The de Valery Code Read Online Free Page A

so small as to be mistaken for a smudge or a bit of graffiti. He lightly touched the mark, as if he could feel the imprint of the man who’d made it centuries before.
    “What?” She’d caught his reaction and leaned closer. “What is it?”
    He turned his head. If the excitement coursing through him hadn’t pushed him to the edge of joy, her proximity might’ve done so. She was lovely. And desperate—but for what? He realized he didn’t care. He only knew he had to have this book, even if it didn’t conceal a secret code that led to a mysterious treasure.
    “Name your price, Miss Derrington.”

Chapter Two

    If Aunt Agnes and Aunt Eugenie were here, they’d ask for maybe fifty pounds, he’d likely accept, the book would trade hands, and they’d be on their merry way. But the words stuck in Margery’s throat. Why couldn’t she just name a price?
    Because in the days since she’d laid her hands on the manuscript, she’d devoured every page dozens of times. That first night, she’d stayed up into the wee hours poring over every drawing and every line of text. After so much time with it, the thing felt like it was hers.
    Too, there was his reaction. His interest had been evident, but the way he’d held the book from her had taken his interest to an entirely different plane. He desired this book quite fervently. Why?
    She glanced at the open book where his long fingers splayed across the bottom corner. “You didn’t answer my question.” She was guarding her answers because she didn’t want him to know how desperate she was. Why was he guarding his? “Why is this book so special? Knowing that might help me come up with a price.”
    He cleared his throat as if he were about to deliver an oration. “It’s a singular artifact. On their own, these stories aren’t necessarily original or extraordinary, but in this state, they are elevated to art. It’s the scribe who composed this book that makes it so important.” He pointed to a small, black drawing in the bottom left corner of the last page.
    She tried to make sense of the swirled ink, but it just looked like the scribe had blotted his pen there. “What is that?”
    “The scribe’s mark—Edmund de Valery. It’s hard to discern, but this is an E, D, and V written over each other.” He stood and reached for a magnifying glass sitting at the other end of the table and handed it to her. “Look.”
    She held the glass between her eye and the page. “Yes, now I see the V and the branches of the E.” She turned to look at Mr. Bowen and realized just how close they were. She could feel his heat. His mouth was only inches from hers.
    With a jolt, she set the glass on the table and averted her gaze from the absurdly handsome Mr. Bowen. He was an antiquarian, his nose buried in books all day. Why then did his appearance make her think of the knights in the book before them? Likely because he was uncharacteristically tall with broad shoulders. He had the look of a Welshman with his jet-black hair, earth-brown eyes, and dark complexion. If she hadn’t known his occupation, she might have assumed him some warrior of old.
    She forced herself back to the matter at hand instead of romanticizing Mr. Bowen. “How did you recognize this?”
    He kept his focus on the book, something she should endeavor to do. “I’ve seen his mark before. I have another document written by de Valery.”
    She expected him to get it or at least offer to show it to her. That he didn’t filled her with suspicion, as did his reluctance to tell her why this book was so important to him. “May I see it?” she asked, infusing her question with sugary politeness and offering her most charming smile.
    He blinked at her, his terribly long, ink-black lashes briefly shuttering his dark eyes. He studied her at length, then stood, though she sensed he was hesitant. His fingers pressed against the book before releasing it as he stepped away from the table. As he went to his desk, she