He laughed, expelling the sweetest smelling breath. “Have you any idea how brazen or mischievous or mischievously brazen you are to meet me here with your mentor not twenty feet away?”
I pushed free in order to see him better. Goodness, he was handsome. “Why do they call you Moon?” I tried to stare into his eyes, which were barely visible in the shadows. As mysterious as he was he was also familiar—it was as if I had been waiting for him for a long time. But now that I had him, what was I to do with him?
Definitely not play the worm game.
“They call me Moon because that is my family name. There have been Moons in England since the Norman Conquest. We are normally seen only at night,” he laughed, casting a tender look at me. “I am the last of the Moons; a situation from which I wish you could rescue me.”
Stepping back two steps, I waited to hear the rest of his speech; he seemed to have rehearsed the lines, they flowed so easily. “Miss Throckmorten, I am well aware of how wrong it is for me to speak to you this way, but ever since I first set eyes on you plummeting from the carriage in front of the Palace, I knew someday I would risk anything and everything to speak to you in just this way.”
I looked about; worried Roger would find us chatting so intimately. “Let us walk further into the shadows and please lower your voice. Mr. Broadribbs is a bloodhound who is nearly impossible to avoid.”
Moon took my arm and guided me behind an outcropping of stones. We had so little time, for if Roger did not hunt me down, Florence would come looking for me. He kept his hand on my arm and I did not resist.
“I confess I enjoy taking risks. If I were a gentleman and a close acquaintance, I would dare to tell you that you are the prettiest young lady I have ever encountered. But that is only if I were a gentleman.” His smile was so sweet I had to fight the urge to place my lips on his.
“If I am to endure life in a dungeon for these few stolen moments, then so be it; but I cannot stop thinking about you. I had to bribe a comrade in order to be chosen for this campaign and would do it again without thinking twice.”
His manly scent made me weak in my knees. The fact that he had recently held Mrs. Carbuncle’s cold, dead feet did not diminish the heat I felt from his touch—okay, a little bit but not enough to slow down my thrumming heart.
“If I should find that emerald or whatever it is they are searching for and it should somehow become mine, I would trade it for your hand. But until such a day when I have made my fortune, may I admire you from afar?” His smile looked so delicious I felt I could eat it off his face. I shook my head in an attempt to gain control of myself.
“Can you step away from Miss Nightingale tomorrow? It may be our only chance. Perhaps you might suggest viewing the city and would need the company of a footman?”
My head seemed to have a mind of its own as it nodded, while I blinked my eyes in what I knew must be a perfect imitation of my coquettish grandmother. It was then I heard the crunch of stones underfoot and turned to see Florence approaching. There was no doubt she had seen us since the moon lit up the sky and provided a perfect halo for us.
Brashly, the footman bowed his head and kissed my hand, then disappeared back up the hill to the icehouse.
I could not judge the expression on Florence’s face—it was kind and angry—kind of angry. “Tell me the footman brought you news of the emerald,” she said, knowing full well that was not what we were about.
“No. He has no information.” I was ready to stand my ground or plead my case or whatever it took to gain her permission to see Moon again. A frown dug into my forehead as I realized something. “I don’t really need your leave to befriend someone.” The words popped out of my mouth before I had time to soften them.
“But you do need my permission, Miss Throckmorten.” Her words, including addressing me by my family name, were firm but her smile said more. “Whatever you do will reflect on our mission. Lord Cumberland would use the slightest naughtiness on our part to condemn the Queen. For her sake you must keep romance out of our adventure. Wait until we have been relieved of our duty before you play with the servants.”
My nodding head agreed, but my whispering heart had other plans. I let my mind race ahead arranging a rendezvous with my blue-eyed Moon. Play with the servants, indeed!
“Oh Poppy,” Florence spoke most tenderly, “your main defect is that you tend to ascribe good things to the actions of others when in fact they may not have your best interests at heart. We are still searching for a thief and no one, save you, Lord Melbourne, your granny and me are to be considered innocent. The footman could be a cooperative of Dr. Carbuncle. Not that I am condemning the doctor—yet.”
Florence was right. There were times when I needed a bit of shaking. A tasty yawn escaped my lips just as the sun peered over the horizon. Goodness it had been a long day and night.
