“I did not.”
“And her eyes are the clearest blue. Like a glimpse of sky behind the windows of her spectacles.” Evidently no poet, Newton said dreamily, “She is unlike any female of my acquaintance.”
Privately, Rhys did not think Newton had been acquainted with all that many females. As far as he knew, the other lived like a monk. And the perfidious woman the solicitor had once been married to would surely cure a man of any desire to trust another.
Yet as the door opened to reveal Hypatia with a tray, Newton looked as eager as a newly whelped pup. If he had a tail, it would be wagging. Rhys would have snorted…but Maggie entered the parlor, and his breath lodged in his throat.
He’d brought her a poesy, and she’d pinned one of the violets to her breast. The warmth in her eyes made the world fade. Desire shot through his veins, and he had to restrain the urge to haul her over his shoulder like some troglodyte. To take her to his own private cave and have his way with her…
“Won’t you have a seat, Your Grace?” Hypatia’s voice broke his reverie.
Given that the spinster would be helping with the treasure hunt, he’d seen no point in keeping his true identity secret any longer. Maggie had vouched for her sister-in-law’s discretion.
“My friends call me Ransom,” he said. “I think we are well past formalities.”
He shared the rather lumpy settee with Maggie, while Patty and Newton occupied adjacent chairs. Refreshments were passed around, and he found himself enjoying the simple ritual of being served tea by Maggie. She prepared the dark brew with the same efficiency she did everything, not spilling a drop and doctoring it perfectly to his liking.
As he took a plate of biscuits from her, their fingers touched. The spark of contact danced over his skin. He saw the answering awareness in her beguiling eyes.
“We should proceed with the task at hand,” Hypatia said.
Rhys glanced at Newton, who was nearly salivating at the spinster’s brisk tones. Well, he couldn’t blame the fellow. Maggie’s pragmatism never failed to get him in a lather.
“Did you bring the note, um, Ransom?” Maggie said.
She was still getting used to referring to him by his title. He preferred hearing her call him Rhys, but that was better suited for intimate situations.
“Right here.” Removing the note, he put it on the coffee table for all to see.
Hypatia pursed her lips. “Do you have any idea what the ‘deathless vein’ refers to, Your Grace? Is there anything that your uncle might have said that could be a clue?”
Rhys had spent time mulling over this very question. “My Uncle Horatio had a brief interest in all things Egyptian. I thought that perhaps ‘deathless vein’ might allude to the Egyptian belief in the Afterlife. I searched Horatio’s collection of Egyptian curiosities, however, and found nothing.”
“That’s still a good guess,” Maggie said.
He smiled faintly at her staunch support.
“What if we were to make a list of all the things that ‘deathless vein’ conjures up?” she suggested. “We could just toss some ideas out there.”
“Capital idea, Mrs. Foley,” Newton said.
Hypatia fetched a pen and paper, and they set to work. As a group, they came up with a list of possibilities ranging from a gravestone to a well to a fountain. They went through the items one by one, discussing whether there was a specific location of that item where the treasure or next clue might be found. Unfortunately, none of the ideas seemed to bear fruit.
By the time they finished going through the list, the sun had sunk into the horizon. After lighting the lamps, Maggie announced that all the thinking was making her hungry, and she would fetch them a collation.
Hypatia started to rise, but Rhys beat her to it. “I’ll help, Miss Hypatia. You and Newton continue working on that list.”
He didn’t miss his man-of-business’s grateful look. Or how readily Hypatia acquiesced to his suggestion. With their heads bent together and respective spectacles agleam, the spinster and the solicitor looked like a match made in heaven. Or some scholarly institution.
Maggie led the way into the kitchen, Rhys following at her heels. The door had scarcely closed behind them when he clamped his hands on her waist, hoisting her onto the scarred worktable. Her gasp tasted of tea and honey; her moan was even sweeter. He possessed her mouth as he yearned to possess her—fully and completely.
When they came up for air, her hands were curled around his lapels. She wore his favorite look: that of a well-kissed, passion-dazed woman.
“I missed you,” he murmured.
“You saw me yesterday.”
“I resented every minute that didn’t have you in it.” He tucked a wayward cinnamon tress behind her ear, just for the pleasure of touching her.
