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The years fell away in an instant. Just as it had been that day fourteen years before, the small calf-bound map book was lying within, undisturbed in its nest of papers.
With shaking fingers he took it up. The surface was smooth and worn, the pages dog-eared, stained, and torn in places.
It was beautiful.
“Is that it?”
Clara had dropped down to the floor across from him, the delicate silk folds of her ball gown billowing about her like a cloud, the dark wool cloak a stark contrast where it lay against the finer fabric. But it was her face he could not tear his gaze from. Her eyes glowed in the candlelight and were glued to the book, as if there were something sacred about it.
His heart warmed that she could so fully understand the importance of such a simple, worn thing to him.
“Yes.”
“I’m glad.” She smiled, her relief for him palpable. It shone brighter than the candle’s flame, that smile, until he found an answering one spreading across his own face. It was something he never thought to do in this house again.
“We should go,” he murmured, rising to his feet, helping her up. “With luck we will not have been missed yet. And Peter won’t have cause to call me out on the morrow.”
Her laugh, light and low, trailed across his skin. As he bent to secure the door back in the bottom of the drawer, Clara took up the candle, and the flickering candlelight washed over the hidden space, bathing it in a golden glow.
Frowning, he froze. His father had always kept childhood drawings and small notes and mementos in the compartment—things the man had held precious. They were all still there, as they’d always been.
But an odd bundle lay within as well, snagging at his attention.
Without a word he reached inside, taking it up. Then, sweeping an arm out, he scattered the teetering piles of correspondence and merchant notes from the desk in a billow of dust and laid his father’s bundle on the dull surface. There was no doubt in Quincy’s mind that it had been put there by his father before his death; the secret chamber had appeared just as it had the day Quincy left for America, undisturbed and undiscovered all this time.
Why, then, could he not remember just what this packet was?
“Quincy, what is it?”
“I’m not certain,” he muttered. He worked the twine loose, unwrapped the brown paper packaging, and began rifling through the items within: a dance card, a lock of jet-black hair encased in a brooch, a small collection of letters tied up tight with string. And…
“A deed,” he breathed.
He raised the expensive vellum with shaking hands, bringing it closer to his face in an attempt to read the formal words. As if heeding his call Clara moved closer, positioning the flame so it illuminated the document. He could not even muster a smile for her in thanks, so desperate was he to read the contents.
Some minutes later, the air thick with tension and dawning excitement, he raised his head and looked to Clara. Her lovely face was drawn, worry in every line.
“What is it, Quincy?”
He grinned, his entire body thrumming with excitement. “This might be the thing I need to save the dukedom.”
Chapter 11
My dearest Clara (for that is how a man should address his fiancée),
I hope you’ve arrived safe on the Isle. London is frightfully dull without you lot here. How I managed the last year without Peter’s glowers and Lady Tesh’s haranguing I’ll never know. Speaking of Lady Tesh, has she forgiven me for remaining behind? I’ll make it up to her and am prepared to unleash my full arsenal of charm to do it. Anything to prevent that deadly cane of hers from finding my nose…or any other part of my person, for that matter.
Mr. Richmond is quite certain after a cursory examination of the deed that it is genuine. And I have learned something incredible about the property that will stun you speechless. But as I’m bursting to write it down, and have determined I would rather see your face when you learn of it, I had better sign off now.
Yrs,
Quincy
My dear husband-to-be (for two can play at that game),
Why you have insisted on keeping the identity of the property a secret I don’t understand. I, of course, was willing to overlook such a thing when you feared that the document might be false. But now I do think it prudent that you tell me everything you can. It’s what a proper fiancé would do, after all.
The trip to Synne was long and tedious but uneventful. I had thought to perhaps rest, seeing as the engagement ball was firmly behind us and I could not very well run to the milliner’s to discuss fabrics. Aunt Olivia, of course, had other plans. As I ruined my best traveling gown with ink while trying to copy down her lengthy lists in a moving carriage, I’m not inclined to look favorably on the experience.
