Buried Secrets by Anne Barbour Read Free Book Online Page A

world.”
    Lady Binsted’s brows rose. “Humiliation?”
    “Good God, Bess, if the gel didn’t tell everyone of her acquaintance that she was expecting a proposal on bended knee last night, I’ll eat that arrangement of what-ever-they-are.” He waved a hand toward a vase of hothouse cyclamen.
    “Nonsense. I’m sure Corisande is much too well bred to have done any such thing. At any rate, her actions are not the issue here. Our concern is Cord’s whereabouts. Where could the wretched boy have gone?”
    At that moment, the wretched boy was en route from Wildehaven to Cambridge. Upon crossing the River Cam on the outskirts of town, he set a course along King’s Parade Toward Magdalene College. He crossed the river once more just before reaching the gates of the college, and entered the Porter’s Lodge as the clock in the ancient bell tower tolled five of the afternoon.
    His inquiry to the porter elicited the information that Mr. Edward Maltby was indeed in his lodgings. He was given directions, and a few minutes later, after a climb of three stories in the first quadrangle, approached a heavily paneled door. His knock produced a cheery, “Enter at your peril, you foul, empty-headed little leech!”
    Cord opened the door onto a sitting room of generous proportions, whose every available space—tables, chairs, desk, cabinets and even a footstool—overflowed with books and papers. The chamber exuded an oddly pleasant odor of must, mice and pipe smoke, the last of which emanated from the person seated at the desk.
    He and Cord shared the same number of years, but Professor Maltby had already settled into the aspect of middle age. Slightly balding, his light brown hair was touched with gray and fell untidily over a pair of spectacles perched over an impressive nose. His wide mouth seemed created for smiles, but was now folded in an expression of irritation that lightened immediately on catching sight of his guest.
    “Cord! By all that’s holy, what the devil are you doing in the profane precincts of Academe?” He leaped up from his desk, scattering papers in his wake, to envelop Cord in a rib-crushing embrace.
    Laughing, Cord returned the salutation. “Ned!” he exclaimed a little breathlessly. “It’s good to see you, as well.” He glanced about the room. “So this is where England’s primary expert on practically everything maintains his ivory tower?”
    “Well, yes and no. I do my work here, and my tutoring—actually, I thought you were one of my students who is presently late for his appointment with me—the little toad is not going to put in an appearance, of course—but, I live in a little place just off the Trumpington Road.”
    “Ah, the perquisites of dedicated scholarship.”
    At Ned’s invitation, Cord shifted a pile of papers from a wing chair to the already laden table beside it. Seating himself, he accepted the glass of wine held out to him by his friend. He smiled affectionately at Ned. Although different in mien and personality as chalk from cheese, the two had been inseparable friends during Cord’s undergraduate days at Cambridge. As residents of Magdalene College, they had soon become the scourge of that institution. After graduation, their paths had diverged widely, Cord’s to take him into the army and then into the exalted heights of the haut ton, while Ned had pursued a comfortable academic career, engaging in scientific research. The two seldom saw each other, but corresponded frequently, and the last Cord had heard, Ned was engaged in some sort of meteorological study, mapping clouds and wind currents throughout the country.
    “So, what brings you to the wilds of Cambridgeshire?” asked Ned, settling his lanky frame into a badly sprung armchair.
    Briefly, Cord explained his recent acquisition of Wildehaven.
    “Really?” asked Ned in surprise. “Sir Frederick Deddington was your uncle? I did not know that. Then you must have made Sir Henry Folsome’s acquaintance by