[Previously: We've learned why and how the Masked Avenger was created. As they proceed to the tunnel, Cedric's thinking of Lavinia.]


As he preceded Jacques through the secret passages towards the tunnel, Cedric's mind wasn't on the Avenger's past, however, nor on that gentleman's current problems, but rather on a certain courageous young lady, dressed all in ice blue who had smiled at him and laughed with him, whose soft, warm eyes had held such secrets and such promise, and whose smallest touch could cause lightning-fast shivers to race up and down his spine. Ever since he'd held her in his arms, after riding to her rescue that night in the wood, he'd felt a ... a connection between them, stronger than anything he'd believed it possible to feel for another.

The entire time he'd been away at the farms, whether pursuing his duties as Kentham's steward or moonlighting as its masked protector, he'd tried to examine those feelings, even dismiss them as a product of moonlight and mist, but without success. His memory of her had grown only stronger, and for the first time since he'd assumed it, his self-imposed crusader role had chaffed him, even though, like those knights of old, the mere thought of his lady love could energise him to accomplish more than he'd ever believed possible.

Then, in the little time he'd danced with her the night before, Cedric had known he was succumbing further to her charm and her beauty; he couldn't help himself it seemed. And, truth to tell, he didn't much care, because he now believed that she had feelings for him and not for his uncle as he had once feared! Something was happening to him ... something he had not felt since his grandfather's death. He was truly happy! So it was with a light heart and with feet which felt as though they barely touched the floor, that he made his way to the tunnel.


* *

"Bonjour, Papa," Lavinia called out gaily, as she entered the Library.

"Lavinia, ma chérie! Bonjour!" her father responded. He smiled at her as he looked up from the notes he'd been making, sliding his spectacles to the top of his head. "You were missed at le petit déjeuner. The Earl himself remarked upon it." He glanced back down at the book open on the table before him, and so missed the slight grimace Lavinia made at the mention of their noble host.

"He was most gracious about it," he continued, but in an abstracted manner, as if his mind were actually on something else, which it probably was. "A pleasant man, but ... somewhat lacking in .... Now, where did I--?" He smiled again in Lavinia's direction. "I found the most remarkable book yesterday, daughter. I must show you. It is here ... somewhere," he added, turning once again to the mass of papers, books and pamphlets which littered the table.

Lavinia suppressed a giggle, well-accustomed to her father's ways. "I should like to see the book, Papa, but I--"

The Professor, his thoughts now far from what she was saying, made an impatient sound and began lifting papers and moving books in an obvious search for something. "Peste! Where are they?" he muttered, growing more and more distressed. Lavinia decided it was time to intervene.

Reaching out her hand, she touched his shoulder and he turned to her, then she gently slid his spectacles down from the top of his head to a more useful spot in front of his eyes. He was delighted.

"Ah, ma chérie! What would I do without you?" He grasped her hands and kissed them to thank her.

"Je ne sais pas, Papa." She hugged him and then tried once again to broach a subject of personal interest. "Papa, did--?"

"Do you recall, ma chérie, how I have longed for a copy of Lavoisier's 'Methode de Nomenclature Chimique?' No, perhaps you do not, but I often have, I assure you. There is one in this library! Is that not magnifique?"

Lavinia sighed. "Oui, Papa. C'est merveilleux, mais--"

"Le père of our kind host must have been a remarkable man to have collected so many fine works, and in so many languages!
Sans doute, it is like a dream!"

She listened for a few moments as he went on describing the treasures he'd recently found: classical works as well as modern tomes, many by the best minds of the 18th century. It was wonderful that he was so pleased, but she was on a quest of her own, for knowledge of a different sort.

When he seemed to have run out of things to say, she ventured once again to introduce another topic.

"Papa ...? Do you ... Do you know what Milord or-or Monsieur Cedric is doing this morning?"

"Eh? Oh! Oui! The Earl mentioned that he was going for his ride, and that he would be sorry not to have your company as usual." He had sat down at the table once more and was happily engaged in turning the pages of a German translation of an Arab text on mathematics.

"Ah, well ...." Lavinia replied, keeping her voice non-committal. "We can ride tomorrow then. And, Monsieur Cedric, Papa? Did he say what he would be doing?"

"He was not there."

"Not where, Papa?"

"Le petit déjeuner." He looked up at her, bewilderment on his face. "Did I not say so before?"

"Non, Papa, you did not."

"Oh. I thought I had. Pardons, chérie, s'il vous plait." His eyes reacquired that distant look she knew all too well, and she hastened to retain his attention before he should drift too far into his mental fog.

"Il n'y a pas de quoi, Papa. Mais, why was Monsieur Cedric not at table this morning?"

"He was unwell. The journey had tired him, and he had the headache. Qu'importe?"

"Non, Papa. Merci."

Her father was once again engrossed in his reading, so Lavinia made her way to the door. She was conscious of a faint melancholy, but was uncertain as to its origin. Perhaps it was because she was tired after the party and the dancing, or perhaps she was missing her daily ride, but she did not think it was either of those things. That it might have something to do with the absence of Cedric, she was not quite sure she was ready to admit.