Page 56 of Dukes Do It Better
“My father’s bank book. A journal of some kind, full of government secrets, with which my mother is attempting to blackmail His Majesty’s Royal Navy.”
“Correction.” Simon raised a finger. “She’s successfully blackmailed His Majesty’s Royal Navy. Too successfully. They want the book.”
“Right. I’ve torn the town house apart looking for it, but it’s not there. And Mother was bluffing—which is a problem now, since there appears to be a push for her to deliver the book in question. A note in George’s diary said Father’s secrets died with him. Then, dear brother delivered a leather satchel with unknown contents to our solicitor with instructions to bury it with him.”
“I’m impressed she could bluff so well,” Ethan commented, pacing the perimeter of the room.
“Oh, I don’t doubt she knows the contents of the book. Mother has enough information to hang over the appropriate heads. But the actual book? Signs point to it being here. Somewhere.”
As one, they turned toward the nearest coffin, where George rested for all eternity.
“Let’s look around before we take that step,” Simon said, glancing uneasily at the stone rectangle.
The crypt echoed the sound of shuffling feet as they searched every nook and cranny of the room.
“Does Emma know about this?” Calvin asked.
“I’ve told her about the book. But not this particular expedition.”
Calvin muttered a colorful curse directed at Malachi.
“Probably best to not blaspheme my ancestors when they’re so close at hand,” Malachi said blandly.
Working his way around the room, it became obvious that as fantastical as Grandfather’s design of the building had been, he hadn’t allotted for space to hide family secrets. Rather short-sighted of him, considering his son’s line of work.
The men met back where they began, gathered around the stone box with its thick slab lid, and stared in silence for a moment.
“How do we do this?” Simon asked.
Instead of answering, Calvin withdrew a flask from his coat and passed it around. “Liquid courage.”
One by one, the men took a swig from the metal canister until it came back around to Calvin.
“Crowbar, I think. Or shove it aside, maybe? Will a slide or a lift be easier?” Ethan crossed his arms and studied the coffin.
“How long has he been in there?” Calvin asked.
“Long enough to be…less than pretty.” Malachi grimaced. Which was the part he dreaded. Beyond the ethical implications of going against his brother’s dying wish and stealing from his resting place, seeing George postmortem disturbed him on many levels.
As if Simon read his mind, he turned. “Mal, will you be all right seeing your brother like this?”
When a rough swallow didn’t loosen his throat, Malachi held out a hand for the flask again. “I’m not sure. I’m hoping the satchel is by his feet. If we open this end, maybe it won’t be so bad? If we shove, it will be easier than lifting.” Taking another swig of liquor, he returned Cal’s flask and nodded his thanks.
Malachi hung the lantern on the wall and rolled his shoulders. The brandy had left a warm trail down to his belly, but the heat cooled under the weight of chilly dread. “No time like the present, I suppose.” He rested his hands on the slab and braced his feet. One by one the other men took places beside him until they all had their hands on the marble. “How heavy do you think it is?”
“Under a ton, by my estimate.” Calvin glanced over at them and saw them staring. “Once you know how heavy an inch-thick square foot of marble is, the math is quite simple.”
Simon shook his head and readied his stance. “On three?”
Malachi nodded. “One.”
“Two,” Calvin said.
Ethan finished the count. “Three.”
The marble let loose a rough groan of stone against stone as the lid scraped out of place. The smell hit him nearly as hard as the sight of George’s shroud. Silk, because their mother would never allow her son to be buried in wool.
Of one mind, the men stepped back and covered their mouths and noses with handkerchiefs, a coat sleeve, and in Ethan’s case, the hastily untied ends of his cravat.
