Keeper of the Grail

Keeper of the Grail

Ann Tracy Marr

© 2017

Chapter One

Hearing the knock, Sir Sloane Johnstone set down the cup with movements that were smooth, practiced. His voice roughened, demonstrating the impatience his hands were trained to suppress.

Enter.

The Beefeater who opened the office door was past the age of retirement, but he would not be demoted to half pay. He was Ravenmaster. He tended the ravens. Legend had it that if the birds departed, the White Tower, the monarchy, and the entire kingdom would fall. Foolish Prinny, the Regent, walked on eggshells around the Ravenmaster. King George himself in his madness wouldn’t interfere with this man. It didn’t make him easier to work with.

Sloane sighed. What can I do for you?

Glancing at the thick desk pad and stone cup, the Beefeater complained, Sir, there is not enough meat in the bin t’feed the ravens past Monday week. I can’t have the birds hungry. They’ll peck.

Then order more.

Quartermaster won’t; not without funds.

Squire Montagu says there are no funds?

Yes, sir. No, sir. He sent me to Lieutenant Judge, but the lieutenant’s no help; he says there ain’t no funds. It won’t do, sir. The ravens must be fed.

A muscle knotted in the back of Sloane’s neck. No funds? Oh, hell. He dug in his pocket and flipped a golden coin to the Ravenmaster. Order your meats. If the butcher balks, tell him the Keeper will be personally responsible for the bill until the snafu is ironed out. I’ll look into the matter.

Yes, sir. Thank ye, sir. The ravens thank ye, sir. The Beefeater bowed his way out, closing the heavy door silently. Sloane strode through the ray of sun piercing the office to the arrow slit window and peered out into broad daylight, absentmindedly rubbing the nape of his neck. There was no sign of poverty to be seen in the bustle in front of the barracks.

Sunlight flowed over his shoulder and warmed the desktop, but his face was in shadow. No funds? Bloody hell, the Tower should be swimming in lard. Parliament voted an increase in budget, something to do with giving the appearance of prosperity in face of the massive debt piling up behind the war. Visitors to His Majesty’s Royal Palace and Fortress the Tower of London should see sleek, well-fed ravens. But if Montagu said there were no funds, then there were none. So where had the money gone?

Merlin, he was tired of problems. His shoulders ached with the weight. At least the Ravenmaster could retire. Sir Sloane Johnstone was chained.

* * *

Sarah Frampton leaned over the Italian kneehole desk, flipping through the stack of papers held captive under a beveled crystal slab. She could hear the orchestra slaughtering a minuet; she didn’t waste a moment analyzing if the violin was sharp or the viola flat, or both. Her eyes and her mind focused on the difficult task of reading by candlelight. Clips of articles from newspapers, handwritten notes on smooth, expensive parchment, and a few letters slid through her fingers. She ignored the letters. Sir Sloane deserved his privacy.

There was nothing to the subject on the desk top. She realigned the paperweight, seeking another source. Her eyes flicked over the ivory scenes decorating the desk. Though the inlay was fine, intarsia hunting dogs did not send her into transports. Unlocked desks did.

The right top desk drawer was open. She pulled the handle bracketing a panting dog’s ears and the drawer slid out with a wooden sigh.

Maybe there was something here, some clue. She shuffled through the drawer, mindful of the pleasant dream of her father and brother shaking hands, whilst she, her ecstatic aunt, and smiling sister looked on.

If you seek to write a note, allow me to direct your attention front and center. You will see a pile of foolscap in the tray, with well mended pens and ink in two colors. The terse voice came from the doorway.

Sarah glanced up, irritated at the interruption. The hall door closed and a man leaned against it. Dark coat and dark hair blended into good English walnut. His face blurred in shadow.

Bother, a man. He would only hinder her. He would think what she was doing was wrong. He would say she should not be going through Sir Sloane’s desk. The Lady forbid, he might beat her. That was the age-old male response to feminine initiative.

He didn’t understand. Therefore, she would have to brazen it out.

If she didn’t look at him, she could imitate a society dragon.

A branched candelabrum cast light over the surface of the desk; the rest of the room remained shadowed, as the intruder was shadowed. The man. Her skin crawled.

Bear up, Sarah.

There was too much paper in the drawer for her to lift neatly, so Sarah curled her fingers around an inch and pulled the stack out, increment by increment. There was room on the blotter; the desk was massive, as if its owner wished to demonstrate his unbounded influence, but the top was clear. She laid the piles in order of their removal from the drawer. A chronological stack would save time. She knew the date before which search was fruitless.

