The Forgiven Duke (A Forgotten Castles Novel) (12 page)

“I’m so glad.” Alex stretched out her hand and clasped his frail one. She gently squeezed his withered hand. “What did she say to you?” Alex’s voice was careful and soft.

“She said a great thing is hidden in my things and we must find it . . . together. She said if we find it, we will change the world together. She looked at me and said . . . I have the key.”

Alex leaned in, very calm and still. The men remained as quiet as statues in the background. “Did she say what it was they were looking for? Did you find it?”

He gazed at the crevice overhead, a streak of light in the stone-bound ceiling. He looked around the cave and at them, up and around again, and then he leaned toward her, his bushy white eyebrows raised. “I have the key.” He chuckled with a low sound—mad but alight with joy—then he quieted, still rocking.

“Enoch.” Alex leaned toward him. He looked at her afraid, shaking his head and backing away. “Enoch, I am her daughter. She would want me to know.”

Everyone sat still, breaths held. Everything stopped as they awaited a madman’s answer, their minds suspended as to what it might be.

Enoch. Please.
Alex silently begged with her eyes.
Trust me.

“We eat first,” he rallied. “And then I will show you the book I showed your mother.”

THE LAMB STEW, AND SHE
was sure it was lamb stew having grown up on the staple, tasted like dust in her mouth despite the ravenous hunger the overland march had placed on her stomach. There was just so much to think about. Who was this mother who could tame madmen from their hiding places? Who was this woman who knew of keys and mysteries and held within herself the wherewithal to solve them?

The world as Alex knew it, the world she had created for her child’s self, stretched like an oddly shaped bubble around her, ill-fitting and threatening to burst, asking her to question everything she’d built in her mind. She looked over at John as an anchor, but he seemed adrift in this place too, skidding along against the craggy lava rock and wildly blue bubbling pools with an increasing air of desperation. Where had his easy camaraderie gone? The teasing answers and quick smiles of confidence? The feeling that their few kisses would stay them for a lifetime?

Did anyone know what they were really doing? She had been so sure . . . but not now.

Alex exhaled and bit down on her lower lip. She sat on the rocky edge of the cave’s bathing pool, took off her boots and stockings, and plunged her feet into the pool. Swishing her feet back and forth and closing her eyes, she dangled in the hot, bubbly water. She’d let the old man get to her. She needed to remain steadfast in her mission.

Taking a deep breath, she let it all go, at least for a moment. She didn’t worry about the next movement and what they needed to find. She just leaned back her head and reveled in the warm bubbles against her toes, trusting God to show her the way.

Something touched her shoulder.

Her eyes fluttered open. Enoch stood next to her, holding out a book. It was in very good shape. Perfectly kept. She opened it and turned through the beautifully drawn pages in the artistic Celtic script similar to the script in the Lindisfarne Gospels. The language was Icelandic and impossible to read, but she kept looking through it, looking for the clue he was trying to show her.

She turned to the last page, so blue, with a pool drawn below the walls of a cave, and there sat a girl with her feet dipping into the pool. It was newer. The ink recent.

Alex inhaled and looked up into the pale blue eyes of a half-blind madman. He tapped his finger against the page. “I know you.” He smiled deep into her eyes.

“This is how you know me?”

“Yes.” He reached into a pocket and drew out an iridescent green and blue feather. Then he reached into the other pocket and took out a stone of black lava. He placed them in Alex’s hand, closing her fingers gently around them. “I’ve been waiting for you to come.” He tapped again on the picture in the book. “Featherstone. She drew it here for you.”

Alex looked up at him in question, her blood roaring in her ears.

“The key,” he touched the book with a gnarled finger, “is there.”

Chapter Twelve

J
ane, how are you this morning?” Gabriel came into the breakfast room, seeing his sister staring off into space, her breakfast untouched. He placed a hand on her shoulder as she turned, looked up at him with those stricken eyes she tried to hide, and gave him a wobbly smile.

“I’m all right,” she clearly mouthed.

