Afterward, Sophia helped Mrs. Kettle tidy the kitchen and discuss preparations for the house to again be closed for the next several months, at least until summer. Vane donned his coat, gloves, and hat and joined Mr. Kettle and Mr. Branigan in the snow-covered courtyard at the back of the house for an inspection of the old stable master’s quarters. Despite the frost having subsided on the river, the air remained cold and the sky above them gray.

Inside the stable, they climbed a narrow column of stairs. Mr. Kettle unlocked a door, and together they entered the small apartment. Dust cloths covered a table and chairs, a bed, and numerous other pieces of furniture.

“Thank you, your Grace. I don’t know quite what to say,” Mr. Branigan said, an expression of hope returning a measure of youth to his features, some vestige of the boy Vane had once known. “Our lives had taken such a turn for the worse of late. That you’d offer something so generous to Mrs. Branigan and me, as a place to live, especially after we trespassed in your house and frightened you and her Grace—well, I’m overwhelmed.”

Vane couldn’t help but feel that the Branigans returning to Camellia House had been intended all along. Since his arrival on a cold, dark doorstep three nights ago, the old mansion had returned to life. He felt in some way that he had as well. “Your thanks is enough.”

Mr. Branigan held his cap in both calloused hands. “I couldn’t help but notice that there are repairs to be made in numerous locations about the house, starting with that settee leg that keeps falling out from under everyone. Like my father was, I’m very skilled with woodwork.”

Claxton listened quietly, giving the man his chance to speak.

“Please allow me to undertake any repairs, under the supervision of Mr. Kettle, of course, in exchange for our being allowed to stay.”

“That’s not necessary,” Vane assured him. “I’m pleased to have someone to live on the premises to keep out the vagrants and such.”

Mr. Branigan’s cheeks flushed; he was suddenly mortified. Vane grinned. Mr. Kettle clapped the young man on the back, and they all three shared a laugh.

“Thank you for your kind trust, but I must insist on providing something in exchange,” Mr. Branigan persisted. “Please, sir, for my own pride.”

At last, with an encouraging nod from Mr. Kettle, Vane agreed.

A flash of scarlet drew his eye to the house—and in that instant, everything inside him went warm with anticipation. Sophia waved, dressed for the out-of-doors, they having already agreed to this morning to complete the remaining quest. Mr. Branigan insisted on harnessing the horse to the sledge and, all in all, made fine and expedient work of the task.

Traveling over crusted snow, Vane and Sophia returned to the same thickly treed path in the forest that led to the huntsman’s cottage. Vane lifted a frozen tree limb to allow Sophia to proceed underneath. Waning winter light illuminated the slanted, one-room structure.

“Careful,” Vane said as they stood side by side on the threshold. “I’m not certain how reliable the roof or the floorboards are. At least there is very little area to search.”

Sophia stepped cautiously over creaking floorboards. “We’re looking for a pot, you say?”

“Cast iron, from what I recall, with a handle and a heavy lid.” Even stooped, his large frame filled the small room.

Sophia looked inside a ramshackle cabinet. “Like that one?” She pointed far in the back.

“Yes.” He crouched and hoisted the pot out. “Let’s go outside and have a look.”

An old stump served as a table. Vane tugged at the handle. “The lid is stuck.”

“No, sealed with wax, I believe.” She pointed out the darkened edge.

When their eyes met, she flushed, as she had done repeatedly that morning, no doubt because she revisited, as did he, the sensual pleasures they’d enjoyed the night before. In the shadowy privacy of their room, they’d lost all pretenses of propriety and inhibition and exhausted their mutual lust only sometime near dawn. While her insatiability had put to bed his concern that she did not feel desire for him, he suspected he had not yet won her love.

Vane ran the blade of his penknife around the circumference of the lid and pulled until the top popped off. Inside lay a small linen parcel bound tight with string. Vane cut it open.

“Hmm,” he said.

“What is it?”

“A book of poems, it appears.”

He offered the small leather volume for Sophia to see. Something fell out, falling like a dark moth to the snow below. She bent to retrieve it.

“It is a rose.” Wide-eyed, she held the flower to the light. Pressed flat, mottled with age, and faded, its petals retained the barest vestiges of color. Yellow rimmed in pink.

