Page 24 of When a Lady Desires a Wicked Lord
Or had he told Benedict the truth?
Was it possible she unknowingly possessed the map?
Professor Stockwell would not have kept her in the dark. He’d trusted her implicitly. Unless…unless he believed he was somehow protecting her by withholding that crucial bit of information.
She picked up the professor’s journal and stared down at the cramped, precise script. Was it possible the aging scholar had concealed information in plain sight?
As a girl, she and her younger sister had often occupied themselves with games of intrigue. Jennie had written messages using juice she squeezed from lemons, advancing in sophistication as she concocted formulas that could be developed using a bit of sodium carbonate. Could the professor have used some sort of invisible ink to sketch out a map to some unknown archaeological find?
With the journal in hand, she rose from her desk, moved to the window, and opened the curtains. She held each page up to the light. The notes bore no trace of indentations where a pen might have left an imprint, nothing to indicate the professor’s journal contained anything other than rather tedious details of the excavation.
Mrs. Thomas returned with a pot of tea and shortbread on a silver tray. “Is there anything else you would like me to prepare for you?”
The biscuit’s rich, buttery aroma drifted to Alex, but at the moment, she had no taste for it. “No, thank you,” she said, peering down at the documents in her hand. Heat from the teapot wafted to her. If the professor had utilized a heat-responsive ink, would the warmth from the silver vessel be adequate to develop the notations?
She waited until Mrs. Thomas placed the platter on a side table and left the room, then tested her theory with each leaf in the notebook. Nothing. No change in the paper. No sign of a hidden symbol or map.
Pouring a cup of Earl Grey, she set the journal aside, took a sip, and resumed her examination of the message captured in the photographic image. Crudely drawn by a dying man, the symbols presented a challenge she had not anticipated. A pair of wavy lines. The letterV. Something that might have been meant to indicate the letterM. The icons bore little resemblance to Egyptian hieroglyphs. Was there a message to be found in the figures? Or were the faint letters and pictographs the product of a wounded man’s delirious thoughts?
Taking up her hand lens, she brought the emblems into keener focus. Not of Egyptian origin, she mused. She was certain of that. Could the symbols be derived from Greek?
“The post has arrived,” Mrs. Thomas said as she padded back into the study. “I’m quite sorry to disturb you, but I thought you might wish to see what’s come for you.”
The housekeeper held out an envelope addressed in Stockwell’s distinctive hand. Taking the letter in hand, she stared down at the script. Emotion swelled deep within her. This was likely the last correspondence she would ever receive from the professor. Scalding tears burned the back of her throat as she fought to hold them in. She had to maintain her composure.
“Is something wrong?” Mrs. Thomas asked, her voice soft with concern.
“No,” Alex said with a shake of her head.
The housekeeper furrowed her brow and gave a little shake of her head. Had she seen through the harmless little lie so easily? Not surprising, really. Deceit had never been Alex’s strong suit.
“Are you sure of that, dear?”
Alex sighed. “Is it so very obvious?”
Mrs. Thomas nodded. “Are you forgetting I’ve been with the Quinn family since you were scarcely past your father’s knee? I know when you’re upset. What’s happened?”
“I received word last night that Professor Stockwell has…died.” How very painful it was to utter that word.
“Oh, dear,” Mrs. Thomas cupped a hand over her mouth. “I’m so very sorry.”
“I am not entirely sure what happened. I shall let you know the details when I become apprised of the full circumstances.”
“I know how much the professor meant to you.” The housekeeper brushed away a tear of her own. “He was a good man.”
“Yes,” Alex said, choking back her grief. “He was an original.”
“I’ll give you a bit of privacy, my dear,” Mrs. Thomas said. “If you need me, I will be in the kitchen, preparing my order for the market.”
“Thank you,” Alex said as the housekeeper quietly walked away.
Taking up her pearl-handled letter opener, Alex neatly slit the envelope and removed the neatly folded missive. A tear slid down her cheek, and she swept it away with the heel of her hand.
How had everything changed so very quickly? Less than twenty-four hours had passed since Rooney had invaded her home.
As she perused the letter, her breath caught in her throat.
No. This cannot be.
