Ned, having completed the pipe-filling ritual, drew a straw from a container near the dottle bowl and rose to light it from the fire. Returning, he plunged once more into his chair. “Well you may ask,” he muttered, beginning the next ritual, that of creating the perfect draw. “Samuel Pepys graduated from Magdalene some time in the early 1600s. He took up residence in London, married, and obtained a position with the navy—became a procurement official, I believe. In any event, he did very well for himself and by the time he died, he was living quite comfortably. In addition, he’d amassed an impressive collection of books, all leather-bound. However, his main claim to fame at the present is that for a number of years he kept a diary.”
“Oh?” So far, reflected Cord, he could see no reason for Sir Henry’s reverence for Mr. Pepys.
“Yes, ‘oh’. Nearly a hundred years after his death— in 1725 or thereabouts, his nephew bequeathed the diary, along with the rest of Pepys’s library to Magdalene, where it was housed in the building directly behind this quadrangle. It’s called the New Building, though it must have been built over a hundred years ago.”
Cord was puzzled. “Did the diary contain anything of import?”
“Aha!” Ned drew manfully on his pipe, producing the desired glow in its bowl. “That’s just it. No one knows— for he wrote the thing in some sort of code!”
“Code! You mean it’s been sitting there all this time, and no one can read it?”
“Precisely. There have been one or two efforts, because according to tradition, Pepys brushed elbows with some fairly influential people—up to and including King Charles—the Second, that would be.
“Now, of course, interest has increased in the work because of the publication of John Evelyn’s diary last year. I think it is not too much to say that its popularity swept the country. A new edition is coming out shortly.”
“Yes, indeed. I read it when it first came out. A fascinating glimpse into Charles’s court. Mmm,” Cord added speculatively. “I think I see where this is going.”
“You always were a perspicacious chap, Chris. Yes, the powers that be at the college are now most anxious to garner a coup of their own by publishing Pepys’s work. However—”
“No one can read it,” finished Cord with a chuckle.
“Precisely,” said Ned again. “The efforts have increased tenfold, with every runny-nosed undergraduate in the university having a crack at it. With absolutely no success.”
“And I suppose Sir Henry is leading the pack of would-be code-breakers.”
“Yes. It was thought that with his background in letters, it would be Sir Henry who would carry off the prize, but he hasn’t translated so much as a single word. He keeps saying he’s on the right track, and it’s only a matter of time before he reaches his goal, but he’s become such a fanatic on the subject that his credibility has sunk to zero.”
“Surely a little eccentricity is permissible in a man of his years and background.”
“It’s gone beyond mere vagary. The fellow’s obsessed. He will talk of nothing but the diary and has blown its importance as an historical document all out of proportion. He hints mysteriously at revelations that will rock the entire conception of Restoration England. He’s even suggested that the real author of the diary is old Charlie himself.”
“I see.” Cord rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “He is still working on the translation, I take it?”
“Lord, yes.” Ned paused to relight the pipe, which had unaccountably gone out. “He’s here almost every day, driving the library staff wild with his demands. He requires dictionaries of every sort be brought to him, as well as texts on every code known to the government and the military.”
“I wonder why he doesn’t work on the manuscript at home. Surely, he has plenty of reference works there.”
“Ah, there’s another point of friction. He began taking it home with him and keeping it there for days on end. At last, after complaints from the staff, as well as from others having a stab at the translation themselves, young Neville, the master of the college intervened. That would be George Neville. He was appointed three or four years ago. He was only four-and-twenty at the time. He has some influential relatives—needless to say, I suppose. His uncle, Thomas Grenville, a well-known bibliophile, is also interested in the diary. He and Folsome now have some sort of blood feud going, I hear. At any rate, young Neville has prohibited Sir Henry from taking the diary out of the library. The old man has even been limited in the amount of time he can keep possession of it in the building. He was rabid at first, and he’s still pretty miffed, but he seems to have cooled down some now.”
Cord stared meditatively into the fire. “He said nothing of all this to me when we met. Of course, he was hardly likely to confide in a stranger, but, though he seemed determined to create an atmosphere of portent and mystery, he did not seem unduly frustrated.”
