25

One month. One month to the day since that first Wednesday when it had all begun. When the man had found Libby on the beach and handed her the cannonball. One month since Oliver had knocked on her door and demanded to know where his sister was. One month that she’d called this cottage home.

How, in one little month, could her world have changed so fully? Libby trailed Beth through the cottage—hers, then theirs—toward the bedroom they’d both called their own. She’d known all along that someone else had stayed there before her. Many someones else. She’d known this was just a rented cottage that she’d spend a season in and then leave. But it hadn’t felt strange before.

It did now, following a former occupant into the bedroom and watching as she knelt down in front of the chest of drawers, reached under it, and peeled something off the bottom of the drawer that had always stuck.

Beth’s hand emerged with two pieces of paper. Or rather, one large piece of brown paper that closely matched the wood of the drawer, adhesive tape edging it. And a smaller piece of parchment that the paper had clearly been protecting.

A treasure map, hidden all this time beneath her stockings. Libby sank to a seat on the little desk chair while Beth flipped the parchment over and spread it on the top of the chest.

“If you’ve retrieved it, do bring it out here so the rest of us can see it, Beth,” Oliver called. The gentlemen, of course, hadn’t followed them into the bedroom. Which was good, because if they had, this whole situation would feel even more surreal, the place even less Libby’s, despite all her things still taking up residence.

Or some of them. Nearly half her belongings were in her room at the Moons’ now. And Darling had been curled up happily in Mrs. Moon’s lap when they left, seeming to have adjusted rather well to his new mobile life. The only possession still in this room that shouted her ownership was the microscope at her elbow.

This wasn’t really her room, wasn’t really her life. But being here had made the world of London and Telford Hall seem so far away, so unattractive.

She glanced out the door, catching a glimpse of her brother. He hadn’t said anything else about leaving—yet. Not while his best friend was set on finding a pirate treasure, not while Mamm-wynn was still largely unresponsive. But he would soon. He’d grant her a week, if she was lucky. It wasn’t enough though. If a month had been enough time to make her think this was where she truly belonged, one more week wasn’t enough to satisfy that yearning to curl into her place here. The rest of the summer wouldn’t be either. She wanted to see autumn paint its colors over the heather and gorse. She wanted to note the birds that left, the others to come. She wanted to watch for seals and whales and who knew what else as winter winds danced around the islands. She wanted to see fresh life spring up again months before it did on the mainland, covering the fields in flowers that the locals would harvest and send inland.

“Are you coming?” Mabena’s hand landed on her shoulder, her voice intruding softly.

Libby forced a smile but barely glanced away from the window she’d been staring out. “In a minute. Go on. I just need to memorize the view a bit more.” Who knew when next she’d see it? She meant to stay on Tresco until Mamm-wynn was well. After which Bram would try to make her go home. Try to make her marry Sheridan, who still hadn’t had the sense to object. And Mama would push for the same.

But what could she really do to argue? She had no means of her own with which to stay here—her inheritance was all tied to her dowry or held in trust by her brother. She was at the mercy of her family. Which had never been so bad before, but now . . .

She could hear her companions in the other room, their voices an odd collection she’d never expected to hear grouped together. Bram and Sheridan verbally jostled each other—probably as they physically jostled each other for the best view of the map.

“Easy, gentlemen.” Beth sounded half-amused and half-impatient with them. “We can’t even know for certain if it is a treasure map.”

“But it has an X!” Sheridan’s voice, other than being too deep, sounded exactly like a lad’s on Christmas morning.

“There are no landmarks though, no outlines to give us a hint as to which island it is.” Oliver, his tone contemplative. “How would we know where to begin or what it denotes? It could be leading anywhere. There isn’t even a compass rose to tell us how to orient it.”

“That was my concern too, hence why I’ve been using the copy I made of this original in a variety of locations. But up here in the corner—you’ll see what looks like ‘from the John.’ And that M made me think Mucknell. And look here.” A tapping, presumably as Beth pointed to something. “It says cave. Or maybe cavern—there’s a bit of water damage here. Which means, if it’s Scilly—”

“Piper’s Hole.” Mabena let loose a long breath. “On Tresco?”

“That was where I searched first, it being so near home. And I’ve looked several times since in the last month.”

Oliver’s huff might have been a laugh. Maybe. “Why do I have the feeling that if we noted when you’d been there, it would align with Enyon’s sleepless nights?”

Beth sounded sheepish as she said, “I’ve tried to be quiet.”

“Found nothing though, I assume?” Sheridan again, and the lad at Christmas had turned into one whose promise of his first fox hunt had been ruined by a downpour.

