Verity choked on her coffee. When Jonas reached over to pound her between the shoulders, she saw the laughter in his gold eyes.
“Maggie, did Hazelhurst ever tell anyone besides Doug and Elyssa about the treasure? Did he ever ask anyone else to help him hunt for it?” Jonas inquired.
Maggie opened the refrigerator and removed a tub of butter. “Sure. A few. Not many, though. Couldn’t trust most folks. And he damn sure didn’t want no one but historians hearing about the treasure. Real insistent on that, he was. But every so often he’d think he was making real progress, and he’d get excited and invite some old pal from his teaching days to stay here for a while. He’d tell ‘em about the legend and swear ‘em to secrecy. Sometimes they’d get curious enough to help him look for a while. None of ‘em ever stayed interested for too long. It always hurt Digby real bad that none of his pals from the university believed him.”
“Did he try to get anyone else to believe him?” Jonas asked. “Someone from outside the academic world?”
Maggie shook her head. “Not really. He only told men he considered real scholars. Never invited nobody but scholars here, said they were the only ones who could appreciate it. Except for Doug, that is. He did tell Doug. Said his nephew was kin and deserved to know about the legend, even if he didn’t have time to help him look for it.”
“Those are the only people he might have told about the legend?” Jonas prodded. “A few friends from his teaching days and Doug?”
Maggie’s forehead wrinkled for a moment in concentration. “Well, there was one other. A young hotshot grad student who showed up claiming he’d heard about the legend from a professor. The kid claimed he was getting a degree in history, with a specialization in Renaissance art. Said he was curious about the villa and the legend, and wondered if Digby would let him help look for the treasure. He said it would be the chance of a lifetime to work with a scholar of Digby’s reputation and all that malarkey. Said if they found the treasure, he’d write up the find in a fancy journal, and Digby would get all the credit.”
“Did Mr. Hazelhurst let him help with the search?” Verity asked.
“For a while. Digby was gettin’ a bit past it by then, if you know what I mean.” Maggie tapped her temple with a forefinger. “For a time I think he was just glad someone from the academic world was interested enough to help him search again. But he sent the kid packing soon enough. Said the kid was just a two-bit treasure hunter, not a real scholar, and it would be a cold day in hell before he ever got a Ph.D. after his name.”
“Did anyone else ever get out here to the island?” Jonas asked.
“Over the years a couple of cheap treasure-hunter types contacted Digby saying they’d heard about the legend, but Digby never gave ‘em the time of day. Never let ‘em come to the island. Claimed he’d never turn this place over to a real treasure hunter because that type wouldn’t have any understanding or appreciation of the history locked up here.”
“What about you, Maggie?” Verity asked. “Did you ever help Digby look for the treasure? You must have known a lot about the progress he was making.”
Maggie concentrated intently on her breakfast preparations. “Sure, I helped out when I could. Held the ladder for him when he went inch by inch over the ceiling, that sort of thing.”
“Did you ever believe the treasure might exist?” Verity asked gently.
Maggie paused in her work and stood gazing out the window into the weedy courtyard. “I had a few hopes during those first years after I came to live here, but that was about it. I stayed on account of Digby, not because of the treasure. Lord, I miss that man.”
Elyssa’s indefatigably cheerful voice hailed them from the doorway, breaking into Maggie’s reverie. “Good morning, everyone. Isn’t it beautiful outside today? Positively gorgeous, the sort of day that makes you aware of all your senses. The kind of day one can use to really get in tune with the different levels of nature’s reality.”
Verity glanced out the window. “It’s raining.” A dull, steady gray mist was falling.
“That’s what I mean,” Elyssa said, sweeping over to the counter to help herself to coffee. “A day to delight the senses. How did you two sleep last night?” Her gaze was on Jonas.
“Fine.” Jonas poured himself more coffee.
“Did it seem strange to sleep in a genuine Renaissance villa?” Elyssa demanded, watching him closely. “Did you get any feeling of attunement with the past?”
