Over the dinner table that evening, the atmosphere was relaxed and comfortable. Just how comfortable, how accepted Richard now felt within the Nimway Hall fold, was another of the many elements that continued to amaze him; it was as if he’d known these people all his life. Although he had, indeed, known people like them, given all at Nimway Hall struck him as particularly individual, his ease in their company—the remarkable degree of that—continued to strike him as strange.

He’d met them only two days before, yet they seemed as close as family.

Seated between Jacqueline and Hugh and opposite Elinor, Richard ate and drank and listened to Jacqueline’s recounting of their day.

When appealed to, he contributed his observations, which Hugh—who Richard understood had been confined to his Bath chair for the past five years—apparently found enlightening.

“Always good fishing in that millpond, no matter the hour. The boys were right about that.” Hugh sat back, a reminiscing smile on his lips. “Another one of those curious things that happen here.”

Richard glanced at Hugh. Given the comment and Hugh’s tone, Richard felt able to venture, “I admit I find it curious that, if I understood correctly”—he swung his gaze briefly Jacqueline’s way—“Nimway Hall passes in the female line.” Returning his gaze to Hugh, he said, “Jacqueline mentioned it was a very old tradition.”

“Oh, indeed.” Hugh’s eyes, his whole countenance, lit with a scholar’s enthusiasm. “Over the years, I’ve made quite a study of the Hall’s legends, all the old stories the locals tell of this place. Had to do something to fill my time, heh?” He fixed Richard with a level look. “Did you know the Hall is said to derive its name directly from the sorceress?”

Richard frowned. “Sorceress…? Oh. You mean Nimue—Merlin’s…companion?”

Jacqueline laughed softly. “Merlin’s lover, yes.”

“The story goes,” Hugh continued, “that the Hall was built over Nimue’s cottage by her descendants, and naturally, being the sort of lady she was, Nimue laid down the tradition that ownership of the place—or as we speak of it, guardianship of the hall and its lands—passes through the female line.” He humphed. “Given the time period, that’s not as odd as it now appears. Boadicea and all that. Many of the old tribes used that system. Women were the center of the tribes—the holders of their future as well as their past—while the men were all warriors, so in many ways, entrusting the protection of hearth and home to the females made excellent sense.”

Richard arched his brows. Entrusting females to defend and protect people still made excellent sense.

“They changed the spelling, of course.” Across the table, Elinor caught Richard’s eye. “N-i-m-w-a-y instead of N-i-m-u-e.” She smiled in her soft, vague fashion. “But that’s just our English way, isn’t it? Like b-o-r-o-u-g-h instead of b-o-r-o.”

Hugh snorted. “Old spellings give way to the new, but how you spell a name doesn’t change anything, including our wood.” He skewered Richard with his gaze. “The tales of people getting lost in Balesboro Wood are quite interesting.”

Before Richard could ask for more on that point, Jacqueline said, “That’s true, but you haven’t finished telling Richard what you’ve learned about the Hall itself.”

“Indeed, indeed.” Hugh met Richard’s eyes. “The locals say…”

Richard listened, fascinated by the wealth of tales, mostly from local folklore, that Hugh had collected. Taken together, the stories wove a tapestry of strange events that suggested the presence of inexplicable forces centered on the Hall and permeating Balesboro Wood. After his personal experience of the wood, he was disinclined to scoff or even smile dismissively.

All the signs said there was something there, even if, in their modern wisdom, they couldn’t grasp or understand it.

The lore of Nimway Hall was patently a subject close to Hugh’s heart; he held forth at length, his deep voice rumbling pleasantly around the room.

As the courses came and went, Richard noted that both Elinor and Jacqueline seemed entirely content to allow Hugh the floor. Of greater note, despite some of Hugh’s seemingly outlandish statements, neither woman sought to correct or contradict him…presumably because, to them, Hugh’s conclusions weren’t all that outlandish.

“Why, there’s even tales of the lake—I must look up my notes about those.” Hugh looked at Jacqueline. “I should add the latest chapter of you finding that orb blocking the spring.”

Richard glanced at Jacqueline. When she merely nodded and said nothing, Richard turned back to Hugh. “Are there any stories about the orb?”

Hugh frowned. “I’m sure there must be—well, look at the thing. Never seen an object more likely to be the stuff of legends, what? But I hadn’t seen it before, so I never thought to ask, and I’m fairly sure I’ve nothing jotted down…” After a moment, still frowning, he nodded. “I’ll have to ask around.”

