He wondered idly whether she still lived in the nearby village. Even if she did, she’d probably married a farmer and had a pack of brats by now. Better to stick to his fantasy Maggie, the one who, he wasn’t ashamed to admit, still fired up his bedtime imagination from time to time.
He found the study at the end of the hallway. The scent of dust and exotic incense stirred up an uneasy mix of reminiscence and longing. He remembered the first time he’d crossed the Persian rug of his uncle’s sanctum. At twelve years old, he’d been sent to spend the summer with his father’s younger brother.
Standing by the mullioned windows, backlit by the sun, Horatio had seemed larger than life. He’d shared Phillip’s tall, broad-shouldered Cavendish frame and aquiline features, but that was where the resemblance ended between the brothers. Rhys recalled his shock when Horatio had trod over and greeted him with a hug.
Rhys’s father had never touched him. Not with affection.
Despite being brothers, Uncle Horatio and Rhys’s father turned out to be as different as night and day. Horatio, who chafed at the dictates of convention, went by the less recognizable family surname of Jones, and his world had been one of adventure, exploration, and joy. For that one magical summer, he’d given Rhys a taste of happiness…before disappearing for the next ten years.
You could be counted upon for fun, Horatio, old boy. But you just couldn’t be counted upon.
Rhys poured himself a glass of brandy from a dusty decanter and walked past the windows overlooking the garden. The leafy labyrinth had once been Horatio’s pride. Now, in the fading autumn light, the hedgerows looked overgrown and tangled with weeds, dead leaves littering the graveled path.
Folding his long frame into Horatio’s chair, Rhys surveyed the desk’s cluttered surface with bittersweet fondness. The eclecticism was signature Horatio: exotic writing implements, a heart-shaped bottle of ink, and a Japanese wooden box vied for space. He dug through the items to find the letter addressed to him. He opened it, revealing Horatio’s spiky penmanship.
My dear Rhys,
If you are reading this, then I have departed upon my greatest adventure. Having lived life to its fullest, I embark on this journey with no regret, save one: you, my dearest nephew. I was not there for you when you needed me most, and by the time our paths crossed again, it was too late. The breach between us could not be healed.
Rhys felt a pang at his uncle’s acknowledgment. After that summer at Journey’s End, Rhys had returned home to a dead mother and a one-way ticket to Eton. During his tumultuous years at the boarding school, he’d penned dozens of letters to Horatio: all of them had gone unanswered. When Horatio had finally sought Rhys out again, Rhys had reached his majority and had little use for his absentee uncle.
He read on.
In truth, you were already too far along the path that led you to become the man you are today. A man who has forgotten the joys of adventure and discovery. A man who no longer marvels at the wonders around him. A man who is deadened by cynicism, duty, and banality.
A man much like your father.
Rhys’s jaw clenched.Devil take you, Horatio.
Horatio knew the state of affairs between Rhys and Phillip—knew how much Rhys hated the bastard. Indeed, Rhys had done everything in his power to distance himself from his sire. Whatever his father had desired him to do, he’d done the opposite.
His Grace wanted a dutiful heir whose morals were beyond reproach?
Rhys had taken off on a Grand Tour that had lastedyearsinstead of months. He’d spent his early twenties drinking, dueling, and bedding his way through the Continent. He’d refused to have anything to do with his sire’s rabid Toryism and politics in general.
Moreover, Horatio had some bloody nerve casting judgment when allhe’d ever done was take off on one carefree lark after another. At least Rhys had tried to take on the responsibilities of the insolvent dukedom his father had left behind…even if he’d proven a miserable failure.
He forced himself to continue reading.
You’re probably judging me a hypocrite, and you’d have the right of it, dear boy. Responsibility has never been my forte. I’ve been accountable to no one and nothing but my own conscience…which leads me to you. I haven’t been the best uncle, Rhys, but it is my hope that the inheritance I leave you will, in some small way, compensate for my shortcomings….
Rhys sat up in his chair, hating his eagerness. His pounding desperation.
First off, Journey’s End is yours. I’m afraid it’s not worth much—if indeed you can find a buyer. But there is value in sentiment, and I hope you will keep this haven where we have shared good times.
Rhys was going to start looking for a buyer straight away. Sentiment did not pay off debts or appease cutthroats.
Now onto your true bequest.
During my travels in the Caribbean, I came upon a chest of jewels washed ashore. Emeralds, sapphires, and diamonds, jewels fit for a king. (Indeed, from the markings on the chest, I believe the intended recipient may have been Louis XIV, to fund his armies during the War of Spanish Succession.) I’ve had the jewels valued: they’re worth over half a million pounds.
The amount was staggering. Enough to pay off Rhys’s debts five times over. Heart racing, he read on because there had to be a catch…
I leave them to you, my nephew—if you can find them.
…and there it bloody was.
To wit, your inheritance is a treasure hunt. Follow the clues to find the gems. And remember this: nothing worth having in life comes easily. It is my greatest hope that, in your search for the jewels, you will also find your way.