Absently, as absently as Mrs. Drummond-Burrell instructing a footman to light the candles, Sarah said, I don’t need to write a note. Who would I write to? Everyone worth knowing is here tonight.

I beg your pardon. Don’t know why I said that. It did not look like you meant to write a note. He still sounded curt. She half listened as he barked, So then, what are you doing? There are confidential documents there; I cannot imagine giving you carte blanche to read them. Gentlemen object to a stranger prying out their secrets.

Head bent over paper, she replied, Sir Sloane would not object to me looking through his desk. I am not interested in his secrets nor am I reading anything that doesn’t mention paintings. You need not be concerned. You are free to return to the ballroom.

Unless, of course, he was the man her dreams intimated would assist her quest. By the Lady, it was wrong, having to ask a man to help. But if t’was he… Keeping watch from the corner of her eye, she rifled paper.

What are you looking for? It must be of world shattering interest to draw you away from Mrs. Johnstone’s ballroom. Sarah’s fingers stumbled in the turning of a page. Much as she’d like to ignore him, that silky tenor demanded attention. This man was made of harder stuff than Father. He wasn’t going to leave; good manners insisted she acknowledge his presence. Common sense said to deflect his interest. How to do it?

Blather, Sarah. Refine on Julia’s chatter like the flightiest widgeon in London until he turns away in disgust. Julia the flittergibbit. Julia, who thought Tom Marston had killed a healthy wren by dropping it off a cliff.

Oh, why couldn’t he leave her alone? Let her finish?

I am looking for something. Sarah accompanied the words with a lopsided version of Julia’s petulant pout. It is vitally important to my happiness.

Hmm?

The gentlemen were discussing portraiture after the cotillion; I am looking for information about it. It wouldn’t do for me to be ignorant and can you believe I did not understand what they were saying.

You seek an article on painting, I presume.

Not painting; paintings.

Ah, you wish to seem informed when Gainsborough and Lawrence are compared.

Indeed, I wish to decide which gentleman should paint my portrait. That comment was inspired; Gainsborough died when she was an infant.

He didn’t laugh indulgently. He didn’t leave. Instead, the stranger had the gall to stroll across to the desk and lean against the leather chair. Too close. His voice dropped from biting to command. You undoubtedly prefer Lawrence. He is the rage of the moment. He has a genius for rendering the female figure with grace–witness his portraits of Caro Lamb and Mrs. Perry–in fact all of his portraits are flattering. What else do you wish to know? I have knowledge; allow me to answer your questions.

He knew about art, did he? He was welcome to his superior attitude, insulting though it was to her intelligence, if it freed her to concentrate on the search. Hesitant to look in his face, Sarah focused on the sleeve of his jacket. It was rubbed thin at the edge, close to fraying, but dilapidated attire or not, he exuded power. His hand was almost twice the size of hers. Twice the strength. She fought the urge to run as his masculine heat permeated the thin silk of her ballgown. He stood that close.

She went back to scanning papers. Almost whispering in her ear, the man said, Have you seen the portrait he painted of Lady Somerset last spring? It is a visual delight. You should solicit her opinion of Sir Thomas before you make your choice. Nothing like firsthand report to give you an idea of the experience. A hint of impatience had crept into his tone, but still he played the game.

Yes, I saw the portrait at Somerset House. The colors are pretty. Sarah shifted to the left, away from that distracting masculine heat, and turned papers, one by one, scanning as she moved. Sir Thomas may be the soul of chivalry, but Lady Somerset cannot provide the information I need. I am looking for a paper that contains it. Sarcasm bled through the words.

Ah, you needs must compare style, composition? Perhaps read biographies of the two artists or scan lists of their work. Whatever you seek, it appears not to be readily available, he said, an apologetic note in his voice. That is a huge pile; I imagine the other drawers hold as much. It’ll take you hours to look through it all.

I have patience. Recalling her assumed persona, Sarah giggled. La, I can’t disappoint Sir Sagramore.

So Sir Sagramore is the one you would impress. Not to worry, he is indulgent; if you wish to please him, ask for the information. He will relish imparting knowledge to a pretty lady.

I could never be so bold. And I am not pretty. He moved closer, radiating the magnetism of a wealthy man with nothing better to do than intimidate. Much harder to handle than her father.

His sigh spread over her like watercolor on paper. Naturally not, boldness is a masculine trait and you are wholly feminine. Nevertheless, you must be back in the ballroom; the supper dance is next and your partner will be looking for you.

"The supper dance? This is more important. Possibly a matter of life and death. I do not mind missing the dance or supper. Why don’t you return to the ballroom, sir? Your partner will be anxious not to be deserted."

