After only a few wrong turns and helpful directions from a maid hurrying on an errand, she found the library and quickly slipped inside, hoping no one had remarked upon her destination. The sight that met her eyes left her gaping. For in the library with its towering walls and full shelves of books, was the famed Round Table. It could be nothing else.
For one moment, she believed it to be the actual round table from King Arthur's time. But then she realized her folly. She ran her hand over the smooth wood. Someone, Fenwell Delagrace no doubt, had gone to the trouble of commissioning a replica of King Arthur's famed Round Table. But why?
The beauty of the work was undeniable. Mesmerized, she walked the circumference of the circular table, noting the names carved into the table by each seat. Sir Kay, Sir Launcelot, Sir Galahad . . . She rubbed her hands over her eyes. Still, the table remained.
Was this what the note had meant to expose? Surely Arthur, who had spent a great deal of his youth here, would already know of its existence? She looked at the line of books that filled the shelves. Or was she to discover the next clue among all of those?
"May the best man win, eh, Arthur?" Digby was smiling, and it only made matters worse that Arthur suspected the man truly meant what he said.
"May the best tale win," he said in answer, more to amuse those standing around them than in hopes that he might influence any of the society members who were still unbiased.
For Digby's charm had certainly turned the heads of the Round Table Society members. The tales he told were amusing and lively in turn, and none could be condemned as idle boasting. For the man had indeed done well in his life. Arthur fought the urge to compare his own life to Digby's. Now was not the time or the place for such foolishness. Though there was no question that Digby's charm gave him a definite edge.
That, and Fenwell Delagrace's money and influence. Arthur could not believe the arrogance of the man — to have spared no expense to bring everyone out here was probably against the rules. Although no one would claim that they had been influenced to vote any way but the way they believed right.
He knew it was too soon to believe that the challenges had been won by Digby before they had even been met. There were more than eight weeks left until the day they must tell their tales. He had time to ensure that his challenges were met to the best of his abilities. But his heart was not in the race tonight.
He fought the urge to stand and remove himself from consideration. No, that would be the coward's way out. He had wanted to see the admiration and recognition on the faces of the society members as he was chosen to head the society into the future.
Unless, however,
Le Morte d'Arthur
appeared in his hands immediately, that was highly unlikely. He hoped Hero would not be as disappointed in him as he knew his grandmother would be.
Merton Danton slapped him sharply on the shoulder, so that he nearly spilled his brandy. "Arthur, Gabriel, how fortunate we are to have you both here with us."
Arthur, mindful of the need to mend his quarrel with Delagrace, said only, "Yes, it was good of Fenwell to give us this opportunity."
"I hope the quests go well?" The question was asked out of curiosity by a particularly unpleasant member of the society. No doubt the man wished to hear they had both failed miserably.
"Our three months have barely begun," he answered mildly. "But I am pleased with my progress."
"As am I," Digby answered modestly.
"One third of the time has passed. What have you done?"
Fortunately, they were both spared answering the question by the interruption of one of the oldest members present, Winfield Standish. Five feet two and bone-thin with a thick head of white hair, the man had the air of an impatient hummingbird.
Raising his old-fashioned monocle, which Arthur privately thought he should trade in for a good strong pair of spectacles, Standish quavered in excitement. "I am glad to have you both here. I have a scrap of an old manuscript I wish you to look at." Arthur's heart began to pound. "Manuscript?"
"Yes, from a 1782 printing of — "
Arthur heard no more. It did not matter anyway. With a sigh, he reached into his pocket and retrieved his spectacles. He would do his best with whatever he was shown, although he had no doubt the work would be less than satisfying. Still, it did not make sense to insult anyone while he was on his quest.
In boredom, he wondered how his wife was faring. She had been seated nearby those with long memories and even longer tales to tell. He hoped she had managed to stay awake. It would not do to insult Fenwell just as he was beginning to make amends.
It turned out, to Standish's grave disappointment, that the manuscript had been forged within the last two years — the ink gave it away even before the paper, which carried a watermark of a company new to the business. But the perusal, discussion, and rather lukewarm debate served to fill the time until they were allowed to rejoin the ladies.
He did not see Hero immediately. He wondered for a moment if she had fallen asleep and slipped to the floor without notice. But then, seriously, as he craned his neck, he realized that she was truly gone.
It should not have alarmed him — she could easily have withdrawn to the ladies' salon to refresh herself, but a niggle of worry ate at him. After all, her life had been threatened twice in the last month. It would not do to be too complacent.
With a twitch of his fingers, he called over a footman. He had intended to send a note to his room, but it turned out not to be necessary. The footman informed him that his wife had retired for the evening with a headache.
He wished she had told him, but perhaps she had expected that the footman would volunteer the information rather than wait until he was asked. An urgent need to make certain that she was well overwhelmed his intentions to be the perfect guest at this gathering.
He risked losing Fenwell Delagrace's goodwill if he left the gathering before time, but he could not shake the feeling that he should be with Hero now. Before something awful happened. Knowing there was a possibility that she would be fine, he decided to check their room, make sure she was only suffering from a headache, and then return.
Even Fenwell would not be offended by such behavior. No one would . . . except — He located Grandmama at the whist table. She was holding court, as she sometimes did at these gatherings. He watched his grandmother's face anxiously for a moment. She was busy in conversation and had not glanced his way — or Hero's — even once.
Good. He could slip out and go upstairs to check on Hero, then. No one would be any the wiser if he returned quickly enough.
For a moment, as she passed the seat marked for Sir Balin, Hero felt as if she were being watched. She whirled toward the leather chairs by the fire, but there was no one sitting there. And no one in any other corner of the room. She sighed. Whom had she expected to find? The man who was behind these infuriating games?
