A hot wave of embarrassment shot up Amelia’s neck and threatened to set her face aflame. She prayed the dimness of the small room would make it hard to see the depth of her discomfiture. A moment later and she might have been kissing him…

Her gaze strayed to Penn, but he was staring straight at the man who’d entered. The man who had to be Lord Septon.

“Septon, good evening,” Penn said, sounding far more at ease than Amelia felt. How was that possible? Or fair? “May I present Mrs. Amelia Forrest? She is the granddaughter of Mr. Jonathan Gardiner, a recently deceased antiquary you may have known.”

“Of course I knew Gardiner.” The baron bowed to Amelia. “It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mrs. Forrest.”

Amelia dipped a curtsey and murmured, “Good evening.”

Septon turned his attention back to Penn. “Peverell told me you were here and that you’d disappeared from dinner. When I couldn’t find you, I wondered if you might be here.” His gaze dipped to the open book on the trunk. “Looking for something?”

Penn closed the book gently. “We’ve found what we’re looking for.” Now he dashed a glance toward Amelia, and she couldn’t help but note his use of the word “we.” Penn turned and replaced the book where he’d found it.

“I look forward to hearing all about it. Artemisia is downstairs in the drawing room. Join us for a nightcap.” He offered a welcoming smile before turning and exiting the small chamber.

Amelia finally let out a deep exhalation. She looked over at Penn. His brow was creased, and his lips were pressed into a flat line. “What’s wrong?” she asked.

“He doesn’t like that I brought you here, I think.” He turned toward her, and his expression softened. “Don’t let that trouble you. Everything’s fine. Hopefully, he’ll be able to tell us where we can find the White Book of Hergest. Come, let’s go downstairs.” He gestured for her to precede him from the tiny library.

Amelia did so slowly, moving back through the doorway into the office. Penn followed her, drawing the portrait closed behind them. As he turned to insert the key into the dog’s eye, she wondered what she was doing. She’d become wrapped up in the prospect of an exciting adventure and lost sight of her original quest—finding her grandfather’s dagger and keeping it safe.

“How will the book help me regain the dagger?”

Penn turned from the portrait. He opened his mouth, then closed it again. It was a moment before he spoke. “It won’t,” he said with measured care. “But I promise we will find it.”

“You’ve said that. Am I to understand that trying to prove the heart my grandfather put in the Ashmolean is fake takes priority?”

“No, we’re doing both at the same time. And Septon can likely help us with both matters.” Penn went to the desk and returned the key to its hiding place. He looked up at her as he finished, straightening his coat. “I apologize if I…caused you concern in the library.”

Concern? He’d caused her heart palpitations and a considerable rise in temperature, but, surprisingly, not a bit of concern. She’d been ready—nay, eager—to kiss him. And that should concern her.

“Not at all. Let us go downstairs, shall we?” She turned and exited the office without waiting for his reply.

He caught up to her as they made their way back to the gallery.

“Is Artemisia Lady Septon?” Amelia asked.

For the first time in their acquaintance, Penn looked slightly uncomfortable. “Er, no. She’s his mistress. They’ve been together for several years now.”

How odd. “Why aren’t they married?”

“Because her husband is still alive.”

How outrageous. “And their relationship is simply accepted?”

“Lady Stratton—her husband is the Earl of Stratton—was desperately unhappy in her marriage and began to fear for her safety. She’d fallen in love with Septon and decided to leave her husband.”

Amelia could scarcely believe such a scandal—to do with an earl, no less. “Stratton allows this?”

“Stratton is an inveterate blackguard. Think of the worst man you’ve ever known and multiply his sins by a factor of ten. It’s probably still not bad enough to equal Stratton, but it’s close.”

Amelia blinked as they started down the stairs. “I see why she left.” Her mind strayed to the worst man she’d ever met, and she nearly stumbled. She’d gotten rather good at not thinking of her husband, but when he did enter her mind, she invariably suffered a shock of anger and deep regret. Still, she wouldn’t have left, not like he did.

They entered the drawing room to find Septon standing near the fireplace and Lady Stratton seated on a settee, her dark blue traveling skirt pooling around her feet. It seemed they hadn’t changed from their journey, but then Amelia supposed her and Penn’s presence had been a surprise. But was it an unwelcome one?

Lady Stratton was a striking woman with an elegant bearing—a long, aquiline nose defined her face along with a pair of pale gray eyes that shone with welcome. Her dark hair was liberally streaked with gray, and Amelia would estimate her age to be somewhere in her late forties. “Good evening, Mrs. Forrest. We’re so pleased to welcome you to Septon House. And you are always welcome, of course, Penn.” She greeted them as if she were Lady Septon.