I cannot leave; unpardonable to abandon you. Tell me what you seek. I will help you find it. He touched her elbow and she jerked. As paper fluttered to the desktop, she raised her eyes and studied his face in the candlelight. Her mouth dried.

Unyielding eyes in a square cut face. Those eyes–they could never be ignored. Heavy lidded, clear ice-blue under thick straight brows, his eyes skewered her as painfully as a sword. Her intruder was a well-featured man, not as handsome as Sir Hurst Dunsmore or as romantic as George Gordon, Lord Byron, but striking in the style of a crusader.

May the Lady protect her, it was he, the man she sought. If only she knew his name.

I saw you in the ballroom earlier, she inadvertently said aloud. You were dancing with the Marquesse of Brinston. She did manage to keep between her teeth the fact that the dance in question was a Sauteuse waltz wherein he had one arm around Lady Brinston’s waist.

Sarah had thought he had the bearing of a knight of old. She would give her silver tussie mussie to be the one in his arms for the waltz, she a proud Lynette to his ardent Gareth. Not that that was likely.

On the strength of that dance, and for reasons she could not voice, reasons she must conceal as Sir Thomas Lawrence painted over preliminary sketches on canvas, Sarah made the lightening decision to yield, at least for the moment. After all, things had changed. He had fallen into her trap; she had to keep him there. He had to help, whoever he was.

Breathlessly, she said, Sir Sloane has a list of stolen art. I wish to consult it.

His hand fell from her arm at the same time his eyebrows creased together. Stolen art? How can stolen art be of such import that you absent yourself from the ball?

Because I think it is.

He accepted her insistence as gentlemen accepted Julia’s conviction that lavender water would preserve her flawless skin. Can’t be too many lists of stolen art lying about. Should be child’s play to find. Continue checking the desk. I’ll see if it is in that cabinet. He waved a hand. Sarah looked where he indicated. A many-drawered map cabinet, the perfect place to store lists.

As you please, she said. I imagine everyone keeps lists with their maps. Under her breath, she added, And do please keep out of the way.

He lit a candle from the branch on the desk and moved away. With his distracting presence at a distance, she focused on the cache on the desk, skimming every page that resembled a list. When the last of the drawer’s contents failed to contain that which she sought, she sighed and packed the stack back. The bottom drawer revealed more paper. She dragged two inches of the stuff to the desktop.

Here it is, I believe.

She spun around. The list was in the map chest? How singular. You found it. Give it to me. Her hand stretched imperiously, her fingers waggled. Unsmiling, the man reached over and waved the paper just out of her reach.

First you must tell me why you wish to read it.

I wish to appear knowledgeable to Sir Sagramore.

Devil a bit. Sagramore cares as little for art as for thistles. Name another gentleman or tell the truth. He pulled the paper back.

Petulance came easily this time. Don’t be difficult; it is none of your affair.

That is my line, he said, his mobile eyebrows forming a single dark slash over those penetrating eyes. "It is none of your affair. How can this not be mine? You are in a library not your own, rummaging papers not your own, seeking something that was not offered to you. Any gentleman would make it his business to restrain you from folly. Come, my dear, do tell."

He waved the paper again and she clenched her fists, fighting the urge to violence. He had the temerity to mock her. And she was not his dear. Muscles tightened until her throat ached. But, as usual, there was no choice but to comply. The starch in her spine wilted.

She kept her eyes on the paper as she said, In August, a collection was recovered from a warehouse by the docks. Some of it belonged to my family. I need to see a list of the art, but no one will show it to me. She transferred her gaze to his face, seeing, not the blue this man was born with, but the malicious hazel of her father’s eyes and the uncomprehending, dense brown that belonged to her impossibly stupid brother.

Did the man growl, actually growl? Perhaps he did; his mien shifted from stern to perilous intent. Then he smiled and the disturbing impression of a predator was erased.

Tell me, he invited, and wallowing in mistrust of a dominant male, she obeyed.

"When our belongings were recovered, a painting was missing. The Bow Street runner who supervised the moving of the lot from the warehouse disclaimed seeing it. Cosmas and Damian should be on the list. They said Mr. Treadway took it away, but it has not been found. It must have been in the warehouse. At least I believe it was. I cannot find it. It must be someone left it in that accursed place and Bow Street overlooked it. She paused to catch her breath. Clenching her fists, she managed to finish. They must have. I have to find that painting."

By his reaction, Sarah knew she had not said enough. Angry that she had to reveal her family’s shame, that she had to place trust in a man, even if he was the one man she must be willing to trust, she rushed on. "It is my brother’s fault. When Richard returned from service with the Duke of Wellington, he gambled and was ruined. He took valuables from my father’s house and disappeared.

