Page 63 of The Hidden Lord
And apparently,Henri thought with wonder,whathe values is me.
Gabriel maneuvered their captive through the kitchen door, depositing the man roughly on a wooden chair before binding his hands behind his back with his own cravat. Henri watched her husband work with growing admiration for his competence under pressure. Every movement was deliberate and controlled, suggesting considerable experience with such situations.
“Now then,” Gabriel said once their prisoner was secured, his statement carrying the kind of cold authority that Henri imagined had served him well. “Perhaps you would care to explain why you have been pursuing us.”
The gaunt man—Henri still did not know his name—looked up with pale eyes that burned with frustrated anger despite his obvious head injury. “You’ve no idea what you’re interfering with,” he said, his accent carrying traces of French that Henri had not noticed during their previous encounters.
“Then enlighten us,” Gabriel replied coldly.
Henri pulled up another chair and settled herself where she could observe both men, fascinated by this glimpse into Gabriel’s professional capabilities. She had seen him charm information from innkeepers and merchants, but this was different. This was interrogation, measured and menacing, by someone who clearly understood how to extract truth from unwilling subjects.
When the silence stretched on, Gabriel began to search around the kitchen. Eventually, he turned, holding a large butcher’s knife, his expression so cold and purposeful it fairly took Henri’s breath away. He stroked a gloved fingertip over the blade, his implication evident.
“My name is Alaric Devayne,” the man said at last, his gaze fixed for several seconds on the gleaming blade. “I’ve spent thebetter part of two years pursuing references to something known asRegis Aeterni.”
Gabriel’s expression did not change, but Henri caught a subtle shift in his posture that suggested the name meant something to him. “And what is your interest in this organization?”
Mr. Devayne’s laugh was bitter and entirely without humor. “Organization? I’m not even certain it still exists. I found some old journals hidden away in a forgotten room at the Bodleian Library in Oxford. The ramblings of some long-dead scholar obsessed with Arthurian legends and a secret society who served the Eternal King.”
Henri arched her brows. So thisRegis Aeterni, Latin for Eternal King, was a reference to Arthur, then. Which explained their strange quest to old landmarks of his reign. The Bodleian Library was where any serious researcher would go to investigate medieval manuscripts and historical mysteries. If Alaric had been working there, he might well have encountered the same sources that had led Gabriel to his interest in the Malory manuscript.
“These journals,” Gabriel asked carefully, “what did they tell you aboutRegis Aeterni?”
Henri realized that Gabriel did not seem surprised by the disclosure of the secret society, making her wonder just how much he already knew about this madness.
“Enough to know that they were supposedly the guardians of something infinitely valuable,” Mr. Devayne replied, his fevered intensity returning as he spoke. “Something that has been hidden for centuries, waiting for the right person to claim it. The journals spoke of a powerful artifact, hidden away by this secret order until England has need of it again.”
Henri exchanged a glance with Gabriel, recognizing the same mixture of skepticism and interest in his expression that she feltherself. King Arthur was the stuff of legend, but they had already followed a trail of very real clues to very real locations. Perhaps there was more truth to the old stories than either of them had initially believed.
“And you thought you could find this legendary artifact by pursuing the Malory manuscript?” Gabriel asked.
“The journals mentioned specific texts, specific clues that would lead to the hidden cache,” Alaric said, desperation edging his reply. “Malory’s work was supposed to be one of the keys. I’ve sacrificed everything! My position, my reputation, my future … chasing this opportunity.”
Henri found herself almost pitying the man, despite the terror he had caused her. There was a tragedy to his obsession, the way it had clearly consumed his life and driven him to increasingly desperate acts.
“You threatened my wife,” Gabriel said, his tone growing colder. “Might you have done worse?”
Alaric’s expression crumpled, and for the first time since Henri had encountered him, he looked genuinely remorseful rather than merely frustrated. “There was an old scholar in Oxford. Horace Pelham. He had access to a first edition ofLe Morte d’Arthur.”
Henri saw Gabriel go very still, though his expression remained unchanged. The name clearly meant something to him, something important enough to cause such a reaction.
“I went to see him,” Alaric continued, apparently unaware of Gabriel’s response. “I thought I’d convince him to share his knowledge. But the old fool was stubborn, suspicious. He refused to discuss the book I was interested in, claimed he had never heard ofRegis Aeterni.”
“So you killed him,” Gabriel said with a deadly calm that made Henri’s skin prickle with apprehension.
“It was an accident!” Alaric protested, his composure finally cracking completely. “I never intended for anyone to be hurt. I only wanted to search his study, to see what materials he might have hidden away. But he returned unexpectedly while I was there, and when he threatened to summon the authorities …”
Alaric trailed off, but Henri could fill in the rest of the story from Gabriel’s expression. Whatever had happened in Horace Pelham’s study, it had ended with an old scholar’s death and this desperate man’s flight into obsession.
“But you did not find what you needed in the book. Then you learned about the Danbury auction.” Gabriel still spoke with that menacing calm.
“I thought it was providence,” Alaric responded bitterly. “The very manuscript I needed, appearing at exactly the right moment. I was prepared to do whatever was necessary to obtain it.”
Henri remembered the terror of that morning in Danbury’s library, the way this man had been willing to use violence to get what he wanted. He had already killed before. She shuddered to think what might have happened if Gabriel had not arrived when he did.
Gabriel moved with fluid grace, to stare out the kitchen window at the darkening sky. Henri could see the tension in his shoulders, the way his hands clenched and unclenched as he processed what they had just learned.
“Gabriel,” Henri said softly, recognizing that her husband needed a moment to regain his composure. “Should we send for the magistrate?”
