the worse her situation grew, but still, this was a conversation she never wished to have. It was true, her life was a mess, and her family’s circumstances were hopelessly entangled. It was universally known, and tacitly ignored, at least in their insular little village and along the rugged coast of Devonshire. Chione coped as best she could, but she did not discuss it. She was a Latimer.
She winced a little at the untruth of that statement. All the world knew her as a Latimer, in any case, and in her heart she was truly a part of this family. She would prevail, as Latimers always had, no matter how difficult the situation they found themselves in.
She stiffened her spine and cast a false smile at Lord Renhurst. ‘We are fine, my lord. We have learned to practise economies. Now come, what news have you?’
‘Economies!’ he snorted. ‘Mervyn built Latimer Shipping with his own two hands. If he ever found out what a mess it’s become and how his family has been obliged to live…’ He shook his head. ‘I’ve spoken with the banks again, but they refuse to budge. They will not release Mervyn’s funds until some definitive word is had of him.’
‘Thank you for trying, in any case.’ She sighed.
‘Least I could do,’ he mumbled. ‘Wanted to tell you, too, that I went to the Antiquarian Society, as you asked.’
Chione was brought to instant attention. ‘Oh, my lord, thank you! Did you speak with the gentleman I mentioned? Did Mr Bartlett know anything of use?’
‘He offers you his sincerest condolences, but could only tell me that, yes, Richard did indeed spend a great deal of time in their collection before he left for Egypt.’
‘Could he not tell you specifically what Richard was looking for?’
‘He could not.’
She closed her eyes in disappointment. Chione knew that Richard had been hiding something; something about her grandfather’s disappearance, she suspected. Now his secrets had died along with her brother. Trying to ferret out the one kept her from dwelling on the other. But it was more than that. She needed to find her grandfather, and the sooner the better. She refused to consider what the rest of the world believed: that he was most likely dead as well.
‘Bartlett did say that he spent a great deal of time with a Mr Alden. Scholar of some sort. He recommended that you speak with him if you wished to know what was occupying your brother’s interest.’
Chione brightened immediately. ‘Alden,’ she mused. ‘The name is familiar. Yes, I believe I have read something of his. I shall look through Mervyn’s journals.’ She turned to Lord Renhurst and smiled. ‘Thank you so much. You are a very great friend, to all of us.’
The viscount blinked, and then sat a moment, silently contemplating her. ‘You think this is something to do with the Lost Jewel, don’t you?’ he asked.
‘I fear so,’ she answered simply. ‘But I hope not.’
‘I hope not, as well.’ His disapproval was clear. ‘You are in a devil of a fix already, my dear, without adding in a lot of nonsense about pharaohs and mysterious lost treasures.’
‘We might think it a parcel of nonsense, but you know that Richard believed in it. As does Mervyn.’ To put it simply, they had wanted to believe. The men in Chione’s family were adventurers in heart and deed. They craved travel and excitement as fervently as the débutantes of the ton craved young and single heirs to a dukedom, as constantly as the opium eaters of her mother’s country craved their drug.
Chione cast her gaze down at her tea. What she craved were far simpler things: food for the table, a warmer coat for Will, the ability to pay her remaining servants’ wages. But she would achieve none of those by drinking tea with Lord Renhurst.
‘Do try not to worry, my lord. We shall muddle through.’ Strategically, she paused and cocked her head. ‘Listen, do you hear barking?’
The viscount’s manner abruptly changed. He set down his dish of tea. ‘Well, then,’ he said briskly, ‘we will scheme together to bring you about, but another time. I cannot stay longer today.’
Chione had to hide her smile at his sudden eagerness to be gone. ‘Of course. Thank you so much for talking with Mr Bartlett for me.’
‘Certainly.’ He paused and a stern expression settled once more over his features. ‘I’ve let you have your way so far, Chione, but I’m watching you closely. If I need to step in, I will.’
‘I appreciate your concern, sir.’
He offered his arm, listening intently. ‘Will you walk me out? I must be off.’
Chione resisted the impish urge to drag her feet. They stepped outside and she wrapped her shawl tighter about her shoulders. She breathed deep of the sea scent blowing strong on the wind. It was the kind of wind that brought change, her grandfather had always said. She closed her eyes and hoped it would bring change. She hoped it would bring him home again.
‘Good day to you, Chione. We will speak again soon.’ Lord Renhurst’s groom pulled his phaeton up to the house and he hurried towards it. He skidded to a stop, however, when a horse and rider suddenly emerged from the wooded section of the drive.
The sun obscured her view, and Chione caught her breath, believing for an instant that she had indeed wished Mervyn Latimer home. The rider approached, and stopped in front of the house, allowing her to see that it was not the imposing form of her missing grandfather, but that of a younger man instead.
A man, indeed, and a specimen of the species like she had never seen.
Most of the men in the village were fishermen, gnarled from their constant battle against wind and sea. Lord Renhurst and her grandfather were older, and stout with good living. Her brother had always looked exactly what he had been—a rumpled, slightly grubby scholar. But this man…She gave a little sigh. He dismounted and she could not look away. He stood tall, broad and powerful. He looked, in fact, as if he could have ridden straight from the pages of one of her adventure novels.
As if he had heard her thoughts, he strode boldly towards the house. The closer he came, the faster her heart began to trip. He stopped and the skin on Chione’s nape prickled, every tiny hair there standing at quivering attention.
‘Good day,’ he said to the viscount, who still stood in the drive. ‘I am looking for Oakwood Court.’
His clothing looked as unusual as he. A coat of dark green, made of fine material, but cut loose, with a multitude of pockets. Snug trousers and scuffed, comfortable-looking boots. His linen was clean and his neckcloth a bit limp, as if he had been tugging at it.
‘You’ve found it, sir,’ Lord Renhurst replied. Chione thought he might have conversed further if not for a loud and happy bark that sounded suddenly nearby. ‘Sorry, must be off,’ he said as he edged towards his phaeton. Gravel crunched as the vehicle began to move, then the viscount twisted around on the seat. He looked back at her visitor and advised loudly, ‘Good God, man, take off your hat!’
‘Oh, yes. Of course.’ The gentleman removed said article and turned to face Chione once more. He raked her with an assessing glance and his face softened a bit. ‘Can you tell me where I might find Miss Latimer?’
Chione’s mouth went dry. Gracious, but the man could not be real. He did not speak, he rumbled,
