“Oh no. That means—”

“Yes!” Claxton’s eyes glowed with delight. Clearly he welcomed this new complication, the higher stakes. “Sophia, you must get the bee.”

“But how?” she asked desperately. “When Mr. Burridge refuses to leave my side? And yours because apparently you have a peculiar fetish for dusting and cannot be trusted unsupervised with the antiquities.”

Claxton grinned. “For a moment I thought he would box my ears, just as he did when I was a boy.”

“I don’t believe he can reach your ears now.”

Mr. Burridge approached, boxes stacked across his arms.

“Hurry,” warned Claxton. “We must think of some new diversion.”

“Pardon the interruption, my lord. My lady,” said Mr. Burridge, his expression brittle with mistrust. “It is that time of year when villagers often bring Christmas tithes and other gifts to celebrate the season.”

Tithes and gifts. It was, indeed, that time of year. Sophia knew from her review of the account books that Claxton paid tithes once a year through his accountants. Somehow, the villagers appearing in person bearing gifts of butter and jam and chickens—necessities very dear to them—seemed infinitely more personal. All at once, it came into Sophia’s mind that she’d not heard a church bell ring since arriving in Lacenfleet.

On instinct, she inquired, “Mr. Burridge, tell me about the church bell. On what occasions do you ring it?”

“Ah.” Mr. Burridge issued a little sigh. “Our bell cracked two winters ago, splitting quite nearly in half. No donor has stepped forward with the funds to replace it.”

The perfect opportunity had just presented itself. How could she nudge Claxton in the proper direction without being completely obvious?

“Your Grace,” she said with careful emphasis. “You and I were just pondering yesterday—”

“What could be done to honor my mother, yes,” he said suddenly with a long glance at her. He’d stolen the words right out of her mouth, and she couldn’t be more amazed.

He tilted his face upward, and his gaze moved over the arched beams above them. “She so loved this church. A new bell would be a perfect tribute.”

She knew in that moment his offering had nothing to do with the game and everything to do with the memory of his mother and his growing affection for Lacenfleet and its people.

“Yes,” she exclaimed softly, blinking away tears. “I agree.”

The rector’s eyes lit up like lanterns. “Your mother, a saint of a woman.”

Sophia said, “Mr. Burridge, perhaps you could show his lordship to the bell tower so that he might understand the contribution that would be required?”

All of the rector’s prior suspicion fell away. Indeed, he appeared on the verge of tears. “Why, a new bell would breathe new life into this old parish church.”

“Wonderful,” said Sophia. “I will wait for the both of you here. I would like to spend some time viewing the windows.”

She moved toward the nearest stained glass window, one which bore a brass placard at its base engraved with the familial name GARSWOOD. Beneath that, on the floor, she discovered a porcelain bowl full of roses.

Ones with yellow petals and pink edges.

* * *

A half hour later, she and Claxton made their way through the snow to the sledge, Sophia still smiling from everything that had occurred. Their breath gusted out before them with each breath.

“Do you have it?” he asked.

“I do.” She opened her hand. A tiny scroll, bound with a faded strip of fabric, lay on her gloved palm.

“You ought to be a spy in the service of England, goose.” Claxton’s arm came around her shoulder, the admiration in his gaze and in his words more warming than any fire. “You truly were quite exceptional in there. Mr. Burridge, I must say, is smitten. Let us go to the inn for a quick meal. We can read our next instruction there.”

Soon they were settled into a table near the hearth. Just as before, the room was crowded with villagers, today unabashedly impressed by the presence of the duke, who had just that morning dueled the inn’s most infamous resident on his snow-covered front lawn.

Several of the ladies smiled at Sophia. There were even a few satisfied nods and winks. She could only assume they believed her the victor for her husband’s affections over the determined trollop, Lady Meltenbourne. At that, she felt some degree of satisfaction. She’d enjoyed herself exceedingly this afternoon and purposefully forbade herself from pondering deeper thoughts about their future, or the implications of the night before, although memories of their lovemaking never drifted far from her thoughts. She just had to keep things in perspective, be forgiving of her husband’s limitations, and continue to guard her heart.

As they waited for the innkeeper to bring their fare, Claxton drank ale and Sophia sipped from a steaming mug of tea.

