But she’d squandered that hope, that promise. Thrown it away on a man who’d proven himself unworthy of it.
And this was what she had left. A stark, cold reminder that doors could be locked too late. And that if one’s secrets were already loose, then the dangers were already waiting.
13
Never had Beth imagined that she would resent the first rays of sunshine after a week of incessant rain. She’d been rather looking forward to another day tucked away in the library, Mother’s words looping before her. But instead, the sunshine had brought Mabena and Libby and Lady Emily back to Tresco, so the day had been spent with them.
And it had been a wonderful day, she granted, as she padded back down the steps on bare feet, long after she should have been asleep again. They’d shown the girls all they’d found in the attic. Briggs had pulled out three letters from the Scofield servants that had arrived during the previous week, sharing far more gossip about Nigel than they really needed to know—including the fact that he hadn’t been back to the family estate in more than a month, but that he’d made appearances at the London townhouse several times.
And then Mabena had gone for a stroll with Casek and come back with a ring on her finger and a flush in her cheeks, so naturally supper had been an all-family celebration, including uncles and aunts and cousins and more or less the entire village “just happening by.”
Island village life. She loved it, in general. And wouldn’t have traded it in this case especially, since Mabena certainly deserved all the happy wishes and the happy future they were certain to usher in.
It had been dark before that petered out, which meant it was too late for anyone to sail back to St. Mary’s. Libby and Mabena had already been planning on spending the night with the Moons, but Emily and Briggs were left little choice. Em was asleep now in Beth’s bed, and Briggs had gone home with Mabena.
A wonderful day. But the craving for the stories kept nipping at her, snatches of words swirling around in her mind after Emily’s breathing had evened out. So, she and her candle were creeping toward the library at one in the morning. She’d read a few more pages of Mother’s notes, and then perhaps sleep would come.
What she’d read last night after their haul from the attic had been tantalizing. Mother, Morgan, and Tas-gwyn really did seem to have talked to all the main island families. Stories had been dusted off and shared that probably hadn’t otherwise had voice put to them in decades.
It was a worthwhile thing they’d done. Important. Lasting.
And she’d boxed it all up after the funerals without even looking at it—and Morgan had let her. He’d never made a peep.
Perhaps it had hurt him too much to look at it all. Or perhaps he’d known that someday she’d find it, someday she’d look, and when that day came, it would mean all the more because of the years of silence in between.
She paused just outside the library. The doors were closed all but a crack, which they never were. And from that crack spilled golden light.
She wasn’t the only one up for a midnight reading session—and she had a reasonable guess as to who the other might be, which made her glad she’d slipped back into her day dress instead of just shrugging on a dressing gown over her nightgown, as she’d considered doing.
There was still a part of her mind that whispered, Turn around, tiptoe away. He’ll never know you were here, and you won’t have to spend a moment with him that isn’t necessary.
But that part was small and quickly shushed by the part of her that thrilled just a bit at an hour in his company without the others around. And then by a third part that said she’d probably get herself all worked up and then walk in to find Ollie there, his nose in a MacDonald novel and his thoughts on Libby. She nudged open the door.
Sheridan glanced up from the sofa against the far wall, his smile instantaneous. “Perfect. I saved you a seat.” He motioned to the dozen empty chairs and cushions throughout the room.
What was she to do but breathe a laugh? It wasn’t her fault he was worming his way past her anger with him. How in the world was a girl to resist being greeted so joyfully? Being smiled at so single-mindedly? Being flirted with so creatively?
She blew out her measly little candle as she stepped into the lamplit room. And that’s when her own thoughts really struck her.
Theodore Howe, Marquess of Sheridan—two rungs down the ladder from a prince—had set his sights on her. Her. Beth Tremayne, simple island girl. And he had made it rather hilariously clear that if she crooked a finger, he’d fall at her feet.
So, she did the only reasonable thing. She slid her candleholder on the table, picked up a stack of notes in her mother’s hand, and settled into the chair that sat at ninety degrees to his sofa. “Have you learned anything revolutionary?”
“That it’s quite possible that the Scillies are what remains of the lost island of Lyonesse, home of Tristan and Isolde. But if you mean in the Mucknell and Rupert search, I’d have to say no.” He didn’t sound too put out about it. “Plenty yet to read, though.”
And he’d obviously planned to do just that all along. He still wore the same dinner jacket he’d worn for the impromptu feast, the only change that he’d made being to untie his bow tie and leave it dangling around his collar.
She clucked her tongue. “Ainsley would be appalled.” She indicated her own collar to tell him why.
“Shh.” He made a show of looking over his shoulder. “If he senses it’s come undone, he’ll be in here in a heartbeat, retying it.”
“And lecturing you.”
“With his eyes.” He narrowed his at her, though if it was an accurate imitation of Ainsley, it was a wonder his valet ever convinced him to wear a tie at all.
A cluster of giggles bubbled up in her throat. No doubt as much to blame on the hour and the evening’s celebration as his antics. She shook her head and smoothed a hand over the topmost page. “So many stories passed down through the centuries. Surely one of them will help.”
“Even if not, they’re a treasure of themselves. Or—too sappy?”
“No.” Though Beth of three weeks ago would have sneered in disbelief and made some comment about him saying the right words but only putting his money behind the hunt for silver and gold. Beth of three weeks ago would have been wrong, though. From what she’d gathered during the last fortnight, he put his money behind all sorts of worthy endeavors. “Oliver and I had a few minutes to talk about it all this morning, before the girls arrived. We’re going to finish their work. Put them into a book. I don’t imagine anyone will pay us to publish it—”
“I will. Or, well, you know.” He drew a spiral in the air with his pen. “Fund the production. That’s what I mean to do with my Druid studies.”
She’d known he would offer. And while pride said she ought to refuse, she wasn’t sure her own pride ought to have any place in her mother’s and brother’s legacy. But this was still Sheridan. She couldn’t just agree with a humble thank-you.
She pursed her lips. “I don’t know, my lord. If you’re going to basically act as my publisher, I will demand some compensation. In the form of a mahogany box, engraved on the top with the crest of one Prince Rupert of the Rhine and leafed in gold.”