"He took the painting Father acquired from a French gentleman, Fra Angelico’s painting of two martyred saints, Cosmas and Damian Are to Be Burnt Alive. The painting was not among the items the Bow Street runners recovered from the warehouse. If I don’t get it back before the items are delivered home from Bow Street, I don’t know what Father will do."

So you burgle Sir Sloane’s library.

Her determination flashed fire that burned away the image of a flailing riding crop. She lifted her chin and said, "Sir Sloane is Keeper of the Grail and one of the foremost art authorities in Britain. I was told that in deference to his standing, the runners informed him of the find; he might have information Bow Street will not give me. Of course I search his library. It is not theft; I will take nothing from him, I have no interest in prying into his affairs. I wish only to find information on Cosmas and Damian."

Impossibly icy eyes bored into her. Was he all-seeing that in a heartbeat he dug past the illusion she was as empty headed as Julia? Next he would burrow into her worry about her brother and father. He saw her fear, but thank the Lady, he blinked before he reached her soul.

His eyes went from her face to the paper he held. There is no Fra Angelico on the list, he said, handing her the page. Bow Street did not see anything close to that quality in the items they recovered from the warehouse. If it is imperative you recover the work, I guess I will have to help you find it.

Sarah held her breath and ran her eyes down the paper. A musical bracket clock, two chestnut urns with gilt banding, mahogany and silver serving trays. Her tortoiseshell dressing table set. This was a list of the Frampton belongings Bow Street found in the warehouse. Cosmas and Damian was not listed, as he said. Her sigh ruffled the candle flame and shadows tripped across the paper.

I need no help, sir. I will check the next place.

Where is the next place?

Lord Castlereagh’s study.

You are going to search Lord Castlereagh’s desk?

I must. His position in the government makes him privy to the information I seek.

You must not. The command gave Sarah shivers.

I must.

He plucked the paper from her hand. You most certainly will not.

You cannot stop me.

A word to your father will halt this madness. You will be in a garret on bread and water.

Much he knew about her father. Taking a shaky breath, Sarah imitated the audacity Julia used to bludgeon opposition. A word to my father and I will tell Lady Jersey the secret I spied in Sir Sloane’s papers, she bluffed. She had not read any secrets, and would not reveal them if she had, but attack was imperative; she required his assistance. On her terms, not his. She had to draw him in, but heavens, she hated arrogance.

He opened his mouth, surely to issue another order, but closed it as faint sounds drifted in from the hall. A murmur grew and footsteps vibrated the floor.

The minuet has ended. They go in to supper, he said. If you do not make an appearance in the dining room, your people will go into a tizzy. His hand settled into the small of her back and pushed her gently, inexorably, toward the door. I will take you for a drive tomorrow; be ready at four. We will settle this then. And for Merlin’s sake, stay away from Castlereagh House.

He opened the door and popped her out into the corridor.

Chapter Two

Sarah found Julia by the simple expedient of listening for the sound of immoderate laughter. Of dozens of supper tables set up in two salons, Julia’s table was the loudest. Her sister was in the thick of a younger, faster set. It was thanks to these friends that the Frampton's now received invitations from the apex of the ton, but, oh, such friends. From other nights, Sarah knew they hoped to eat quickly and escape the condemning eyes of their elders for a few moments alone.

Or almost alone. Sarah would not abandon Julia in such a manner.

She slid into the sole empty chair at Julia’s table, the chair next to Lord Chively, the dimwitted heir to the Earl of Wellwood. On her other side was colorless Valeria Norwood, Julia’s especial friend. There were a few desultory acknowledgments of her appearance. Miss Sarah Frampton, Julia’s spinster sister, that rabbit faced bastion of propriety, didn’t merit much attention.

Smooth as a rusty weathercock, Lord Chively did the few honors by pushing a plate toward her. Miss Julia insisted I make up a plate for you, Miss Frampton. Here it is. There’s no lobster patties; I snagged two, but Stone ate ‘em.

The lobster patties were popular, Valeria Norwood offered. As quiet and shy as Julia was boisterous, that was Valeria’s sole contribution to the conversation.

Sarah looked at the plate. Most gentlemen served ladies a slice of ham, a bite of cotelettes, cheese and raw celery. This was a jumbled stew of dessert sweets: macaroons, bon bons, and a few gimblettes de fleurs d’orange. Balanced precariously atop was a tipped tasse a glace containing a melting barberry ice. Smears on the china showed where the lobster patties had lain under a spoonful of trifle.