“So let us see this bee that has been buzzing around Sir Thomas’s nose for all these years.” Claxton scooted his chair toward hers. They sat side by side, two conspirators discreetly examining their plunder. He rested his arm across the back of her chair, bracketing her between his body and the wall. Her skin warmed with awareness. She could see nothing beyond the high wall of his shoulder, cravat, and waistcoat, and an endless sprawl of finely turned male legs.

Sophia slid the fabric binding free and unrolled the little scroll on the table between them. He helped her spread the small rectangle, pinning two corners with long, elegant fingers while she secured the other two. His familiar scent tantalized her, made more complex by the lingering acridity of gunpowder.

Ah, but the quest. At the uppermost corner hovered a charming little bee boasting a wide, toothy smile.

“Oh, your mother.” She did venture a glance at Claxton then, only to have her breath stolen by startling blue eyes, which studied her rather than the quest. “Quite the artist.”

He agreed faintly, “Hmm, yes, she was.”

Underneath the table, his hand found her knee.

Breathless from that mere touch, Sophia read the quest aloud. “The hungry huntsman clamors for more stew. And look.” She turned the paper so he could see the drawings. “She’s drawn a rather fearsome fellow.”

“The huntsman,” said Claxton.

“You know something about him, just as you did Sir Thomas.”

He nodded. “There’s an old cottage in the forest; in times long past it would have been occupied by the estate huntsman. My brother and I used to play there, and sometimes my mother would accompany us.”

“And make stew?” Sophia leaned toward him, eager to hear more.

With a suddenness that stole her breath, his gaze went to smoldering, and he stared at her lips. His hand, still on her knee, squeezed. “Yes, actually, in an old pot, the ingredients being whatever we gathered. Stones, leaves, and sticks gathered from the forest. It was all very juvenile.”

“And charming.” She eased back in her chair, but he followed, just those few inches, teasing the nape of her neck with an upward brush of his fingertips. “Could we go to the huntsman’s cottage after we leave here?”

“I’d rather go somewhere else first,” he murmured suggestively.

“After we find the next clue.”

“The cottage was in terrible condition then. I’m not sure the roof has not fallen through. Our game may very well come to a disappointing end there. Time may have destroyed what was likely our final quest.”

“I hope not,” Sophia said. “Not when we have come so far.”

A girl brought out their stew, placing two bowls before them, a fragrant, steaming mutton stew. Reluctantly, he removed his hand from where it had crept up Sophia’s shapely thigh. Only after Sophia greeted the girl as Charlotte and made a fuss over her pretty hair did he remember seeing her before.

“Your Grace, the hairpins you gave me must have been magical ones.” The girl touched the neat coil of hair above her nape.

“Oh yes?” said Sophia. “Tell me, why would you say that?”

“I’ve got myself a suitor.” Her lips broke into a shy smile.

Sophia’s face brightened with surprise. “The farmer in the tall boots?”

“No, madam, the chandler with the fine cottage.” The girl’s face filled with color.

They chatted for a short time longer until Mrs. Stone cheerfully shooed the girl away. After the girl had gone, Sophia dazzled him with a happy smile.

“That’s wonderful to hear,” she whispered, her cheeks fetchingly pink, a likely consequence of their proximity to the fire. “I do hope Charlotte finds a happily ever after.”

Vane reached to touch her cheek, his tone solemn. “Happily ever after. A few days ago, I wouldn’t have believed in such a thing. The words sound as if they only belong in a fairy tale, don’t they? Not in the lives of everyday people. But I think I’ve changed my mind.”

Sophia peered steadily back at him. “That’s a wonderful thing to hear you say.”

Vane could not help but think how perfectly Lacenfleet suited Sophia. Having seen her in London, so perfectly at ease with the most elevated members of society, he’d never expected her to take so easily to these simple folk and their quiet way of life.

When they were ready to again be on their way, Vane left coins on the table in payment of their meal, and he followed Sophia toward the door. Only at the center of the room, he impulsively caught her by the sleeve and slowly pulled her back around. Her eyes flew wide at the suddenness of his mouth on hers, but she softened in his arms and with a sigh kissed him back. Then, as if she remembered where they were, she broke away. Yet he refused to release her entirely, and he caught her hand in his.