“A military tale?”

“Set in Portugal.” Hyacinth resumed her inspection of the shelf in front of her. “It didn’t seem terribly authentic, however. Not, of course, that I’ve ever been to Portugal.”

He nodded, then stepped off his stool and moved it in front of the next set of shelves. Hyacinth watched as he climbed back up and began his work anew, on the highest shelf.

“Remind me,” he said. “What, precisely, are we looking for?”

Hyacinth pulled the oft-folded note from her pocket. “Discorso Intorno alle Cose che stanno in sù l’acqua.”

He stared at her for a moment. “Which means…?”

“Discussion of inside things that are in water?” She hadn’t meant to say it as a question.

He looked dubious. “Inside things?”

“That are in water. Or that move,” she added. “Ò che in quella si muovono. That’s the last part of it.”

“And someone would wish to read that because…?”

“I have no idea,” she said, shaking her head. “You’re the Cantabridgian.”

He cleared his throat. “Yes, well, I wasn’t much for the sciences.”

Hyacinth decided not to comment and turned back to the shelf in front of her, which contained a seven-volume set on the topic of English botany, two works of Shakespeare, and a rather fat book titled, simply, Wildflowers. “I think,” she said, chewing on her lower lip for a moment as she glanced back at several of the shelves she’d already cataloged, “that perhaps these books had been in order at some point. There does seem to be some organization to it. If you look right here”-she motioned to one of the first shelves she’d inspected-“it’s almost completely works of poetry. But then right in the middle one finds something by Plato, and over on the end, An Illustrated History of Denmark.”

“Right,” Gareth said, sounding a bit like he was grimacing. “Right.”

“Right?” she echoed, looking up.

“Right.” Now he sounded embarrassed. “That might have been my fault.”

She blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

“It was one of my less mature moments,” he admitted. “I was angry.”

“You were…angry?”

“I rearranged the shelves.”

“You what?” She’d have liked to yell, and frankly, she was rather proud of herself for not doing so.

He shrugged sheepishly. “It seemed impressively underhanded at the time.”

Hyacinth found herself staring blankly at the shelf in front of her. “Who could have guessed it would come back to haunt you?”

“Who indeed.” He moved to another shelf, tilting his head as he read the titles on the spines. “The worst of it was, it turned out to be a tad too underhanded. Didn’t bother my father one bit.”

“It would have driven me insane.”

“Yes, but you read. My father never even noticed there was anything amiss.”

“But someone must have been here since your little effort at reorganization.” Hyacinth looked down at the book by her side. “I don’t think Miss Davenport is more than a few years old.”

Gareth shook his head. “Perhaps someone left it here. It could have been my brother’s wife. I imagine one of the servants just tucked it on whichever shelf possessed the most room.”

Hyacinth let out a long exhale, trying to figure out how best to proceed. “Can you remember anything about the organization of the titles?” she asked. “Anything at all? Were they grouped by author? By subject?”

Gareth shook his head. “I was in a bit of a rush. I just grabbed books at random and swapped their places.” He stopped, exhaling as he planted his hands on his hips and surveyed the room. “I do recall that there was quite a bit on the topic of hounds. And over there there was…”

His words trailed off. Hyacinth looked up sharply and saw that he was staring at a shelf by the door. “What is it?” she asked urgently, coming to her feet.

“A section in Italian,” he said, turning and striding to the opposite side of the room.

Hyacinth was right on his heels. “They must be your grandmother’s books.”

“And the last ones any of the St. Clairs might think to open,” Gareth murmured.

“Do you see them?”

Gareth shook his head as he ran his finger along the spines of the books, searching for the ones in Italian.

“I don’t suppose you thought to leave the set intact,” Hyacinth murmured, crouching below him to inspect the lower shelves.

“I don’t recall,” he admitted. “But surely most will still be where they belong. I grew too bored of the prank to do a really good job of it. I left most in place. And in fact-” He suddenly straightened. “Here they are.”

Hyacinth immediately stood up. “Are there many?”

“Only two shelves,” he said. “I would imagine it was rather expensive to import books from Italy.”

The books were right on a level with Hyacinth’s face, so she had Gareth hold their candle while she scanned the titles for something that sounded like what Isabella had written in her note. Several did not have the entire title printed on the spine, and these she had to pull out to read the words on the front. Every time she did so, she could hear Gareth’s sharply indrawn breath, followed by a disappointed exhale when she replaced the book on the shelf.

