His smile dimmed. "They are indeed, though it is easy to forget such harsh truth in these small hours is it not?"
There was something about the way he asked the question, a softness, a hope. She moved a step toward him. Would the magic of the night unlock the truth? Here and now? Her heart was in her throat, and she could not speak.
He turned away from her, sank down at the desk again, where his book lay abandoned. "Perhaps I should have stayed at home, not ventured into London. I don't know if any but a fool would even chance that it could be true."
He looked so forlorn, she could not help whispering, "Still, I do believe miracles have happened. To make the attempt to verify the facts would not be foolish."
"Do you suppose so?"
She answered firmly, miserably certain of her answer, "The true fool would be either the one who believed in something without confirmation, or who disbelieved it without examining the evidence to confirm the truth."
"Yes." His voice held a hint of pleasure, as if she had said something that mattered very much to him.
For a moment she thought he might say the words she did not have the courage to utter, but he did not. The silence dragged to the point where she felt the foolishness of her own hopes. Squaring her shoulders as she had learned to do so well all her life when what she wanted was not possible, she said softly, "Well, good night." She turned to leave, sliding once again out of the circle of lamplight so that her nightshift ceased to glow.
"Miss Fenster?"
"Yes?"
"Do you think me a frog, as your sister suggested?"
"Of course not."
"My appointment to view the manuscript, if it is indeed the manuscript, is for four tomorrow afternoon — " He broke off and glanced at his pocket watch. "That is, four this afternoon. Would you care to join me?"
Arthur spent the day avoiding Hero. He did not precisely regret his invitation. He wanted her company. He wanted to share the discovery of truth or myth with her. But he did not want to divide her loyalties between himself and Digby, and that seemed likely now that they were vying to become head of the Round Table Society.
He had penned two notes to cancel the appointment but had burnt them both in the fireplace. The truth was, he did not want to face this alone. With Hero along it became a lark; he could treat it almost as if it didn't matter to him whether someone was playing a prank upon him.
At last, his decision made, he stood waiting, ready to leave. If she did not come promptly, he would instruct the footman to give her his apologies and tell her that he would relay to her his discovery when he returned. A quarter to four o'clock. He checked his pocket watch.
And then he heard her on the stairs and he dismissed all worries about drawing her loyalty from Digby. She was prompt, as always. He could see the excitement shining in her eyes as she came sedately down the stairs, dressed in a darker rose shade today. The color suited her, but he dared not be so personal as to tell her so. He could still remember the sight of her in her nightshift and robe in the library, her hair down, looking like an angel slightly rumpled and fresh from bed.
He was suddenly happy that he had not chosen to send a note rescinding his invitation.
He could not say what had made him invite Hero on his quest. The hypnotizing quiet and intimacy of the darkened library in the dead of night? Her soft voice? The fact that she had chosen the very title that he quested after? Or simply because he could not help himself?
Whatever the reason, he could not bring himself to regret it as he greeted her in the entrance. He noted that she had dispensed with her maid, and raised his brow in question.
As if she could read his mind, she answered him in a low voice, "We are going to a bookshop — Juliet is to drive with Lord Wyndham again. I think that Ellen must go with her. It should be nothing for us to run such a public errand without a maid."
"Of course." She was correct. The intimacy, the danger to her reputation, was in his mind only. The bookshop, a few minutes walk from here, was a destination she could have made on her own, without any maid at all.
But this time she would be going with him. And they might both be the first to see Malory's manuscript in centuries. Save for the mysterious fellow who had sent him the note, of course.
He held out his arm for her to grasp. "Shall we go?"
"Are you nervous?" she asked as they settled into a comfortable stride, neither too fast nor too slow.
It pleased him that he did not need to adjust his step to an unbearably mincing pace to accommodate her. "Anxious, perhaps." The pressure of her hand upon his arm was light but firm, her fingers curled as they had been around the book last night in the library. "Hopeful. But as you have already said, the idea that the original manuscript survived all these centuries is difficult to believe."
