Page 113 of All Scot and Bothered
Nothing. He had nothing to give her because he’d been born nothing. Hollow.
Empty.
CHAPTEREIGHTEEN
“Will you notplaywith me, Cecelia?”
Phoebe’s voice was generally dear and sweet, but it reached an octave the next afternoon that penetrated Cecelia’s tearful headache and tried her apparently finite reserves of patience.
“I’m sorry, darling, but it’s imperative that I finish this.” Perhaps if she’d slept rather than sobbed, she might feel differently, but alas, she endeavored to solve this situation with ever more haste so she could run away—no, not away, butback. Back to London.
To her life.
She could not stay here with Ramsay. Not after last night. Not after how many times she thought about abandoning everything, her ideals, her needs, her responsibilities, and her pride to fall back into his arms.
“But you finished that bookyesterday,” Phoebe said with a plaintive whine. “Why have you started it over?”
Because she had to have missed something. She stared down at the coding text index, scanning the first page forany hint of a clue that might show her where to start so she didn’t have to read the whole blasted thing again.
“Can you not rest? Just for a bit?” Phoebe pressed, laying her doll over the open page. “I’ll let you be Fanny de Beaufort, even though she’s more beautiful than Frances Bacon.”
All the cogs and wheels of Cecelia’s thoughts ground to a halt as the girl’s compassionate offer plucked something out of her brain. She leaved through the index back to A through D.
B. Bacon. The Baconian cipher.
And not too far beneath… Beaufort!
Cecelia flipped to the corresponding chapter. The Beaufort cipher was a polyalphabetic grid where one must have the key word to unencrypt language.
Holy God. The hint had been thedolls’names all along.
Cecelia slid off her chair and knelt in front of Phoebe, caressing the doll. “Darling, did Henrietta ever tell you why she named Frances and Fanny?” she asked. “Did she ever mention a key?”
Phoebe shook her head.
No, she wouldn’t, would she? Henrietta had been too canny and careful to leave anything so important to the memory of a child.
“Please give me a little while longer,” she begged Phoebe. “And then I shall be finished, and we can play.”
“All right,” the girl said agreeably. “Might I stay here on the bed if I’m quiet?”
“Of course.”
The girl was not quiet in the least, but Cecelia focused the best she could, tapping her pen against her lip, trying to think of a word. Ofanyword Henrietta might have used as the key.
The key is in the color we both hold dear.
She bolted straight, remembering the letter. Of course! Henrietta was the Scarlet Lady, and Cecelia was a Red Rogue. Hortense, Henrietta, and Cecelia were natural redheads. Not to mention Francesca and, to a lesser extent, Alexandra. That had to be it!
She attempted to use the lettersredfirst, but it was too short. Andscarletdidn’t work, either; nor didruby,vermillion, orburgundy.
However, as soon as she established the wordcrimsoninto the Beaufort grid and used it against the integers, entire words began to form.
Elated, Cecelia sat back and stared at the first completed sentence.
The Crimson Council.
Beneath the bold letters was a list of names she carefully uncovered, and a few were so incredibly familiar, she gaped down for a lost expanse of time.
