“These names are right, even as far back as the first viscount. Some names I don’t recognize, though—Grayson, Martin. I suppose that’s the American side. We don’t have many records of families outside the direct line.”

“A shame we’re all such snobs,” he said with a grin. “What do you think then? It’s legitimate?”

She nodded. “The list includes Cosima Hamilton’s four children. I wonder if there is more family history that I don’t know about.”

“I doubt that,” Quentin said, and she smiled at his assured tone—one of complete and utter trust that she knew more than she actually did.

“I will contact them first if you like. Just to make sure it’s valid.”

“You’re my champion, Rebecca. Protecting me again.”

She studied the names even as she wondered why he’d used that word again. A reference to protecting him shouldn’t contain an undertone of disdain; she was paid to do that very thing—by Quentin himself. “I doubt this could be a hoax. They have too much of the correct lineage.”

“I’ve an idea,” said Quentin, leaning forward, “Since you claim not to need tea, why don’t we go down to the vault now? I can’t imagine Americans having the original journal belonging to one of my grandmothers.”

“Kipp Hamilton might have owned it. He was Cosima’s son, and he went to America.” She eyed him. “It would be fun to have a look, though.”

Quentin went to the door, holding it open. “To the vault?”

Nearly three hours later, Rebecca tucked an annoying strand of hair behind her ear. She should have it cut to shoulder length or at least go upstairs and find a hair band to pull it away from her face.

“Ready for some dinner at last?” Quentin asked from another corner.

Perhaps she’d sighed aloud when she had only meant to complain to herself about her irksome hair. “In a bit.”

He neared her, his long white sleeves covered in black butler’s wraps, his dark hair uncharacteristically unkempt from sifting through crates and boxes for the last few hours. “I’m not for throwing in,” he said, “just taking a break.”

She stood away from the box she’d been hunched over, feeling the pull of an oddly used muscle. “I hope you know I realize how ridiculous this is. I should know everything in this vault. Wouldn’t Cosima have left something here if she was prone to journaling?”

“Maybe she wrote only one journal and gave it to the child who went off to America as you said earlier. In any case, not being certain about what’s in this vault isn’t your fault, Rebecca. If anyone is to blame, it’s I.” He lifted a hand to take in their tall surroundings. “This is all mine and yet I’ve no idea what’s here.”