Page 11 of Most Ardently (Return to Culloden Moor #5)
11
HAND IN HAND
* * *
S till in her uniform, Violet moved through the shadowed corridors like a wraith. She had removed her shoes so her feet made no sound. Her heart pounded with each creaking board, each shifting shadow. If someone were to interrupt her search now, she couldn't bear it! She was so close!
When she reached the study door, she hesitated only briefly before tapping thrice. The door whipped opened immediately and Louis pulled her inside.
“You came,” he whispered.
“Did you doubt me?”
“I feared you might have fallen asleep. That woman is quite the taskmaster.” He was dressed simply in shirtsleeves and waistcoat, his jacket discarded, his cravat loosened—a level of informality that would have been scandalous in any other context.
“If we are caught…”
“Then I shall have some excuse. I cried out for help and you came,” he said, his voice gruffly tender. “A nightmare, perhaps, or a sudden illness that required immediate attention.”
The concern in his eyes touched her. This was more than just a hunt for treasure for him now. He cared for her more deeply than she had thought possible. And her heart threatened to do the same in return. But she pushed the feeling aside. Her heart was not the priority here. Iris was.
“Have you found our watcher?”
“I have not. But I am told there is another mantel in the smaller library in the family's wing, abovestairs. Shall we go?”
Violet nodded and, hand in hand, hearts in their throats, they set out to adventure together.
* * *
The small library was charming with bookshelves lining two walls and comfortable chairs covered in blue tartan. Louis lit three candles that threw arches of light against walls covered in conflicting tartan of red and yellow. And over the fire another Jacobean mantel awaited their inspection.
Just like the one in the great hall, this mantel was magnificently ornate, the wood so dark it was nearly black, gleaming with seven decades of polish and care. The dramatic crosses, stylized acanthus leaves, and outlandish figures spoke unmistakably of the era—a masterwork from a time when craftsmen labored for months or years on single pieces.
“Extraordinary,” Louis murmured, his fingers tracing a spiral column that flanked the central panel. “The strapwork decoration alone would have required hundreds of hours. To replace even a portion of it would be a sin against art itself. No wonder it has remained intact.”
A shiver ran up Violet's spine, and she wondered if perhaps they had come to the end of their search, if perhaps the treasure was somehow locked inside or behind this piece.
“There,” Louis said, pointing to a central figure—a bearded man with deeply carved eyes that seemed to glare directly at them, framed by heavily stylized architectural elements. “That is our watcher, I believe.”
Violet moved closer. She ran her fingertips over the intricate scrollwork, marveling at the dense patterns, the ebony finish.
Her fingers probed the area around the watcher's eyes, feeling for any irregularity in the carved wood. She probed the edges of the central tableau, as she had the stone wall, and pressed carefully.
And it moved. Ever so slightly, the center panel shifted.
Louis gasped. “Press harder.”
Violet applied more pressure to the spot, and with a soft click, the entire panel—a rectangular portion nearly a foot wide and eight inches tall—turned slightly, as the stone had, inviting her to remove it.
“It's a box!” She gently pulled it free, leaving a perfectly glaring gap in the mantel. “Heavy. Take it!” She lowered it into his waiting hands.
“Ingenious,” he breathed.
They moved to the chairs and while she watched, he tried to find an opening. But to any observer, it looked to be a solid square of wood, carved only on one side.
She clung to hope. “Is it not a box, then?”
“It appears to be a puzzle box—a complex mechanism with multiple hidden catches and sliding panels. If there is a treasure inside, we don't want to be caught with it here. My room is just down the next hallway.”
* * *
Outside the library, Louis tucked the box under one arm and took Violet’s hand. Their brief journey to his chamber was tense, every shadow a potential witness, as if they were truly criminals stalking the halls. But luck favored them—the corridors remained empty, the house slumbered on.
Once safely behind the locked door, Louis placed the puzzle box on his desk. The fire cast a golden glow over the dark ancient wood.
“So clever,” Violet whispered. “All this time, hidden in plain sight.”
“And undoubtedly valuable in its own right. But its true worth lies in what it contains—or what it leads to.”
The box revealed no obvious opening mechanism. The carved details gave no clues.
“The principle of a puzzle box is to manipulate portions in the correct order.”
Louis pressed against different images, but with no effect. He tried again with sections.
“Nothing,” he muttered.
On the next attempt, one corner of the box shifted slightly.
“We are close.”
An hour passed. The box revealed its secrets grudgingly, one failed attempt leading to another approach. Louis's fingers ached from the delicate work.
“Perhaps we should concede defeat for tonight,” Violet suggested, fatigue evident. “Return it before dawn, try again tomorrow.”
“No.” Determination hardened Louis's face. “We are running out of time. Another…thirty hours or so, and your access to this house is over.” He turned a small section clockwise. A satisfying click and a gasp from them both. “The first layer yields!”
The second mechanism proved stubborn. Violet couldn’t watch. But just as she turned aside, another click!
The third mechanism resisted all their attempts. Louis tried dozens of combinations while Violet consulted her memory of her father's ramblings.
“Father talked about stars, but nothing in particular. The leaves mean nothing to me. He never once mentioned a watcher, or a burning heart.”
“The burning heart was likely a hint that the watcher was near a fireplace, yes?”
“Any hearts on the box?”
Louis peered close. “Damn me!” He pointed, then pressed. The side of the box sprang open. “We did it!”
“Open it,” Violet whispered, tempering her joy so as not to wake the house.
With ceremonious care, Louis tipped the box and a single, yellowed bit of parchment slid out. No gold coins. Not a one. Just another clue.
He extended it to her.
Violet unfolded the scrap with trembling hands, revealing elegant script that matched the last clue. “Turn your face up to the dunn bridge to find the Bonnie treasure.”
“The bridge,” Violet whispered. “The old brown bridge!” She traced the words with her fingertip. “I have crossed it countless times without noticing anything unusual. My father spent hours and hours there. He must have suspected…”
“Bonnie is capitalized, so obviously they mean Bonnie Prince Charlie, so they definitely mean the Jacobite treasure.” Louis shook his head. “Too late for tonight. We’ll need daylight. And we won’t have a moment tomorrow…”
“The morning after then. Everyone will sleep late after the ball.”
“Agreed. The morning after, then. We'll meet at the fountain as soon as the sun is up.”
He placed the puzzle box on his desk. “I shall return this to the mantelpiece before breakfast. No one will notice it was gone.”
Violet stood, acutely conscious of Louis as he walked behind her to the door—his height, his proximity, the scent of him.
They halted at the threshold. His gaze dropped to her lips. Violet leaned toward him, pulled by memory.
“Violet.” Her name sounded different in the dark.
“Louis.”
Tension crackled between them. Louis stepped back and grasped the doorknob. “Until tomorrow.”
She slipped through the narrow opening. “Until tomorrow.”
The hallway was deserted. The whisper of her skirts was all she heard. As she hurried toward the servants' staircase, a door creaked open ahead.
She flattened against the wall. Harcourt emerged in his dressing gown, and spotted her instantly. She couldn’t breathe.
Would he chide her? Rouse others with his rebuke?
Instead, Harcourt knelt to adjust his slipper, deliberately turning his back to her.
Violet shook herself out of her stupor and darted past. At the staircase, she glanced back. Harcourt straightened, the wall sconce illuminating what might have been a smile.
In her narrow bed, exhaustion made her body heavy, and she begged her mind not to dream of bridges, treasure, or barons. She fell asleep plagued by that smile on the face of the Marquess of Harcourt. Why on earth would the man lift a finger—or turn his back—for her?