They’d finished the last course—a creamy gooseberry fool. Jacqueline grasped the moment and Hugh’s pause to push back her chair. “Do you gentlemen intend to dally over the port or…?”

Richard looked to Hugh, but her great-uncle had never been one for the custom.

“No, no.” Hugh set down his napkin. “We’ll take refuge with you in the drawing room, m’dears.”

They quit the table. Richard, she was pleased to note, waved away the footman, grasped the handles of Hugh’s chair, and wheeled the older man in Jacqueline and Elinor’s wake through the great hall and into the drawing room.

There, they settled, Jacqueline in her favorite chair angled to one side of the wide window where the slanting evening light afforded sufficient illumination for her to work on her stitchery. Elinor, meanwhile, sank onto the high-backed settle that was positioned perpendicular to the huge stone-manteled fireplace and picked up her embroidery hoop; Cruickshank, knowing Elinor would sit there, had already lit the candelabra that sat on the small side table at Elinor’s elbow.

Under Hugh’s direction, Richard halted Hugh’s chair so that Jacqueline’s erstwhile guardian faced the empty hearth across the expanse of the large Turkey carpet. That done, at Hugh’s request, Richard went off to the back parlor and returned several moments later with the book Hugh was currently reading, along with a volume on local history Hugh had suggested Richard might appreciate.

From beneath her lashes, Jacqueline watched Richard sit on the nearer end of the settle and open the thick, leather-bound tome. He studied the early pages, then leafed further into the book before spreading his long fingers over a particular page and starting to read.

She looked down at the fine stitches she was setting in a new altar cloth for the chapel. The household and, indeed, all those on the estate had always worshipped religiously, although their loyalties did not, in truth, lie with any church. That lack of specific allegiance to either Rome or Canterbury had, through the Reformation and the upheavals that followed, kept estate and household safe.

Major battles had been fought not far away—indeed, within sight of the lookout on the escarpment—but no one had considered Nimway Hall and its lands important enough to bother with. To disturb.

Nimue had chosen well.

Jacqueline glanced at Richard. She’d been intrigued by his reaction to Hugh’s tales. Most men she’d met would have sneered or, at the very least, scoffed dismissively—even while their nerves twitched.

No one could live at Nimway Hall or even spend time within its purlieu without feeling—sensing—the reality of what still lingered there.

Impossible to put it into words, of course; mere words could never do it justice.

But it was there. Still there. Hovering in the air, breathed in and thus a part of all who lived on the estate.

She’d observed Richard closely, not just over the past hours but throughout the time he’d been at the Hall. She’d seen no sign of dismissiveness in him—only a strongly curious nature and a wish to understand.

When she looked at him…her senses told her he wasn’t an enemy but rather could be an ally. Someone who was at home in the wider world, yet who did not hold against—attempt to resist—Nimue’s legacy.

Lips firming, she studiously kept her gaze on her cloth and set another stitch.

Having a man like Richard Montague trapped by the wood and sent to the Hall—to her…

Despite all the signs, despite his attractiveness, she wasn’t yet sure what she should make of that. Or of him.

Richard read through one long-ago tale—that of a family of travelers lost in Balesboro Wood who had sought refuge at the Hall, only later to discover that, in doing so, they had slipped from the net of soldiers sent to arrest them. With the aid of the household and estate workers, the family had fled to Bristol and escaped to France.

He turned the page and paused, his gaze resting on the next page, unseeing, as he let his senses stretch…and peace sank in.

A flow of soothing serenity wrapped about him, warm, enfolding—including.

Claiming.

It was the most curious yet richly alluring sensation, as if the house as well as the household accepted and embraced him.

As if he belonged.

As ephemeral as a sigh, the ambiance sank through him to his bones.

He raised his head and looked—at Jacqueline, industriously stitching in her chair across the room, the evening light falling over her, burnishing her hair to a warm gold and etching her fine features with feminine mystery. He glanced to his left, where Elinor, too, was stitching, quiet and absorbed. Turning his head to the right, he saw Hugh engrossed in his book.

Comfort, peace, belonging—all were palpable entities in that place, as if the house embodied such sensations and gave them life.

In that moment, he could almost feel that curious peace reaching into him, nurturing and tethering, setting its roots in his soul.

Protectively, not restrictively.

Welcoming and claiming.

