Gwendolyn stiffened. “Pardon me? If anyone is ignorant around here, andrude, it is—”
Jackson cleared his throat, suffered the dagger to the belly that was Gwendolyn’s narrowed gaze. “Mr. Stewart, we will not disturb your system. Nor will we keep you long. Both of us do, if you can countenance it, value your uninterrupted thoughts. We are scholars in our own right.”
“Bah. You do the grunt work, which does not always require a great deal of thought.”
Gwendolyn’s fists balled at her sides as she stepped toward the man. Jackson caught her wrist and pulled her back. It was his turn to catch her eye and raise his brows, saying without words, “Please do not kill him; we need him.”
Jackson found the fireplace and leaned against the book-cluttered mantel while Gwendolyn, her murderous impulses currently controlled, wandered next to the dusty window.
“Do you have a reason for your visit, Cavendish?” Mr. Stewart crossed an ankle over his knee and leaned back in his armchair.
The subtle method would not work here. He could not chat Mr. Stewart into giving away information. Mr. Stewart did notchat. Nothing clearer than that. But his gaze continued flicking toward Gwendolyn. He fancied her. Or fancied the look of her. Jackson didn’t blame him. Didn’t like it but understood the attraction. Would the scholar more willingly give information toher?
“We decided to visit on a whim,” Jackson said. “Miss Smith and I were riding and discussing the history of this geographical location, the castle, the lands. She has a particular fascination with it all, you see. Has read every book in the library during our short stay and has an itch to sketch the most important local sights. Illustrations to enrich the pages of my father’s book.”
Gwendolyn swung away from the window to glower at him, but she kept it a small glower. One a man like Mr. Stewart, king of a dusty parlor, might not notice. Only Jackson would see. She waited to see what path he trod and waited to decide whether she would walk it with him.
“When I mentioned,” Jackson continued, “that you were a foremost mind on the subject, she begged—”
“I hardly think,” Gwendolyn said, her arms crossing in a deadly slow slither over her chest, “beggedis the correct word, Mr. Cavendish.”
Jackson nodded and hid his smile. “Beggedto meet with you.”
A low growl rumbled from Gwendolyn’s vicinity.
Mr. Stewart scratched his stubbled chin. Looked like a highwayman or a pirate, he did. “What interests you most, Miss Smith?”
She glared at Jackson then rolled her eyes heavenward. Looking for her next words? A resigned sigh, then, “Truly, Mr. Stewart, what interests me most is Jackson’s father’s book. Illustrating it, especially.”
Mr. Stewart’s thick, slashing brows jumped toward his hairline. “Haven’t thought of that in years. Is it any good?”
“I wouldn’t know,” Gwendolyn admitted. “It appears to be missing.”
Jackson’s jaw dropped. Hell. Hell.Hell. Confound it! “Gweny.” Her name a groan as he rubbed his temples.
“I do not see the point in charming the truth out of a man who obviously has no charm himself. He’s impervious to your brand of flattery, Jackson, and I must approach the problem from a different angle.”
She’d been doing that often lately—approaching old problems from new angles. He wanted her to keep doing so, so he held his hands up, palms forward, and leaned back against the mantel, letting her lead the charge.
The scholar’s brows flinched higher. Impossibly high, really. “You’ll excuse me if I entirely ignore whatever interpersonal scuffles you have brewing at the moment. The manuscript is truly missing? I find that difficult to believe.”
“What you find difficult or easy to believe is neither here nor there,” Gwendolyn said. “It is the truth. What we would like to know is if you have any information about the book you can share with us.”
Mr. Stewart shook his head. “Mr. Cavendish”—he nodded toward Jackson—“your father, spoke with me about it. I advised him on a means of organizing the information and suggested he look into the ruins on the beach near Telscombe. But he never shared the manuscript with me. I never read a single word.”
“Did he divulge any information regarding its location to you?” Gwendolyn asked.
“No. He carried it with him sometimes. Bits and pieces of it in that brown folio, and he’d take notes while we talked.”
“Bits and pieces?” Jackson straightened from his lean, and a book tumbled to the floor.
“Be careful!” Mr. Stewart jerked from his chair to retrieve the book. He placed it back from where it had fallen with a warning glare for Jackson. “Damn your eyes,” he hissed as he resumed his seat.
“The cursed state of my eyes aside,” Jackson said, careful not to dislodge another tome, “you suggest he did not keep the pages of the manuscript together in a single place.” Interesting. And not what they’d been looking for. His father could have been a bit more organized and straightforward concerning his work.
Mr. Stewart shrugged. “At least not all the time. I can understand why he’d not carry the entire thing about. I saw it once—a huge pile. It was going to be a complete history. Your father was quite thorough.”
Gwendolyn clicked her tongue against the roof of her mouth as she often did when thinking. “Big. Itshouldbe in plain sight then!”