“No.”

“What about the Piper’s Hole here on St. Mary’s?” Oliver again, though not so much musing as enlightened. “That’s why you wanted to come here for the summer.”

“Well, I couldn’t just go poking around in the daytime. There are too many tourists about. I needed to be somewhere that I could easily do my exploring without anyone knowing. Though, again—nothing.”

“All right. What about where you found the map? Not that you’ve told us that bit.” Oliver seemed to be striving for patience in his tone, though she could hear its ragged edge. “Was there anything else in the same place that could be helpful?”

A beat of silence that spoke quite loudly. Louder than Beth’s voice when next she spoke. “Letters. From Mucknell to his wife. One of them mentioned that he would send her a songbird as a gift. I thought it was code, since that last ship was the Canary.”

“Secret codes. Perfect.” The lad at Christmas was back. “And that was the one with the silver, yes?”

“Yes, but I couldn’t find any other clues in the letters.”

“Well, get them out! I mean, that is—you could. We could help?”

Beth sighed. “I don’t have them here on St. Mary’s. They’re . . . back in the place where I found them. For safekeeping. But I’ll fetch them later.”

Libby really ought to go out and join them. And she did want to see the map—not that she’d have any better idea what it might be denoting than the locals did. And if it were water damaged, how could they even be sure they had all the necessary information? With a quiet sigh, she rested a finger on the mirror of the microscope and gave it a twirl. Light flashed over the walls, floor, ceiling. And into her mind.

Water damage—it would have washed away most of the ink. But not necessarily all of it. Just what was visible to the naked eye.

She surged to her feet, gripping the neck of her microscope. Maybe she did have something to offer. She hurried into the outer room and to the kitchen table around which the others all huddled. “I may be able to help!”

They turned to her, their varied expressions saying so much about them. Her brother—doubtful. Sheridan—surprised she was still there. Mabena—indulgent. Beth and Lady Emily—curious.

Oliver—perfectly confident in her.

She smiled and moved to the table, nudging Oliver out of the way so that she could capture the light from the window.

He didn’t seem to mind. “Excellent thought, Libby. We may be able to see under magnification what we can’t normally.”

Bram, predictably, snarled. “Libby? Her name is Lady Eliz—”

“Really, Bram. Give it a rest.” She sat in the chair Oliver held out for her and nudged the mirror until it caught the sunlight and angled it up through her eyepiece. The brilliance brought Orfeo springing up, but she’d only managed to hum the first four notes before Bram’s snort of laughter silenced her. Clearing her throat, she looked up at Beth. “May I?”

Beth passed the map to her, and her fingers closed around the worn parchment. It certainly felt old, and it looked it too. Having never really studied maps, though, she found the markings on it more scribbles than intelligible clues. How were they to know what the lines meant, and the dashes, and the swirly bits?

They weren’t relying on her to decode it though. Just to see if the parchment itself was hiding any other secrets. Praying her light was strong enough to help with that, she started in the corners that were intact and moved the parchment inch by inch to familiarize herself with how it looked.

“Well?” Sheridan.

Oliver chuckled. “Give her some time, my lord. I daresay she hasn’t examined much parchment under magnification before. It’ll take a bit of getting used to.”

She would have paused to shoot Oliver a grateful smile if she hadn’t just reached a portion that had some ink upon it. “How interesting.”

“What?” Sheridan must have abandoned his chair while she set everything up, because he pushed Bram aside and crowded her left side. “What’s interesting?”

“The ink. Under magnification, it’s quite interesting. I can see where the iron gall has rusted and turned brown and still make out a bit of the black base of it as well. And I can see the flow change with the pen strokes. Quite interesting indeed.” She moved the map around, rolling the edges gently out of the way so she could trace the path of the long-ago pen.

“How is that helpful? Do you think?”

She sighed. “I said it was interesting, Lord Sheridan, not helpful. Although—that’s odd.” She frowned and pulled away, blinked, then lowered her head again. “Probably nothing. But . . .”

“But?”

She slid the map back to the lines that were, presumably, some sort of directions. And then once more to where Cave was scratched into the faded corner. “Maybe it’s from the exposure to water?”

“What is?”

Really, how had her brother tolerated Sheridan for so long? She pulled away again, jumping at how close he was. He looked like he might shove her aside and peer through the eyepiece himself at any moment. Though at her scolding look, he inched away. A little. She cleared her throat. “The ink used on the word cave looks quite different from the drawing. It isn’t half so rusty.”

“Newer, then?” Oliver leaned against the table on her opposite side. “A later addition.”

