With This Ring (38 page)

She removed it and gave it to Leo without a word.

He weighed it thoughtfully in his hand. Then he ripped it open.

Two wide, heavy bands fashioned of the same green substance as the statue tumbled into his palm. A string of Latin words was inscribed on them. Leo translated quickly. "The Keys of Aphrodite. -

He turned to look at the statue. Then he glanced at Beatrice.

She smiled. "Be my guest, my lord."

"I cannot believe that we may have found the Forbidden Rings." He crossed the study to where the statue sat on the floor near the fireplace.

Elf raised his head and watched with idle curiosity as Leo slowly slipped the Rings into the shallow circular grooves at the foot of the statue.

There was a distinct clink when the last ring was in place. At first Beatrice thought nothing had happened. Then Leo upended the statue.

"There is a crack along the base. It was not there earlier," he said.

He prodded gently and finally resorted to one of his picklocks.

"It has likely never been opened since it was created." Beatrice hurried to join him. "Just think, it has been sealed for as long as two hundred years."

"On the other hand, it may well have been opened ten years ago and the treasure removed." There was another click. "Ah, yes. There. I have it now."

A portion of the base of the statue slid aside. Beatrice gazed into the -small opening that had been revealed.

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"Leo, there is something in there."

"So there is." Leo plucked out a small cylinder. Beatrice crouched beside him. "What is it?"

"A sheet of parchment." He unrolled it cautiously. "The writing is in Latin."

"What does it say?" Beatrice demanded. "Read it aloud, Leo. Do not keep me in suspense."

Leo scanned the Latin quickly. He smiled slowly. The smile became a grin. And then he started to laugh.

"What is so funny?" Leo laughed harder. "Leo. What is it?"

"It is indeed a treasure," he managed to say. "But it is an alchemist's notion of one."

"Let me see that." Beatrice snatched the parchment out of his hand. "My Latin is somewhat weak. It appears to be a series of instructions."

"For changing lead into gold. Utter nonsense."

"So many people dead because of this nonsense," Beatrice whispered.

Leo's amusement faded. He looked at her. "It is easy to say today that the alchemists were misguided, deluded fools. But two hundred years ago they believed passionately in the science of their craft. To them the secret of changing lead into gold would have been worth murder."

"If only Uncle Reggie had known the truth about the treasure he sought."

Leo gripped her shoulder. "Beatrice, listen to me and listen well. There are always those who will seek treasure, especially the ancient sort. The lure is a fever for some. Nothing you can say or do will discourage them."

"I suppose you are right." She met his eyes. "I know how much old legends and artifacts mean to you, Leo. I am well aware that it must have been difficult for you to destroy those few relics in Trull's chamber that disturbed me. It was very kind ofyou to humor me by getting rid of them."

"Think nothing of it." He raised one shoulder in a gallant shrug. "It is a well-known fact that the Monkcrest men must suffer for the sake of love. Part of the family legend."

"For the sake oflove?' She suddenly felt very light. "Leo, are you saying that you love me?'

He looked straight into her eyes and smiled. "I said it the night I gave you the Monkcrest ring."

"You most certainly did not. Believe me, I would have remembered."

He searched her face. "I thought everyone knew the family legend concerning the Monkcrest Ruby. It is given only once in a lifetime. I had to wait all these years to give it to you."

She touched the ring, conscious of its warmth against her breast. "You have never given it to anyone else?" "Never."

Joy exploded inside her. "I do love you so, Leo."

He grinned. "Enough to risk marriage to the Mad Monk?"

"If you had ever bothered to read any of my novels, my lord, you would know that my heroines love a good legend."

6P ilo7ae

ONE YEAR LATER

-,.!.eo stormed into the nursery, a familiar journal gripped in his hand. "Those bloody idiots at the Quarterly Review will not get away with this. How dare they call The Mysterious Artifact a work of overwrought prose that places undue emphasis on the darker passions?"

"'Calm yourself, my lord." Beatrice smiled down at the gurgling baby in her arms. "The critics at the Review always lalyel my novels overwrought. One grows accustomed to it. Besides, you yourself have never actually managed to finish one of my stories."

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"That is beside the point. And what the devil is wrong with dark passions? I rather like dark passions."

"Yes, my love.'

"I shall write a letter today." He slapped the copy of the Review against his thigh. "Those fools do not know excellent writing when they see it. They obviously do not possess the refined degree of sensibility it takes to appreciate the imagination, the cleverness of the narrative, and the exquisite descriptions-"

There was only one certain way to divert his attention. "Here, Leo, hold little Elizabeth for a moment, will you?" Beatrice thrust the infant into his arms.

"What?" Leo's scowl of outrage vanished instantly. He looked down into eyes that were mirror images of her mother's and grinned like the happy father he was. "Good morning, my sweet. You are looking lovelier than ever today."

Elizabeth laughed up at him and scrunched her tiny hands into fists. Leo was an excellent father, Beatrice thought. His two sons, who had returned from the Grand Tour a few months earlier, were living proof of his abilities. Carlton had taken lodgings in Town, as was the habit of young men his age. William was at Oxford. But they came to visit often. She had liked them both from the moment they had been introduced, and they had accepted her with heartwarming enthusiasm.

Beatrice smiled at her little daughter. "One day when you are a famous authoress, Elizabeth, your father shall write scathing letters to the critics of the Quarterly Review on your behalf too. He is really very good at it. He possesses a particularly blistering turn of phrase."

"Not that it appears to have much effect," Leo muttered. "Dolts."

"It is of no great concern," Beatrice assured him. She stood on tiptoe to brush her lips against his cheek. "I have everything that matters.'

"A perfect, harmonious union of all the physical and

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metaphysical bonds that can unite a man and a woman, would you say?"

"At the very least," she assured him. "And what about you, my lord?'

He grinned at her as baby Elizabeth wrapped her tiny fingers around his thumb. "Oddly enough, I was just thinking that I enjoy the very same things. What great good fortune brought you into my life, Beatrice?"

"If you had ever bothered to finish one of my novels, my lord, you would see that in the end the heroine always marries the hero."

The End

A florrid of novels-chilling tales of romantic

gothic horror-were enormously popular in the early 1800s. The most successful authors in the genre were women. Everyone, including such notables as Jane Austen and Percy Shelley, read the books. Not everyone approved of them, however.

The critics deplored the taste for thrills and dark mysteries. But novels with titles such as The Mysterious Hand, or, Subterranean Horrors and The Enchanted Head found a wide and enthusiastic audience.

In the end, the critics managed to keep most of the horrid novels and their authors out of the respectable literary establishment. But no amount of criticism could dampen

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the enthusiasm of the readers. The archetypal nature of the stories proved too powerful to subdue.

We seldom study the horrid novels in English literature classes today, but that does not mean that their influence is not strongly felt. The authors left a lasting impact on modern popular fiction. The genres of romance, science fiction, fantasy, suspense, and horror are especially indebted to them.

Incidentally, one horrid novel did make it into the modern era. The critics at the Quarterly Review savaged it when it was first published in 1818, but today everyone knows the title. That novel was Mary Shelley's Frankenstein.

Sometimes it takes only one book.