The de Valery Code (32 page)

Margery was delighted to find Mr. Digby in the dining room the following morning and not Rhys. “Good morning, my lord.” She offered a slight curtsey.

He stood from the table. “Good morning, Miss Derrington. Your loveliness steals my breath.”

He had to be lying—she looked wilted from the heat, despite employing her fan to the best of her ability.

He inclined his head toward her accessory. “This is a day I should like to carry one of those. Though I daresay I might be a laughingstock.”

Her lips pulled into a smile. “Probably.” She closed her fan and selected a cake from the sideboard, then took a seat at the table with Mr. Digby’s assistance. “Thank you,” she said, looking up at him.

He retook his seat. “I hope you slept well. I’m afraid this heat robbed me of some much-needed slumber.”

“It’s oppressive, isn’t it?”

“Intolerable,” came a deep voice from the doorway.

Margery looked over to see Rhys moving over the threshold. His dark hair was brushed back from his striking features, and he was expertly garbed from starched cravat to polished boot. He didn’t look wilted at all. He looked virile and fresh, damn him.

Mr. Digby stood. “Good morning, Mr. Bowen.”

Rhys scrutinized the baron thoroughly.

“Mr. Bowen, this is Mr. Digby,” Margery said.

Rhys inclined his head. “I’m pleased to make your acquaintance.”

Digby nodded in response. “Mr. Bowen.”
 

After helping himself to breakfast at the sideboard, Rhys sat beside Margery. “How coincidental to see you here in Caerwent, Mr. Digby.” He shot Margery a glance that seemed to carry some sort of meaning, but she had no idea what.

Mr. Digby opened his mouth to respond, however Margery cut him off before he could say anything about the treasure. Until Rhys made a decision about whether he was going to listen to his friend from the Order or continue on their quest, she didn’t plan to tell him about moving forward with Mr. Digby’s help. She gave Digby a look that she hoped conveyed the message that he shouldn’t mention their dinner conversation. “Mr. Digby is here to tour the Roman ruins.”
 

Digby smiled at her, seeming to understand. “Indeed.”

Rhys looked between them, a mild frown tugging at the corners of his mouth. “They’re fascinating.”

Digby pivoted toward Margery. “I was hoping you would join me.”

She was most anxious to learn whether he’d come up with a plan to access the church. “That would be lovely, thank you.”

“It’s going to be quite hot again today,” Rhys observed, buttering a piece of bread. “You might be advised to postpone your excursion until the weather is more temperate.”

“Actually, I’d planned to go right after breakfast, before the day becomes too warm. The morning air is rather cool and refreshing after the stifling heat of the inn, wouldn’t you say?” Digby asked Margery.

“I would,” she agreed, noting the slight narrowing of Rhys’s eyes in Digby’s direction.

Rhys moved his perturbed stare to Margery. “We were to return to Hollyhaven today.”

They’d discussed it, but nothing had been resolved. In fact, any tentative plans they’d made had become moot with the disappearance of the manuscripts. She gave him a questioning look. “I believe our plans have changed. I
believe
you promised to find something that was lost.”

“There is that.” He took a bite of bread, his eyes glittering. He seemed quite perturbed this morning. He was the one who was considering ending their partnership—why should he be angry? Because he wanted her to stop the quest too, or maybe . . . Maybe he simply didn’t like seeing her with Digby.

Rhys’s potential jealousy stirred a sense of feminine pride. She batted her eyelashes at him. “Unless you’ve decided to return home without completing your objective?”
 

He scowled at her briefly before schooling his expression into an inscrutable mask. “I haven’t
decided
anything.”

Then why was he suggesting they return to Hollyhaven? She caught the dark look he directed toward Digby and confirmed her suspicion. He
was
jealous.

“What is your objective?” Digby asked before taking a drink of ale.

Rhys sent Margery a look that clearly said,
thank you for calling attention to our
secret
quest
. She returned his regard with a subtly raised brow. He was the one who’d made it
unsecret
by telling first Penn and then Septon about it.