“How much newer?” Beth tapped a thoughtful finger to her lip. “Indication that it’s been moved, do you think?”

“Or misdirection.” Sheridan straightened. “History is full of those, you know.”

They would have a better idea of that than she would, so she kept her attention on the parchment. Which was far more interesting than their conversation anyway. “Well now.”

“What? Well what?” Sheridan really did nudge her aside this time and put his own eye to the eyepiece. “What am I looking at?”

Libby scooted her chair a few inches away and sent her brother an exasperated look.

Bram just smirked back at her. “You knew what he was like before you agreed to marry him.”

Of all the . . . “I did not agree!”

Sheridan waved a hand in her direction. “Right, I know. I’m annoying and displace frogs. You don’t want to marry me. All well and good, but what in the world am I looking at?”

Beth nearly choked on a laugh. “You displace frogs?”

“With his excavations—he destroys their habitats.” Since he didn’t appear to be uncrowding her any time soon, Libby stood, which just led to his stealing the chair too. “And you’re looking at the parchment. It’s been scraped in that section.”

“Oh! So it has. That’s what those fibers are, I expect. That’s how they erased things, you know. Ink, from parchment. With a knife, I suppose.”

Libby folded her arms over her chest. “Perhaps that’s why I pointed it out.”

He didn’t seem to hear her mutter. “It does appear thinner there, and the scrape marks don’t match the area around it. And what’s this other bit? A shadow or . . .”

“Well, I don’t know. Someone stole my microscope from me before I could look any further.” She didn’t honestly expect that to garner any more of a response.

But he pulled back, stood, and waved to her chair with a sheepish grin. “Sorry. Almost. You might need to magnify it more—I daresay if I fiddled with any of the thingamabobs, I might find myself without fingers.”

“Smart man.” Bram looked far too amused.

Libby huffed and took her seat. She immediately saw what had grabbed his attention, on the side where the water damage began. It could well just be where the ink had washed over it. Or perhaps something more. She adjusted her lens to a higher magnification. And gasped.

“What!” Sheridan sounded frantic, but this time she’d fight him for the eyepiece if she must.

“Another word.” She nudged the mirror just a bit, smiling when the extra light shone through. “Yes. It looks like c-a—”

“Cave again?” Beth this time.

Oliver sighed. “Let her finish.” His hand settled on her shoulder, which was no doubt infuriating Bram. But it also told her that he knew she was on to something, and he trusted her to decipher whatever it was.

“Not cave. It looks like—an f. But then . . . t? That doesn’t seem right.”

“F or s, do you think?” Oliver’s fingers tightened on her shoulder. “Historically, an s in the middle of a word looks more like our f now.”

And when he made the suggestion, it didn’t irritate her at all, just made victory swell in her chest. “Oh, quite right! I’d forgotten that. Definitely an s then, making this . . . castle.”

For a moment, silence descended as she straightened and looked at those gathered round. Then an utter cacophony erupted as everyone started talking at once. Libby stood again, her gaze seeking Oliver’s. “How many castles are there, exactly, in the Scillies?”

“Three.” He looked much like Beth had when he tapped a thoughtful finger to his lips. “Star Castle here on St. Mary’s. Then King Charles’s castle and Cromwell’s castle on Tresco.”

That was a lot of crumbling stone to look through. “How do we know which one Mucknell had a connection with?”

“We don’t.” Yet he smiled. “But I know who would.”

She smiled. “To Tresco then, to visit Tas-gwyn Gibson.”

The evening was one of the finest they’d yet enjoyed that summer, the sun lingering long, the breeze warm and gentle, the temperature perfect. Oliver hated to spend such an evening inside, but he’d been a bit surprised when the entire company took him up on his offer to enjoy their pudding in the garden.

There they all were though, laughing and arguing over the letters Beth had somehow produced, though he hadn’t even noticed her slipping away to reclaim them, with his flowers as a backdrop. Evidence, undoubtedly, that her secret hiding place was somewhere nearby.

Oliver drew in a long, fragrant breath and leaned against the stone wall at the garden’s edge. Mabena had bowed out of dinner with them. She’d said it was because she’d had enough of the bickering and didn’t imagine their lordships really wanted to dine with a lowly former lady’s maid . . . but Oliver suspected it was more because she meant to accept the Wearnes’ invitation to join them for the evening meal. Lady Emily hadn’t come over from St. Mary’s with them either, which meant it was just Beth and Libby, Sheridan and Telford sitting there now, debating whether they ought to trust Tas-gwyn Gibson’s advice and try King Charles’s castle first.

