“It doesn’t fit in any case,” Reynaud said impatiently. “Not unless Munroe’s source was inaccurate.”
Hartley shook his head.
“We need to talk to Munroe, see if he has any recollection,” Reynaud said.
“I sent a messenger to him some weeks ago,” Vale said. “But the man hasn’t responded.”
Reynaud grunted. Munroe was well known as a recluse, but they needed his memories, too. Perhaps he’d have to take Beatrice on a trip to Scotland.
But first there were more pressing matters to attend to.
“I plan to plead my case before the special committee of parliament tomorrow,” he said to the other two. “So that I can regain my title as the Earl of Blanchard. And I’d like your help.”
Vale raised an eyebrow. “You have it, of course, but what do you have in mind?”
Reynaud glanced about them to make sure no one was paying special attention to their conversation, then said, “I have an idea . . .”
BEATRICE LAID OUT her bookbinding tools carefully. She was always excited to begin a new project. She liked the anticipation of taking either an old and falling-apart book and putting it in order or taking what was essentially a sheaf of papers and turning it into a lovely book. It was almost an art, really. And she liked her tools and materials to be just so. The different-sized bonefolders aligned perfectly, the needles in their little box, the spools of thread lined up along the upper edge of her worktable. Later she’d look through her supplies of pretty paper and calf’s hide, but for the moment she was interested only in cutting, folding, and sewing.
She hummed softly to herself as she worked, quite content, and thus it was with some surprise that she heard the clock in the hall and realized that it was almost time for dinner. Footsteps and male voices sounded in the hall, and she cocked her head, listening for her husband’s voice. She looked up when the door to her little sitting room opened.
“Ah, there you are,” Reynaud said as he walked in.
She smiled because it seemed she could not help but smile like a fool when she saw her husband. Every day she was married to him, she became more enthralled with him—and the knowledge made her uneasy. He’d still not said that he loved her, and he rarely showed her affection except in the privacy of their bedroom. Perhaps that was normal in a society marriage. Perhaps most gentlemen had trouble expressing affection.
God, she hoped so.
Beatrice looked down blindly at her worktable. “Did you enjoy your visit with Lord Vale?”
“Enjoyed may not be exactly the right word.” He came to stand beside her table. “What is this?”
“A book I’m binding for Lady Vale.” She looked up at him. “It’s for your sister. Apparently, your nanny read it to you both when you were children.”
“Indeed?” He bent over her shoulder, studying the pages she was sewing. “I’ll be damned. It’s the tale of Longsword.” A wondering smile lit his face. “That was a favorite of mine.”
“Perhaps I should make a book for us as well, then,” Beatrice said lightly.
“Why?”
“Well . . .” She looked down at her hands, carefully drawing the thread. “For our children, naturally. I’m sure you’d like to read them the book you enjoyed as a child.”
He shrugged. “If you wish.”
Beatrice wrinkled her nose, frowning fiercely to keep back silly tears. Childish of her to feel hurt at his dismissive tone. She drew a breath. “What did you talk about with Lord Vale?”
“My title,” he said. “I intend to get it back tomorrow, if you remember.”
“Of course.” She busied herself with her tools. He sounded so sure, but the rumors of his madness still swirled about the streets of London.
“And once I obtain it, this house will be mine alone.”
“I hope you’ll not mind Uncle Reggie and me staying here as well.” She tried to say the words lightly.
“Don’t be silly.” He frowned.
“I’m not silly,” she said, pulling her thread too tight. “It’s just . . .”
“What?” he snapped.