She reached the end of the lower shelf and then stood on her tiptoes to investigate the upper. Gareth was right behind her, standing so close that she could feel the heat of his body rippling through the air.

“Do you see anything?” he asked, his words low and warm by her ear. She didn’t think he was purposefully trying to unsettle her with his nearness, but it was the end result all the same.

“Not yet,” she said, shaking her head. Most of Isabella’s books were poetry. A few seemed to be English poets, translated into Italian. As Hyacinth reached the midpoint of the shelf, however, the books turned to nonfiction. History, philosophy, history, history…

Hyacinth’s breath caught.

“What is it?” Gareth demanded.

With trembling hands she pulled out a slim volume and turned it over until the front cover was visible to them both.


Galileo Galilei

Discorso intorno alle cose che stanno, in sù l’acqua, ò che in quella si muovono


“Exactly what she wrote in the clue,” Hyacinth whispered, hastily adding, “Except for the bit about Mr. Galilei. It would have been a great deal easier to find the book if we’d known the author.”

Gareth waved aside her excuses and motioned to the text in her hands.

Slowly, carefully, Hyacinth opened the book to look for the telltale slip of paper. There was nothing tucked right inside, so she turned a page, then another, then another…

Until Gareth yanked the book from her hands. “Do you want to be here until next week?” he whispered impatiently. With no delicacy whatsoever, he grasped both the front and back covers of the book and held it open, spine-side up so that the pages formed an upside-down fan.

“Gareth, you-”

“Shush.” He shook the book, bent down and peered up and inside, then shook it again, harder. And sure enough, a slip of paper came free and fell to the carpet.

“Give that to me,” Hyacinth demanded, after Gareth had grabbed it. “You won’t be able to read it in any case.”

Obviously swayed by her logic, he handed the clue over, but he remained close, leaning over her shoulder with the candle as she opened the single fold in the paper.

“What does it say?” he asked.

She shook her head. “I don’t know.”

“What do you mean, you don’t-”

“I don’t know,” she snapped, hating that she had to admit defeat. “I don’t recognize anything. I’m not even certain this is Italian. Do you know if she spoke another language?”

“I have no idea.”

Hyacinth clamped her teeth together, thoroughly discouraged by the turn of events. She hadn’t necessarily thought they would find the jewels that evening, but it had never occurred to her that the next clue might lead them straight into a brick wall.

“May I see?” Gareth asked.

She handed him the note, watching as he shook his head. “I don’t know what that is, but it’s not Italian.”

“Nor anything related to it,” Hyacinth said.

Gareth swore under his breath, something that Hyacinth was fairly certain she was not meant to hear.

“With your permission,” she said, using that even tone of voice she’d long since learned was required when dealing with a truculent male, “I could show it to my brother Colin. He has traveled quite extensively, and he might recognize the language, even if he lacks the ability to translate it.”

Gareth appeared to hesitate, so she added, “We can trust him. I promise you.”

He gave her a nod. “We’d best leave. There’s nothing more we can do this night, anyway.”

There was little cleaning up to be done; they had put the books back on the shelves almost as soon as they’d removed them. Hyacinth moved a stool back in place against the wall, and Gareth did the same with a chair. The drapes had remained in place this time; there was little moonlight to see by, anyway.

“Are you ready?” he asked.

She grabbed Miss Davenport and the Dark Marquis. “Are you certain no one will miss this?”

He tucked Isabella’s clue between the pages for safekeeping. “Quite.”

Hyacinth watched as he pressed his ear to the door. No one had been about when they had sneaked in a half hour earlier, but Gareth had explained that the butler never retired before the baron. And with the baron still out at the Mottram Ball, that left one man up and possibly about, and another who could return at any time.

Gareth placed one finger on his lips and motioned for her to follow him as he carefully turned the doorknob. He opened the door an inch-just enough to peer out the crack and make sure that it was safe to proceed. Together they crept into the hall, moving swiftly to the stairs that led down to the ground floor. It was dark, but Hyacinth’s eyes had adjusted well enough to see where she was going, and in under a minute they were back in the drawing room-the one with the faulty window latch.