Page 14 of The Hidden Lord
In the dim light of the Bodleian’s depths, Alaric Devayne smiled the cold smile of a predator who had finally scented his prey.
CHAPTER 4
“And yet it must be done, for it is the best way.”
Sir Thomas Malory,Le Morte d’Arthur
JANUARY 25, 1822
Friday morning arrived with the sort of crisp winter clarity that made even the most mundane errands seem charged with possibility. Henri adjusted her gloves as the carriage wheels found their rhythm on the London streets, her mood bright with anticipation. Today was perfect. Danbury would be home, receiving visitors before the Monday auction, and she would finally examine that mysterious manuscript.
Yet beneath her excitement lay a persistent flutter of anxiety. What if the manuscript revealed nothing useful? What if Signor di Bianchi’s sketch was merely the fantasy of an artist’simagination rather than a genuine clue? What if she had got his hopes up only to disappoint him again?
Henri pushed these doubts aside, focusing instead on the thrill of the chase. This was precisely the sort of adventure that made her blood sing, the kind of intellectual puzzle that had drawn her to Uncle Reggie’s political work in the first place. Here was mystery, intrigue, and the tantalizing possibility of uncovering secrets that had lain hidden for centuries.
The journey from her family estate on the outskirts of London proved longer than Henri had anticipated. Despite the footwarmers tucked beneath their feet and the heavy woolen traveling rugs draped across their laps, the January cold seeped relentlessly through the carriage walls. Henri’s breath misted in the frigid air, and she found herself grateful for the thick cloak that enveloped her from throat to ankles. The windows had frosted over within the first mile, creating intricate patterns of ice that obscured the winter landscape beyond.
The carriage lurched and swayed over rutted country roads that had yet to benefit from proper maintenance, each bump and jolt making her stomach lurch. The iron-rimmed wheels clattered loudly against the frozen ground, occasionally striking stones that sent sharp vibrations through the vehicle’s frame. Henri steadied herself against the worn velvet squabs, their rich burgundy fabric slightly damp from the cold. The smell of leather, lacquer, and wool filled her nostrils.
Outside, the winter countryside rolled past in muted shades of brown and gray. Bare trees etched grim patterns against the pale sky, their branches heavy with frost that reflected the weak sunlight like scattered diamonds. Occasionally, Henri caught glimpses through the clearer portions of the windows—a farmhouse with smoke curling from its chimney, a flock of sheep huddled against a stone wall, a frozen pond reflecting the colorless sky.
“Miss Bigsby,” Miss Dulwich ventured from her corner of the bench, her hands folded primly in her lap beneath her traveling rug, her voice slightly muffled by the woolen scarf wrapped around her throat, “perhaps you might explain why you requested I bring along that particular volume?”
Henri could see the moral struggle playing out across her companion’s features. Miss Dulwich was a woman of impeccable propriety, and Henri’s erratic behavior clearly troubled her deeply. Yet loyalty to Henri’s family and perhaps a grudging fondness for Henri herself kept her from demanding to be returned home immediately.
Henri glanced at the shabby book resting beside her, a tattered copy ofThePilgrim’s Progressshe had purchased for a few shillings from a street vendor. “All will become clear presently, Miss Dulwich. Trust me.”
The chaperon’s expression suggested that trust was precisely what she found most alarming about this expedition, her normally composed features pinched with cold and growing concern. “Miss Bigsby, I must express my reservations about this entire undertaking. Your behavior of late has been … most irregular.”
“Irregular times call for irregular measures,” Henri replied cheerfully, then lifted the book and, with great deliberation, began tearing pages from it. The paper crackled in the cold air, each tear unnaturally loud in the confined space. Miss Dulwich’s gasp of horror created a visible puff of condensation. Another particularly violent bump sent both women swaying against their seats, and Henri had to grip the book more firmly to prevent it from sliding to the floor.
“Miss Bigsby! What on earth?—”
“I am creating evidence,” Henri replied serenely, applying her teeth to the leather binding with the dedication of a determined terrier. The taste was rather unpleasant. Bitter anddusty, with an undertone of old glue and something indefinably animal. But the effect was exactly what she required. The cold had made the leather harder, requiring more effort to create convincing tooth marks. She persevered, imagining herself as one of Sir Alpheus’s overeager hounds. “One must commit fully to one’s role, you understand.”
“Evidence of what?” Miss Dulwich pressed, her voice climbing toward hysteria, each word accompanied by its own small cloud of vapor. “And why must you … oh, dear heavens, why must you chew it?”
“Canine literary preferences.” Henri examined her handiwork with the critical eye of an artist, then gnawed another section for good measure, the sound unnaturally loud in the enclosed space. “Sir Alpheus’s hounds have notoriously expensive taste in literature. I am merely providing proof of their latest transgression.”
Miss Dulwich stared in fascination and terror as Henri continued her rigorous destruction, the carriage’s constant motion adding an element of chaos to the proceedings. The vehicle swayed as they rounded a corner, and several torn pages fluttered briefly before settling again on the floor like fallen leaves.
“Are you quite certain you have not taken leave of your senses? This deception … surely it cannot be necessary?”
“I have never been more certain of anything in my life.” Henri piled the torn pages about the bench, tucking several pieces into Miss Dulwich’s reticule for later deployment. The paper felt crisp and fragile in the cold, crackling softly as she moved it. “This adventure shall prove definitively that I can keep a secret. Mama will be so proud when I tell her—” She paused mid-gnaw, struck by the fundamental contradiction in her reasoning. “Which, of course, I cannot do, as it is a secret.”
The irony was rather delicious … and disappointing.
Miss Dulwich leaned forward slightly, her moral distress evident in every line of her posture. “Miss Bigsby, I feel compelled to ask what drives you to such lengths?”
Henri considered the question seriously, pausing in her destruction to meet her chaperon’s worried gaze. “Have you ever felt, Miss Dulwich, that your life was like a drawing room? Perfectly arranged, utterly predictable, and completely stifling? I have spent years managing Uncle Reggie’s correspondence, attending the proper social functions, saying the proper things to the proper people. But this …” She gestured with a half-gnawed piece of leather. “This is real. This is discovery. This is the chance to uncover something that …” Henri stopped, gathering her thoughts. “There is logic behind the madness.”
“At what cost?” Miss Dulwich asked quietly.
“At whatever cost is necessary,” Henri replied, surprising herself with the conviction in her voice.
As the wheels transitioned from country lanes to the better-maintained roads approaching Danbury’s estate, the ride became marginally smoother, though no warmer. The landscape began to change, winter-bare hedgerows giving way to more manicured parkland, and Henri felt her pulse quicken with anticipation. She explained Miss Dulwich’s crucial role in the deception, her words visible in the frigid air.
Miss Dulwich regarded the chewed leather with evident distaste, holding the pieces gingerly even through her gloves. Her face had gone quite pale, whether from cold or moral anguish, Henri could not tell. “And what if we are discovered in this deception? What if Sir Alpheus realizes what we have done?”
