Page 1 of The Case at Castle Rock Cove (Beau Monde Secrets #4)

April 1822

C ato found the bottle first. He’d started the walk on a lead, but after a few minutes on the beach, he slipped his collar to run ahead. Ben ought to have been prepared for that trick. It was hardly the first time Cato had done it. He always chafed at the slow pace Ben set while searching the beach at low tide.

“Cato! Come here!” Ben called, though he knew Cato too well to expect him to return on command. Cato was an obedient dog when nothing distracted him, but it didn’t take much to sidetrack him.

The brown-and-white dog acknowledged Ben’s call with a wag of his tail but kept furiously digging in the damp sand. He had found the first potential treasure of the day, and he wasn’t about to abandon it.

“That better not be something poisonous!” Ben broke into a slow jog, hurrying to cross the yards of damp sand separating him from his dog.

Like many dogs, Cato was willing to taste anything that looked and smelled even remotely edible. If the object buried in the sand happened to be a rotting fish, the potential for disaster was high. Even if Cato didn’t ingest it and make himself sick to his stomach, odds were, he’d roll in it and need a bath. Dread of that chore sent Ben from a jog to a real run.

But by the time Ben reached the hole in the sand, Cato had already moved on in search of new discoveries. Not something edible , Ben concluded. When he peered into the sandy hole the dog left behind, he found nothing but a green glass bottle.

At least it won’t bite me . The last time Cato found something interesting, the something interesting had been a crab that attacked Ben.

He picked the bottle up carefully, but it appeared to be unbroken, with no sharp edges to cut him. The cork stopper had been coated in wax, presumably to keep out water. Inside the bottle was a roll of paper.

Ben’s heart sped up. The classic message in a bottle! He’d never found one before. He turned the bottle around in his hand, wondering how long it had been in the water and where it had come from. Sand clung to the glass, but no chips or scratches marred the smooth surface. The cork also looked to be in surprisingly good condition, with no visible crumbling.

The bottle was not, therefore, a relic from a previous century, or even a previous decade, Ben concluded. He doubted it had traveled very far before being washed up on the beach below Castle Rock Point. Should he just throw it back into the water? Or leave it in the sand to become someone else’s treasure?

He peered into his collection basket. All he’d found so far was a pretty shell, which he’d placed in the straw-lined right compartment of the basket. He had half a dozen shells just as pretty back in his workroom; there was really nothing special about this one.

When he first began combing the beach at Castle Rock Cove, he picked up everything that looked remotely interesting, from pretty rocks and unusual shells to bits of colorful sea glass. He’d brought it all into his bedchamber and spread it on a piece of oilcloth on the floor to dry out.

The housekeeper, Mrs. Smith, protested over the mess and the smell. Ben’s aunt had taken one look at Ben’s collection and sided with Mrs. Smith. She wanted Ben to throw the whole collection into the dustbin. As a compromise, Ben’s grandfather assigned him a room above the carriage house and forbade him to bring his beach finds into the house.

Moreover, Grandfather Marlowe insisted that Ben must keep no more than one of his finds per day. “You don’t need dozens of snail shells,” he had said. “And you should leave some for other people, anyway.”

“What other people?” Ben had protested. “Do you think fishermen have time to comb the beach for geodes?” Not that he’d found any geodes, mind you. But the principle mattered.

“There will be holiday sea-goers in summer,” Grandfather Marlowe warned. “And they’ll all want souvenirs. Don’t hoard them all. You don’t have room for all of them, anyway.”

On days when he found nothing worth keeping, Ben had no trouble following his grandfather’s rule. Other days, he was so torn between two different treasures that he had to make the decision by flipping a coin. Today, though, the decision was easy. He didn’t have a bottle like this, and certainly not one with a message in it.

He tucked the bottle carefully into a cloth-lined compartment of his basket. Then he gently placed the rejected seashell in the pit Cato had dug. That would make a little mystery for whoever next walked along the beach.

Satisfied with the day’s find, Ben called for Cato. This time, Cato galloped right up to Ben, his tongue hanging out of his mouth. A few energetic wags of his tail scattered sand everywhere, including on Ben’s Wellington boots.

“Atta boy!” Ben rubbed Cato’s ears, then refastened the collar more tightly around the dog’s neck. “Time to go home.” Cato’s tail slowed its enthusiastic wagging, but he followed Ben without protest.

There were two ways up to the cliffs above the cove: a rough path formed by years of use on the western side of Castle Rock Cove, and a man-made staircase cut into the stone on the eastern side. The staircase led straight up to Marlowe land. Technically, most of the cove belonged to the Marlowe estate as well, but Grandfather Marlowe had never minded trespassers on the beach or the rocks that gave the cove its name.

Ben usually took the stairs; the other path made him nervous. The rocky earth along the western path had a habit of slipping alarmingly beneath his feet, and he found it hard to keep his balance on some sections of the zig-zagging trail. The stairs felt much firmer and more stable, though he still wished there were a handrail.

The lack of a handrail bothered Cato not a whit. He hadn’t had a long enough run to wear him out, and he would have galloped exuberantly up the stairs if Ben had let him. But Ben kept them at a slow, steady pace until they reached the green field above the cliff. Then he broke into a run, making one small dog very happy.

Marlowe Tower loomed over the park. It had been built well back from the cliff so its owners wouldn’t have to worry about erosion undermining the foundations—at least not for a few centuries.

From the front, the house looked like a genuine castle, with narrow windows for protection from a siege. Visitors approaching it for the first time usually thought they were visiting an ancient stronghold of the Marlowe family.

