Then he swept from the room.
At least, he tried to. The door, swollen with moisture, would not budge under his efforts, so that he had to be freed from his prison of embarrassment by the mighty hand of the innkeeper.
Warmth surged into his cheeks. Barnaby would not allow them to see how flushed he was. He forged ahead, pushing past the multitude of bodies in the bar and escaping through the entrance into the open air. But he did not stop. Instead, he marched up the road, his indignation an engine that spurred him on. All he wanted now was the sanctuary of his room at Hill House, where he could clear his mind of this burning humiliation.
What had he been thinking? Miss Tully was not for him. He had never needed a romantic entanglement before. And Miss Tully was certainly not the type of woman with whom to start one.
Barnaby’s chest swelled. He was a man of dignity. And she had been so quick to tease! The woman barely knew him. She had no right to play games with him.
That Brewster fellow was no better! In fact, the whole village could just sink into the sea as far as he was concerned, the unfinished legend along with it. They were nothing to him. Nothing. He had a job to do—work for which he was valued.
Barnaby fretted and grumbled for the better part of his stomping return to Hill House. It was only when the manor came into view that he had calmed down sufficiently to bethink himself.
Embarrassment at their treatment of him was gradually replaced with shame at his own readiness to take offense.
They probably hadn’t meant any harm. He had been too sensitive. They had known each other a lifetime, no doubt comfortable with this sort of banter between them. They had thought to include him. How could they have known that he would take it so hard? And he had. He had felt a fool because he wanted to be anything but a fool in front of Miss Tully. His own need to be straightlaced and honorable, so that she would not think less of him, had made him huff off like a sulky child.
Barnaby’s steps ground to a halt. What a fool he was! What must they think of him?
Dragging the weight of regret up the drive, Barnaby entered the house, heading for the stairs and some solitude in which to lick his self-inflicted wounds.
“Ah, Mr. Ash!” said an unfamiliar voice carrying the unmistakable sound of authority. “I expected to find you hard at work in the library. I must say, I did not think Fenwick had much to offer a man of your education. I hope you have not been frequenting the pub.”
Barnaby cast a guilty glance at the manuscript under his arm. “Lord Brathwaite,” he said with a bow of his head. “I assure you that my small excursion was made in your interests. I have found a remarkable text amongst your books and was trying to establish its authenticity from some of the more knowledgeable locals.”
“I see.” The earl was not entirely appeased, but the darkening of his eyes receded and the tightness in his bearing relaxed significantly. “You’d best tell me everything then. Shall we?” He indicated with a perfectly tailored arm toward the study.
Barnaby followed him, only to remember that no suitable surface existed upon which to place Alwin’s writings. He quickly shifted a few smaller piles to the sofa, then displayed the contents of the oilskin cloth to its new owner upon the heavy oak desk.
Lord Brathwaite perused the pages with the care and gravitas Barnaby felt they deserved. But that was all. Sadly, Barnaby had come to realize that no one else interacted with them beyond the usual appreciation. No one had jerked their hands away from the pages, or reached to urgently scratch themselves, or read the words with any comprehension.
What made him different?
“It certainly looks as though it was done by an expert hand,” Lord Brathwaite said at last. “And it appears well preserved. Can you guess at its age?”
“I can do more than guess, your lordship. The writer, a scribe named Alwin, dated it at 924 A.D.”
The earl pulled up, his eyebrows following suit. “You can read it? I am impressed, Mr. Ash. Your references did not mention a familiarity with ancient language. Certainly, I am grateful to have a man of your skills seeing to my books. However, I don’t understand why any of the villagers would be qualified to authenticate it.”
“Ah, well, you see, there are pages missing.”
The earl remained unmoved. “That is certainly a pity, but hardly surprising, given its age.”
“Oh, no, your lordship. They were not destroyed by time. Rather, they have been torn from the manuscript. And recently, by the roughness of the edges that remain. Can you think of anyone who would want to do such a thing?”
Brathwaite tilted a careless hand at Barnaby. “I’m sure I wouldn’t know. The books were in crates when we arrived. I have no idea what happened to them before that.”
“And since?” Barnaby asked the question without thinking. He knew it was a mistake the moment the words passed his lips. But it was too late.
Lord Brathwaite drew his brows tightly together. “Are you suggesting someone from my household would engage in such a barbaric action?”
“No, no,” Barnaby answered hastily. “But accidents do happen. Perhaps the manuscript was dropped, and the person tried to grab it, taking hold of it by the pages, which…”
“And then lied about it? Mr. Ash, all the staff here have traveled with us from our previous home near Cambridge. Many worked for my father before me. They are loyal and trustworthy. I must ask you to refrain from speaking of them as suspects.”
Barnaby lowered his head, folding his hands in supplication. “I’m sorry, your lordship. I meant nothing by it. I only hoped we might find those missing pages and learn how the legend ends.”
The earl’s frown softened. “What legend?”
