Penn suppressed a smile as he glanced at the woman next to him in the coach. Amelia surprised him at nearly every turn. Although, he shouldn’t be any longer. She’d proved herself to be curious, eager, and nearly fearless.

Only nearly because she was clearly afraid of what might happen between them. If they were too close. As they were now while they traveled the streets of London from Mayfair to Bow Street, where they would meet with one Hamish Mackinley.

They’d departed Septon House in separate coaches early the previous morning, without even saying goodbye to Septon or Lady Stratton in person. It was just as well. Penn had grown up with Septon, considered the man a friend, but all this secrecy to do with the Order and their insistence that the Thirteen Treasures stay hidden was almost enough to damage the relationship. Even now, Penn doubted some things Septon had said last night—the fact that Amelia’s grandfather had found the heart and delivered it to a museum without the Order intervening just didn’t sit right.

Last night, they’d stayed at an inn in Andover, arriving late and taking supper before retiring to their rooms and leaving even earlier this morning. Dawn had barely broken when they set out for London. Penn included staunch travel companion among Amelia’s outstanding qualities. “Thank you again for coming out straightaway.” They’d left his brother-in-law’s town house almost as soon as they’d arrived.

“I’m just as eager as you are to learn what we can from Mr. Mackinley.” She peered at him askance. “You should know that about me by now.”

Yes, they were getting to know each other fairly well. “You are correct. I won’t ever underestimate you again.”

“I did want to talk to you about something.” There was a weight to her tone that gave him pause.

He hoped it wasn’t the issue of their attraction or whatever she wanted to call it. Or not call it. She couldn’t deny it, but then that was likely why she’d felt compelled to set rules for their relationship. He’d never liked rules.

She brushed her hand along her skirt, drawing his attention briefly to the barely perceptible curve of her thigh beneath the layers of fabric. “How much do you trust Lord Septon?”

Had she been reading his thoughts? “I’ve known him most of my life,” he said carefully. “He and my father are friends. Even so, I know there have been times my father might have cheerfully choked him.”

“Such as the time the Order put him and your mother in danger?”

“Yes, that was one such time. They’d found an antiquity that ultimately led them to the only contemporaneous writings about King Arthur and his knights—a poem written by a sixth-century monk.”

“That was the document you mentioned in Burrington? I didn’t know such a thing existed.” She paused briefly before cocking her head to the side. “Why is that?”

“Because the Order insisted the poem remain secret.”

“But they didn’t find it—your parents did. Or am I misunderstanding?”

“You have the right of it. Septon was able to convince my father that publicizing such a thing would cause problems.”

“But you aren’t convinced.”

He shook his head. “I think knowledge belongs to everyone. When my sister found the flaming sword—called Dyrnwyn—I wanted to put it in the Ashmolean, but Septon, as a member of the Order, of course disagreed. He was insistent that people would fight over it.”

“Isn’t that what’s happening in the Order? This Camelot faction has formed and now there are problems.”

Penn couldn’t dispute what she said. “So you agree with Septon?”

“I didn’t say that. But perhaps his fears and those of the Order are well-founded. Who do these treasures really belong to? I admit I am distressed to think my grandfather stole the heart.”

“I don’t see it as theft. He was trying to share the heart with the people of England when he gave it to the Ashmolean. I think of him as liberating an important historical artifact.”

“Liberating?” She was quiet a moment and glanced out the window. “Are we nearly there? I’ve only been to London once, and I scarcely remember it.”

“Just once?” Penn had visited on many occasions, particularly to spend time in the British Museum. “What a shame. I wish we had more time. I’d take you to see the Rosetta Stone and the Elgin Marbles.”

She turned toward him, her sharp inhalation spiking his awareness of her. “That would be wonderful.”

“Next time,” he promised.

“There likely won’t be a next time, Mr. Bowen. But perhaps we won’t be able to learn anything to help our cause and our journey will end here. I shall take the opportunity to visit the museum before I return home.”

The coach slowed. “Try to be more optimistic, Mrs. Forrest,” he said softly. “About everything. I intend there to be a next time.” He gave her a pointed stare as the vehicle came to a stop. He reached for the door. “We’re here.”

As he quickly climbed down, he wondered what the hell had gotten into him. He never planned for future encounters with women, and yet he hadn’t been able to stop himself with her. Perhaps she was right, that they ought to focus on keeping things professional. He turned and held up his hand to help her out.

