Page 62 of A Rare Find

“You would look for it, without me.” Her throat tightened. “A hoard you learned about from my grandmother’s papers.”

They put up their palms. “I’d tell you if I found it. I’m not trying to run away with all your gold, or even a fraction of your glory.”

Yes, she remembered clearly. “You want a chalice or two. A handful of coins. To sell.”

“Exactly.”

“No.” She shook her head. “We’re not talking about robbing a stagecoach. We’re talking about delving into the past. The hoard’s value is the story it tells, not what it can buy.”

“And you’ll tell its story.” Georgie sounded certain, so certain her heart gave a leap. “I won’t get in the way of that. But you can’t control what happens to the objects. You said yourself they’ll all go to the Crown in the end. Well, minus the odd chalice.”

She swallowed. The hoard would draw antiquaries from every corner of Britain. And she would tell its story. She’d write a book of her own, and include Grandmama’s notes. As a Fellow of the Albion Society, she’d request patronage to dig next in Orkney, where Papa had never taken her.

“You doubt my use to you,” said Georgie. “But I’ll prove myself. Let’s count to three and give our answer at the same time. One.”

She met their eyes. “Two.”

She could feel something gathering in the space between them, as though the air were crowded with all the things yet unsaid.

Were friendships always like this? Crowded? Haunted even? Or was this friendship different, because the two of them had known each other for so long without really knowing each other at all?

She pressed closer.

“Three,” they whispered, as her hands settled on their shoulders. She kissed them, their soft lips parting in surprise, their hand curving around the back of her neck. She could almost smell the wisteria, although this garden contained no such blooms. Bliss beat through her like butterfly wings, a delicate sensation tremoring over her skin. And then their tongue slid inside her mouth, and they were tipping back her head, and she pushed with her own tongue, and moaned, because she hadn’t known, but of course. It was so obvious. So right.

“Wrong,” murmured Georgie, easing back. Their hand was still on her nape. She realized again that the bench was cold and hard. Her toes were digging into the chamomile.

“Not the answer.” She was blushing. “Kiss is never the answer. Not of any riddle I know. And we shouldn’t. Never again. That was more sufficient than last time, I think. We’re finished now. Anything else might distract us.”

Their lashes lowered, and a gleam entered their narrow gaze. “Distract us?”

“From our search,” she said. “For the Viking gold.”

18

The answer was cave. That was her guess, and Georgie’s too. A cave by the river. Dark and deep, limestone mouth open to the sun-dappled water.

Amazed by her own daring, she shut herself up in the library after dinner, built a small fire, drank a finger of Canary sack from the green goblet, and began taking books down from the shelves.

She found mention of four caves along the River Thorn. One was upstream, north of Thornton, near the Roman ruins, boulder-choked and inhabited by badgers, explored by the author of Sketches Toward a Topographical History of the County of Derbyshire in 1753. A certain Reverend Cruttwell, in Walks Through the East Midlands, described another, a “bats’ cave” located in a “steep ridge” even farther north. The other two he’d chanced upon during walks around the village of Twynham.

None were promising prospects, already discovered, already searched. But perhaps they opened onto neglected chambers, or branched into narrowing tunnels, inaccessible to male invaders and explorers. Accessible only to someone small. A medieval nun.

Elfreda Marsden.

It was somewhere to start at least.

The next morning, she met Georgie as planned at Holywell Rock.

She’d come alone. Agnes was punishing Hilda and Matilda for running away, giving her and Mrs. Pegg such a terrible fright. The punishment was a game of Princes in the Tower, which pleased all parties. Papa always objected to Princes in the Tower—Agnes made her Richard III sound too much like him—but there it was, another benefit to Papa’s being gone. He couldn’t accuse anyone of pertness.

Georgie had not come alone. Elfreda’s eyes lit on them first. Purple silk jockey cap. Cocky grin. Lilac walking dress.

She sped up, drawn to them like a bee to a bloom. She’d almost closed the distance entirely before she saw the man from the hedge.

Lord Phillip. Georgie’s former betrothed.

He was perched atop the boulder.