He loved her, he loved her not.
She felt like she’d been through a war.
He switched tactics, running a hand down her arm, and, predictably, she weakened all over. It was uncanny, this effect he had on her. And not only was her body weak, her heart was weak as well. Slowly but surely, Ford was conquering it, conquering her, robbing her of her of her good sense.
“Marry me, Violet,” he said in a fierce whisper.
Because too much of her wanted to blurt out yes, she took a step back before once again searching his eyes. Which meant she couldn’t really see them. In vain she willed them to give up his secrets. Perhaps feminine intuition skipped a generation?
She loved Ford—of that she was certain. But as for the rest, she was only confused.
“Marry me, Violet,” he repeated. “Please.”
And before she could answer, she was back in his arms.
When he kissed her this time, she forgot why she wasn’t sure she could marry him. She forgot she’d decided not to touch him. She forgot her own name.
And when he finally released her, she grabbed her spectacles from him and ran.
Out the door, through the garden, across the wide lawn to the portico and front door.
“Violet!” Mum called. “Dear heavens, what has happened?”
“He asked me to marry him again, the wretch!” she screamed before slamming the door.
“THE LAST OF the champagne.” Joseph handed Chrystabel half a glass before climbing into bed beside her. “How is our dear eldest doing?”
“She’ll survive. She didn’t want to talk at first, but she was glad I returned her spectacles.” Chrystabel sipped, letting the sparkling liquid slide down her throat and soothe her frayed nerves. “He shouldn’t have proposed again so quickly. His timing couldn’t have been worse.”
Joseph took the glass from her and drained it. “What do you mean?”
She sighed. “Following your ill-timed announcement of her inheritance, and Rose’s subsequent comment—”
“Ouch.”
“Yes, but it wasn’t only that. His sister also spilled past history, confusing Violet. It reinforced her fears that Ford’s true motive is money rather than love.”
“She could be right.” He grinned, clearly not understanding the gravity of this situation. “You married me for my money.”
Well, he was just a man, so she shouldn’t expect him to understand. Giving in to his playfulness, she punched him lightly on the shoulder. “I did not. I married you for your flowers. How else would I make my perfume? And without my perfume, I’d have no excuse to visit and chat with all the neighbors—and find out Nancy Philpot’s son has left the army and is living with a Parisian courtesan.”
“Ah, I see where that outrageous bit of gossip could be much more important than money.” He set down the empty glass and took her hand. “But are you certain that was the only reason you married me?”
She pretended to consider. “I suppose insuperable desire may have also played a part. But it definitely wasn’t the money.”
“It won’t come down to money for Violet, either,” he told her, and turned to blow out the candle, plunging the room into darkness.
While he burrowed under the coverlet, Chrystabel remained upright, thinking. “You agree with me, then? That they’re well suited?”
“Of course, darling.” Joseph’s arm snaked around her waist and pulled her down to nestle against him. “When have you ever been wrong?”
FIFTY-FIVE
SOME PLACES never changed. The King’s Arms, a tavern in Oxford where Ford and Rand had whiled away many an evening during their university years, was one of them.
Occupying their usual spot at one of the long tables, the two friends supped on pigeon pie and ignored a loud argument about radical politics taking place just behind them. That was nothing new, either. John Locke’s challenging ideas had germinated here in Oxford, after all, while he was an undergraduate at Christ Church College.
His pie disposed of, Ford nursed a tankard of ale, trying to be patient while Rand detailed his father’s latest transgressions against him. The two had never seen eye to eye, which explained why a marquess’s son would choose an unglamorous academic career in Oxford over a life of leisure and luxury at home.
Not that Rand wasn’t happy here. Only nineteen years of age and already gaining notoriety in his field, he was on track to become the youngest Professor of Linguistics in the university’s history. And he was doing it all with no help or encouragement from his family.
After finishing both his tirade and his ale, Rand stared pensively into the empty tankard, fingering his mustache. “If you’ve come to ask about the translation, I’m afraid I have no good news for you.”
Ford’s heart sank. “What seems to be the problem?”
“It’s more difficult than I had anticipated. There are words—and symbols—that seem unrelated to any language I’ve ever encountered.”
“Symbols?” Ford frowned. “I saw a few formulas, which was one of the reasons I thought it might be Secrets of the Emerald Tablet. But those were just numbers, mathematics—”
“Not that. There were a few pages stuck together—”
“I opened a couple and saw nothing special, and I was afraid I might tear the paper.”
“I steamed the rest open. Most were stuck from age, I imagine. But one…one, I believe, was on purpose.”
“On purpose.” Ford sipped, swallowed, tried to tamp down his rising hopes. “Are you thinking it might be the page that reveals—”
“No, nothing like that. I see no indication the secret you’re searching for will be found on a single page. It’s not going to be that simple.” Rand’s words reminded Ford of his family telling him something similar. “But this page is at the end, and it seems to be a legend for part of the code—perhaps for the author’s own use. There are words—most of which I cannot read—with other words beside them, like a list, you understand?”
Ford nodded. “Go on.”
“Well, that’s the page that has some odd symbols.” Rand tipped his tankard,