Septon was exceptionally tall, and his hair, of which he had plenty, was entirely gray. His eyes were also gray, but a darker, flintier color than those of Lady Stratton. “What can I get you to drink, Mrs. Forrest? Madeira, sherry, whiskey, something else?” he offered pleasantly.

“Sherry, please.”

Lady Stratton patted the settee beside her. “Do come and sit.”

Amelia glanced at Penn, who nodded almost imperceptibly, before taking a place on the settee.

Penn went to the sideboard where Septon was pouring drinks. A moment later he delivered a glass of sherry to Amelia, then took up a position behind a chair opposite their settee, a glass of whiskey cradled in his hand.

After giving Lady Stratton a sherry, Septon took a chair angled near the settee and sipped his own glass of whiskey. He looked over at Penn. “What were you able to find in my private library?”

The ownership in his tone was unmistakable, and Amelia suffered a pang of doubt at being there.

“Allow me to start at the beginning,” Penn said.

“Yes, do,” Lady Stratton said. “But would you mind sitting so I don’t have to strain my neck?” She smiled sweetly.

Penn came around the chair and sat down. He took a drink of whiskey. “I found the dagger, but it was stolen from me”—he glanced at Amelia—“us—and we want to recover it.”

She noticed he said nothing about wanting to prove the heart in the museum was a fake. Why would he keep that from Septon?

“There were four thieves—three were obviously hired brigands, but one was a well-spoken gentleman. I wondered if he is a member of the Order.”

Septon’s brows arched briefly. “You want to know if I’m aware of the theft. Or behind it.” His tone carried a hint of dispassion. “I’m aware you don’t like the Order or our mission, but we aren’t common thieves.”

A loud bark of a laugh escaped Penn’s mouth. “Tell that to my parents, who were accosted by the Order when one of them sought to steal the decoding glass. Though it was more than twenty years ago, I’m sure you remember it.”

Septon’s nostrils flared. “Your point is valid. At least it was. After that unfortunate incident, we’ve changed our procedure.”

Amelia leaned toward Septon. “Are you saying it wasn’t the Order who stole my grandfather’s dagger?”

“It wasn’t the Order, but neither is it your ‘grandfather’s dagger,’ my dear.” He gave her a smile that bordered on patronizing, but she refused to let it bother her. “The dagger is an historical artifact. It belongs to history.”

Penn snorted, drawing Amelia’s attention. “How convenient for you to say that, and yet the Order seeks to ‘protect’ the Thirteen Treasures from the public. I would argue that does nothing to preserve history and everything to bury it.”

“Yes, I’m aware of your opinion on the matter, and we must accept that we disagree. Rest assured that the Order had nothing to do with the theft of the dagger.” He frowned. “This is most concerning.”

Amelia would agree. She’d been concerned about the Order, particularly given the note her grandfather made in his journal, but if it wasn’t them… “If it wasn’t the Order, who could it have been? Who else would even know about the dagger, let alone where it was located? It’s not a famous treasure. It’s only ever mentioned in the story of Ranulf and Hilaria.”

“That’s correct,” Septon said. “The only people who would even think to look for the dagger would be people familiar with the Thirteen Treasures and the dagger’s place in their lore.”

“Most—if not all—of those people are members of the Order,” Penn said sternly.

Septon gave him a scolding look. “You aren’t.”

Penn pressed his lips together but said nothing.

Septon turned to Amelia. “I know it must be distressing to lose this artifact that your grandfather had found. I wish I could tell you that it could be easily recovered, but tracking it down will be most difficult. I fear it may have been taken by the Camelot group.” He sent a dark look toward Penn, whose lips moved in an inaudible curse.

Amelia looked between the two men. “What is the Camelot group?”

“A rogue faction inside the Order,” Penn answered before Septon could. “They’re made up of only descendants of the knights. They hate having people like Septon in the Order, and they hate hiding the treasures. They’d rather put them to use.”

She blinked at both men. “Do they have a specific use in mind?”

“Not that we’re aware of,” Septon said. “They are a dangerous group, however. Led by a dangerous man—Timothy Foliot.” The baron sipped his whiskey before turning his steely stare on Penn. “I’d wager some very valuable pieces in my collection that he’s behind the theft of the dagger.”

“Which means it will be difficult to regain, but not impossible. Cate was able to recover Dyrnwyn.”

“Thanks to Kersey.” Lady Stratton spoke for the first time. “He gave it to her.”

“The transaction wasn’t quite that pleasant,” Penn said, prompting Amelia to wonder what had happened and why Lady Stratton would care. And she clearly cared as evidenced by the color leaching from her face. “As I was saying, it won’t be impossible to get it. We simply need to find Foliot.”

