The de Valery Code Read Online Free Page B

resisted the urge to pull the book back toward where she was sitting.
    A moment later, he returned with a slim, leather-bound manuscript and set it on the table in front of her. “This is a poem from the late fourteenth century. My father had it bound to protect the vellum. If you turn to the last page, you will see a better representation of de Valery’s mark.”
    She hesitated and shot him a saucy look. “May I touch it, since I’m wearing gloves?”
    The corner of his mouth lifted in the barest hint of a smile, and he tipped his head. “Please.”
    Something about the way he delivered the word made her shiver. She opened the cover and flipped past a few blank pages before reaching the text. The document wasn’t illustrated, beyond colors used in some of the lettering, but the handwriting was an art form in and of itself. “I can only imagine how much time it took to compile these.”
    “Years in some cases, though this poem probably only took several weeks. It’s not terribly long.”
    No, just a handful of pages. As he’d said, the last page contained a larger, more legible version of the mark. She looked over at him. He was watching her. “Are you certain this is the same?”
    “If you’d studied the written word for as long and as extensively as I have, you could identify the similarities in the letter shape and the stroke of the pen.” His tone was smooth, certain.
    “Has anyone ever told you that you’re arrogant?”
    He lifted a shoulder. “On several occasions.” His nonchalant response only underscored her assessment. “Has anyone ever told you that you’re immoderately direct?” The question sounded more curious than judgmental, maybe even a little bit flirtatious.
    She decided his answer suited her just fine. “On several occasions.”
    He inclined his head. “I didn’t mean to be arrogant; I take the study of manuscripts quite seriously.”
    “It’s your life’s work,” she said, wondering what that felt like.
    “It is.” His contentment and confidence conveyed an emotion that told her what it felt like, at least, to him. It also filled her with a sense of longing. She wished she felt like that about something.
    She looked back at the scribe’s mark. “This is Edmund de Valery’s work, you say. But you still haven’t told me why my—our—book is important or valuable.”
    He glanced at Mrs. Edwards, her neighbor from Gloucester who’d consented to accompany her on this errand when Aunt Eugenie had taken ill. Unease flashed in his eyes, as if he was reluctant to share his thoughts in front of the woman. He lowered his voice. “To any scholar this is a highly important text, but I am not any scholar. I believe this book might be one of a pair of the finest representations of medieval documentation ever created. As a singular specimen, the book is worth what I offered you. The books together are worth significantly more.” He leaned forward. “I want the book, Miss Derrington. Enough that I am willing to risk my coin to pay the elevated amount now, before I ascertain if it is indeed the text I believe it to be.”
    She ought to just sell it to him, would be deranged not to, but she’d seen the gleam in his eyes before. It was the one a gentleman who was light in the pockets wore when he acquired the attention of a debutante with a fat dowry. Could there be more wealth involved than the amount she required to solve her immediate problem? Could there be enough to live independently without worrying about every shilling she spent? “Where is this other book?” Perhaps she’d appeal directly to that person.
    “It belongs to my second cousin, the Earl of Stratton.”
    Drat. She’d heard of Stratton, a dissolute beast with a penchant for drink and a constant stream of women who weren’t his wife. Every young lady, even those who couldn’t afford a Season, had been warned of Lord Stratton as an example of why to approach the Marriage Mart with great caution. He’d duped not