The de Valery Code Read Free

Agnes suggested. “I can see you long to peruse it at length.”
    How well her aunt knew her. Margery closed the book and hugged it to her chest. “Thank you.”
    As they left the attic, another, more disturbing thought encroached. How many days did she have left with her aunts? When they were gone she would be truly alone in this townhouse—if she were lucky. If she were unlucky, she could be alone and destitute.
    No, she wouldn’t think like that. This book was going to change their fortune and she’d do whatever necessary to ensure they lived in at least a modicum of comfort. Maybe they’d move out to a cottage in the country. Yes, she could see herself living a simple life, even after her aunts were gone.
    Determined, she made her way to her room and vowed to keep them all safe and happy.

    Rhys Bowen cracked an eyelid at the sudden invasion of light into his bedchamber. His valet, the beast, had opened the drapes on one of the windows just enough to illuminate a section of the room. Thankfully, the beam didn’t shine directly over Rhys’s bed.
    He turned away from the window and pulled the cover over his aching head. “Was that really necessary?”
    “I do this every day,” Thomas said stiffly.
    Yes, but Rhys didn’t wake up with a thundering headache every day. Only when he infrequently attended one of Trevor’s bacchanalias, which Trevor threw for soon-to-be-married gentlemen who came up from London or somewhere. He hosted a few days of feasting, drinking, and whoring, then everyone embarked on a tour of the River Wye, except for Rhys. One night of debauchery was more than enough to tide him over until the next event a few months later.
    Rhys peered up over the edge of the coverlet, sensing his valet’s presence near the side of his bed. “Would it pain you to skip it this morning?”
    “You have guests arriving soon, if you recall.”
    No, he hadn’t recalled. Blast, how had he forgotten that a widow and her spinster sister were coming to visit him about a medieval text they’d found in their attic? Because he wasn’t terribly enthused about seeing them. It was probably a forgery, like so many of the works brought to him, and his father before him, for estimation.
    He sat up begrudgingly, wiping his hand over his chin. The scratch of his whiskers reminded him of last night—and of the woman who’d appreciated the feel of them against her flesh . . .  
    The sound of Thomas clearing his throat interrupted Rhys’s salacious thoughts. “Mrs. Thomas recently learned a recipe for a headache tonic and prepared a batch for you earlier.” Thomas left the side of the bed and came back a moment later with a mug he offered to Rhys.
    Rhys took it, but looked up at his valet in doubt. “This smells like horse piss.”
    Thomas didn’t dispute him. “Nevertheless, she assures me it will eliminate your headache in a trice. There are certain things one does not question Mrs. Thomas about.” He gave Rhys a haggard look.
    Though he was purposefully unmarried, Rhys understood the state of matrimony enough to know that sometimes one absolutely did not question one’s wife. With a silent toast, he quaffed as much of the drink as he could. With a cough and a sputter he handed the mostly empty mug back to Thomas. He started to settle deeper beneath the coverlet, but Thomas’s sharp look froze his movements. “Now what?”
    “Your visitors are arriving in a little over an hour.”
    How long had he slept? “What time is it?”
    “Half-noon.”
    “Hell.” Rhys threw off the coverlet and set about his toilet. His day-old beard might have pleased his companion last night, but he doubted the widow and her spinster sister would approve. He might be a bit of a hermit, but he wasn’t a boor.
    After a quick—because he unfortunately couldn’t summon an appetite after downing the vile tonic—meal, he awaited his guests in his office. The room was quite large, more a library really. Father had filled