“I’ve seen this rose, Claxton,” she whispered urgently. “Do you remember? Yesterday on your mother’s grave. I saw the same uncommon variety yesterday in the church.”

Bewildered, Claxton shrugged. “I’m not sure what it all means. A book of poems. A pressed rose. There is no message, no instruction. Perhaps the book is the prize? She usually included a little note of congratulation.”

“What was the name on that placard?” Sophia pressed the gloved knuckles of one hand to her forehead. “I’m certain the name I saw started with a G. Graham. Garnett. Garner.”

Claxton looked up from the book. Holding it open to the front inside cover, he displayed to her a name, scrawled in faded ink. Robert Garswood.

“That’s it.”

“Again, what does it mean? Who is Robert Garswood?”

“There’s no question,” said Sophia. “You must go see him and find out.”

Confusion dampened Claxton’s response. The game of lookabout had taken a surprising turn, the most recent discovery not the sort of “clue” his mother would have left for Vane the boy. He had the strangest feeling she’d intended it for Claxton the man to find.

“Who is this man and what would he have to say to me, if anything at all? It’s been years since these clues were left behind. Robert Garswood may not even be alive.”

* * *

But Robert Garswood was, indeed, very much alive.

The rector, still aglow over the Duke of Claxton’s promised gift of a church bell, provided the necessary information. A member of the local gentry, Robert Garswood resided on a small estate not far from the village.

Already midday, the snow had begun to melt, making for slower travel in the sledge. But at last they came to a gentle valley and an expansive country house fashioned in the Jacobean style.

“This is all very unsettling.” Vane scowled.

“What’s unsettling is that we’ve remained in this very same spot staring down the hill for at least a quarter hour. It’s cold, Vane. Let us go to the front door and introduce ourselves.” His manner perplexed her. Why did he exhibit such reluctance? Clearly his mother had wanted him to meet and speak with Mr. Garswood.

“Perhaps we should just go,” he suggested darkly. “Perhaps I don’t want to know who Robert Garswood is or what he might have to say.”

“Why would you even suppose that? I don’t understand.”

And yet he provided no explanation.

At last, at her gentle urging, Claxton agreed. After only a short wait, a footman led them down a brief corridor past a cloisonné vase full of familiar yellow-and-pink roses. A tall, dark-haired man with silver dusting his temples stood near the fire, dressed in a blue greatcoat, buff breeches, and tall boots, waiting to receive them. Sophia estimated him to be somewhere around the age of sixty. A dashing athletic figure and the epitome of a country gentleman, Mr. Garswood leaned heavily on a cane and peered at them with unconcealed surprise and delight.

“Your Graces.” A warm smile spread across his face, and he bowed his head to each of them. Approaching, his gaze remained fixed on Vane. “Yes, the likeness is certainly there. Please, come inside.”

Framed in rich burgundy draperies, large windows afforded them a view of the valley below and a large greenhouse on the distant corner of the snow-covered lawn. Numerous books lay around the room and lined the bookshelves, most sharing the theme of English flora and botany.

“You knew my mother?” asked Claxton in a solemn tone, one that contained, Sophia believed, a bit of dread.

“I did. And your father as well.”

From the pocket of his greatcoat, Vane produced the book of poems. “She left this for me. Do you know what it means?”

“I do, indeed. When you were ten years old, my wife and I placed that book of poems in an old black pot, just as your dear mother instructed us to do.” Again he smiled. “But I must say I’m still very shocked to see you. After her death, when we received her letter, I’ll admit to being doubtful you would ever cross our threshold. But those quests and you completing them—once you were grown, mind you—seemed very important to her.”

Vane looked at Sophia. “After we discovered the first quest, my wife rather insisted we complete the rest. I wouldn’t have otherwise.”

Though his jaw remained tense and his shoulders, rigid, the look he directed to her conveyed gratitude.

“Then well done, your Grace,” Mr. Garswood said warmly, nodding to her. His eyes sparkled with good humor. “Elizabeth would be very happy to know you are both here. I think somehow, even now, she does know.”

“Why are we here?” Vane asked bluntly.

Mr. Garswood’s chin went down, toward his chest, and he stared for a long moment at the carpet before returning his gaze to Vane’s. He said in a voice softened by emotion, “Because your mother believed it important for you to know the truth. All of it. Once you were a man.”