"Still, you must have good reason — "
He laughed shortly. "I am driven by the family madness, I'm afraid."
She blinked in surprise, stopping there on the street, oblivious to those who had to dodge around them. "Madness."
"I'm sorry." He had felt too comfortable with her. Had let slip a bitterness that he tried to keep hidden. He patted her hand with his in reassurance. "Sometimes I think my family's Arthurian quest is more of an obsession. We have pursued it for generations, according to my grandmother's tales. And obsessions do not require reason, logic, or possibility to drive them." Uncomfortable with the looks they were drawing from passersby, he tried to urge her forward.
Oblivious to his efforts, she remained, stubbornly unmoving. She looked at him, a dawning sadness in her eyes as she said, "No, they do not indeed."
Her expression made him wonder if she, too, had a secret obsession. The sense of a shared quest made him bend the barrier of propriety and ask her. "What is your obsession, then?"
Her eyes widened and her hand tightened on his arm. She was silent for a moment, and then she seemed to pull herself together and put her sadness away. "Perhaps I share yours. Because I do not believe you are mad to pursue Malory's manuscript. What convinced you that this information might be genuine despite your doubt?"
Her faith in him was clear in her eyes, and he wished they were not in a crowded street, but somewhere private. Somewhere he could ask her if she would mind very much if he kissed her. He shoved away the foolish thought. He wanted to deserve her faith and trust, not abuse it. How could he explain himself? He reached into his jacket, pulled the note out, and showed it to her.
She took her spectacles from her pocket and set them upon her nose to read the note. They sat slightly crooked, and he had the overwhelming urge to straighten the wire rims upon her face. But he did not.
After she had perused the note for a while with a thoughtful frown creasing her brow, she looked up at him and commented, "How mysterious!"
"Therefore suspect, of course," he answered. This time when he urged her to walk, she took his arm and they resumed their pace. " If I were of sound mind, I would no doubt have ignored it — " Above all, he did not want her to think him a fool.
She protested, "How could you? No matter how likely that it is a hoax, you would always wonder what you would have found if you kept the appointment."
"True enough." And that was indeed the reason he had come such a distance just to follow the cryptic instructions on an unsigned note. It pleased him that she understood the draw of the thing so well. He had allowed himself to forget just how well he liked being in Hero's company. And now he had the pleasing image of her, hair down and fresh from bed to torment him for the rest of his life.
He wished his grandmother had not obliged him to Gwen. It was a marriage that would solidify a bond between their families. His bride was even to bring a specially made round table to the marriage.
Idly, he wondered what his grandmother would do if he simply told her that Gwen was more suited to be the wife of a man who was interested in society and its goings-on, and he was never going to be that man. Even if he did become the duke. He knew it in his heart.
A woman like Hero would be relieved that he would not be duke, would not have a title and responsibilities. A woman like Hero would appreciate his need for scholarly activities. A woman like Hero might even come to love a man like him, despite his unheroic nature. Juliet had been right, he was more frog than prince. Unlike Digby, who was prince through and through.
Fortunately, his contemplation was brought to a halt when they arrived at the bookshop.
They stopped short, staring in dismay at the shop front. Arthur checked his pocket watch again. Five minutes to four. But what did that matter? The sign on the shop door read "Closed."
After a moment, Hero said hopefully, "The note says four o'clock and it is not quite yet time. Perhaps the shop will open then?"
"Perhaps." But he did not want to stand in the street, waiting to see if that was to happen. "Or perhaps Mr. Beasley, the shopkeeper, simply forgot to change the sign. He is quite elderly, after all." He reached forward and turned the knob. The door was not locked.
He looked at Hero. Her mouth gaped ever so slightly in astonishment. He pushed open the door, stepped back, and bowed. "After you, madam."
