The de Valery Code Read Free Page A

floor-to-ceiling bookshelves with ancient texts and academic papers, a collection Rhys had only enlarged in the three years since his death. A long table filled one side of the room, while a collection of chairs and a settee were situated in front of the windows that looked over a wide lawn.  
    The door opened and a young woman stepped inside. She was followed by a slightly older woman—but only slightly. These were the women who’d written him? He’d been expecting women past middle age at least. He supposed either one of these ladies could be a widow, but a spinster? The one who’d come in second lingered in the background and kept her head bent, so he couldn’t really discern her features, but the woman standing before him now was, in a word, breathtaking.  
    “Miss Roper?” he asked.
    “No.” She shook her head, sending the honey blond curls that were just visible beneath her hat swinging. “My great-aunts weren’t able to make the journey with me. I’m afraid my Aunt Eugenie fell ill.”
    Mrs. Eugenie Davenport. Her great-aunt. So this beautiful creature was neither a spinster nor a widow. As far as he knew. And, surprisingly, he wanted to know.
    “Miss Margery Derrington,” Thomas intoned from the doorway rather tardily.
    Rhys peered around his guest at his valet, who also served as his butler. “Thank you, Thomas, would you bring tea, please?”
    He nodded in response and left the room. The other woman remained by the door.
    Miss Derrington must’ve noted the direction of his gaze. “This is my companion, Mrs. Edwards.”
    “Please join us, Mrs. Edwards.” He indicated the seating arrangement near the windows.
    “I’ll just stand over here.” Her voice sounded pinched, nervous. “Thank you,” she added hurriedly.
    Miss Derrington threw her a reassuring glance before moving to the settee, where she perched at the edge of the ruby-colored cushion. She set a book—obviously the item they wished for him to inspect—beside her.
    Rhys sat in a chair across from her and stared at the tome, wondering why he hadn’t noticed it in her grasp straightaway. He’d been too entranced by his guest’s bright hazel-colored eyes, smooth cheekbones, and the clever little dimple in her chin. “You’ve brought the manuscript for me to review?”
    “Yes. I realize it’s a bit presumptuous, not giving you an opportunity to decline our request, but I was most anxious to obtain your opinion.”
    Presumptuous. Anxious. Beautiful. He directed his attention to the book instead of the provokingly lovely Miss Derrington. “Your aunts said it was a medieval Arthurian text?”
    She picked up the book and held it in her lap. The way she touched it, the glide of her fingertips across the flat plane of the cover, revealed her affection. He recognized her attachment since he felt it for nearly every medieval manuscript he happened upon. In a moment, he’d ascertain whether this one was worthy of his interest.
    “I understand you’ll be able to ascertain its actual age and perhaps its origin?” Her gaze was deeply inquisitive. She wanted to learn everything she could about this book. He could see the curiosity burning through her placid expression.
    “Yes, and I understand you’d like to know its value, that you’re interested in selling it?”
    Her fingers tightened ever so slightly around the tome. She looked at him skeptically. “Forgive me, I thought you’d be . . . older. My aunts said you’d been a scholar of medieval texts for decades.”
    “That was my father, Alexander Bowen. He died three years ago.” And he was still the one they’d written to. “I’m Rhys Bowen, and I assure you I’m every bit as knowledgeable as my father was.”
    She gave a subtle nod. “Where shall I put the book for your investigation?’
    He’d thought he’d have to sit and endure tea for a few minutes, and was intrigued by her eagerness. More intriguing was the fact that he’d been looking forward to conversing with