For long moments, he stared unseeing, then he lowered his gaze and refocused on the pages of the book he held.

Entertaining fanciful thoughts—such highly fanciful thoughts—wasn’t like him. The sudden susceptibility must have been provoked by the tale he’d read…

Frowning slightly, he turned the page and started reading the next story, one of strange lights that, after dark, appeared to travelers lost and far from home and led them to safety through Balesboro Wood.

* * *

Richard jerked awake—instantly alert, his eyes searching the shadows, seeking the threat.

Seeing and sensing nothing through the dimness, he sat up in the four-poster bed, the better to scan the chamber.

Barely discernible in the weak moonlight streaming through the window he’d left uncurtained, the furniture sat undisturbed.

But something—some sound—had woken him.

Accustomed as he was to old houses, it had to have been an unusual, unexpected noise. The sort of noise his brain interpreted as heralding a threat.

He reminded himself that this wasn’t his house.

But he was one of the handful of vigorous and capable males residing under the roof, and the others—the footmen—slept in the attics.

Accepting that he wouldn’t get more sleep until he’d checked, he thrust back the covers and rose.

He was tying the flap of his breeches when the scrape of wood on stone reached him, followed by a succession of bangs and the unmistakable clatter of wooden furniture falling on stone floors.

He thrust his arms through his shirtsleeves and hauled his shirt over his head, then seized his sword, drew it free of its scabbard, and reached for the latch on his door.

He was first into the gallery and all but leapt down the stairs. Heavy footfalls thundered behind him, other men of the household racing down; the noise of the falling furniture had been loud enough to rouse everyone.

Richard landed on the tiles of the great hall. From the corner of his eye, he saw the door beneath the stairs start to open and whirled to confront whoever was there.

Wavering candlelight lit the gaunt face of Freddie, Hugh’s valet. Freddie peered into the hall, a poker gripped tightly in one hand.

Tight-lipped, Richard nodded at Freddie, then swung toward the front of the house. He would swear the noise had come from there.

Cruickshank and the footmen came clattering down the stairs.

Richard yielded to instinct and strode for the drawing room. The others followed.

Even before he reached the doorway, by the cool night air wafting past him, he knew he’d guessed aright.

He halted in the drawing room doorway and surveyed the darkened room.

No one was there. He lowered his sword.

Cruickshank barked orders, and lighted candles appeared; seconds later, the butler held up a candelabra so that its glow spread past Richard and into the room.

The flickering light revealed that the shutters over the wide window facing the front lawn had been broken open—that must have been the sound that had woken Richard.

The latch of the glass-paned inner frames had been twisted and forced and the windows pushed wide, allowing an intruder to climb in.

Thereafter, with the room shrouded in darkness and not even moonlight to help, the intruder had run into unforeseen obstacles.

He’d stumbled over the footstool before Jacqueline’s chair, tried to catch his balance by grabbing the chair, but had taken the heavy chair over as well. He must have staggered, then tripped on the edge of the rug and been flung against the settle. The cushions from the settle had slid onto the floor, and it looked as if the intruder had attempted to stand again, only to trip over them and pitch into the fire screen, knocking the fire tools over for good measure.

Unsurprisingly, the intruder hadn’t dallied. As the front door remained shut and bolted, he must have scrambled out through the window, leaving a scene of chaos behind.

“The damned blighter’s got away,” one of the footmen grumbled.

Cruickshank gave orders for the footmen—and the stable lads and gardener’s boys who had joined the crowd in the great hall—to search around the house. “See if he’s loitering or has left any sign by which we might track him.”

Richard grunted in agreement. Stepping out of the drawing room, he saw Jacqueline and Elinor descending the stairs. He propped his sword against the doorframe and rapidly tied his shirt points.

Their hair tucked into nightcaps, with voluminous robes swathing their figures and wrappers about their shoulders, the ladies joined him. Both were pale but unwaveringly composed. Their wide eyes sought his, their gazes questioning.

He stepped back and waved them into the drawing room, now lit by two candelabras. “Some man broke in here, but the furniture defeated him. Or so we think.” He glanced around the room. “Did he manage to steal anything before he fled? Is anything missing?”

Mrs. Patrick, puffing slightly and bundled up in a heavy coat, came clattering down in her mistress’s wake. She waved to get everyone’s attention, then huffed, “Saw him.”