Septon released a hollow laugh. “I can tell you exactly where he is—holed up at his estate near Glastonbury. That won’t help you, however. He will never grant you an audience.”

Penn lifted a shoulder. “Everyone has a price.”

Amelia’s head spun. It certainly sounded as though it might be impossible to recover the dagger. And if it was fake, did it really matter? “If you’re convinced it’s an imitation and trying to recover it would be dangerous, why bother?”

Penn swiveled his gaze to hers. “Because it belongs to you.”

Warmth spread through her, and she worked to keep a smile from lifting her lips. His words made her ridiculously happy.

“Hold on,” Septon said, pitching forward as he looked sharply toward Penn. “You say it was a fake dagger anyway?”

Penn tossed back the rest of his whiskey and set the empty glass on the table next to his chair. “The carvings on it aren’t more than four hundred years old.”

Septon visibly relaxed, his shoulders sinking back against the chair. “It isn’t fake, for the dagger was made much later than the heart. The story of Ranulf and Hilaria is the only one that contains it, because the dagger was enchanted relatively recent to the midfifteenth century, which is when the White Book of Hergest was compiled.”

Amelia, still quite skeptical, looked at the baron. “So it’s not from the same time period as the Thirteen Treasures, but it counteracts the power of the heart to compel someone to fall in love with someone else.”

“Yes.” Septon turned his whiskey glass in his hand and looked down at the amber liquid briefly before glancing between Penn and Amelia. “Upstairs, you were researching the White Book of Hergest.”

It wasn’t a direct question, but it was still a query. Now would Penn reveal his insistence that the heart was a fake? Amelia quickly had her answer.

Penn rested his hand on the arm of his chair as he pinned Septon with a direct stare. “I believe the heart in the Ashmolean may be an imitation. To prove it, I’m going to find the real one.”

Septon leaned forward and set his glass down on a low table situated in front of the settee with a loud clack. His dark gray eyes narrowed slightly as he looked at Penn. “Why would you think that?”

“It’s painted, and I’m not entirely sure it’s tourmaline.”

“It is tourmaline, and it was painted at one point to disguise it from those who sought to steal it.”

“And yet my grandfather stole it anyway.” Amelia hated thinking of it in those terms, but what else could it be but theft?

“How did that even happen without the Order knowing?” Penn asked, suddenly animated.

“Sometimes these things happen,” Septon said evenly. “Despite our best efforts.”

“Or, maybe the Order allowed him to take a fake artifact while the real one is kept somewhere safe.”

Amelia heard the irritation in Penn’s tone but also the note of truth. That actually made sense—if she believed everything she’d learned so far about the Order. And the one thing she accepted as absolute truth was that they couldn’t be trusted—she would never forget what Grandfather had written in his journal.

Septon inhaled deeply before saying, “That’s a rather cynical view.”

“And likely accurate. I’m going to find the real heart.”

Septon shook his head. “If you’re planning to start with the White Book of Hergest, I regret to inform you that it’s been missing for several years.”

“Bloody hell.” Penn exploded out of the chair and stalked behind it. He kept walking, making a circuit to the fireplace and back.

Amelia clenched her hands together and angled herself toward Septon. “Missing?”

“Do you know what the book is, Mrs. Forrest?” he asked. “It was written in the middle of the fifteenth century, much of it by Lewys Glyn Cothi, who studied at the St. John Priory at Carmarthen.”

“Carmarthen is where the heart was found,” Penn said from near the fireplace.

“Yes. I believe your grandfather tracked it there.”

Some of the pieces of the puzzle that they knew began to connect in her mind. “My grandfather visited Wynnstay. Is it possible he studied the tale of Ranulf and Hilaria in the White Book of Hergest there? Unless the book has been missing for a very long time.”

“No, it hasn’t, and it was at Wynnstay before it was lost. Yes, I would guess Gardiner did study it there.” Septon’s brow furrowed.

“What is it?” Lady Stratton asked.

“I’ve seen the book myself, and I didn’t think it would lead anyone to find the heart—or the dagger. However, now I must wonder.” He pounded his fist on the arm of his chair. “Bloody travesty it was lost.”

Penn had walked back toward Septon’s chair as he’d spoken. “How was it lost?”

“It was sent to a bookbinder in London, and a fire in Covent Garden destroyed the man’s business, including the White Book. That was in 1808.”

“Not so long ago.” There was a bead of excitement in Penn’s voice. Amelia didn’t know him terribly well, but he liked the hunt—no, he probably loved it, fed off it—and this information was something he could chase.