It wasn’t true, of course. The clear fact that she was trying to keep her pain from him caused a pang in his chest. What Jane needed was something to do. Something to take her mind off of things for a while. Wandering around his town house, alone much of the time, wasn’t helping her at all. She dreaded callers except from family. Didn’t want to go out into society. Hmm.

Gabriel bent down and kissed her cheek, then went over to the sideboard where platters of food were set out. “You know, Jane, I was thinking of going to the British Museum today. Would you like to accompany me?”

She rose to fetch the speaking book, one of many that lay about in each room of his house now. She returned to her chair and patted the seat next to her, which Gabriel took, thinking it was a good sign, even though he usually sat at the head of the table.

Jane wasn’t confident in her ability to converse through lipreading and preferred to write it out.
What are you looking for? Does this have something to do with Alexandria?

His family had heard about the reason he had gone to Holy Island and then all the way to Ireland, but he’d told only Jane the full story. Her eyes had filled with shocked laughter and admiration when he told of waylaying the captain in Holy Island, then being shot before sailing off to Ireland. She’d shaken her head in amazement at Alexandria’s ability to stay one step ahead of him and clasped her hands in romantic glee when he told of the masquerade ball. She had been won by Alexandria’s steadfast quest to find her missing parents and admired the young woman already.

“Yes.” He hesitated, not sure how much to tell her about what the Featherstones had been hired to find. “There is an important manuscript that has disappeared from the collection Hans Sloane gave to the British Museum. I find myself rather curious about it and the British Museum seems a good place to start asking questions.”

Jane arched a brow at him and took back the book. “You’re worried about her, aren’t you?”

Gabriel let out a breath, his attempts at being glib about the matter dissolving with her forthright, questioning eyes. “Well, yes I am. There are some very powerful men looking for that manuscript, and she has placed herself right in the thick of things.” He looked off into the far corner of the room. “I’m chafing at the regent’s bit here. Biding my time isn’t a specialty of mine, if you must know.”

He turned a grim smile upon her. “I find if I don’t do something, at least
feel
like I’m doing something useful to help her, I will go mad.” He rubbed his chin, elbow propped on the table beside his plate, shooting her a side glance. “Would you care to join me on this wild adventure?”

Jane laughed. The first real laugh since Matthew’s death. Even though Gabriel couldn’t hear the sound of her laughter, he could see it on her face and he was glad for that, so glad.

“Well, eat up then.” He took a bite of eggs. “We’ll need our strength if we’re to skulk about London today.”

She put her hand on his forearm. “Thank you, Gabriel, for everything.”

He could only nod at her around the sudden knot in his throat and then motioned for her to eat. Which she finally did.

GABRIEL AND JANE TOOK THE
formal coach with the St. Easton coat of arms on the sides, pulled by four grays as it would be the most comfortable for Jane in London’s dreary cold, at least that was what Gabriel thought would be best. But she only sent him a small smile and a slight shake of her head when she saw that he’d ordered it.

Charlotte, the oldest of the sisters, would have insisted on it. Mary, the middle sister, would have been embarrassed by the grandeur but too caring of his feelings to call him on the carpet about it. Jane rolled her eyes and hopped inside. Ah, women. Who could understand them?

It wasn’t long before they pulled up to the elegant Montagu House where the British Museum was housed. Gabriel had sent word that he was coming and would like to meet with the principal librarian, so it didn’t surprise him when they were met in the front entrance hall by a man who promised to lead them to Mr. Planta.

They passed rooms full of sculptures and busts, paintings and drawings, bookcases filled with every kind of book from the King’s Library, and every imaginable earthly curiosity from Captain James Cook’s objects of the South Seas to the foot of Apollo from Greece. They were finally led to the Manuscript Salon, where Mr. Planta rose and came over to meet them. He was an old gentleman but thin and agile with deep-set, intelligent eyes. He bowed to Gabriel and Jane, taking her hand and leaning over it.

Gabriel waited while Jane explained the need for the speaking book as they had decided she would do. He could employ Meade with other tasks this day as Jane had a fair hand and a quick mind when interpreting what someone was saying, though she did go into much more detail than Meade, which slowed the process at times. Never mind; she needed to get out of the house and have a task that made her feel needed.