The girls both agreed they’d better. The gents were less than willing to trust his grandfather’s instincts.

Oliver had already weighed in on Tas-gwyn’s side, and he didn’t imagine any further argument from him would achieve anything, so he’d gotten up to stretch his legs and come to see how his fuchsias were faring. Though instead of checking their leaves, he found himself just watching the four across the garden.

All right, mostly the one. His gaze kept returning over and again to Libby, as it always did and certainly had been doing all evening. They’d dressed for dinner—though he rather enjoyed the more casual meals he and Mamm-wynn had been having in Beth’s absence—which meant that for only the second time, he was beholding Libby in something other than a simple skirt and blouse. And while he appreciated her practical choices and loved that she fit so well with all his neighbors, he had to admit that seeing her in soft color that draped her form, her hair swept up, pretty much guaranteed that he couldn’t think of much other than her.

She was as lovely as the blossoms that surrounded her.

She looked his way, a soft smile curling her lips, and murmured something that he couldn’t hear from here. No one paid her any mind anyway as they continued to debate whether the drawn map matched the sketch of the castle’s layout that his grandfather had unearthed. Libby slipped from her chair and meandered in his general direction, though she paused at the rosebush for a long moment until her brother turned back to Beth and Sheridan.

Oliver met her in front of the thatch anchor and had to clasp his hands behind his back to keep from reaching for hers. “You’ve proven yourself quite the heroine of the day with your microscope discoveries.”

She waved that away, though her eyes still smiled. “We’ll see tomorrow if it was any help at all, I suppose. Do you think we’ll be able to obtain permission to search the castle grounds?”

He tamped down a grin. “The general wisdom is that what the Lord Proprietor doesn’t know about, he can’t refuse permission for.”

She chuckled. “A fine philosophy for exploring children or tourists—though I’m not so certain it’s the best one for the vicar and the headmaster to ascribe to.”

“Even so, the Lord Proprietor and I are on good terms. As long as we don’t destroy anything, I can’t imagine he’ll mind. And unless we mean to send a telegram asking for permission or wait for him to get home next month . . .”

“That would suit me fine.” She grinned up at him. “If I could convince Bram to let me stay until we saw it through to completion.”

If he thought they could keep Lorne and Scofield at bay, he might agree. But he had a knot in his spirit that just wouldn’t loosen whenever he thought of them. They wouldn’t sit around much longer, waiting for someone else to deliver them what they were after. Not with a second buyer promising Scofield money and the rivalry spurring Lorne on. Oliver had met men like these before—men who would stop at nothing to get the upper hand in whatever they were doing. Men who took the kind of petty tension he’d always had with Casek and magnified it more powerfully than Libby’s microscope could do.

Thoughts of Casek brought other thoughts, ones that made that knot cinch tighter. “Lorne hired a local lad before. I suspect he’d do it again—and we can’t let anyone else get tangled up in this.” The people of Tresco, of all the Scillies, were his responsibility. In part, anyway. And he didn’t want to be officiating any more funerals because of this.

“I know.” She rested warm fingers on his arm.

She did know. Libby wasn’t the sort who would ever put her own desires above another’s well-being. Just another reason he couldn’t stop looking at her. He smiled down into her eyes, wishing and praying. They hadn’t had nearly enough time together to make it seem reasonable to do something like propose. Especially not when she still had a few questions to answer for herself about the Lord—never mind the brother.

“Libby, hadn’t you better go in and sit with Mrs. Tremayne for a bit so I can walk you home at a decent hour?”

Or perhaps not never mind the brother. He seemed set on making himself a problem. They broke their gazes away from each other to look up at the shadowed face of Lord Telford.

Oliver’s gaze darted past him, and he frowned. “Where are my sister and Lord Sheridan?”

“On their way to the library in the hopes of settling an argument with the help of a book.” Not that Telford so much as met his gaze when he answered. He kept his eyes trained on his sister, and it was no wonder she’d always found the weight of it intimidating. “Go on. She’s your reason for wanting to stay, isn’t she? And you need to collect your cat from her bedside, regardless.”

Her shoulders rolled back, making Oliver think for a moment that she meant to argue. But then she sighed. “I do want to spend some time with her this evening—and Mabena took far too long on my hair to allow me to slip in before supper.”

“Go on, then.” Telford’s voice had gentled, and he even gave her a smile. “Take your time.”

She hesitated a second more and then sighed again. “Good night, Oliver.”

“Good night.” He watched her until she had the door open, though he knew what came next wouldn’t bode well for him.