Rhys straightened his shoulders. “I’m cataloguing certain antiquarian finds. In fact, if you don’t mind, I’ll accompany you on your tour today.”

Now it was Margery’s turn to scowl. “You said it was too hot for such activity.”

He smiled calmly, sending a nod toward Digby. “I think Digby has the right of it. If we go early and return before the sun is high, we should be comfortable enough.”

Margery looked at Digby who was now wearing a vague frown. He glanced at her and they exchanged looks that said they’d have to postpone any discussion about the treasure. That, or rudely deny Rhys the opportunity to accompany them. Although, Margery wasn’t sure that would be effective. In his current mood, she couldn’t guess what he might do.

Digby’s smile seemed forced. “Excellent.”

Margery finished her cake and stood. Both men got to their feet. “I just need to fetch my hat,” she said, picking up her fan.

“As do I.” Rhys pulled her chair back so she could exit. “We’ll meet you out front, Digby.”

Margery hurried upstairs with Rhys heavy on her heels. He followed her directly into her chamber where Jane was preparing to take the laundry downstairs. She dipped a curtsey, muttered “Pardon me,” then stepped around them.

Margery snatched her broadest-brimmed hat from a hook and nearly collided with Rhys, who was standing behind her. “Don’t you have to get your hat? In
your
room?”

“I will. What in the devil are you doing taking an unchaperoned tour with Digby?”

“‘Unchaperoned’? You must have feathers in your head. A public walk with Mr. Digby is far more appropriate than,” her mind fumbled to find the right words, but in the end she simply gestured between them, “
this
.”

His brows pitched low over his furious eyes. “There’s a villain out there—someone who’s sought to do you harm.”

“So Septon says.” She set her hat atop her head. “I’m just as safe with Digby as I am with you.”

“Not if he’s the villain.”

She glanced in the mirror hung on the wall and tied the bonnet beneath her jaw. “You’re just saying that because you’re jealous.”

“I’m not.”

She adjusted the bow before turning to give him a saucy stare. “Not
saying
that because you’re jealous, or are you
not
jealous?”

He gritted his teeth, and his flesh deepened in color. He hadn’t gone red—no, she didn’t think his complexion was capable of that. He only looked darker, more intense. Ridiculously handsome. “I’m saying that because he was one of the men who attended Stratton’s party. What if Digby’s a member of the Order who’s gone off?”

She’d completely forgotten Digby’s name had been on the list. “Septon’s name was also on the list and you trust him.”

“I’ve known Septon a long time.”
 

“Yes, you keep reminding me of that.” She tried not to let her frustration with Rhys cloud her judgment. She would be wary with Digby. “I highly doubt Digby is a member of the Order. He had nothing but unpleasant things to say about their methods.”

“What the hell have you discussed with him? The Order? The treasure?” He stood staring at her, his hands on his hips.

Margery licked her suddenly dry lips. She felt like the time she and her father been caught sneaking into the kitchen by their housekeeper, Mrs. Ingle. “He’s an Arthurian enthusiast. We discussed the Order at dinner last night.”

“And the treasure, I’d warrant.” He shook his head. “If he had derogatory things to say about the Order, that could support him going against them.”

“Why is that a bad thing? I realize Septon is your friend, but he’s a member of an organization that physically attacked you. I can still see the outline of the bruise on your temple. I think that leaving the Order would only add to Digby’s credibility.” She set her hand on her hip. “I’ve an idea. Why don’t you just ask him if he’s a member?”

“And if he is corrupt, how would that turn out?” He scrubbed his hand against his chin. “Members have tattoos on their legs. If we can verify he has one, we’ll know for certain.”

“And how on earth are we going to do that?”

He shrugged. “It’s hot. Perhaps we could find some water to dip our toes in. When he removes his stocking, we’ll see the tattoo.”

