a number of items from the stolen treasury have turned up over the last two hundred years."
"I remember." Jack held the lamp as she spread out a map of Northumberland on a chest. "What are these red numbers?"
"That is a bejewelled sword pommel known to have belonged to James the First. It was recorded in a will here at Bowton in 1729. And in 1817, the Whitehall Firedog was found hanging over a dart-board in a public house in Todhorn . This number seven is the churching brooch of Joanna, wife of Liewelyn Fawr . There are at least a dozen other historically significant pieces known to have been among the royal treasury as late as 1641. Notice how they concentrate around Donowell ?"
"What I notice, madam, is that you knew about all this two days ago, and yet told me nothing."
"The information was meaningless without full access to the records."
"I want to be informed, madam. Completely."
"That's what I'm doing now, sir. My father suspected that whoever waylaid the caravan lived in the area where the booty turned up. He combed the parish records in each of these towns, and this is all he found. Once we find the name of the men in the treasury detail, the next step will be to scour the records of Cromwell's Court of Probate."
"Why those in particular?" Jack still felt as though he was being danced around the Maypole.
"Probate includes the inventory of the deceased's estate, his debts and duns, and also records how those goods were distributed."
"Yes, yes, I know."
"But few people know that during the Interregnum, Cromwell's probate court had jurisdiction over the entire realm. Nothing was kept in the parish records." The woman began unbuttoning her high-necked scholarly jacket as she spoke—one small, round button and then the next, in a long line of gray pearl. "So if the Willowmoon Knot came into the possession of a man in Northumberland—as the other items from the stolen cart seemed to have done—then when that man died, his last will and testament would have been probated here in London , not in his home parish. That's where we'll find his name. I hope."
Jack had managed to follow her logic even as his eyes had followed the progress of her unrelenting unbuttoning.
"Miss Faelyn, how many men do you suppose died in Northumberland between the years 1642 and 1660?"
"Hundreds at least." She shrugged out of the jacket, and left Jack to stare at her finely pleated shirtwaist. And beneath the white, nothing but a vest of some sort. And all that buoyant swaying. Her breasts were small, barely a handful each, but God bless them, they were perfect handfuls.
Jack's palms itched for them. He cleared his throat. "And how do you propose to sift through that many records?"
"Word by word, my lord. It's the only way."
"That could take years."
"It already has." She closed her fingers around his in a startlingly unexpected intimacy, then lifted the forgotten key from between them—a caressing brush, a flash of eye—and then she was gone with her map.
Years . Years of clearing a path for the woman, of watching over her shoulder as she deciphered faded documents, as he waited for her to unearth his vein of silver.
Waiting . He'd spent the last eighteen years waiting for his life to begin, waiting for joy to replace the ever-present dread, the loneliness. The prospect of waiting for his nymphish partner to lead him to a silver mine should have pressed hard upon him. But she had clambered over a chest and disappeared through a thin opening between two iron-strapped wardrobes, and he wanted desperately to follow after her.
"Prerogative Court of Canterbury, local to London ," she said from somewhere in the room.
"Is that good?" He tried to locate her from the sound of her voice.
"Not particularly. But the labels look recent. If I can just move this"—she started shoving at something, which caused a tower of crates to shudder.
"Watch it, woman!" Jack took a shortcut over the top of a chest and landed just in time to keep the
"I remember." Jack held the lamp as she spread out a map of Northumberland on a chest. "What are these red numbers?"
"That is a bejewelled sword pommel known to have belonged to James the First. It was recorded in a will here at Bowton in 1729. And in 1817, the Whitehall Firedog was found hanging over a dart-board in a public house in Todhorn . This number seven is the churching brooch of Joanna, wife of Liewelyn Fawr . There are at least a dozen other historically significant pieces known to have been among the royal treasury as late as 1641. Notice how they concentrate around Donowell ?"
"What I notice, madam, is that you knew about all this two days ago, and yet told me nothing."
"The information was meaningless without full access to the records."
"I want to be informed, madam. Completely."
"That's what I'm doing now, sir. My father suspected that whoever waylaid the caravan lived in the area where the booty turned up. He combed the parish records in each of these towns, and this is all he found. Once we find the name of the men in the treasury detail, the next step will be to scour the records of Cromwell's Court of Probate."
"Why those in particular?" Jack still felt as though he was being danced around the Maypole.
"Probate includes the inventory of the deceased's estate, his debts and duns, and also records how those goods were distributed."
"Yes, yes, I know."
"But few people know that during the Interregnum, Cromwell's probate court had jurisdiction over the entire realm. Nothing was kept in the parish records." The woman began unbuttoning her high-necked scholarly jacket as she spoke—one small, round button and then the next, in a long line of gray pearl. "So if the Willowmoon Knot came into the possession of a man in Northumberland—as the other items from the stolen cart seemed to have done—then when that man died, his last will and testament would have been probated here in London , not in his home parish. That's where we'll find his name. I hope."
Jack had managed to follow her logic even as his eyes had followed the progress of her unrelenting unbuttoning.
"Miss Faelyn, how many men do you suppose died in Northumberland between the years 1642 and 1660?"
"Hundreds at least." She shrugged out of the jacket, and left Jack to stare at her finely pleated shirtwaist. And beneath the white, nothing but a vest of some sort. And all that buoyant swaying. Her breasts were small, barely a handful each, but God bless them, they were perfect handfuls.
Jack's palms itched for them. He cleared his throat. "And how do you propose to sift through that many records?"
"Word by word, my lord. It's the only way."
"That could take years."
"It already has." She closed her fingers around his in a startlingly unexpected intimacy, then lifted the forgotten key from between them—a caressing brush, a flash of eye—and then she was gone with her map.
Years . Years of clearing a path for the woman, of watching over her shoulder as she deciphered faded documents, as he waited for her to unearth his vein of silver.
Waiting . He'd spent the last eighteen years waiting for his life to begin, waiting for joy to replace the ever-present dread, the loneliness. The prospect of waiting for his nymphish partner to lead him to a silver mine should have pressed hard upon him. But she had clambered over a chest and disappeared through a thin opening between two iron-strapped wardrobes, and he wanted desperately to follow after her.
"Prerogative Court of Canterbury, local to London ," she said from somewhere in the room.
"Is that good?" He tried to locate her from the sound of her voice.
"Not particularly. But the labels look recent. If I can just move this"—she started shoving at something, which caused a tower of crates to shudder.
"Watch it, woman!" Jack took a shortcut over the top of a chest and landed just in time to keep the
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