Septon reached for his glass. “Mackinley was the bookbinder if you want to go to London to try to speak with him.”

“You said the fire destroyed his business.”

“It did, but he’s rebuilt.”

Amelia looked up at Penn. “But if the book is lost, what’s the point?”

His eyes gleamed, and the corners of his mouth ticked up. “Don’t give up too easily. Until Mackinley himself tells me the book burned up, I will keep a bit of hope alive.” He turned to Septon. “It’s curious, isn’t it, that the book may have led to the heart and it burned in a fire.”

Septon held up his hand. “Don’t even think of laying this on the Order. We would never destroy an antiquity.”

“That I believe,” Penn said.

Septon drank the contents of his glass before getting to his feet. “I think this is a bit of a fool’s errand, my boy. I’ll be thrilled if you find the book, of course, but the heart in the Ashmolean is real. It’s been handed down from female descendant to female descendant. The Order has always tracked it.”

“Until it was taken by Jonathan Gardiner.” Penn gave his head a shake. “I don’t think the Order is as in control of everything as they’d like. If they were, they’d have the dagger and they’d have Dyrnwyn.” He said the last with a bit of superiority.

“In a way, we do have Dyrnwyn,” Septon said softly. “You’re just keeping it safe for us.” He held his hand for Lady Stratton. “Come, my lady, let us retire.”

Amelia stood along with the countess. “Thank you for allowing me to visit.”

Lady Stratton gave her a warm smile. “Any friend of Penn’s is a friend of ours.”

They all said good night, and their host and hostess left the drawing room. Amelia wasn’t quite ready to call it a night, and since Penn wasn’t heading toward the door, it seemed he wasn’t either.

“When are we going to London?” Amelia asked.

Penn chuckled. “Tomorrow morning, unless you think that’s too soon.”

“Not at all. It’s probably unwise for us to travel together, however.” She’d meant it from a sense of propriety, but given what had nearly happened upstairs, she realized there were perhaps deeper risks. “I’ll go in my coach.”

He inclined his head. “We’ll stay at my brother-in-law’s town house in Mayfair. He’s the Earl of Norris.”

“Your brother-in-law is an earl?” She’d never met an earl.

“Yes.” Penn moved toward her. “You look concerned. Don’t worry, he’s a nice enough fellow, if a bit stodgy. He was in the army. Anyway, he won’t even be there. He and Cate are still in Cornwall for another week or so, I think. And then, I believe, they’ll return to his estate in Wootton Bassett.

That made her feel slightly better, but only slightly since Penn was suggesting they stay together. Although, wasn’t that what they were doing now? She’d come here knowing full well they’d be staying at Septon House. Together.

But that had been before he’d almost kissed her. Before she’d wanted him to kiss her.

Penn took another step, lessening the distance between them. “You seem hesitant. I want you to come.”

“I want to come. I just wonder if it’s what I should do.”

“Of course it is. We’re on a journey to find the truth. You want that, don’t you?”

“I do.” Even if it meant that her grandfather had found a fake heart. He’d been passionate about the story of Ranulf and Hilaria, perhaps inspired by a visit to Wynnstay and a viewing of the White Book of Hergest. To find that missing tome, to see and touch the pages that had sent him on a life-long adventure, was an opportunity she couldn’t resist. “I do,” she said more firmly. “But, we must…” she searched for the right words, “behave appropriately.”

His dark blue eyes sparked as he drawled, “Haven’t we?”

Longing pulled in her belly. No one had ever looked at her the way he was looking at her now. It made her feel beautiful, desirable, and completely singular. As if she were the only woman in the world—his world.

She struggled to answer. “Yes. For the most part.” Did she have to draw attention to what had happened, or almost happened, upstairs? “Let’s avoid small spaces.” There, that should make it clear.

He edged even closer to her, until there was scarcely six inches between them. “Does it bother you to be too close to me?”

“No.” She answered far too quickly—and honestly. “What bothers me isn’t at issue.”

“Why? If it doesn’t bother you, why stop doing it? Dare I hope you may even like it?”

Oh, this was too familiar. And yet…he had a point. She wasn’t some green, unmarried miss who needed to preserve her reputation. Still, kissing would change their relationship and affect their objective.

She straightened her spine and held herself stiff. “I should like to maintain a professional working relationship. We are on a quest to find the White Book of Hergest, and I would ask that we focus on that. I bid you good evening.” She turned on her heel and hurried from the drawing room before she lost herself even further in the smoldering heat of his gaze.

Later, as she tossed amid the lonely bedclothes, she wondered if she was embarking on a colossal mistake or a life-changing adventure.