She took it, but there was wariness in her gaze. When she was on the ground, he said, “I didn’t mean to overstep. I get rather excited about things in the museum. I would very much like you to go there someday and if I’m able to join you, so much the better.”

“Because you’re an expert in these things?” she offered helpfully.

He smiled, knowing that she knew he was trying to rectify a potentially awkward situation. “Just trying to keep things professional.”

“Which I appreciate.” She turned toward the building they’d stopped in front of. “Mr. Mackinley’s Bookbindery.”

“Let us see what we may learn.” He offered her his arm, and they went into the small shop.

The scent of parchment and leather filled Penn’s nose as the door closed behind them. A large man, both in height and breadth, stood behind a wide table, where he could stand to do his work. He looked up. “Good afternoon.”

Penn moved farther into the shop. “Good afternoon. Are you Mr. Mackinley?”

“I am,” he answered in a dark, throaty burr. He looked down at their hands. “Did you bring a book?”

“No, we came to ask about a book that was in your possession some years ago. Around the time of the fire.”

He exhaled—it was a sound of deep remorse. “If I had it before the fire, it’s gone.”

Penn grimaced, hating to think of such a treasured object incinerated. “We’re hoping you might be able to tell us about it. The book, I mean. It was rather distinctive—the White Book of Hergest.”

Mackinley grunted. “Every so often, one of you Oxford types comes in here asking about it.”

Surprised to hear this, Penn stepped toward the table. “They do?”

“Most of them are far younger than you—maybe still in college. They think they’ll somehow be able to find a lost masterpiece. They fancy themselves heroes maybe.”

“Well, that would be rather heroic.” Amelia had come forward to join Penn. She offered Mackinley a wide smile that would have disarmed even the most cynical of men. “We’d like to ask you about the manuscript itself, specifically the story concerning Ranulf and Hilaria. My grandfather used to tell me the tale when I was a child. It holds a great deal of sentimental value for me.”

Mackinley, who was probably nearing fifty, was not immune to her charms. He smiled in return. “I do remember that manuscript, of course. The Williams-Wynn family are excellent clients. Their library is extensive. I was quite devastated when that book was lost.” He grimaced and shook his head.

“I’m so sorry,” Amelia said, taking another step toward the table and resting her gloved fingertips upon the edge. “Such a tragedy.”

“Indeed it was. The theatre was a complete loss, of course. That’s where the fire started.” His gaze clouded, and it seemed he was chasing a memory.

Penn moved to Amelia’s side, and they exchanged glances before he said, “Is there any chance you recall anything special about the story in the White Book?”

Mackinley nodded, returning to the present. “Yes, back to your wife’s request.”

Penn and Amelia exchanged another glance, but this one was far more charged. She opened her mouth, likely to correct him, but Penn shook his head gently, urging her to remain quiet. It was best not to draw attention to their alliance. Despite her widowed status, he wouldn’t want their activities to reflect poorly on her.

“I’m afraid I don’t recall anything special. That story was written like all the others, but I will say it’s one of my favorites too.” He gave Amelia another smile.

The door opened once more, and Mackinley’s gaze moved past them to the new arrival. “Afternoon, Mr. Edwards. I’ll be right back with your book.” He looked back at Penn and Amelia. “Please excuse me.”

As Mackinley disappeared through a doorway into the back of the shop, Penn moved away from the table. Amelia joined him, her forehead creased.

“Well, that wasn’t helpful,” she said, sounding as disappointed as Penn felt.

“Not terribly,” Penn said, frowning.

A slight man with a stooped back followed Mackinley from the rear doorway. While Mackinley went to meet with Mr. Edwards at the table, the other man, who was at least twenty years Mackinley’s senior, his head topped with a shock of bright white hair, ambled toward Penn and Amelia.

“Hamish wanted me to see if there was anything else I could help you with?”

“I don’t think so,” Penn said.

The man squinted at Penn. “I heard you asking about the fire and a book. The White Book.”

“You worked for Mr. Mackinley then?”

