But it was not in the Kingstag library, and now Viola Cavendish had just said there were no other atlases in the castle. Her face, though, had gone blank for just a moment after she said that, as if remembering something. Perhaps she suspected there was another?
He thought hard about it as they went about the remaining tasks. They delivered the almanac to the players in the drawing room and found the housekeeper, who promised to send a footman to the stables in search of a chain. He trailed after Mrs. Cavendish as she scoured a storage room, finally holding up a battered piece of metal with a pleased exclamation.
“Will this serve as a crown, do you think?” she asked, lifting it above her head.
“Hmm? Yes.” He had to know about that atlas, but was it better to ask her now, or wait until Wessex returned and ask the duke directly?
Some of the humor left her face at his curt reply, and Wes immediately regretted it. “A fine crown indeed,” he said more heartily, reaching for it. “Does it suit me, since I’m to be the doddering old king who wears it?” He set the thing on his head and crossed his eyes.
She smiled uncertainly. “Very well, sir.”
“Then a crown it is.” He took off the cylinder, which had probably once been part of a chandelier, or perhaps a base for a glass dish. It was tarnished and bent now.
“We should get Lady Bridget’s approval before congratulating ourselves.” She headed toward the door.
“Mrs. Cavendish?” She paused, but didn’t look back. “I apologize,” Wes said. “For my abruptness.”
“Oh no, my lord,” she began, but he made a low noise in his throat and she fell silent.
“May I confide in you, ma’am?”
Slowly she turned to face him fully. “Yes, but . . .”
“But your loyalty lies with Wessex; I know.” He smiled wryly. “You must have wondered what brought me to Kingstag in the middle of winter.” She said nothing, but her green eyes were fixed on him. Wes thought he might drown in those eyes, and knew he was doing the right thing by being honest with her. “I am looking for a particular atlas Wessex may own. He may not, but neither of us knows for certain. I came to Kingstag to see if it’s the one I desire, and if so, if I can persuade Wessex to sell it.”
“What sort of atlas?”
Wes’s face softened in memory. “A very dear one, to me. It’s a Desnos atlas, which are not common, but neither are they very rare. But this one was once my father’s. He died while I was away—Tahiti—and by the time I returned home, it had somehow been consigned with other old books and sold. My mother didn’t know it was anything special, but that was the atlas he showed me when I was a small boy. It inspired my interest in foreign lands, from the wild Americas to exotic China. I would like to have it back, for the notes he wrote in the margins, his observations of other peoples, tales from his voyages—” He stopped, unexpectedly overwhelmed.
“Was he a great traveler as well?” she asked softly.
Wes nodded. “Not as much as he would have liked. He took me on my first voyages around Europe. My mother and sisters stayed home, but he took me, a raw stripling without two ounces of sense.” He grinned, shaking his head at the memories. “As I grew older I went with others and sometimes off on my own, while he returned home to manage Winterbury Hall. Much as I did when he died.”
Mrs. Cavendish crossed the room. “I’m very sorry you lost him, sir.”
“Call me Winterton,” he said, savoring the blush that colored her cheeks. “And thank you.”
“I understand why you wish to reclaim the atlas,” she went on. “I probably shouldn’t say so, but the duke recently bought an atlas, as a gift for the duchess. He isn’t likely to sell it, whether or not it was your father’s. Are you certain the one you seek isn’t among the others in the library?”
“I had a look the other day,” Wes admitted, “and didn’t discover it. The bookseller I contacted in London said he’d sold a Desnos atlas only recently to Wessex.”
Mrs Cavendish looked at him with compassion. “I don’t think he’ll sell it,” she said again.
Wes mustered a smile. “I shall have faith as long as possible.”
“Perhaps it’s not even the same one.”
“Perhaps.” But he suspected it was. “I don’t suppose you could show me the one Wessex bought recently?”
She drew back. “No. I don’t even know where it is. His Grace asked me a few questions when he was searching for a gift for Her Grace, but I had nothing to do with it otherwise. I know nothing except that he thought the maps and illustrations in it would appeal to Her Grace.”
“The Desnos atlas does have splendid illustrations.”
She chewed her lip for a moment. “I’m sorry I cannot help you.”
Wes opened his hands wide. “I didn’t expect you to do more than you have. I shall have to wait until Wessex’s return to see if it is my father’s old atlas, and if I can persuade the duke to part with it.”
“I wish you luck,” she said softly. “His Grace is devoted to his family. He might understand.”
Wes couldn’t help smiling back. “Thank you, Mrs. Cavendish.”
There was an odd moment as they stood there beaming at each other. Even though she’d all but driven a stake through his hopes, confirming that Wessex likely did have the atlas while at the same time making clear why the duke was very unlikely to sell it to him, Wes found himself feeling happier than he had since arriving in Dorset. There was something about her face that made him want to smile every time he caught a glimpse of her. She was lovely, but it