In fact, the tower was a sham. Elias Marlowe had built the house a mere fifty years ago. Inspired by the rise of Gothic fiction, he wanted a Gothic castle of his own. After acquiring a fortune through speculating, he bought the land from a dissolute nobleman, tore down the already-crumbling country manor, and had a faux castle of his own built in its place.

Elias did not live to see the castle completed, but his son, Joseph, brought his bride home to Marlowe Tower, and raised three daughters there. Two of the daughters married and flew the nest, but Faith Marlowe stayed behind. After an apoplexy carried Mrs. Joseph Marlowe away, Faith managed the house and served as hostess on the rare occasions when Mr. Marlowe entertained guests.

So far as Ben could tell, his aunt and grandfather had lived quite happily together. But when Ben decided not to finish his degree at Cambridge, his mother suggested he move in with his grandfather.

“They could use the company,” Lady Radcliffe insisted. “Your grandfather needs someone more lively to cheer him up.”

Ben had doubts about his ability to cheer anyone up, given how miserable he had been at Cambridge after his friend Baynton had died. Still, he listened to his mother, packed his trunk of clothes and a crate full of books, and moved to Dorsetshire.

Moving to Castle Rock Cove turned out to be one of the best decisions Ben had ever made. He not only enjoyed the quiet solitude of the tower but also loved having a beach full of treasure right at his feet. And his grandfather, rather than telling Ben to throw his whole messy collection out—as Ben’s parents had done in the past—simply asked him to keep it out of everyone’s way.

Today, Ben headed straight for his specimen room, taking the curving path that led around the side of the house and past the row of storm-blasted trees that formed a barrier between the house and the stables.

When he reached the carriage house, he let Cato loose from his leash. The dog hurried to his kennel in search of a leftover bone. Meanwhile, Ben entered the carriage house and pounded up the staircase, taking the steps two at a time.

The upper story contained only one room, and it was all Ben’s. He closed the door, locking it behind him. It wasn’t as if he thought anyone would try to steal his treasures—he knew most of them were valuable only to himself. But he did not like being interrupted while he concentrated on an interesting artifact, and he found the green glass bottle very interesting.

Ben wavered for a moment. He did not normally alter the objects he found on the beach, apart from cleaning them. Part of him would have liked to keep the bottle exactly as he found it: corked and sealed. But another part of him desperately wanted to know what was written on the letter inside.

His curiosity and his desire to collect warred for a moment. Curiosity won. He could not bear not knowing what the note said! He set caution aside to break the wax seal and draw out the cork. Coaxing out the scroll of paper was harder than he expected. In the end, he had to use a pair of tweezers to pull it through the neck of the bottle. Ben unfolded the paper with shaking hands, then paused to silently laugh at himself. How foolish it was to act as if this note was magical or life changing! As if it were a map to treasure or an appeal to rescue! Even if it had been tossed overboard by a sailor on a sinking boat, there was no way the sailor would still be alive, waiting for rescue.

But he could not ignore the frisson of excitement that crept down his spine when he unfolded the note and read it. At first the contents made his eyes widen; then they made him grin.

April 13, 1822

To Whomever Finds this Note:

Dear Sir or Madam, please rescue me! I am in dire peril of boredom. We are visiting my elderly cousin in Newell-on-Sea, and she does not own a single book worth reading. Her husband was a clergyman, and most of his books are collections of sermons. The closest thing to a novel is Pilgrim’s Progress . I have already read Pilgrim’s Progress twice, though I have only been here a week! When I asked about a circulating library, my cousin told me there was no library of any kind in Newell. How can a seaside town not have a library?

My mother, my sister, and I came here to convalesce after a bad case of influenza. The problem is that I am already recovered and in fine fettle, whereas my sister and my mother are recovering more slowly. They are not able to take long walks with me. They only want to bathe in the sea and rest. I hate bathing in the ocean, and I have already rested enough, thank you! I need something else to keep me entertained, or I will go mad from sitting inside all day.

I am going to stand on Castle Rock Point and hurl this bottle into the water below the cliff. If you find this note months or years after I dropped it, all I ask is that you think well of me. And maybe, if there is still no circulating library in Newell, you should consider starting one.

But if you find this note before the end of June, 1822, then I beg you to rescue me from the tedium of this holiday. We did not bring our saddle horses, so I cannot ride, and even if I had a horse, there would be no one to ride with me. And, as I believe I have already indicated, I was unprepared for the lack of reading material.

Dear stranger, I beg your assistance! If, by chance, you find this note before our visit ends, I would be much obliged if you informed me of the direction of the nearest circulating library or bookshop. You can put your response in a bottle or jar on Castle Rock Point. Please do not throw the bottle into the ocean. If you do that, I will never find it. I never walk on the beach if I can avoid it.

If you are able to provide me even a moment of entertainment, I will forever be your most grateful and obedient servant,

W. S.

Ben’s hands fairly trembled with eagerness. He would have been no good at rescuing a drowning sailor or resuscitating a child pulled breathless from the cold waves, but this? This was a problem he could solve! He had books enough for half-a-dozen convalescents. He had a saddle horse of his own, as well as a spare hack that his grandfather used to ride. That horse was elderly, yes, but still sound.

This W.S. sounded like a schoolboy, or perhaps a student only a little younger than Ben. But whatever W.S.’s age, Ben could undoubtedly be of assistance keeping him entertained. Best of all, there would be no awkward face-to-face introductions if they corresponded by letter. Ben was far better at communicating in writing than in speech.

Ben reached for the portable writing desk he kept on his worktable. First, he popped a lemon drop into his mouth. He kept a little crock of them in the carriage house, just as he did in his bedchamber, so he would always have one at hand when he buckled down to work. Then he drew out a piece of stationery, sharpened a quill with his penknife, and prepared to answer the letter.