Everyone stopped and waited for the matronly housekeeper to catch her breath. As soon as she could speak, she said, “Before I left my room, I looked out of the window.” She waved to the east. “Out that way. And I saw a man in a great long coat running off into the wood like the hounds of hell were after him.”

“Ah—that’d be our man.” Hopkins had arrived. “I’ll go tell the lads, and we’ll search out that way.”

At a nod from Jacqueline, Hopkins departed. Jacqueline thanked Mrs. Patrick and suggested the housekeeper sit for a minute on one of the chairs in the great hall.

After assisting Mrs. Patrick to a comfortable chair, Jacqueline returned to the drawing room. She halted by the window. With her hands on her hips, she surveyed the room. “I’m not at all sure what he might have been after.”

Hugh, resplendent in a richly colored silk robe, arrived in his chair in time to hear her comment. From under his bushy brows, he scanned the chamber. His old eyes traced the path the intruder had taken. “He tripped and went the other way, but most likely he was making for the dresser.” Hugh humphed. “Hardly surprising. That’s where the silver is.”

The large dresser dominated the wall opposite the door.

Richard considered it. “It doesn’t look like he made it that far.”

“No, indeed, Hugh, dear.” Elinor straightened from placing the fallen cushions back onto the settle. “For see—all the plates are still there.”

The row of silver plates lined up along the main shelves of the dresser looked the same as when Richard had last noticed them.

Hugh grunted. “Doesn’t mean he didn’t take a handful of the good cutlery. Need to check. Freddie? Cruickshank?”

“Indeed, sir.” Cruickshank, along with Freddie, moved past Hugh and Richard and went over to open the dresser drawers.

Several maids had followed Jacqueline into the room and, together with their mistress, were setting the place to rights.

Jacqueline, her face a mask of reined anger, waited while the maids righted her heavy chair, then laid its cushions on the seat. “At least he missed my embroidery basket.”

“Indeed.” Elinor spread a hand over her breast. “Mine, too, thank heaven.”

Cruickshank and Freddie shut the dresser drawers. Cruickshank turned to Jacqueline. “Nothing appears to be missing, miss.”

“Thank you, Cruickshank. Freddie.” Jacqueline nodded to the pair, then caught her wrapper and drew it more tightly about her.

“Oh no!” Elinor’s exclamation drew all eyes. She’d looked at Cruickshank when he’d spoken, then her gaze had drifted upward over the dresser…

To the top shelf. The empty top shelf.

“Oh my heavens!” Elinor breathed. “He took the orb!” She pointed dramatically. “It’s gone!”

For an instant, utter silence held sway.

Then Jacqueline said, “No, it isn’t.”

Confused—along with everyone else—Richard looked at her.

Lips firming, an expression on her face that he couldn’t interpret, in answer to the question in everyone’s eyes, she said, “When I woke just now, I saw the orb on my dressing table.” The frown in her eyes materialized, tangling her fine brows. She glanced at the maids and at Mrs. Patrick, who had come to the doorway. “I can’t remember taking it upstairs…” She paused, clearly waiting for one of the maids or Mrs. Patrick to admit to moving the orb. When the other women stared blankly back at her, Jacqueline swallowed and rather weakly concluded, “But I suppose I must have.”

Relief showed in most faces.

His gaze returning to Jacqueline’s face, Richard managed to catch her eyes. He held her gaze for a second—long enough to be perfectly sure she hadn’t moved the orb—before she looked away.

For a moment, with the inevitable “Thank heavens” and “Thank Gods” flying around him, he stood silent and still and wondered.

The orb had been moved. Out of the drawing room, where it had been in danger of being stolen by some unknown intruder, to the safety of Jacqueline’s bedchamber.

Neither the housekeeper nor any of the maids had moved it. Quite aside from the unlikelihood of any of the household touching the orb without consulting Jacqueline first, none of the women could have easily reached it.

Richard was the tallest man in the house, and he’d had to stretch to place the orb on the dresser’s top shelf—actually the top of the dresser.

That the top shelf was otherwise empty testified to the fact that no one in the household could easily reach it; even Cruickshank would have to use a stool or a chair.

Yet the orb had been moved. Richard absolved Jacqueline of hallucinating, so…

Had the orb moved?

He blinked, then glanced around, once again tracking the intruder’s unsteady progress across the room. Despite where the man had ended up, it was difficult to imagine he’d been heading anywhere but the dresser.