“Believe me. Cord, the man is to be avoided. I shall say no more on the subject. You still have not told me, by the by, why you suddenly decided to visit a property you’ve owned for what is it, two years?—without evincing the slightest interest in it. The tipstaffs after you, old friend?”
Laughing, Cord rolled out his tale of a desire for rustication, and the conversation turned to recollections of past misdeeds when they had been hey-go-mad undergraduates themselves. After catching up on the present lives of other of their friends, and having got through the better part of Ned’s wine supply, the two rolled out of the lodgings in search of dinner.
It was late when Cord returned to Wildehaven. As he crested the hill that brought him into its precincts, he paused and stared into the starlit blackness surrounding him. Would the midnight rider be abroad tonight? Was the intruder, as he surmised, the lovely Miss Gillian Tate, and if so, what was her purpose in these clandestine excursions? Ned had mentioned Sir Henry’s obsession with the Pepys diary. Would the man stoop to stealing the papers that were otherwise denied him? Could his niece be a participant, willing or otherwise, in his nefarious activities?
The night returned no answers save for the whispering of a scented breeze and the rustlings and soft twitterings of nocturnal creatures engaged in their various pursuits. After remaining motionless for several minutes in expectation of he knew not what. Cord slowly made his way to the manor house and thence to his bed.
Chapter Five
The next day dawned fine, and Gillian woke with an undefined sense of anticipation. It was not until she had risen to throw back the window hangings that she remembered yesterday’s encounter with the Earl of Cordray. The recollection, along with the brilliance of the morning sun, flooded her mind, bringing with it the reminder that she was to go riding with him this afternoon. To her annoyance, her pulse quickened.
She breakfasted hastily and returned to her bedchamber for a ruthless surveillance of her person in the looking glass. She supposed a certain maidenly fluttering was not to be wondered at, for it had been a very long time since she’d spent any length of time alone in a man’s company. And there seemed little doubt that this man was a cut above the others of her acquaintance. However, that was no reason for her to spend the day dreaming through her busy routine. She was even more annoyed with herself when, after luncheon with her aunt and uncle, she spent an hour dressing in her most becoming habit, twisting this way and that before her mirror, and teasing at one curl until it lay just there between the rakishly tilted hat brim and her left eyebrow.
She was ready and waiting long before the designated hour of his lordship’s arrival, but, naturally, when he was announced, she let ten minutes pass before she made her way down the stairs to the front parlor.
She entered the room to find the earl pacing before the hearth. Goodness, she thought, startled. Lord Cordray seemed to fill the room with his presence. He was not overly large, but there was that about him that commanded attention and shrank his surroundings to insignificance. He moved as though he were constructed of Toledo steel. When he turned to greet her, an internal light seemed to spring to life behind his emerald eyes and she found the effect extremely unsettling.
“Good afternoon, my lord,” she replied, aware of the slight breathlessness in her voice. “I’m sorry my aunt and uncle are not on hand to greet you, but they usually nap after luncheon.”
The earl moved to take her hand, holding it just a fraction of a second longer than might have been considered proper. “Perhaps I shall see them when we return.” Lord Cordray bent to retrieve the riding crop he had laid along the back of a settee. “I need not ask,” he continued, smiling, “if you are ready for our outing. Your habit, if I may say so, is exceptionally becoming. That color suits you.”
Since this was precisely the reason Gillian had chosen the ensemble of a deep cherry that brought out the tint in her cheeks and lent a richness to her brown locks, there was no reason why she should feel a tide of heat rise to her cheeks. Indeed, she was surprised to note that the earl himself looked slightly taken aback at his own words.
Gillian managed a simple “Thank you, my lord” before turning to lead the earl from the house. Falstaff, in the care of Simms’s minion, awaited her just outside the front door. He greeted his mistress with courteous enthusiasm.
“He looks as though he’s trying to make amends for his disgraceful behavior yesterday,” remarked Lord Cordray.