“I was Mr. Mackinley first,” he said, his eyes twinkling. Though he and his son weren’t the same in stature, they shared the same rich brown gaze. “He’s right—young men come in from time to time asking about that book. The first one came not long after it arrived to be rebound. I remember because he was an odd fellow. He was a bit older than the Oxford gents that came in after the fire, but not old enough to be bald. Yet he was. He asked to see the book, but we told him we weren’t a library and sent him on his way. I thought it strange that he knew we had the book at all, let alone had the nerve to think he could look at it.”

Penn’s pulse picked up at this information. It could be nothing, but then again, it could be something. It was certainly more than they’d had five minutes ago. “Did he ever come back?”

“Not that I’m aware of. The fire was a few weeks later, I think. And about that fire… It started at the theatre. Some say by arson, but how can we ever know?” The elder Mackinley shrugged, his eyes narrowing slightly as he added, “There was a extreme lack of water—the main was shut down because there was an issue with the flow, and they were working on repairing it. Terrible luck since the theatre was completely lost, along with several other buildings including ours.” He shook his head. “It was awful, but that didn’t stop people from stealing while others fought the blaze. Several people were arrested.”

Arson? Was there a chance the fire was set as a distraction so someone could steal the White Book? It was a bit of a stretch, but given what Penn knew about the Order and Camelot, he’d believe almost anything. “Is there any chance you remember the name of the person who wanted to borrow the White Book?” Penn held little hope but had to ask.

He shook his head. “My son might. I never forget a face, but he’s better at names.”

Penn glanced at Amelia, who gave him a subtle nod. “We’ll ask him when he’s finished, thank you.”

A moment later, the customer left with his book, and the elder Mackinley went to the table. “I was just talking to these folks about the fire. Do you remember that gent who came in before—he wanted to look at the White Book that belonged to the Williams-Wynn family.”

Confusion marred the younger Mackinley’s features for a moment before his eyes widened briefly. “Yes, I remember him now. I think he came in twice, actually. The second time, he asked about bookbinding—said he was interested in learning the trade. He asked an overabundance of questions. I found it strange because my father hadn’t been particularly polite when he’d come in the first time.” He cast his father a look that revealed the fondness between them. It reminded Penn of his own father, whom he admired and loved.

“It’s extraordinary that you recall all that,” Amelia said. “Thank you for sharing it with us. I don’t suppose you remember his name? If you even got it at the time.”

“I’m sure Father told you I’m excellent with names. Of course I remember it, especially since it seemed perfect for someone interested in books—Foliot, the word folio is tucked in there.”

Penn heard Amelia’s intake of breath but didn’t look at her. Later, he’d explain the necessity of maintaining their composure in order to keep their secrets close.

“Do you know him?” Mackinley the younger asked Amelia.

“No. You’re right, that’s a very interesting coincidence with his name.” She smiled her dazzling smile again, and Penn decided she’d already learned the lesson he was going to teach. Yes, she was incredibly quick-witted.

Mackinley smiled in return. “I thought so too.”

“Well, you’ve been most helpful,” Penn said, offering his hand first to the elder Mackinley and then the younger.

“Our pleasure,” the elder said.

Penn escorted Amelia from the shop and back into the coach. Once inside, she settled herself on the seat and apologized. “I shouldn’t have gasped like that. It’s important we don’t reveal things.”

He sat next to her, and the coach moved forward. “You covered for it very well. I’m beginning to think you were born for this sort of thing.”

A pretty blush bloomed in her cheeks. “So what do we do now? We have to assume the book was lost to the fire.”

“Do we? I wasn’t entirely convinced before, and now I’m even less so. It could be that after Foliot was denied access to the book, he went back the second time to learn all he could about the shop and how they did business.”

She gasped again, her eyes widening. “So he could go back and steal it?”

“That’s what I would do.”

Her lips parted. “You’ve actually done that?”

“A time or two. Not to steal anything, but to obtain information.”

“That’s a form of stealing, isn’t it?”

He couldn’t tell if she was offended or simply asking a question. “I don’t think so, but we could dispute that for some time. I accept that a certain ambiguity is necessary in this profession.”

“What profession? I thought you worked for a museum.”

“I do, and my job includes obtaining artifacts for the museum, which sometimes necessitates me to search for them. And searching requires information. On occasion—such as now—that information is hard to ascertain.” He waited for her to respond, and when she didn’t, said, “I find it ironic that you’re questioning the gathering of information when you shot at Egg in order to get the dagger.”