“No.” Jonas turned at a sound in the doorway. “Morning, Doug.”
Doug Warwick walked into the kitchen. “Hi, everyone. Ready to go back to work today, Jonas?”
“Sure,” said Jonas. He began to detail a stone-by-stone examination of the west wing, and Doug paid close attention to his description of how to differentiate original construction from later patches and additions.
Verity listened with proud satisfaction. She also found herself quite interested, even though she knew that Jonas was simply playing the role she had assigned him. The man knew his stuff, she thought.
“Mustn’t forget the influence of Alberti’s treatise on architecture,” Jonas said gravely. “He wrote it in the fifteenth century. It was heavily influenced by the classical works of Vitruvius, of course. Alberti accepted a lot of the principles unquestioningly and passed them along to his contemporaries. But his work had an impact on all major Renaissance architecture. This villa isn’t exactly a shining example, but it definitely reflects the Alberti influence.”
“I see,” said Doug, looking quite impressed.
“There was a lot of concern for harmonic proportions in architecture at the time this villa was built. That makes certain features very predictable, which in turn makes my job easier.”
Preston Yarwood and Oliver Crump wandered into the kitchen just as Jonas launched into a fine monologue on the differences between the architecture of Milan and Florence in the sixteenth century.
“The great Florentine palazzos became models for the other city-states,” Jonas continued as everyone nodded knowledgeably. “Everybody who was anybody wanted a big house just like the Palazzo Medici or the Palazzo Rucellai. You can see the influence even in this old pile.”
Verity studied her lover discreetly as she sipped coffee. No doubt about it, it was getting hard to tell where the bull stopped and the scholar stepped in. Jonas was really getting into this, she thought.
But her own enthusiasm was rapidly waning. She remembered Digby Hazelhurst’s body hidden in the stone passage and shuddered. At first, hunting for the treasure had seemed like a nice sideline to the consulting assignment. But now she was not so sure. The only positive aspect of the situation that she could see this morning was that Jonas was genuinely interested in the project—and anything that gave Jonas a long-range career interest was not to be discarded lightly.
Slade Spencer did not show up until midway through breakfast. When he did appear, he looked so terrible that no one said a word. He ate very little and retired to the salon before the meal was over.
Verity took his wretched silence as a hopeful sign. Perhaps he wasn’t planning to sue, after all.
“I’m afraid our friend Slade really tied one on last night,” Preston remarked. “Pity. The man can’t hold his liquor, apparently. I’m not at all sure we should have invited him along, Elyssa.”
Elyssa smiled gently. “He’ll be fine.”
Oliver Crump said nothing, but his eyes were narrowed as he watched Spencer leave the room.
Jonas, Preston Yarwood, and the Warwicks got up to begin exploring the west wing as soon as Maggie cleared the dishes.
“Aren’t you going to come with us?” Jonas asked in surprise when Verity announced she was going to read instead.
“I don’t think so.” She held up her cane. “I think I’d better stay off my ankle. It’s not feeling so hot today.”
Crump pushe
d his wire-rimmed glasses more firmly up on his nose and peered at her ankle. Then, without a word, he got up and left the room.
Elyssa shook her head at his departing figure. “He’s not much of a conversationalist, I’m afraid.”
“Well, then, let’s be on our way,” Doug said. He took charge of the small party and led them out of the room.
Verity wandered into the salon with a book she had brought along on the trip and found Spade Spencer standing near the liquor cabinet. From the doorway she watched him tap two tablets out of a bottle he carried in his shirt pocket. He popped the pills into his mouth and chased them down with a long gulp of whiskey.
He looked up as she came into the room, but his eyes didn’t quite meet hers. His hands shook a little as he replaced the pill bottle in his shirt pocket.
“Sorry about last night,” he said. “Guess I made a real ass of myself, huh?”
