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Rotherhild must have inherited something of her father’s extraordinary zest? It was childish perhaps, but he wanted to find out.
    “Come,” he said, “and I will explain.”
    He held out his hand to her, but she would not take it. He accepted the snub—he deserved it after all—and stepped aside to let her by. After a brief hesitation curiosity got the better of her and she walked past him, her nose in the air, the hem of her skirts brushing the toes of his shoes. He followed her to the desk, where his father’s papers lay spread about.
    “Sit down, Miss Rotherhild,” he said, coming up behind her.
    She cast him a suspicious glance and he had the urge to brush his thumb over the protrusion of her bottom lip. Just before he kissed her. But of course he did neither.
    “I promise not to manhandle you again,” he said quietly. “Please sit down and I will confess all to you.”
    She ignored the tease in his voice and took her time arranging her skirts to her satisfaction, before folding her hands in her lap and striking a waiting pose. Her perfume drifted toward him and he was once more confounded by the reaction of his body. This was George’s young lady and he should not be thinking of her in such a way, but he couldn’t seem to help it.
    “Kent?” Jasper was watching him with a trace of impatience, probably wondering what on earth was going on in his friend’s head.
    Valentine cleared his throat and regained control. He pointed to the parchment. “Before you, Miss Rotherhild, is a document that has been in my family for centuries. My father took it with him into the army, and when he died his batman took it into his keeping. It has only recently come to light—in fact, I received it in the post this very morning.”
    Marissa looked down at the grubby parchment with some distaste.
    “Read it,” he instructed her.
    Dutifully she leaned forward to peer at the faded writing. Jasper promptly presented her with his own list and with a grateful smile she examined the names he’d copied in his neat hand. When she’d finished she looked up, gaze traveling to Jasper and staying there.
    “Who are they?” she said, ignoring Valentine.
    But Valentine wasn’t having that. “Have you heard of the Crusader’s Rose?”
    Reluctantly she turned to where he still stood, tilting her head to look up at him. “No. Should I have?”
    “Not necessarily. Suffice it to say that the Crusader’s Rose is one of those mysteries that has become legend in botanical circles. Think of the Holy Grail, and then transfer it to the world of the rose collector. Everyone who wants to make a name for himself wants to find the Crusader’s Rose.”
    “And you are one of those people?”
    Valentine smiled without humor. “The rose belongs to us. It was brought back from the Crusades by my ancestor, Richard de Fevre, but unfortunately it was destroyed in 1735. However, we know de Fevre gave a second rose to one of his companions, one of the men who traveled to the Crusades with him. De Fevre stated that this man had saved his life in the Holy Land, and the legend says that the man then grew the rose in his own garden. Presumably it grows there still.”
    “Rather a large presumption, Lord Kent. The Crusades were in the twelfth century?”
    “Yes, the Third Crusade, and probably the most famous one, was in the twelfth century. It was led by Richard the Lionheart.”
    “And you expect a rose to live for all those years?” Her voice was disbelieving.
    “Of course not. But the Crusader’s Rose was known for its self-seeding capabilities. There was always a vigorous young bush to take over when the older one began to wane. And if it survived here at Abbey Thorne Manor then why not elsewhere, too?”
    “And these are the names of the other men who were de Fevre’s companions?”
    “Exactly. I believe this list to be part of a collectionof documents that were once held here in my library. Most of the collection was broken up and