Hero hesitated, looking into the dark, still shop, then entered. It was not her first time in this establishment, but for some reason nothing looked familiar. Perhaps it was the fact that she knew she should not be here. The beloved musty odor of old books struck her as ominous in the silence. Hero felt a shiver run down her spine as they entered the darkened premises.
"Mr. Beasley." Arthur called out in a hushed tone that seemed right for a bookshop. "Mr. Beasley."
The proprietor did not come at their quiet calls. Nor when they made their voices louder. "I have occasionally had to track Mr. Beasley down among his shelves," Arthur said. But she could see by the slump in his shoulders that he now believed himself to have been thoroughly duped.
Her heart sank. For a moment she had allowed herself to hope that Arthur's note was not a hoax. He deserved to be the one to find the original manuscript. He was an even better Arthurian scholar than Digby himself, and the find would have made him a clear candidate to lead the Round Table Society.
"Let's look, then. He is an older man, and I don't think he hears as well as he used to." Carefully, they searched the stacks of shelves. There were marvels and treasures that Hero would have loved to stop and browse, but no hunchbacked, white-haired shop proprietor.
At last they met each other in the middle of the shelves. "No one seems to be here. We should leave."
She touched his sleeve lightly, in sympathy. "I'm sorry. I know how disappointing this must be."
Just as Arthur opened the door to the shop for her, a breeze caught a slip of paper lying upon the floor. Upon it was a very familiar scrawl. Hero felt a chill pass through her. "Look," she called out as she bent to pick up the paper.
It was another note.
She pulled her spectacles out and put them on before she held the note out to him and they read it together. "Climb to the heights to win your treasure." It was as cryptic as the first note, and made little sense.
"What do you suppose it means?" she asked. "Climb to the heights? Should we look for the nearest hill? In London?"
He did not answer. He did not laugh. He simply took the note from her fingers and searched it for any clue to the meaning of the phrase scrawled upon it.
While he stared unbelievingly at the piece of paper in his hand, she said softly, "It is the same handwriting, I'm sure of it."
Still without a word, he took out the other note and they compared the two side by side. He nodded. "There is no doubt, I agree." Unmistakably, the same hand had penned both notes. He said quietly, "Perhaps the note refers to the upper level of the shop? I should — "
Hero felt as if someone were staring at her from behind, but when she turned to look behind her, there was no one visible. "Mr. Beasley?" she called out.
There was no answer. She turned back to face Arthur. "I don't like this at all. The shop is closed but the door unlocked. The note left where anyone could find it."
"True, but who would look at it twice but the one it was meant for?" he asked.
She read the message again and understood what he meant. No one else would think twice about such a short, seemingly nonsensical note. "And where is Mr. Beasley?" Despite the note, despite the confirmation that both notes were from the same hand, she had a deep dread sitting like a lump in the pit of her stomach. "I think we should leave," she repeated.
"We have come this far, are you suggesting we abandon the quest?"
She nodded. "I am." Cowardice, she knew with shame. It had seemed like an interesting mystery to solve. But now it seemed something else. Something ominous. "You are no fool. You should refuse to play the note sender's game any further."
Disappointment flashed in his eyes, but was quickly hidden. "I am sorry I brought you into this. I will take you home immediately."
At once she felt guilty. If he had come alone, he would already be upstairs. "I suppose we could check quickly." It would not be that difficult to climb a few stairs to make certain that the manuscript was not up there. "Perhaps we will find Mr. Beasley waiting for you."
"Perhaps." He was not fooled by her show of bravado. "I will return shortly to deal with him, after I have seen you safely home."
That would not do. "And what if he is gone, then?" She could see that he considered it a real possibility, but he merely shrugged and smiled at her in a way that reminded her of last night, when he had been in his shirt sleeves. "If he is, then I will accept that I have been fortunate to have avoided being taken in by a hoax."
"But you will come back to check after you bring me home?" She could not bear it if he lost the manuscript because of her cowardice.
He nodded and then stopped. He turned his head. "Do you hear that?"