“Let’s forget it, shall we?” Verity said quickly. “You’d just had a bit too much to drink, and Jonas is not the most understanding of men.”
“Be glad to forget the whole damn night.” Spencer rubbed his jaw. “Don’t remember much about it anyway, except that Quarrel’s got a mean right hook. But I gotta admit I deserved it. I completely misread the situation, and I apologize. If it’s any consolation to you, I feel like shit this morning. Worst damn hangover I ever had in my life, and I’ve had some humdingers. Too bad I didn’t stay in the fountain. Drowning in the rain would have been more pleasant than waking up this morning.” He flopped down in a tatty armchair and picked up a year-old magazine that was lying nearby.
Verity took a seat near the window, curling her good leg beneath her. Silence descended on the salon. She tried to concentrate on her book, but she found herself gazing out into the overgrown, weed-tangled garden. Her thoughts drifted to the secret within her body. One of these days she was going to have to face facts—she couldn’t live in this self-imposed limbo forever. Her body would get tough any day now and force her to admit that it meant business.
But a part of her preferred not knowing the truth just yet.
Half an hour later Verity heard a sound in the doorway. She looked up and smiled at Oliver Crump, who was standing there with an armful of greenery. He was also carrying a pot of steaming water, a bucket, and some towels. He started toward Verity.
“Hello, Oliver. What have you got there?”
“I think I can make that ankle feel a lot better,” he announced briskly, kneeling in front of her. “Let me see it.
Verity hesitated and then told herself that there was no harm in letting him look at her throbbing ankle. “Are you going to make a poultice for it?”
Crump nodded, carefully removing her shoe and sock. His fingers were amazingly gentle.
“If you two will excuse me,” Slade announced, “I’m going to go hit Maggie up for another cup of coffee.” He left the room.
Crump glanced over his shoulder. “That man is not well,” he observed softly. “But I don’t think he would accept help of any kind.”
Verity nodded. “I get the same feeling.”
Oliver took a large lemon-colored shard of crystal out of his pocket and handed it to her. “Here. Hold this.”
“Are you really into crystal therapy?” Verity asked, examining the shard with interest.
“Sometimes it helps. Sometimes it doesn’t. Depends.”
“I see.” She didn’t, but she felt obliged to say something. “I understand that a lot of people these days use crystals for various purposes. I don’t know much about them myself.”
“No one does,” Oliver Crump said brusquely. “There are plenty like Elyssa who think they do, but the fact is, very few people have ever figured out how to use crystals and gemstones. Folks have been working with them for thousands of years though, because it’s easy to sense that there’s some power in them. The trick is figuring out how to use that power.”
“Do different kinds of crystals have different powers?”
“Theoretically. But like I said, no one really knows too much about them. They have to be properly tuned, or programmed, as they say in the computer business. Sometimes I think I can almost sense how to align the forces inside a crystal, but other times…” He shrugged and dismissed the subject.
Oliver poured hot water over the green plants and crushed them in the folds of one towel. “This is a little makeshift, but it should do the trick.” He began wrapping the compress around Verity’s ankle. Then he glanced up at the crystal she was holding. “Why are you stroking it like that?” he asked abruptly.
Verity glanced down at the crystal in surprise and realized she was rubbing it with her index finger. “I don’t know. Just fiddling around, I guess.”
Oliver touched the crystal and frowned. He started to move his finger on it.
Verity frowned. Something wasn’t right. “No, not like that.” She concentrated for a moment, then slowly moved her hand to guide Oliver’s finger. Immediately things felt sharper and clearer—more tuned. “That’s it,” she whispered. “Doesn’t that feel better?”
“Yes. Much better.” Oliver stroked the crystal for a long time under the guidance of her fingers. Then his eyes met hers.
“You are, you know,” he announced calmly.
Verity flinched. “I am what?” she asked carefully.
“Pregnant.” He stopped touching the crystal and deftly pinned the compress in place.