They were directed to a seating area by the long row of windows and served tea.

“How may I be of service, Your Grace?” Planta asked with kindness in his eyes. Older gentlemen, Gabriel was finding, had more compassion with “afflictions” and thought of them less as a weakness than an occurrence of change in one’s life.

“Are you aware of the missing manuscript from Hans Sloane’s original collection?”

“Yes, of course.” He nodded vigorously.

“When did you learn it was missing?”

“We catalog and inventory every spring. It was discovered missing about five and a half years ago. May of 1813.”

That would make sense. The Featherstones were hired in October of 1817, time for all the players to learn of it and begin searching for it. But someone had managed to get ahold of a partial copy of it, and that copy must have been copied, sold perhaps, and now it appeared there were three partial copies, one in England, one in Spain, and another in France, if Brooke was to be believed. Did Mr. Planta know of the existence of the partial? Gabriel wasn’t sure he should tell him if he didn’t.

“Were there inquires about it?”

Mr. Planta launched into a lengthy description while Jane wrote furiously, trying to keep up. She finally passed it over to Gabriel.
Yes, over the years there have been many, many inquiries since the manuscript was stolen. The Antiquities Society had been in an uproar, of course, and that had led to all sorts of speculation making the manuscript the most-talked-about item in the collection for a time. There had been questions from foreign dignitaries with speculation as to what exactly the manuscript had been about. There was even one time when Mr. Planta was quite sure he was being followed home each day, but seeing his routine so regular and perhaps, boring, they gave up. But he did start to carry a walking cane with a knife blade that popped out of the end. His wife had thought he’d lost his wits, but they had eventually left him alone. The most he knows about the manuscript is that it has a design for some sort of machine written in it, but no one to his knowledge had ever attempted to build it. He had told anyone who asked exactly that. Did the duke have new information?

Yes, the duke did,
Gabriel thought dryly, but he dared not breathe a word of what he’d seen in the palace. “Not really, just a matter of some treasure hunters hired to find it, and now they’ve come up missing. Nasty business, that.”

Jane wrote as Mr. Planta talked.
Oh, my. No one knows who might be behind their disappearance?

“Sadly, no. They’ve vanished from the face of the earth it seems, and I’ve been appointed guardian to their daughter. She has a keen desire to find them, as I’m sure you can understand. I thought you might know something useful.” Gabriel braced his elbows on his knees and rubbed his chin with one hand, looking off into the distance, deep in thought.

Jane started writing again. She passed the speaking book over with wide eyes.
He says there is one thing he always thought odd about the whole affair. A letter came to the museum one day. He hasn’t shown it to anyone because he thought it must be a prank as it wasn’t signed.

“May I see it?” Gabriel asked him.

Mr. Planta nodded and went off to fetch it.

They waited, sipping tea that had gone cold as the gray light of London’s skies hovered around them. Jane shivered, looking at him with a mix of worry and anticipation.
Wonderful
. She was smitten, he could see it. She would end up like Alexandria, taking on cases of mysteries to be solved and getting herself in the middle of trouble.
Never mind. If it chased the shadows from her eyes, it would be worth it.

Planta returned and held out a small note. Gabriel looked at the address on the outside and his heart began to thud. It was Alexandria’s handwriting. He was sure of it. He lifted it closer and studied the postmark. It was from Italy. Florence, Italy. How could that be?

“How long ago did you receive this letter?”

“Six months ago, give or take. It was the end of June, I believe.”

Could Alexandria have been in Italy in June? It seemed impossible, but he had learned long ago that when it concerned her, nothing was impossible. Gabriel opened the letter and read the one line, etched out in that same flowing hand.

We’re very close to finding it, but they are watching us. Send help!

He looked up at Mr. Planta, who raised his eyebrows in silent question. The realization hit him like a bludgeon to the head. This wasn’t from Alexandria; it was from her mother. If she looked like Alexandria, then couldn’t they have similar handwriting? He imagined Ian and Katherine Featherstone in Italy, in trouble.