“Might have.” Oliver’s apology had turned into a stubbornness of his own. “Though I find it unlikely that it means anything, even if they did.”
“Why?” Sheridan, finally, rocked back down to his heels. “That other phrase in the letters was the clue, wasn’t it? To the silverware, that is. The map. Why not think this is the same? A clue that will lead us . . . somewhere?” He turned his hopeful gaze to Beth. “Where though?”
Where indeed? That was the question. Beth tapped a finger to her lips. “I think we can assume this key to their future is some sort of money or treasure that Mucknell secreted away as a form of security.”
Oliver snorted. “Quite an assumption. We don’t even know there is more of Mucknell’s treasure.”
“Take it back!” Sheridan looked ready to challenge her brother to a duel for such a statement. “You think the Scillies’ most famous pirate would—that one crate of silver was all?”
“All he captured and kept? No.” Oliver slid a look to Libby. Perhaps for support. Or perhaps just because he was always sneaking looks at Libby. “All that he didn’t spend or trade or return to the Prince of Wales, whom he was supposed to be turning it over to? Perhaps.”
“Even if that’s true, our point now is what Mr. Scofield believes.” Libby’s fingers had woven with Oliver’s again. That seemed to happen as often as the looks they were always sneaking. “Do they have copies of these letters?”
Beth shook her head. “Not all of them, anyway. I sent transcriptions of two. The one dated the twelfth of October 1649, and the one from the first of February of the previous year.”
Sheridan plucked the two from his semicircle, eyes flying over them. “I don’t think . . . no. The phrase isn’t in these.”
“Which means that Nigel Scofield knows nothing about it, which means it oughtn’t be where we direct our attention.” Oliver said it so decisively, as if it were the last word that needed to be said on the matter.
Beth tossed Treasure Island to the floor just to hear its hollow thud when it smacked down. “Are we trying only to stop Nigel Scofield, or are we trying to find Mucknell’s treasure?”
“Stop Scofield.” From Oliver and Libby, Telford and Emily—though Em said, “Stop Nigel,” naturally.
“Find the treasure,” Sheridan shouted at the same time. Louder than the others. But singly.
Beth wished she had another something handy to toss down too. Of all the people to be her ally in this, why did it have to be him? “Well. You all can focus on what Em’s brother knows, then. Lord Sheridan and I will find the rest of the treasure by ourselves.”
From his chair, Telford snorted. “Right. Just like that. How long have you both been looking already?”
You know, come to think of it, she didn’t really like Libby’s brother after all.
“He’s right, Beth.” The apology was back in Oliver’s voice, though it was flinty this time. “Even if there were more treasure, and even if this phrase in the letters and Mother’s story were a clue, and even if finding it were at all our priority, we’d still have no idea where to look.”
She pushed to her feet, scooping the book up with her on her way. Just in case she needed to throw it again. “You may not have ideas where to look. I have plenty of them.” She pivoted Sheridan’s way and found he’d stood too. “What do you say, my lord? Do you want to go exploring with me tomorrow?”
He may be a selfish, greedy thief, but at least he knew how to play co-conspirator. Sheridan grinned. “Name the time.”
6
You’re mad.”
This pronouncement, delivered by Ainsley with his usual calm demeanor, was inspired by the fog billowing its way through Old Grimsby.
Well, to be fair, it wasn’t the fog that had Sheridan’s valet calling down indictments of insanity. It was the fact that, despite it, Sheridan was still reaching for his hat. “Beth said she can navigate through it without a problem.”
“I don’t doubt that she said so.” Before a normal outing, Ainsley would be holding out the pair of shoes he’d prefer Sheridan wear, insisting he take off the clean ones he’d designated as house shoes. Just now, he stood there with arms crossed and hands decidedly, accusingly empty. “The fact that you believe her, and are willing to stake your life on it, is what makes you mad.”
“Thanks for spelling it out.” He looked down at his own shoes. He’d worn this pair outside before, hadn’t he? They’d be fine for hiking over whatever outlying island Beth was about to haul him to.
Or perhaps those brown ones there would be better. Those soles had more grip, didn’t they? Though none of them were right. “Why on earth didn’t you pack my boots?”
Were he anyone but Ainsley, Ainsley would have rolled his eyes. “I didn’t realize you’d be undergoing any archaeological digs. This was supposed to be a quick trip to bring Lady Elizabeth home.”
Sheridan tried on that too-long blink, though he suspected he didn’t pull it off quite so well. “Have you met me?”
It won him a breath of a laugh. “I have. Which is why I did.” And like a magician worthy of Merlin himself, he opened the wardrobe, moved aside something or another, and produced Sheridan’s favorite pair of sturdy leather boots.
He seized them with glee. “You’re getting a raise.”
“Mm. I would settle for you rethinking this morning’s outing. It’s too dangerous.”
“Hardly. She knows these islands inside out.” Sheridan sat on the chair beside the wardrobe so he could take off his house shoes and put his feet in their happier home.
“And locals who know it just as well nevertheless end up caught out and losing their lives far too often.” His face a mask of sobriety and sorrow, Ainsley held out a hand for the rejected pair of footwear.
Sheridan handed them over and tugged on the first boot. “Bully. The shoes, I mean. Not you. Although now that I mention it . . .”
Ainsley shook his head. “The Tremaynes’ parents died on these seas. And they were hardly the first victims of a capricious current.”
“I’ll say a prayer to the sea gods.” He tied the first boot’s strings.
Ainsley said nothing. Just breathed.
Sheridan sighed. He really was a bully. “A joke. I’m not a heathen. Abbie and Millicent wouldn’t stand for it.” He might not be quite as vocally devout as his sisters—or his valet, for that matter—but he was far from a pagan. Which Ainsley ought to have known, given the daily reading of Scripture they always had as a group whenever they were on a dig, in which Sheridan took part with no complaint. And he barely even fidgeted at home anymore when Millicent held morning prayers with all the staff. He enjoyed learning about the Druids and ancient Britons, true, but that was only because they’d left such interesting artifacts behind that he enjoyed puzzling out—standing stones and burial cairns and the like. He didn’t actually believe as they had.
He put on the second boot. Tied it. Stood. And blustered out another sigh at Ainsley’s continued silence. “Look, Ains, I appreciate your concern. Truly, I do. But Beth Tremayne has asked me to join her, and I’m not about to let her go alone, which she would. Gentlemanly, right?”