“Please, sir,” Maggie said, “it’s a matter of vital importance—”
“Ain’t a rat and won’t e’er be a rat,” the man stated.
“We’re not looking for that kind of information,” Rhys said. “This concerns a personal matter. My uncle Horatio—”
“Horatio?” The man’s bushy brows shot up. “Horatio Jones?”
Excitement jolted Maggie.
“Yes,” Rhys said alertly. “Do you know him?”
“What did you say your name was?”
“Edward Rhys Hugo Jones Cavendish.”
“Blow me down, so you’re the nephew. Horatio said you’d be coming. ’Ow is the old codger, anyway?”
“He passed away.”
The barkeep’s gaze softened. “May God watch o’er ’im on ’is final journey.”
“Pardon, but I didn’t get your name,” Rhys said. “And how did you come to know my uncle?”
“Seamus O’Flaherty, at your service. Was a seaman in my younger days and met Horatio Jones on a voyage to India. Now your uncle, ’e ne’er met an adventure ’e didn’t like. We got to talkin’—trip to India ain’t exactly short, mind—and came to be friendly. After I retired from the sea, I started this ’ere establishment. Horatio paid me a visit whene’er ’e come to London.” The barkeep paused to fill two tankards with ale. “’E was last ’ere ’bout six months ago. To be ’onest, ’e didn’t seem all ’imself. But we shot the breeze as usual…and ’e mentioned you.”
“What did he say?”
“That you were a good man. But one in sore need o’ adventure.”
To a stranger, Rhys might appear impassive, but Maggie saw a myriad of emotions chase through his gaze. Pain, sorrow…regret. As she’d guessed, he’d loved his uncle despite their conflicts and felt the loss deeply. Given the trouble that his uncle had taken to arrange this treasure hunt, she suspected his love had been returned.
“After his death, Uncle Horatio left me some instructions,” Rhys said. “One of them led me here. Did he perchance leave something with you to give to me, Mr. O’Flaherty?”
“Indeed ’e did.”
Maggie’s breath held.
“May I see it?” Rhys asked.
O’Flaherty’s brows rose. “Why, sir, you’re lookin’ right at it.”
“Why on earth would your uncle give you a painting of a peacock?” Hypatia asked.
“I have no idea,” Rhys said.
It was later that night. The four of them had returned to the hotel, and now, with the addition of Glory, were sprawled on the furniture in his sitting room. The painting that Flaherty had given them was propped up against the wall in front of them. They’d already removed the frame and found nothing hidden behind the painted canvas.
Rhys pensively contemplated the bright, detailed swirls of paint. The peacock seemed to stare back at him with belligerent yellow eyes, its mass of feathers raised in threat or mockery.
Sitting beside him, Maggie was also studying the painting. “Could the peacock have any symbolic significance?”
Feathers do not make the man, my boy.Horatio’s words, amongst the last he’d said to Rhys, banded Rhys’s chest with regret. He wished that they had parted on better terms. That he’d been more willing to forgive his uncle for the earlier desertion. That he hadn’t continually pushed Horatio away when the other had tried to make amends.
Aloud, he said, “Other than Uncle Horatio taking a sly jab at my vanity, I don’t think so.”
Yet there had to be something there. Something more. Why would Horatio lead them on this wild goose chase otherwise?
Glory approached the painting in a purposeful stride. Tender amusement melted away some of Rhys’s tension. With her bottom lip caught beneath her teeth, she looked like a miniature Maggie.
