Page 86 of No One's Bride
Sebastian approached the bed.
It was pointless asking the man questions, so he continued with the fabricated story. “Joshua told me about the rare copy ofUtopia. I wished to gift it to the university. Are all men not seeking enlightenment?”
Yet Sebastian’s awakening hadn’t come from the pages of an old tome.
If it means that much to you, you may have the book.
Ailsa’s words had unlocked a door he kept barred. It was where he hid his vulnerability, where he stored an inner yearning for companionship, where he kepthopeprisoner.
“Though I suspect the best form of enlightenment is to look within,” Sebastian said, recognising the shift inside him. “The truth lies in the shadowy places one avoids. The mind is often the greatest deceiver when a man is searching for the right path.”
A heart that had sat like an immovable stone in his chest now thumped so wildly he could hardly catch his breath. A feeling deep in his bones said he’d been granted a second chance at life.
Mr Chadwick reached out and gripped Sebastian’s hand, a sudden youthfulness shimmering in his dark eyes. “You look well. Happy. It’s so good to see you home, Joshua.”
They were the mutterings of a sick man, yet they resonated deep in Sebastian’s chest. Home was a term used to suggest belonging. To some, it was a house, a village or town.
To Sebastian, it was a shared breakfast at Fortune’s Den, an embrace in a dark bedchamber, a row at an auction, an erotic coupling in the garden.
Anywhere was home when with the woman he loved.
ChapterSeventeen
Mr Daventry sat in the drawing room, considering the recent developments in the case. He had made notes about Mr Smith and agreed to investigate the matter with the Alien Office.
“I find it hard to believe I wasn’t informed of Smith’s involvement.” A little annoyed, he rubbed his sculpted jaw, though Ailsa wished he would bring the meeting to a swift conclusion.
Pressing business left her restless.
Business that included talking and kissing and any activity that would appease the need to feel close to Sebastian.
“And St Clair has had no luck locating Hibbet’s mother?”
“No. The house has been boarded up for a year.”
“Sir, I suggest we visit Mrs Murden and confiscate the coded letter sent by Mr Hibbet,” she said, hurrying matters along. “It may contain important information.”
Sebastian agreed. “Hopefully, Christian Chance can decipher the missive.” Equally keen to leave, he shifted in the seat beside her. “Though if the markings in the grimoire are messages from French spies, Smith may use his authority to claim ownership of the evidence.”
Ailsa glanced at him, wondering why he had not mentioned Michael’s book. Based on what they’d discovered this afternoon, did he fear his brother was a spy?
Mr Daventry drummed his fingers on the arm of the wing chair. “We need to know who sold the grimoire. And if the person is part of a plot to trade secrets.”
“We’ll visit the auction house before returning to Fortune’s Den,” Sebastian said. “Murden will have a record of the transaction.”
Ailsa contemplated kicking his foot. How were they to have a moment alone if he kept adding to their list of queries?
Since breaking the spell, was it not imperative they examine their feelings? Would their kisses continue to be as passionate? Would their lovemaking be a thoroughly sensual experience? Or would their enthusiasm soon wane?
“Hibbet must have known about the coded message in the grimoire and suspected Mangold was a spy,” Mr Daventry mused. “Else, why would he arrange to send the book to Smith?”
“Perhaps that’s why he had the book of sigils,” Ailsa said. Sensing something was amiss, Mr Hibbet must have studied it secretly. “And it would account for the theft of a similar grimoire last year.”
If the markings in Michael’s book were any indication, spies had been using the method to share secrets for years. It was a clever plan. Most people were too scared to open spell books. Others thought them a pile of old nonsense.
“But why kill Hibbet in such a ritualistic fashion?” Mr Daventry fell quiet for a moment. “If Mangold wanted rid of him, why not stab Hibbet in the heart and be done with it?”
“How can Professor Mangold be the killer? Mr Smith said nae one entered the auction house that night.” Ailsa wasn’t sure they could trust Mr Smith’s word. His cronies were likely scouring the streets of London, hunting for the murderer.