She murmured, I don’t mind the lack of lobster patties; I have little appetite. Thank you, Lord Chively. Digging through the mess with a fork, she found a single slice of ham buried under the sweets. Her appetite may have been impaired, but Sarah was exuberant. She had found her Galahad; with no more effort than she expended sneaking out of the Johnstone’s ballroom, she had stumbled upon the one man who could help her. He had strength, that was certain, and probably wits, though he had not seen her refusal of his offer of assistance was calculated to spur him to insistence.

In her opinion, males came in three varieties. Malicious, foolish, and worthy. Her father exemplified the first, her brother the second, and she had hopes that her gentleman of the library was one of the third. If he was, she could trust him. Not fear him.

Tomorrow, when he came to take her for a drive, she would goad him along the path she dictated. It should be as simple as guiding Father…

Oh, dear Lady of the Lake. Father. Hairline cracks appeared in her plan. Who was she to say would arrive at four o’clock? She didn’t know his name. She had neglected to learn the name of her valiant knight in superfine armor. She could see it now.

Father, I have been invited for a drive.

Who’s the idiot who don’t mind staring at your face, missie?

I don’t know his name, but we met at the Johnstone’s last night.

You don’t know his name and you think I am letting him past the lintel?

If Sarah didn’t think of a way around Father, she was sunk. If only he would turn around and go back to the Indies.

Have you heard about Mrs. Perry? one of the ladies asked the table.

"What, you mean wife of the editor of The Morning Chronicle? Ann Perry?"

The lady nodded. Yes, she. I heard Papa talking to Mrs. Perry’s father. She–Mrs. Perry–was traveling to Lisbon for the benefit of her health, but her ship was waylaid by pirates. They took her to Africa.

Barberry pirates.

The poor thoul. Maria Wentworth dabbed the corner of her eye. It could not have been worse if magic wath her downfall.

Lord Michael Shipley laid down his fork and patted Maria’s hand. They won’t harm her, my dear. It’s the Algerians–they hold captives to ransom.

It ain’t Algerians, it’s Barberries, another gentleman said.

Magic took her? That is very bad.

I say, they’ll pry a pretty penny out of her husband. He’s a Whig, you know.

Ain’t no magic on the high seas. She was coming back from Lisbon–

Come now, is it Algerian or Barberry?

I think it would be romantic to face pirates.

Oh, no. Pirates are dirty.

Algerian or Barberry?

Thing like that wouldn’t happen if she’d been sensible and gone to Bath.

Bath is dull. Julia was in high gig, paired with William Johnstone, son of their hostess. Sarah understood his nickname was Stone, she assumed for the quality of his intellect. His brother, Sir Sloane Johnstone, whom Sarah had never met, was high in the government. Heaven help them all if he was as dim as his brother.

Don’t care about pirates. I have enough trouble at home. My mother gave me an old pygg jar, Mr. Johnstone said, distracting the table’s attention from poor Ann Perry. Ugly pinkish-brown thing; it’s lumpy round with a slot cut in the top. Looks like a pig. But it ain’t got whiskers.

It can’t be a pig if it doesn’t have whiskers. Julia, the minx, batted her lashes.

I know. Would toss it out, but Mama says it’s as old as Henry Eight. Belonged to my umpteenth great grandmother. Probably valuable. She’d skin me if I got rid of it.

Julia said, Paint whiskers on. Then you have Henry Eight’s pig. That is a distinction.

I can’t paint.

I can. I am accounted a talented watercolorist. I tell you what, sir. I will paint whiskers on for you.

Julia, Sarah said, You can’t paint a family heirloom.

There you go again, Sarah, ruining a bit of fun. I can too paint his pygg jar if Mr. Johnstone wishes it done. Her sister flounced in the chair. Mr. Johnstone, I will give it a curly tail, if you like, and pretty eyes.

I would like that, Johnstone said. Especially since I have to keep it. Make it look like Guinevere, will you? Mama says I have to use it and I could bear it if it looked like Guinevere.

What do you use a pygg jar for?

Johnstone shrugged. I guess you put coins in it. That’s what Mama said. She says she is tired of the maids whining. Five guineas in the chamber pot–only five–and I have to put all my coins in that ugly jar every night, without fail, or she’ll cut my allowance.

Amid cries of Unreasonable, and the suchlike, the group ploughed through the food on their plates and a spirited comparison of parental foibles. Forbearance, not foibles, Sarah thought, as Maria Wentworth replayed her father’s reaction to her last gift to him. Crocheted cravats did not appear in Ackermann’s catalogs.

Plates denuded in record time and parents abused to the fullest extent of their capability, the group tramped to the ballroom, Sarah bringing up the rear like the least worthy artist in a colony of Dutch masters.

Predictably,