Shockingly, when he turned back to Telford, he found his face absent of the mask of thunder. It was instead open. Frank. And far too worried. “I don’t mean to be an ogre,” he said in what must be his normal voice, rather than the one set on intimidating him. “It’s just—you’re a vicar. And she doesn’t even have any use for God.”

A perfectly reasonable objection, really. If it were true. Oliver drew in a long breath. “I don’t think I’d have any use for the version of God she’s been taught either.”

Telford frowned. “Pardon?”

“A god who supposedly created a world we cannot understand, yet who himself can be handily put in a little box and tucked into my pocket?” Oliver shook his head. “Our Lord is the opposite of that. He has created a universe of order and rules—but He himself is so much bigger. So full of mystery. Your sister is coming to understand that, I think. And when she does, I have a feeling she’ll realize she not only has a use for God, but the greatest need of Him.”

The fact that Telford didn’t immediately respond told him he was letting the words sink in. Still, he sighed. “Even so. Forgive me for having pried, but I know your family spent their fortune on your brother’s physicians. I’m not judging you for it.” He lifted his hands as if to ward off Oliver’s defense—not that he’d intended to make one. “I would have done the same. I’d have paid anything to keep my father with us longer. But still, I have to consider it. Consider what’s best for her.”

Oliver respected that. But . . . He swallowed, though it did nothing to relieve his tight throat. “And you think that’s Lord Sheridan? Despite the fact that they don’t even like each other?”

“I think they respect each other, which is frankly more than I can say for any other acquaintance she’s made. He wouldn’t try to change her. He wouldn’t forbid her from being who she is or take her microscope away or grow angry when she resists going to London.”

“But accepting and appreciating are vastly different, my lord.” His fingers curled into his palm. “And she deserves more than just being tolerated. She deserves to be loved.”

“At what cost?” Telford cast a critical eye over his gardens and the house Oliver loved so much. “Perhaps she thinks she likes it here, but it’s a novelty. How quickly would it begin to chafe when you couldn’t afford to buy her new slides or books or allow her to travel?”

He didn’t mean to bristle. But he wasn’t as broke as all that. “Don’t presume to know my ledgers so well, my lord. But even so—I think you underestimate your sister.”

Telford blinked at him, shook his head. “I’ve known her for twenty years. You’ve known her for a month.”

“And Lord Willsworth has had only a few conversations with her, yet I imagine if he came to you seeking your blessing, you’d give it. And why? Because he’s titled? Wealthy? Do you really suppose those things will make her happy?”

Rather than answer, Telford studied him for a long moment. Not with the immediate dismissal he’d looked upon him with before, or with the disdain he’d lavished upon him since. He seemed, for the first time, to be trying to gauge the sort of man he was. Then he drew in a long breath and straightened his shoulders. “Again, I don’t mean to be an ogre. But she’s my sister, and I have to protect her. You understand that.”

“Of course I do.”

“So then. You know it’s with her best interests in mind that I say this, not because I have any particular dislike for you.” He took a step back, lifted his chin, and looked suddenly the earl, not just the big brother. “If you propose to her, and if she says yes, she won’t get a penny of Telford money. No dowry. No monthly allowance.”

A perfectly logical threat meant to dissuade him if he were only interested in her because of the windfall she could bring him. “Understandable. But would you cut her off emotionally as well?”

Telford’s brows slammed down. “I beg your pardon?”

Oliver buried his hands in his trouser pockets. “I’m perfectly capable of providing for a wife. But I would never want to be responsible for causing a rift in your family. And so I ask if all you would withhold is your financial support, or if you’d also refuse to speak to her. To visit her? To allow her communication with your mother?”

“I hadn’t given it any thought.”

Because he hadn’t thought it would be an issue. He’d thought the moment Oliver learned she wouldn’t come with a dowry he’d lose interest. He’d thought, seeing the size of his house and knowing of the bills that had once stacked up on his desk, that he could be categorized quite simply as a money-grubber.

Oliver lifted his brows. “Well, think about it, if you would, my lord. Because I’m in love with your sister. I think she could be quite happy living here, but I don’t think she could be happy without you and your mother in her life. So, if you intend to take that away, then I won’t speak up. I’d rather lose her than let her lose you.”

Telford would be wondering if it was a ploy. A play. A bid for his respect that would lead him to relent on the monetary side as well.

But it wasn’t. And the more he considered it, the more he’d surely see that. Because all he’d have to do was say a few words, and Oliver had just promised never to declare himself. He had nothing to gain here but Libby herself. And everything—absolutely everything to lose.