She blushed again. “Yes, well, we’ve been over that. I do understand why you would gather information in whatever way you could. It seems as though you regularly court danger.”

“I wouldn’t say regularly. How about occasionally?”

There was a bit of silence before she asked, “Is this one of those times?”

“No.” Not yet. But now that he had confirmation Foliot was involved, things would become…challenging. He gazed at her intently, hoping to reassure her. “I won’t let anything bad happen to you. If I think things are too dangerous, I’ll say so. You have my word.”

She nodded before turning her head toward the window. It seemed they’d finally arrived at a place of trust. He was glad.

“You never did say where we’re to go next,” she said, returning her alluring gaze to his.

“I need to talk to Kersey.” Penn had grown up with Gideon—or Kersey, as he was usually called.

“Who is that? Lady Stratton mentioned him.”

“He’s her son. Viscount Kersey and apparent descendant of Sir Gareth, Knight of the Round Table. He was working for Foliot, and he stole the flaming sword from my sister after she found it.” His voice hardened as he recalled the tale that her husband Elijah had told him.

Cate hadn’t wanted Penn to know the depths of Kersey’s villainy—threatening Cate and Elijah, tying them up, stealing the sword, which she’d dedicated her life to finding. But Elijah had revealed every detail. He didn’t care that Kersey was their distant cousin and that they’d grown up as family. He’d wanted Penn to know the truth and that Elijah would do whatever necessary to keep Cate safe. Penn was glad his sister was married to such a man.

“Is this another case of stealing an artifact, like my grandfather and the heart?” she asked.

He knew that bothered her, that she was conflicted about wanting to protect and support her grandfather’s memory, but that she didn’t like the idea of people just taking artifacts. He didn’t disagree, which was why he sought to share them with the public in a museum instead of profiting from them. “My sister had planned to give it to the Ashmolean. Like me, she thinks these sorts of objects should be studied and available to all people.”

“But the Order stopped that,” she said with a hint of derision. Oh, he liked her more and more all the time. “Where is it now?”

“Somewhere safe.” But he might have to use it to make their next move. “I may need it to persuade Kersey to help us.”

“And you think he can help us get to Foliot?”

He noted she said “us,” but he had no intention of allowing her anywhere near Foliot. The man wasn’t above killing people to achieve his ends. Elijah’s brother had been killed by Camelot in their pursuit of the tapestry that had ultimately led Cate to finding the sword.

“He’s the only lead I have. I do believe Septon when he says I can’t just arrive at Foliot’s house and simply ask whether he possesses the White Book of Hergest and your grandfather’s dagger.”

“No, I don’t suppose you can.” The coach slowed as they arrived at Elijah’s town house. “Do you know how to find Kersey?”

That was the problem he faced. Kersey had gone into hiding, probably somewhere in Wales, and right now, the only thing Penn could think to do was lure him out with the sword. But first he should speak with his father. There was a chance he’d know Kersey’s location, or at least have some insight. Father had always gone out of his way to treat Kersey as a member of their family, knowing that Kersey’s own father was so horrible.

Penn was anxious to continue the hunt, and if he were alone, he would. But he wasn’t alone, so they’d leave first thing in the morning.

The door to the coach opened, and Penn climbed out. He offered his hand to Amelia. “Would you care to change and join me for dinner?”

She gave him a smile that sent heat all the way through his toes. “I insist upon it.”

* * *

Amelia should have been exhausted, but she was energized. She couldn’t help but feel excited. It was like reading an exceptionally engaging mystery novel—each day, they learned new things that took them closer to their goal. A goal she wasn’t entirely sure she understood anymore, and yet she didn’t care.

She wanted to find her grandfather’s dagger, but instead of keeping it for herself, she wanted it to be in the museum alongside the heart. Assuming the heart was real. She wasn’t sure what she believed, not after all she’d seen and heard.

But most perplexing—and yes, exciting—of all was the person she was sharing this adventure with. From the moment she’d trained her pistol on Penn Bowen, something within her had broken free. It was as if she’d come out of the dark and was now basking in the light.

She shook her head to banish such ridiculous thoughts. Focus on our objectives, not Penn.

Amelia smoothed the dark green skirt of the only formal gown she’d brought, the one she’d worn for dinner at Septon House. Culley, who’d traveled with her from Septon House, came forward with another hairpin. “You’ve got one errant lock back here,” she said, tucking the hair up and pinning it in place.