“I fear he’s merely trying to cozzen me into giving him the sugar lump he knows I have tucked in my pocket,” Gillian replied with a laugh. “Here you are then, you shameless rascal.”
The earl moved forward, precipitating the groom, to toss Gillian into the saddle, and the two cantered off companionably down the gravel.
Well, thought Cord, who would have guessed that so soon after his flight into obscurity, he’d find himself on an outing with a beautiful woman? Yes, indeed, there was much to be said for a repairing lease in the country. He turned to Miss Tate.
“Since you are far more familiar with the terrain, hereabouts, perhaps you will choose our itinerary.”
“Certainly, my lord. Would you—”
“Please, Miss Tate, I am called Cordray by most of my acquaintances, and my friends call me Cord. I hope I can count you among the latter.”
Gillian laughed. “But we hardly know each other.”
“Yes,” replied Cord gravely, “however, one can sense these things. I feel myself in the presence of a kindred spirit.”
Miss Tate laughed again, but Cord realized with some surprise that the words he had just spoken were true. He always responded to the presence of an attractive female, but Miss Tate, with her speaking gray eyes and her engaging smile was something quite special. From their first encounter, he had felt a rapport that he seldom experienced with a woman. To be sure, he liked women. He
enjoyed
women—in every sense of the word—but one did not ordinarily make friends with one of that sex whose minds rarely rose above the state of her wardrobe or the latest
on dits.
One engaged in frivolous chatter, or perhaps a judicious bit of dalliance. Might Miss Tate, he wondered, be interested in the latter? Judicious or otherwise? Undoubtedly, it would be interesting to find out, but he rather thought such a plan would have to be contrived with extraordinary finesse.
“Very well . . . Cord . . . would you like a tour of your own estate, or would you prefer to travel farther afield—to Cambridge, perhaps?”
Cord noted that she had omitted an invitation to make use of her first name as well.
Finesse, indeed.
“Well, Madame Guide, I should like to start out with a short jaunt over the immediate grounds, with perhaps a foray through Great Shelford. I’m reasonably familiar with Cambridge, so perhaps we could save that for another day—with luncheon at the Pelican?
“Yes,” Miss Tate replied somewhat distantly, “perhaps.”
Mmm, mused Cord, mentally discarding the finesse concept. A full-blown siege now appeared in order.
Gillian smiled inwardly. The predator in Lord Cordray that she had sensed on their first meeting was definitely on the prowl. If the man were possessed of a tail, it would be twitching in anticipation. Ah well, she liked the earl, and she was always up to a challenge. It should prove amusing to match wits with him.
An hour or so later, they had ridden to the limits of the Wildehaven Home Farm. Gillian pointed out the various tenantries as they moved past fields of freshly tilled earth.
“The ground is still too wet for sowing, but some plowing has been done. As you no doubt know, these fields will be producing oats and barley and those over there, hops.” She gestured toward a cluster of distant groves. “Most of the fruit trees have budded and soon will be in full bloom.”
Cord smiled. “You seem remarkably knowledgeable about my estate’s crop production.”
“Ah, well, I have lived in the Cottage for three years now, and have become well acquainted with most of your tenants, as well as Mr. Jilbert, of course, who frequently stops in to chat with Uncle Henry.” She cast a glance at him from beneath her lashes. “Of course, all your activities are of extreme interest around here.”
Cord’s brows lifted. “Really!”
“Why, yes, the doings of the lord of the manor must be the primary topic of conversation at the greengrocer’s and the local ale shop—and now that the lord has descended from the lofty heights of the London social scene for a visit to this, the most minor of his establishments, the village is absolutely abuzz.”
“I see.”
The earl’s tone was so colorless that Gillian was unable to ascertain the effect on him of this information. She proceeded cautiously.
“For example, there has been much conjecture at your arriving alone, without a party of guests. Of course, there is little to offer in the way of entertainment at this time of year. So, the question is, why would his lordship want to visit at all in early April, when there’s no fishing to speak of, or hunting or shooting?”
“I have told you. Miss Tate,” began the earl in some irritation, “I wish merely to escape the confines of the city—for a breath of fresh, country air. I do not see—”