Page 27 of Every Duke Has His Thorn
To his disappointment, only Sir Joseph waited for him in the library. The architect confirmed the work on the roof of the hall had resumed. Sir Joseph took his leave, and a footman entered the library carrying a silver salver.
Preston took the letter resting on the plate. Breaking the seal of the vellum with a silver letter opener, he saw it was from his aunt. Her carriage had reached the village last evening, and she would soon be on her way to the hall.
The housekeeper had set up a bedchamber on the ground floor in anticipation of Lady Barton’s arrival. His father’s younger sister was his closest living relative and a very stubborn woman. He anticipated her decision would be to stay at the hall.
He took a few moments to think about the next clue to the treasure. He pulled his copy of the verse from his trouser pocket as he carried the poem with him everywhere these days.
The ribbon should be part of the title,
A pretty light color of pink,
Part of a pastoral scene,
The location. Just think.
Not for the first time, he wondered at the language of the poem. It was not written in an older, more formal style. Perhaps his aunt might know who may have written the verses. And when.
A commotion in the entrance hall reached his ears. He heard the unmistakable strident tones of his aunt, Lady Barton. Never married, she had drifted in and out of his childhood, her constant travelling inspiring him to want to travel himself.
Rising to his feet, he made his way to the entrance hall.
“Preston! There you are!”
His aunt was tall, dark-haired as his father had been.
“Shall we take tea in the drawing room?” he asked the lady, extending an elbow gallantly.
She took his arm and replied, “I am positively parched, my boy. I hope you employ a decent pastry chef.”
Once in the drawing room, he sat on a Queen Anne side chair once his aunt was settled on a plush sopha. The lady looked about her.
“Are there going to be changes to this room?”
He shook his head. “The ceiling will be cleaned, but as in the other rooms that need work, I don’t plan on any alterations.”
“Very good.” She added with a sniff, “Architects these days want to modernize our old piles.”
“Sir Joseph prefers to restore, not replace.”
“I’ve heard good things of him. His wife was the daughter of one of our neighbors in Oxfordshire.”
He replied, “My neighbor Mr. Grayson mentioned the connection. I don’t remember the family.”
She shrugged. “You haven’t been to the abbey since you were a child. You never met the old Earl of Banbury.”
“He is deceased?”
“Yes.” She added with a grimace, “He was a nasty piece of work, an overbearing man who tried to control his wife and daughters. The girl who was disinherited was lucky to get away.”
He wouldn’t show too much interest in the family. Miss Davies fascinated him enough as it was. His aunt was too observant, and he didn’t want her to think he was enamored of the young lady when nothing could be further from the truth.
“You are content to reside at the hall while the restoration takes place? There are several comfortable inns in the village.”
His aunt chuckled. “You’re not getting rid of me so easily, nephew. I gave you time to settle in before I came barging in on you. I am happy to make do with whatever accommodations are available in the house.”
He’d imagined as much. “The dining room is in chaos so we will take our meals in this room. My housekeeper has prepared a bedchamber for you near mine on the first floor.”
The tea tray arrived. The maid set it on a low table in front of his aunt. The girl curtsied and exited the room.
