Rand gave a weak shrug—a shrug that alarmed Lily, because it suggested he might have given up. Could Lord Hawkridge have been right that Alban had stopped journaling? The thought was so distressing she was afraid to voice it aloud.
“This is the sum total of Alban’s rooms,” Rand said dully. “Perhaps he shared the marquess’s study.”
But Rand’s father was in his study when they went there to search. He looked up from his paperwork, impatiently tapping his quill on the desk as he swept all three of them with a cold gray gaze. “I can assure you,” he said curtly, “you will find nothing of Alban’s in here.”
Lily deliberately smiled, a smile she suspected would have done Rose proud. “My lord, I’m certain that your son, as your heir, would have assisted you in the tasks of running your estate—”
“Of course he did. He was never a man to shirk his duties.” Lord Hawkridge’s eyes swung toward Rand, as though to say he was one to shirk.
Lily felt her hackles rise. Rand had had no choice but to make his own life—not if he’d wished to survive. And though his life would be changing now, he certainly deserved time to grow accustomed to the idea.
Besides, she could see no need to rush. Lord Hawkridge appeared almost indecently healthy for a man of his age, not that he was elderly to begin with. Fifty-two, Rand had said. And for all they knew, he could live to be a hundred and two.
She forced her lips to remain curved in that smile. “Did Alban do that sort of work with you here in this study?”
“Of course not. I told you, there’s nothing of Alban’s in here. He converted part of the library into a study for himself.” With that, he looked down and scribbled something on one of the papers in front of him.
“Converted part of the library,” Rand muttered as they trooped upstairs. “I suppose his own three rooms weren’t large enough.”
Their footsteps sounded muffled on the woven rush matting that covered the floor of the long gallery. Gilt-framed family portraits lined the lengthy chamber, hung on dark, gilt-trimmed panel walls. Noticing one in particular, Lily stopped.
The painting showed a younger Lord Hawkridge standing behind his seated lady, who held a white kitten on her lap. Her blue eyes looked kind, and Lily liked her on sight. The marquess’s eyes looked…happy, she decided in surprise.
He must have been very much in love.
Lady Hawkridge wore a lovely pink dress and the beautiful diamond pendant Rand now had in his pocket. “I see your mother did love that necklace,” Lily said with a soft smile.
Rand nodded. “Maybe this picture is why I still remember it.”
Beside that portrait, another young man gazed from a canvas, a man Lily guessed to be Alban. He resembled Rand, except his hair was darker, his expression cooler. His eyes, however, of indeterminate color, looked so cold as to make his smile seem warm in comparison.
There was, of course, no portrait of Rand.
“Professors do not rate paintings,” Rand said dryly beside her, apparently reading her mind.
She looked back to the picture of his parents. She could almost see the woman’s graceful fingers stroking the silky, purring cat. “She looks very loving,” she said of his mother.
“She was. The only love I ever received.”
“Not the only,” Lily said quietly, and Rand squeezed her around the shoulders.
Kit had gone ahead through the library and into a small room beyond, where a massive desk took up most of the space. Upon entering, Rand immediately moved behind the desk and began opening drawers.
Kit was already pulling books off the shelves. “These are deep,” he said. “There’s another row of books behind the first.” He gestured to the opposite wall. “Lily, you can start over there, and we’ll meet in the mid—”
She was heading over to do as he suggested when she heard his indrawn breath. She swung back. “Have you found them?”
“I think so.”
Behind the books he’d removed sat a long row of multicolored spines, none of them marked with titles. As he drew one out and opened it, a grin spread on his face.
“Yes, this is a journal. An older one, from 1664. Now we just need the most recent.”
Her heart racing with renewed hope, Lily pulled out another and flipped open the cover. “I cannot read it.”
“It’s in code,” Rand told her, standing over her shoulder.
“Oh, right.” The dates, at least, weren’t encrypted. She turned pages, noting this one ran from mid-1668 to early 1669. “And you got in trouble for breaking the codes.”
“Did he ever,” Kit confirmed with a wry grin.
“When I translate the latest journal,” Rand said, “it will get us out of trouble. Let’s find it.”
But though thirty-odd journals crowded the shelf, none of them were the most recent. They looked behind the books on all the other shelves, floor to ceiling, but there were no more journals to be found.
An hour later, when they’d closed the last cover of the last book in the small room, Lily dropped onto a chair. “What now?”
Rand’s jaw set. “We search the rest of the house.”
“It’s gigantic! And one small journal could be anywhere…if it even exists.”
“It exists,” Rand forced through gritted teeth. “My brother didn’t record his deeds for twenty-four years and then suddenly stop.”
Lily felt as though her emotions were on a swing. Down and then up. Up and then down. Dejection settled in for now. “It could take days. We could still be searching when the priest shows up to marry you.”
“Lily.” Rand came over and took her face in both hands, raising it for a soft kiss. “We will find it, and when the priest comes, he will be marrying us.” He looked to Kit. “We