Elinor had picked her way through the smaller ornaments on the various side tables. “I can’t see that anything’s missing. Nothing at all.”

Hugh harrumphed. “The daft beggar must have been after the silver, but never got that far.”

Richard decided he wasn’t going to argue with that assessment. Briefly, he met Jacqueline’s gaze and knew she wasn’t about to dispute Hugh’s statement, either.

Even if she, as he, believed it was the orb their would-be thief had been after.

The orb that had somehow moved to Jacqueline’s bedchamber. No, the silver being the man’s target was a much better explanation.

The sound of hammering resonated through the room. Crawley, his expression grim, was securing the shutters in place. “I’ll fix them tomorrow,” he told Jacqueline before closing the second shutter.

Everyone lingering in the room turned and made their way out, into the great hall.

Richard brought up the rear. In the doorway, he paused and glanced back—at the dresser. He hadn’t forgotten that Sir Peregrine Wallace had stood in much the same place, looking in the same direction, only two days before. When the orb had sat on the top of the dresser.

Inwardly shaking his head, Richard turned and walked into the great hall.

Cruickshank, having donned a coat over his nightshirt, came up to speak with Jacqueline. “Crawley and I will stand guard for the rest of the night, miss. Just in case the blackguard thinks to return. Crawley says the shutters won’t be properly secured until tomorrow, so we think that best.”

Jacqueline nodded. “My thanks to you both. That will ease everyone’s mind, at least for the rest of the night.”

“Just so, miss.” Cruickshank glanced at Richard. “And I’ll go around and check all the downstairs windows and doors, just to be sure.”

“I’ll come with you.” With a half bow to Jacqueline, Richard followed Cruickshank.

With the pair of them going room to room, it didn’t take long to ensure that all other doors and windows were locked tight.

Several hadn’t been, prompting Cruickshank to catch Richard’s eye. “Seems like whatever the blackguard wanted was in the drawing room.” Cruickshank gestured at the scullery window, now closed but which had been half open. “He went directly there rather than looking around, as any real burglar would.”

Curtly, Richard nodded and led the way back to the great hall.

Most of the household were trailing upstairs, returning to their beds. He glanced at the long-case clock; the hands were edging toward three o’clock. Seeing Mrs. Patrick making for the stairs, he moved to intercept her. She paused and looked at him inquiringly.

“The man you saw running away. Think back and picture the scene in your mind.” He gave her a second to do so, then asked, “Was he tall or short?”

Her expression distant, Mrs. Patrick frowned. “Tallish, I would say—he wasn’t a heavy man, more long and lean.”

“You said he wore a coat. What sort of coat? Frieze? Or…?”

“No—it wasn’t frieze. I couldn’t tell the color in the poor light, but it was all one color—a palish color like dun or bone or pale tan.”

“Did it have capes?”

Mrs. Patrick’s face cleared. “Aye, now you mention it. Just the one, hitting mid back.” The housekeeper’s expression hardened, and she met Richard’s eyes. “Like a gentleman’s greatcoat, sir.” Her chin firmed. “That’s what I saw. Only caught a glimpse, but I’m sure of that—the blighter, God rot his soul, was wearing a gentleman’s greatcoat.”

Richard’s smile was tight-lipped. He inclined his head. “Thank you, Mrs. Patrick. I won’t keep you any longer.”

After bestowing a bob and a “Sir,” the housekeeper continued up the stairs.

Richard turned to survey the nearly empty hall and discovered Jacqueline at his elbow. He met her darkened gaze, then arched his brows.

Jacqueline nodded at Mrs. Patrick’s retreating back. “I heard. Our burglar wore a gentleman’s greatcoat.”

“And he was tallish and lean rather than heavily built.”

She met Richard’s eyes. “Could it have been Wallace?”

He held her gaze and, after an instant, said, “I don’t think there’s any way we’ll know for certain. All we can say is that it could have been him.” He glanced around, then touched her elbow.

As, slowly, she started up the stairs, he fell in beside her and lowered his voice. “Other than those in the household, Wallace is one of the few who knew the orb was on the top of the dresser.”

“And he was avidly interested in it.”

“As an arcane object, a subject on which he claims to be an authority.”

“Indeed.” As they neared the top of the stairs, she murmured, “I wonder how Sir Peregrine spent his night.”

