Page 20 of Every Duke Has His Thorn
“I solved the first clue,” she said brightly, meeting his gaze. “The first stanza refers to the library, not the nursery. We were taking the words at face value.”
He raised his brows. “The library?”
“The key is the line: In the place where stories are not told. Stories aren’t told in a library, they’re read.”
“Well done! I see that now. Then the next clue must refer to something in this room?”
“I believe so.” She smiled, and he forgot there was anyone else in the room but themselves.
He retrieved the poem from the drawer of his desk and proceeded to read the next verse aloud:
Eat, drink, and be merry,
A Marvell it would be to find,
Lines seven and eight in a Horatian Ode,
The author quite far from unkind.
“The dining room?” her father asked.
“It can’t be that easy,” Miss Davies replied, again chewing a corner of her lip.
The movement caused him to stare overly long at her lovely mouth. The carriage clock in the room chimed the hour, startling him from his trance. He rose to his feet, loath to leave but if he didn’t he would be late to meet his solicitor. “Please let me know if you decipher the next clue. I just remembered I have an appointment. With my solicitor. In the village.”
He needed fresh air and to think about something other than Miss Davies’ lips. His explaining overly much about an appointment was proof enough that the young woman had him flustered.
Preston sincerely hoped he would solve the next clue before the young woman did. She was making him feel rather obtuse.
The architect and his daughter rose to their feet. He nodded briefly to them and strode from the room.
A Marvell it would be to find.
As he made his way to his waiting carriage in the courtyard, an idea came to him. After he returned from the village and his meeting with Mr. Taylor, he would test his theory out.
Preston met his solicitor in the village at a cottage at the end of Friargate Street.
“Thank you for coming, Your Grace. This cottage is currently rented out to a man that I believe is your former steward.”
He couldn’t imagine Mr. Sparks would stay in the village after fleeing Barton Hall. “How did this information come to your attention?”
“The house is owned by an elderly man who heard the rumors about the steward leaving your estate. His eyesight isn’t good, but he is sure he recognized his new tenant as Mr. Sparks. The owner of the house gave me a key.”
The solicitor knocked at the door of the cottage but there was no answer. He then unlocked the door and walked in, Preston behind him.
“There are signs of recent occupation,” he said to Mr. Taylor, eyeing dirty plates on a tiny table in the room. The nearby hearth was cold.
The cottage comprised a main room which served as kitchen, dining room and drawing room. An open door led to a small bedchamber. The two men looked through the rickety dresser and found nothing but a few pairs of stockings.
“Would you like me to station someone here to wait and see if he comes back to the cottage?” the solicitor asked.
“I’d be surprised if he returned.” He told the other man about the makeshift billet discovered in the airing cupboard at Barton Hall. Perhaps his anonymous guest was Mr. Sparks rather than one of the laborers. If his former steward was reckless enough to seek accommodation in the village, who knew what he was capable of.
Especially if the man thought there was treasure to be found in Barton Hall. Preston advised Mr. Taylor to keep an eye on the cottage for a few days despite not believing Mr. Sparks would return.
* * * * *
“What would you like me to do today?” Marina asked her father after they had exited the hall out into the sunshine of the day.
