk to them. So if you find that foolish . . .”

“No, I don’t. I was trying to cover my embarrassment and
that
was foolish. I’ve never discussed her with anyone.” Why would he? He’d been intimate, meaning close, with precisely one person his entire life and the one topic he and his father rarely discussed was his mother. He’d had grandparents—his father’s parents—years ago, but they hadn’t known his mother well. She and Rhys’s father had only been married two years before she died. “Did you have grandparents when you were young? Maybe you still do.”

“A long time ago I had a grandmother and a grandfather, but they passed before my parents. I remember my grandmother—she was my father’s mother. She loved lemon cakes.” Miss Derrington shook her head as her lips curved into a subtle smile. “I’d quite forgotten about that—she always smelled of lemon.”

“My grandmother always pretended she didn’t like sweets,” Rhys said, “but I caught her sneaking a custard once. It was very late one night, I couldn’t have been more than six. I’d been stealing into my father’s study to read one of his books. I saw her. She saw me. A communication passed between us, and neither of us ever spoke of it.” Like Miss Derrington, he hadn’t thought of that in years, but it was a distinct and pleasant memory.

Miss Derrington abruptly turned away.

Rhys didn’t know what he’d said wrong, but whatever it was had clearly pained her. “What did I say?”

After a moment, she glanced back at him. “Nothing. I’m tired. If you’ll excuse me, I’d like to rest before supper.”

He knew she was lying, but he wasn’t going to pry. Miss Derrington held her emotions very close, and this conversation was one of the most personal they’d ever shared. He hoped it wasn’t the last, but acknowledged that he’d have to work hard to continue to chip away at her armor. Questions burned his mind: Why did she have it and why was he so determined to learn more about her? “Of course. I’ll see you then.”

He inclined his head, imparted a final look that he hoped conveyed his compassion, and turned to go.

Her lush voice halted him and begged him to face her once more. “We’ll revisit the manuscripts after supper?”

“I’d like to, yes.” He was glad she wanted to as well. They weren’t any closer to solving the code, but he—rather fancifully—hoped that being back in his study would provoke ideas that hadn’t yet come to light.

She nodded. “Until later then.”

“Until later.” This time when he turned to go, she didn’t stop him. He carried the disappointment back to his chamber.

As Margery made her way down to supper, she took in the dark oak paneling and balustrade, all of which were polished to a glistening shine. Hollyhaven felt like a bachelor residence with its woodwork and lack of feminine décor—save her chamber—but perhaps that was because Mr. Bowen seemed to dominate every corner of the house, even when he wasn’t in her presence.

She kept finding herself staring at his mother’s portrait and wondering what it would be like to have never known your mother. The ache of losing her parents was always with her, but she’d at least enjoyed ten years of happy memories to soothe the pain. But then, Mr. Bowen couldn’t really miss what he’d never had, could he? No, it wasn’t the same at all.

His story about his grandmother had sent a wave of tears to her eyes, but she’d averted her face from Mr. Bowen and blinked them back. She and her father had liked to visit the kitchens late at night when the house was dark and silent. They’d raided the pantry for whatever they could find and talked about all manner of things: what the weather might be, what they were reading, which of Mrs. Cole’s sweets were best—the currant tarts or the Shrewsbury cakes. Margery could almost hear her father’s deep voice extolling the delights of the currant tarts, his favorite, and she had to swallow back the tears again.

What was wrong with her? She missed her parents, but she’d long ago moved past such maudlin reactions. Why was she succumbing to melancholia now?

She wasn’t. She refused. Stiffening her spine, she continued downstairs to the dining room. Then stopped short as she stepped inside.

Mr. Bowen stood near his chair at the head of the table, while Penn was positioned beside another. Children didn’t typically eat with the adults, though Margery had when it was just her and her parents. That Mr. Bowen had included his charge was yet another mark in his favor. This was most displeasing when she was working so hard to maintain a purely academic relationship.

“Good evening, Miss Derrington, you look lovely, as usual.” It could’ve been a perfunctory compliment, but when the words were spoken with a velvety tone and accompanied a heated gaze, she had to accept he meant it most sincerely.

“Thank you. Good evening, Penn, I’m pleased to see you’re joining us.” She snuck a look at Mr. Bowen who seemed pleased that she was pleased.

They took their seats and a footman, supervised by Thomas, served their first course.

The conversation was stilted at first as Margery attempted to engage Penn, who was far more interested in the food than anything else. She gave up after a while, and the meal fell into silence.

During the second course, Mr. Bowen spoke up. “We should reach Caerwent by afternoon tomorrow.”

Penn’s gaze shot toward Mr. Bowen. “You’re leaving again?”

“For a short trip. We’ll likely return the following day.”
 

Margery stared at him. Was he expecting not to decipher the code? Or that the treasure wouldn’t be in Caerwent? She wanted to ask him why he thought the excursion would be brief, but didn’t want to discuss it in front of Penn. He seemed upset that Mr. Bowen was leaving again so soon, which she understood. His mother had abandoned him with a stranger, and now the stranger kept leaving him.

Penn went back to eating, though with far less energy.

Margery purposely changed the subject to something that might interest Penn—his digging for treasure. However, he still didn’t fully engage until the conversation somehow turned to pets. He’d never had a dog or even a kitten and listened raptly to Margery’s tales of the menagerie she’d tended as a child.

“Do you have any pets now?” Penn asked, his blue eyes wide.

“No. My aunt is allergic so I haven’t had a pet in a very long time.” She turned toward Mr. Bowen. “I’m surprised you don’t have a dog or two. Don’t most bachelors appreciate canine companionship?”

“I don’t know. My father wasn’t fond of animals. He said they’d interrupt his work.”

“That was your father,” Margery said. “What about you?” She wanted to suggest he get a dog or at least a cat—for Penn’s sake.
 

Mr. Bowen shrugged. “I never gave it much thought, actually.” He glanced at Penn for a pensive moment, then the arrival of the dessert course interrupted further conversation as Penn dove into his bread and butter pudding.

What seemed like a scant few minutes later, he asked to be excused from the table. Mr. Bowen nodded his assent, and the boy disappeared from the dining room.