extremely private inclinations of the various members.
Artemas knew that a good deal of what he was looking at would have made excellent scandal-broth, at the very least. Some of it was blackmail material. He paused to read the notes concerning himself. There was no mention of his affair with Catherine Jensen or the three men he intended to destroy. His plans for vengeance appeared to be safe for the moment. Nevertheless, there was far too much information concerning his personal affairs in the damned book. He frowned at the sentences that had been added at the bottom of the page.
Hunt is a true master of Vanza. He thinks in dark and
devious ways.
“Who else knows about this book?” he asked.
She took a step back. He realized it was his tone of voice, not the simple question, that had alarmed her.
“Only my father and Ignatius Lorring knew about this record,” she said hastily. “They are both dead.”
He looked up from the page that was headed with his name. “You are forgetting yourself, Mrs.
Deveridge,” he said softly. “You appear to be very much alive.”
She swallowed visibly, blinked, and then produced a dazzling smile and a small, wholly artificial chuckle.
“Yes, of course. But you have no need to concern yourself with the trifling fact that I possess this old book, sir.”
Artemas closed the journal deliberately. “I wish I could be certain of that.”
“Oh, you can, sir. Indeed, you can be absolutely certain.”
“That remains to be seen.” He picked up the book and carried it back to the cupboard. “Old volumes connected to Vanza can be dangerous. It was not so very long ago that rumors concerning an ancient text resulted in some mysterious deaths.”
He heard a thud as something heavy landed on the carpet. The sound was accompanied by a sharp gasp. He ignored both as he put the book into the cupboard. He closed and locked the door and turned slowly to look at Madeline.
She was crouched on the carpet, busily retrieving a heavy silver figure that had fallen from the desk. He noticed that her fingers trembled slightly as she rose and placed the little statue precisely next to the inkwell.
“I assume you refer to the rumors about the so-called
Book of Secrets,
sir,” she said smoothly. She made a show of brushing off her hands. “Utter rubbish.”
“Not in the opinion of some members of the Society.”
“I must point out, sir, that many members of the Society hold a variety of extremely odd notions.” She made a sound of exasperation. “The
Book of Secrets,
if, indeed, it ever existed, was destroyed in a fire that consumed a certain villa in Italy.”
“One can only hope that is the case.” Artemas went to stand at her heavily protected window. He looked out into the little garden and noted that there were no large trees, hedges, or other masses of foliage that could give cover to an intruder. “As I said, books can be dangerous things. Tell me, Mrs.
Deveridge, do you intend to use the information your father set down in that journal to blackmail anyone else? Because if that is the case, I must advise you that there is some risk involved.”
“Will you kindly cease employing the word
blackmail
at every turn in the conversation?” she snapped. “It is most annoying.”
He glanced at her over his shoulder. Her expression of severe disgruntlement would have been amusing under other circumstances. “Forgive me, madam, but given that my future is in your hands, I feel in need of constant reassurance.”
Her lips tightened with irritation. “I have already told you that I have no sinister intentions, sir. Last night I was forced to use desperate measures, but such a situation is highly unlikely to occur again.”
He looked at the little bells that dangled from the heavily barred shutters. “1 do not think that you are as confident of that as you would have me believe, madam.”
Silence gripped the library. Artemas turned completely around to confront Madeline. Her
Artemas knew that a good deal of what he was looking at would have made excellent scandal-broth, at the very least. Some of it was blackmail material. He paused to read the notes concerning himself. There was no mention of his affair with Catherine Jensen or the three men he intended to destroy. His plans for vengeance appeared to be safe for the moment. Nevertheless, there was far too much information concerning his personal affairs in the damned book. He frowned at the sentences that had been added at the bottom of the page.
Hunt is a true master of Vanza. He thinks in dark and
devious ways.
“Who else knows about this book?” he asked.
She took a step back. He realized it was his tone of voice, not the simple question, that had alarmed her.
“Only my father and Ignatius Lorring knew about this record,” she said hastily. “They are both dead.”
He looked up from the page that was headed with his name. “You are forgetting yourself, Mrs.
Deveridge,” he said softly. “You appear to be very much alive.”
She swallowed visibly, blinked, and then produced a dazzling smile and a small, wholly artificial chuckle.
“Yes, of course. But you have no need to concern yourself with the trifling fact that I possess this old book, sir.”
Artemas closed the journal deliberately. “I wish I could be certain of that.”
“Oh, you can, sir. Indeed, you can be absolutely certain.”
“That remains to be seen.” He picked up the book and carried it back to the cupboard. “Old volumes connected to Vanza can be dangerous. It was not so very long ago that rumors concerning an ancient text resulted in some mysterious deaths.”
He heard a thud as something heavy landed on the carpet. The sound was accompanied by a sharp gasp. He ignored both as he put the book into the cupboard. He closed and locked the door and turned slowly to look at Madeline.
She was crouched on the carpet, busily retrieving a heavy silver figure that had fallen from the desk. He noticed that her fingers trembled slightly as she rose and placed the little statue precisely next to the inkwell.
“I assume you refer to the rumors about the so-called
Book of Secrets,
sir,” she said smoothly. She made a show of brushing off her hands. “Utter rubbish.”
“Not in the opinion of some members of the Society.”
“I must point out, sir, that many members of the Society hold a variety of extremely odd notions.” She made a sound of exasperation. “The
Book of Secrets,
if, indeed, it ever existed, was destroyed in a fire that consumed a certain villa in Italy.”
“One can only hope that is the case.” Artemas went to stand at her heavily protected window. He looked out into the little garden and noted that there were no large trees, hedges, or other masses of foliage that could give cover to an intruder. “As I said, books can be dangerous things. Tell me, Mrs.
Deveridge, do you intend to use the information your father set down in that journal to blackmail anyone else? Because if that is the case, I must advise you that there is some risk involved.”
“Will you kindly cease employing the word
blackmail
at every turn in the conversation?” she snapped. “It is most annoying.”
He glanced at her over his shoulder. Her expression of severe disgruntlement would have been amusing under other circumstances. “Forgive me, madam, but given that my future is in your hands, I feel in need of constant reassurance.”
Her lips tightened with irritation. “I have already told you that I have no sinister intentions, sir. Last night I was forced to use desperate measures, but such a situation is highly unlikely to occur again.”
He looked at the little bells that dangled from the heavily barred shutters. “1 do not think that you are as confident of that as you would have me believe, madam.”
Silence gripped the library. Artemas turned completely around to confront Madeline. Her
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