“Or not, if it doesn’t exist.” She shook her head at him, confounded by how this conversation had deteriorated. “A moment ago you were lecturing me about propriety, and now you want us to present our bare feet and ankles. Have you been locked up with your books for so long that you have absolutely no notion of what’s acceptable?” She ignored the irony in her question, considering that she had been the one to go to his bedchamber two nights ago.

“At least my academic pursuits provide me with an excuse. What’s the reason for your lapse in rectitude?”

She gasped, then narrowed her eyes at him. “I’m leaving.” She brushed past him and strode into the corridor.

“Go on ahead. I’ll catch up to you,” he said darkly. “I always will.”

After a torturous morning of enduring Digby fawning all over Margery and her seeming to not only appreciate it, but
encourage
it, Rhys was ready for a drink. And a long soak in a cold bath. He settled for a large basin of cold water and several pieces of toweling.

As he dropped his boots to the floor and peeled his stockings from his feet, he mused over his failed attempt to find even a small pond for them to plunge their feet into during their excursion. As a result, he still had no idea if Digby was a member of the Order. Which meant he had to go and ask Septon.

And that meant he had to decide what he was going to do—continue searching for the treasure or succumb to his old friend’s plea.

First, however, he was going to find some relief. He stripped off his clothes until he wore only his breeches. Then he wetted a towel and dragged it over his chest, closing his eyes at the respite the cool water provided.

He heard a door close and opened his eyes. Then he heard the creak of the adjoining door as Margery stepped into his room. And immediately halted upon seeing him.

Her hand clutched the edge of the door. “You’re . . .”

He nearly smiled at her obvious discomfort. “Undressed?” he offered blithely. “It’s nothing you haven’t seen before.”

She glared at him, then closed the door. “Jane’s gone to find some relief in the shade. I would’ve joined her, but I want an answer from you about the treasure. We can’t keep bickering.”

He took a perverse pleasure from bickering with her. Her cheeks flushed and her breasts heaved. It reminded him of when they’d been in bed together. “I’m still thinking about it.” He was almost settled, but he was enjoying her indignation far too much. He dragged the wet cloth over his shoulders and the back of his neck and sighed.

She stared at his movements, licking her lips as she’d done that morning. Had she no idea what she was doing to him?

Rhys’s cock twitched. If they weren’t careful, this could turn into something they were both trying to avoid. Perhaps he oughtn’t tease her.

“When are you going to make up your mind?” she asked, crossing her arms and then dropping them almost immediately, probably because such a stance was too hot. Damn, but the room was sweltering.

“Soon.”

“You’re only being difficult because you’re jealous of Digby. There’s no reason for you to be.”

He lowered the cloth into the water once more. “Isn’t there? You giggled over Digby’s every comment. I’ve never heard you giggle before.”

There was a glint of something in her gaze—female satisfaction probably. “Perhaps because your company isn’t as diverting.”

He snorted, wringing out the towel. Then, because he simply couldn’t resist, he scrubbed the cloth over his stomach and lowered his lids to give her a seductive stare. “I wager you find my company
plenty
diverting.”

She wore her simplest dress—it fastened in the front—and with quick flicks of her fingertips, she had the bodice open and strode toward him. “Give me that.”
 

She snatched the towel from his hands and dipped it into the water. She twisted the excess out, but not enough, and when she brought the cloth to her chest, rivulets ran down her breasts, soaking her stays and surely the chemise beneath. He imagined the outline of her form with her undergarments plastered to her flesh and went immediately and painfully hard. Though he’d brought himself to release after she’d left last night—there’d been no avoiding it—he felt as though he hadn’t achieved orgasm in quite some time.

She cast her head back and sighed deeply as she pressed the cloth against her neck.

Or maybe ever.

He took the cloth from her and rewetted it, squeezing it before bringing it back to her breasts. He swiped the towel over her garments, thoroughly wetting them, his gaze connected with hers.