“Thank you.” Amelia hadn’t wanted to redress her hair. It wasn’t as if she were going to a dinner party or a ball. Still, dinner in an earl’s London town house was almost intimidating. And maybe it would have been if the earl had been in residence.

She made her way down to the dining room and stopped at the threshold. The table and set-up was much more formal than the one at Septon House. The room was quite large, with a long table running its length. One end was set with sparkling silver and crystal and immaculate linen.

Penn stood near the chair at the end wearing the same suit of stark black that he’d worn at Septon House. However, tonight, he sported a dark blue waistcoat shot with gold thread. As with the other night, his shirt and cravat were impossibly white, particularly against the dark tone of his skin.

“It’s hardly fair that gentlemen can simply swap out a waistcoat and change their costume. We have to pack far too many things,” she said.

“Egg arrived while we were out. He insists on packing this ‘fancy’ waistcoat in case I meet the Prince or someone else of import. Believe it or not, this was stuffed in one of our saddlebags when you met us.”

Amelia laughed. “Egg is quite useful.”

“He’s also a damn blighter on occasion.” Penn smiled as he held out her chair.

Two footmen attended them, pouring wine and serving the first course. Amelia picked up the thread of their earlier conversation. “Where are we going tomorrow, Wales? You didn’t say precisely.”

He paused in eating. “Not Wales. Not yet, anyway. I need to go to Oxford first, and you could meet Burgess. “

Amelia was warmed by his thoughtfulness. “That would be wonderful, thank you. Beyond finding out anything he can tell us about my grandfather’s search for the heart and the dagger, I’ll just be glad to talk to someone else who knew him.”

Penn smiled softly before sipping his wine.

Amelia focused on her meal for a moment, her mind formulating the things she wanted to talk to Burgess about. Did he know about the Order? Did he know why her grandfather hid the dagger instead of just giving it to the Ashmolean as he did with the heart?

“You were quite close to your grandfather,” Penn said as the footman replaced the first course with the second. “What about your parents?”

“My mother died when I was young and my grandmother six years later. I was quite close to my father and grandfather. When my father passed a few years ago, I went to live with my grandfather. He was starting to decline, so he needed my help.” That was a close enough approximation of the truth. Her grandfather had been starting to decline. That she’d needed a place to live wasn’t something Penn had to know.

“There’s no mention of your husband in there,” he said quietly but inquisitively.

“You didn’t ask about him.” And she certainly wasn’t going to offer any information about Thaddeus Forrest.

He picked up his wineglass and peered at her over the rim. “I’m asking. If it’s not too forward of me.”

“There isn’t much to tell. We married, we had no children, he’s gone.” She bent her head toward her plate and took a too large bite of fish.

“I’m sorry for all your losses. You seem to be faring well in spite of them.”

Yes, well, she was nothing if not a strong and self-reliant person. At least that was what she tried to be. She’d been so upset—first despondent about her future and then angry—when Thaddeus had left. He’d run up so much debt that he’d had no choice but to flee their creditors. One had tried to collect from Amelia, and she’d had to give them the contents of their house. Destitute, she’d gone back to her grandfather, who’d been more than happy to welcome her. And join her in damning Thaddeus. That had been five years ago.

“What about your family?” she asked, eager to divert the conversation away from herself. “You’ve spoken quite warmly of your parents and your sister. And it sounds as if you all share a passion for antiquities and hunting for them.”

“We do. As you know, my father is a scholar. My mother met him when she brought him a rare book to evaluate. It turned out to be the key to finding a remarkable treasure—not in the sense of a sword or a heart, but in words. It was a manuscript, which, of course, meant more to my father than any artifact. None of it meant as much as my mother, however.”

“It sounds like a grand love story. And they had two children to continue their legacy.”

“Actually, I’m not their son, not by blood. I came to live with my father when I was eight.”

Amelia stared at him a moment. “I’m surprised to hear that.”

“Why, because I’m so fond of them? They’re the only parents I’ve ever known. I remember my mother—the woman who birthed me—but not my father. I’ve no idea who he was, actually.”

He said all this quite matter-of-factly, which was also surprising. She imagined it wasn’t easy not to know who your real father was. And yet, it sounded as though he had a father he admired and loved. Did anything else matter?