“I suspect inquiring of his household would be wasted effort.” They stepped into the gallery, and Richard added, “I think we can conclude that the would-be burglar was no tramp or itinerant, but sadly, we have no evidence that it was Wallace, and moreover, it would probably be wise not to leap to that conclusion.”

She threw him a frustrated glance, but couldn’t disagree.

Yet the thought of Wallace invading the Hall in pursuit of the orb—their orb—made her…

More worried and concerned than she cared to think about.

Never in her life had she felt physically threatened, certainly never in this house or on Nimway Hall lands.

In an instinctive attempt to shake off the unsettling feeling, she gave an almost-imperceptible shudder.

Immediately, she sensed Richard tense and knew, with an unquestioning certainty, that he wanted to protect her, that his first thought was to offer his support via a physical gesture—like putting his arm around her—but at the last second, he reined the impulse back.

Elinor was waiting a few paces along the gallery—an inhibiting presence preventing Jacqueline from doing anything to further explore Richard’s impulses—to prod and provoke them—much as she wished to. Much as she realized she wanted to.

What dangerous idiocy had infected her?

She was about to thank him for his assistance and part from him—his room lay in one of the wings—when he shifted, clearly vacillating. She raised her gaze to his face. “What is it?”

His lips compressed, then eased, and he said, “I wonder if you would mind letting me see the orb. Just to reassure myself it truly is there.”

Elinor cleared her throat. “I was waiting to ask the same thing, my dear. Not that we doubt you but…it would be comforting to see with our own eyes that the orb is still under the Hall’s roof.”

That, Jacqueline could understand. She waved them to her bedchamber door farther along the gallery. “Truth to tell, I was so surprised to see it and then in such a hurry to get downstairs that I wouldn’t mind seeing it myself, to make sure I didn’t imagine it.”

On the words, she opened the door, and it was instantly apparent that she hadn’t been dreaming. The orb was on her dressing table. She walked through the door. Richard stood back to allow Elinor to precede him, then followed, but halted in the doorway.

Elinor stopped just over the threshold. “Oh my. Well, you couldn’t possibly mistake that.”

The object of their attention sat bathed in moonlight, the surface of the moonstone radiant and unearthly, the gold claws of the mounting like gilded fingers gripping and grounding the powerful creation. With respect to the orb, Jacqueline had a strong notion that the word “powerful” definitely applied.

Elinor sighed, then came forward to kiss Jacqueline’s cheek. “I’m glad the strange thing’s still with us, but it’s time we all got some sleep.”

After patting Jacqueline’s arm, Elinor made for the door.

Over Elinor’s head, Jacqueline met Richard’s eyes as they rose from the orb. He held her gaze for an instant, then nodded. “Thank you for letting me see it. I doubt we’ll be disturbed again tonight. I’ll see you in the morning.”

He stepped back, allowing Elinor to go out, then reached in and drew Jacqueline’s door shut.

She eyed the panels, then sighed. She turned, and her gaze fell on the orb.

After a moment, she shook her head and walked to her bed.

* * *

Richard saw Elinor to her room, then walked down the corridor to the chamber he’d been given. He believed what he’d told the ladies; he seriously doubted their intruder would be back—whoever it was now knew the orb wasn’t where it had been.

After closing the door, he halted in the middle of the room. Waiting for his eyes to adjust to the shadows, he stared unseeing at the open window.

He couldn’t swear that the orb had been in the drawing room when he’d left it—when, at close to eleven o’clock, with Hugh, he’d finally quit the room and, in his case, had followed Jacqueline and Elinor, both of whom had retired a half hour before, up the stairs.

That said…he rather thought the orb had been there, caught from the corner of his eye as it sat, apparently innocently, on the dresser’s top shelf.

Yet now it was in Jacqueline’s room, wallowing in moonlight on her dressing table.

Even though no one remembered carrying it upstairs and placing it there.

For several fruitless seconds, he let thoughts whirl and clash in his mind, then he snorted, shook his head, and set about stripping off his clothes.

As he slid once more between the sheets, he recalled Mrs. Patrick’s description of the man she’d seen fleeing into the wood.

The man might have been any tallish, lean-figured gentleman, yet the fact remained that it could have been Wallace.

And Wallace had wanted the orb.

The man’s earlier attempt to lay his hands on the orb, blocked by Jacqueline, replayed in Richard’s mind, including Wallace’s words and, even more, his tone.

Richard closed his eyes. On one point he was entirely clear. Wallace possessed a covetous nature, especially when it came to anything arcane.