She could see no manuscript lying out for her to take either. Who sent her the note, then? And why had the note led her here? Just so that she could see the table? Or was there a note in this room somewhere? A clue she was meant to find and bring to Arthur?
Her headache pounded even more insistently. She wished she had somehow managed to catch Arthur's eye and bring him here with her. Perhaps he would understand what it was they were meant to do. She sighed. The only thing to do was to bring him here. However, she did not want to rejoin the ladies. She could not weather any more of that chatter about Arthur's childhood. She could, however, send a footman to him with a note. She smiled. She would tell him about her note at dinner.
Again she wondered how the paper had been placed in her lap. Could one of the footmen have dropped it while they served her dishes? Had it been tucked in the napkin and she hadn't noticed at first? She looked about for a piece of notepaper, eager to call Arthur to help her solve this latest mystery. She wondered if he would be pleased or dismayed that the notes had started again.
Though she no longer had the eerie sense of being watched, she still felt uneasy, felt there was something wrong about the room. She could not quite place what it was, so distracting to her mind was the giant table in the center of the room, and the fact that the note had led her here.
And then she heard a chattering noise. It seemed to be coming from one of the large windows on the far wall. As she looked, she noticed that the curtains were moving in the breeze. Someone had left the window open.
She began to go over to close it, when she saw that it was not simply the breeze that was moving the curtains. There was an animal there. And the animal was the one making that odd, chattering noise. She began to move slowly toward the animal, not wanting to scare it away if it was injured. "Have you hurt yourself, little one," she cooed softly to soothe it, to let it know that she meant no harm.
At last she was close enough to see that the animal was a fox. It was curled up in a ball, and the odd, chattering noise was coming from the vibration of the animal's jaws.
"What's the matter, little fox?" she asked. It lifted its head at the sound of her voice. It looked like any other fox.
However, unlike any fox she had ever seen before, this one did not run in terror at the sight of her. At first she thought only that it had been hurt so badly, it could not move. But then she saw that there was foam coming from its jaws.
He had hoped to find her curled up reading in bed. Or, at the very least, sipping a toddy to ease her headache. When he opened the door, he did so quietly, so that if she had fallen asleep, he would not wake her. But all his cautions were in vain. She was not in their room.
An intense pang of jealousy seized him as he thought of her in a tryst with Digby. But that was unworthy of him. She had given him no cause to think such a thing of her and every reason to refuse to believe it.
He might not have been so easily soothed, however, if Digby had not been clearly visible, surrounded by a group of society members when he left the room. His own susceptibility to jealousy surprised him.
The nagging feeling grew stronger. He had to find Hero and make certain she was well. Remembering her penchant for getting lost, however, he checked with the butler, who checked with the servants, and found the one from whom Hero had gotten directions. He relaxed a bit when he heard where she had gone. The library.
Of course. He should have tried that haven first. Hero, as was her wont — he could not help a swift smile of understanding — had sought peace from his family's neighbors in the Delagrace library. He sought her out there, still needing to see her, to make certain she was well.
Perhaps they could find a volume to read to each other. He enjoyed her voice, soft and gentle, but carrying enough that he did not need to strain to understand her. He could listen to her read for hours at a time. A thought flashed before him of Hero, dressed as she had been that morning, her corset only half laced, looking fresh from bed. That was how he would like her dressed as she read. And the book — one of those from Mr. Beasley's shop. He stopped his thoughts abruptly. She would be outraged, no doubt, if she knew where his mind had wandered and what his baser instincts were doing to her character.
No. If she consented to read, he would be grateful. He would, of course, remember to treat her gently and with respect. After the reading he would only kiss her chastely and retire to his cot in the dressing room, as was fitting.
A treacherous dissent clamored at him. Or perhaps he should treat her more passionately, as Digby would do, no doubt, were their places interchanged. It was a pleasant fantasy ....
All thoughts of fantasy fled when he entered the library. Hero was not curled up in a comfortable chair. She had no book in her hand. Instead, she stood frozen. Her face was pale and bloodless and her eyes were filled with panic.
When he would have moved into the room, she stopped him with a shaken indrawn breath and a mute plea in her eyes. He heard the low growling then, and his eyes lit upon the fox that sat upon the windowsill.
"Don't move," he whispered, barely daring to move his lips lest the fox leap.
"Believe me, I shall not," she replied shakily.
"I will get help," he said softly, withdrawing as slowly and quietly as possible, excruciatingly aware that if he made a noise, or startled the fox, Hero would suffer for his mistake.
"Hold, Watterly." He heard someone at his back, felt a light pressure on his shoulder but had no time to turn and give a warning before an arm came over his shoulder and a pistol leveled at the fox.
Digby. Again.
Arthur could not allow Digby to rescue his wife once more from danger. He reached his hand up carefully so that the movement would not startle the growling animal, and took hold of the pistol.
"There's no time for debate," Digby whispered fiercely.
"I'm a crack shot," he whispered back truthfully. "I don't want her hurt." He did not know what he would do if Digby refused to release his grip on the pistol, but fortunately, he did not have to find out.
Hero had watched Arthur back away, stop, and she had seen the puzzled expression appear on his face. But at the sight of the pistol that appeared over his shoulder, as if from a great and dizzying distance, she squeezed her eyes shut and said a swift prayer.
She looked toward the fox when the animal snarled again, louder this time. She whimpered shamelessly as the wounded animal, disturbed by the commotion at the door, leaped toward her throat.
Just as her panicked senses began to clamor for her to dive out of the animal's path, a shot rang out, and the fox, with a single muted snarl, fell at her feet. Was it dead? Hero stared down at the still form, afraid to touch it.
Shaking uncontrollably, she turned to move away but found herself unable to take a step. It was all she could do not to fall to the floor in a faint. Arthur rushed toward her, pulling her into his arms.