Verity’s fingers closed violently around the crystal. “How do you know?” she demanded, her voice taut.
Crump shrugged and took the crystal from her hand. “Some things are obvious. You showed me the truth just now, when you touched the crystal. I could sense it.” He put the translucent crystal into his pocket again. “How’s the ankle feel?”
She looked down at her foot, realizing suddenly that her ankle was already feeling less painful. “Better. A lot better. Thank you, Oliver.”
“Are you going to tell Quarrel soon?”
Disconcerted, Verity raised her eyes to meet Crump’s serious, dark gaze. “I’ll tell him soon. If it’s true.”
“It’s true. And the sooner you tell Quarrel, the better. He needs to know.”
“Why?”
“Because he needs to be reassured that he’s got a secure place in your life. He’s never had much in the way of security.”
“Maybe he won’t want to be a father,” she said in a low, urgent tone. “Some men aren’t cut out to be fathers.”
“Quarrel isn’t ‘some men.’ He’s Quarrel. And he’s permanently linked to you somehow. I don’t understand it completely, but I can sense it. Tell him about the baby soon.” Crump rose to his feet, gathered up his supplies, and walked out of the room without another word.
Verity stared after him for a long while.
As lunchtime approached, Verity decided that her ankle was feeling considerably better. She removed the compress, picked up her cane, and headed for the kitchen to give Maggie a hand with the meal. She wasn’t accustomed to such a crowd.
Maggie was grateful for her assistance. After checking the pantry, Verity put together a creditable salad and some herbed cream-cheese sandwiches. When the treasure-hunting party returned, they were hungry.
“By the way,” Jonas told Verity as he wolfed down his third sandwich. “You and I are going to borrow the launch and run over to that little town on the other island. The one we came through on the way here. I need to make some phone calls.”
“Why?” she asked blankly.
“Research,” he explained as if it were obvious. “Unfortunately, Digby never got around to installing a phone. Better pack a few things. We’ll stay overnight and come back in the morning.”
“Are you sure you don’t want me to come with you?” Elyssa asked with a sympathetic glance at Verity. “Poor Verity really should keep off that ankle.”
> “Actually,” replied Verity, “my ankle is feeling a great deal better.” She was not about to offer her seat on the launch to Elyssa Warwick. Sunshine and enlightenment were becoming distinctly tiresome.
Preston Yarwood recognized that expression in Elyssa’s eyes. He went into the salon after lunch, poured himself a drink, and thought about it. The dumb little bitch had the hots for Quarrel, that much was obvious.
Elyssa was ready to roll over for anything in pants, as long as the guy claimed to have psychic powers. Yarwood figured that he ought to know—she’d certainly rolled over fast enough for him. And there was no denying that she was a hot little number in bed. No one had ever gone down on him the way Elyssa did. When she screwed him she really put everything into it; she treated the whole thing as a spiritual experience. She was definitely the best lay Yarwood had ever had, and he’d gotten accustomed to that look of adoration in her eyes.
It was infuriating to see her panting after Jonas Quarrel now, but there wasn’t much he could do about it just yet. Yarwood needed Quarrel for the moment, but they were natural enemies. When this was all over, Yarwood would show them all who the real psychic was.
Then it would be amusing to watch Elyssa beg him to screw her silly.
Chapter Eight
Are you going to tell me what this little jaunt is really about, or do I get to play twenty questions?” Verity stepped off the launch, using her cane to balance herself on the floating dock marina. She realized that her ankle wasn’t nearly as sore as it had been that morning. “And where did you learn to drive a boat, anyway?”
“You don’t drive a boat, Verity, you pilot it. And I don’t remember where I learned. You work enough waterfront dives on enough islands and sooner or later you get the urge to learn how to get off the island alone, should the occasion arise. A simple safety precaution.” Jonas finished making the lines fast and reached into the stern for his bulging duffel bag.
Verity wrinkled her nose. “Did you ever have to leave on the lam?”