The footman removed Amelia’s plate and promptly brought the next course.

“How did you come to live with the Bowens?” she asked.

“My mother was dying. She knew Rhys Bowen to be a good and trustworthy man, and she asked him if he’d foster me. She had saved money to send me to school, but my father—Rhys—made sure I went to Eton and Oxford.”

“So he took you in and adopted you as his own?” Amelia’s heart warmed as she thought of the young orphan in need of love and family and finding both to a degree that so many people never did.

“He did.” Penn took a bite of pheasant and washed it down with a swallow of wine. “And there’s no wife in my history, in case you were wondering.”

She stifled a smile. “I wasn’t, but thank you for telling me.”

“Oh, come now, you weren’t a little curious? I find you vastly interesting—and a bit enigmatic. Plus, there’s that…thing between us that you don’t want to discuss.”

She sent him a look of caution. They’d had a nice day and were having a nice evening. Did he need to mess things up with talk of that?

Even so, her pulse picked up, and heat spread through her limbs, then pooled in her belly. He was incredibly handsome and charming when he wanted to be. He was also intelligent and committed to his family and discovering the truth. She’d wager he wouldn’t find himself over his head in debt and running out on his wife. If he’d had one.

“Do you plan to wed?” She hadn’t meant to ask that at all, but the question had shot from her mouth like an arrow at a target.

“I have no plans. Which isn’t to say I wouldn’t. If I met the right woman.” His gaze seemed to darken, the blue of his eyes glowing like sapphires beneath the brilliant candles flickering above them in the chandelier. Goodness, that was a great deal of expense and trouble for two people to have dinner.

“Why are we eating in here?” she asked, abruptly changing the subject to something far safer.

He looked around the room and then up at the dozens of candles. “That is an excellent question. I am not familiar with the workings of this house as I am at Septon House. I should have asked for us to eat in a smaller room.”

“There wasn’t time,” she said. “We arrived and left nearly immediately.”

“I suppose you’re right, and we won’t be here tomorrow.” He scooped up a bite of potatoes. “Next time, we’ll find the breakfast room.”

“You keep speaking of next times.”

“Maybe I have plans after all.” His lips curved up just before he put the potatoes in his mouth.

What the hell did that mean? He planned to what? She took a long drink of wine. “Do stop flirting.”

“You’re the one who drew attention to my speaking of the future.”

“But you’re the one actually doing it,” she said. “Speaking of the future. The future for us is tracking down my grandfather’s dagger and proving that the heart in the museum is real. That is our future.”

“And maybe it will bring us back here to London, and we’ll have occasion to eat in the breakfast room. That’s all I meant.”

She didn’t believe him for a moment. He wasn’t just flirting with her, he was teasing.

She stood up abruptly. “I think I’m finished.”

Before she could turn and leave, he jumped up and came to her side. His hand lightly cupped her elbow. “My apologies. I’m having fun—I thought you were too. Yes, I’m flirting, but I can’t help it. You’re exceptionally attractive to me in every way, and despite my intention to keep things professional between us, I find myself swept away when I’m in your company.”

“So it’s my fault if you’re boorish?”

He laughed softly. “Boorish? Is it that bad?”

She suppressed a smile. Maybe it was fun. And maybe she could allow herself to have fun. “No.”

He was very close. She could see his ink-dark lashes and how ridiculously long they were, spiking out from his alluring eyes. It would be so easy to sway into him, to allow that protection he’d so easily offered that afternoon. She’d shivered in the coach when he’d promised to keep her safe. He’d meant it, and she believed him.

She held herself back. What good could come of an affair? Plenty, whispered a lonely voice in the back of her mind—a voice she chose to ignore. “This is a professional relationship, but we are friends. And nothing more.”

“I’m not sure I can agree to that.”

The heat flaring through her intensified at the promise in his gaze. She continued to ignore her body’s reaction. “Then perhaps we should end things.”

“I definitely can’t agree to that, but for now, I am more than content to remain friends.”

More than content. And she didn’t want to end things. For so many reasons. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

“Good night, Mrs. Forrest.”

His mouth curved into a seductive smile, and her resolve wavered. She wanted to know what it would be like to kiss him…

“Good night, Mr. Bowen.”

She turned and fled.