Just when Isabella thought the standoff would never end, Lady Edson blinked. The older woman momentarily lost her iron composure and flushed visibly under the earl’s stare. Isabella exhaled.
“It has been rather a long time since you’ve seen fit to attend services, my lord,” Lady Edson commented tartly, struggling unsuccessfully to regain the upper hand.
“Indeed.” Damien’s stare remained rigid. “I have been remiss in my duties. But rest assured, I have every intention of making Sunday service part of my weekly routine.”
That comment brought a loud murmur of comments from the interested crowd of bystanders. Lady Edson tried to regain control over the group, to no avail. Those who had previously been spectators of the little drama now promptly joined the conversation. The earl had successfully accomplished his mission.
Introductions were made, and they all managed a polite, meaningless discussion. Isabella noted, however, that Damien seized the first opportunity to make good their escape.
“It was not as bad as I anticipated, yet I must confess I am glad to be away,” the earl confided to Isabella as his carriage pulled out of the churchyard. They rode alone inside the coach with the rest of the servants on top.
“I think you enjoyed yourself far more than you let on, sir,” Isabella remarked, remembering the earl’s boldness. “You took great delight in confronting Lady Edson.”
Damien’s somber gray eyes lit up with amusement. “It was rather delightful forcing the old witch to acknowledge me. I doubt anyone will dare to snub me openly now. Perhaps the gossip that surrounds my name will finally begin to fade.”
Isabella smiled with relief, infinitely pleased the outing had been so successful. She felt a sense of pure elation at the turn of events. And a closeness to the earl that went beyond simple friendship.
They rode for the next mile in silence. Searching her mind for a neutral topic of conversation, Isabella blurted out the first thought that popped into her head.
“Please, Damien, tell me the story of Lady Anne’s treasure. I’ve heard Maggie and Fran make passing remarks, and Jenkins mentioned it again briefly this morning, but he did not have time to relate the entire tale.”
“Lady Anne’s treasure?” Damien replied with a twisted grin. “To my knowledge it has been several years since the legend was openly discussed at The Grange. I suppose it is time to resurrect the tale.”
Isabella gave him an encouraging smile.
“Lady Anne is one of my more colorful female ancestors. She was the great-granddaughter of Henry VIII, descended through the illegitimate Seymour line, but inanely proud of her Tudor blood nonetheless. She came to The Grange as a young bride of fifteen, and it is said her husband was completely besotted with her.”
“A love match?”
“So the story goes.” Damien’s tone implied he did not agree. “Yet, for all her supposed love for her husband, Lady Anne was also greatly devoted to Prince Charles, possibly improperly.”
“With the prince’s reputation for womanizing, tis no wonder there was speculation.”
“Perhaps,” Damien grudgingly conceded. “There was no disputing Lady Anne’s loyalty to the Stuarts. She was a fierce defender of the crown, a stanch royalist to the end, and while her husband was off fighting with Lord Fairfax—”
“Pardon me,” Isabella interrupted. “Did you say the earl fought with Fairfax?”
Damien nodded.
“But Fairfax was Cromwell’s man. They fought against the king!”
“There were numerous aristocratic families that sided against the Stuarts, Isabella, though not many will boast of it today. Yes, the earl took up arms against the king, but his wife vehemently opposed his views. Lady Anne was a unique woman for her time, an independent thinker who was not ruled by her husband. She aided the royalist cause by collecting, hiding, and routing monies for the crown.”
“Was she a spy?” Isabella leaned forward eagerly.
“I don’t think so,” Damien replied thoughtfully. “But we really can’t be certain. Undoubtedly her actual involvement in the war has been greatly exaggerated over the years.”
“What about the treasure?”
Damien grinned broadly, amused by Isabella’s gathering excitement. “The largest and supposedly most valuable collection of coin, jewels, and gold plate was hidden somewhere at Whatley Grange for safekeeping until the king’s man could collect it to pay for arms for the royalists. Apparently the contact died before the treasure could be retrieved—murdered, the story contends—so Lady Anne was forced to bury the entire treasure somewhere on the estate.”
“Then what happened?” Isabella prompted.
“Lady Anne fell ill and took to her bed. There was no one she trusted to divulge the location of the treasure, and she greatly feared her husband would use the funds against the crown. According to the legend, she died before the treasure was passed on, telling no living soul of its whereabouts.”
“Are you saying the treasure has never been found? After all these years?” Isabella squirmed with unconcealed excitement. “Did Lady Anne leave any clues as to where she buried the treasure?”
“She kept a journal. The final entry is reported to be a poem proclaiming the location of treasure. Solve the riddle of the poem, discover the hidden treasure.”