Florence caught my yawn and returned it in kind. “It is time for us to sleep or we shan’t be worth a fistful of beans tomorrow…err… later today. I wonder if the cook is still in the kitchen? With any luck she might have some raw chicken.” Her question was greeted with a pocket tweet.
We collected Granny from where she lay dozing on the steps and helped her to her feet. It took her a few minutes to realize where she was. She blinked her eyes, and stared at me, then Florence. She studied the rocky steps above us, then turned to me looking like a naughty child and asked, “Did I have a good time?”
I chuckled. “Such a good time you shall be stiff in the morning. But let us get to bed now.”
“How about Lord Melbourne?” Granny looked about searching for the Prime Minister. “Did he enjoy himself?” She was still a bit confused as to what had occurred less than an hour earlier.
“Not to worry,” Florence spoke softly. “His Lordship informed me he was most taken with the event.”
Granny blotted at her mouth with her handkerchief. “Glad to hear that. I have never been one for fancy send offs. A simple country churchyard will do for me.”
We watched as Mr. Averoff made a show of locking the icehouse and then directing two of the servants to lead the assembly back to the house. I felt sorry for Mrs. Carbuncle, but then my concerns turned to the emerald. What would Queen Victoria think when she received Lord Melbourne’s letter? Was the thief still among us or had she taken off on a steamer with the emerald in her pocket. How had a young girl with white hair slipped unchallenged into Mr. Averoff’s house?
As I stumbled up the hill, I recalled a few more details of the girl’s face that caused me to ponder. Her eyebrows and the lashes that rimmed her colorless eyes were pure white. I was certain I had never seen such a combination before.
“Worms for you little girl,” Florence patted her pocket as she glanced around the deserted kitchen. “Fresh raw chicken will have to wait until the cook returns.”
Mr. Averoff joined us at the foot of the stairs as we watched Roger and Mr. Olsen amble down the hall to the wing they were lodged in. “Words are not sufficient to beg your forgiveness for what you have endured this night,” our host said.
Dr. Carbuncle did not speak but lumbered up the stairs followed by one of the Dragoons Lord Melbourne had assigned to stand outside his door. Despite not finding the emerald hidden among the doctor’s possessions or on his person, he was still our number one suspect. If only we could find the white-haired girl and make the connection.
Once again, we exchanged apologies with poor George Averoff. To have been given such a huge endowment and then to have it stolen while in his house—it was a botch that we would have to make right.
Lord Melbourne bid us goodnight, assigning a guard to our door and a second one to his. “No tea!” he cautioned, casting Florence and me a sheepish look.
I fell into bed without tending to my toilette as exhaustion pressed down on me like a heavy boulder. Florence did not remind me to remove the dirt and germs of the day, or if she did, I did not hear her. My dreams were a confused muddle involving a man who was at the same
time kindly and then cruel. The reveries left me with a tense feeling, as if something bad was about to happen. A sudden thought or a dream or a noise woke me while I slept, but I was so spent that pulling the covers over my head seemed to be the wisest choice.
Chapter 35
Florence, Granny, and I slept until midday. A kitchen maid came with tea, but we declined. We took turns using the ice-cold water that was piped in from the well to ready ourselves for the day ahead—heaven only knew what it would offer.
Our maids hustled about helping us choose dresses and bonnets that would be comfortable for what was already a hot day. Florence had decided to treat me to a brief outing since we still had time in Athens. The Queen might order us to return immediately, and I would have seen nothing at all—except an icehouse.
“While Lord Melbourne continues to direct the search for the thief within the boundaries of Mr. Averoff’s estate, we shall see some of the sights of Athens,” Florence tied her cap-like hat under her chin, I adjusted my bonnet, and we scurried out the door.
She had taken care to inform his Lordship of our little venture. When he insisted we take one of the Dragoons I had asked that we also be allowed a footman to replace one of our maids for we needed someone to carry our picnic basket. With a quick shuffle Moon joined our party to carry our light repast. Using care not to be observed by anyone, we discreetly headed out to see what we could see in the three hours allotted us. Aside from Lord Melbourne and Granny no one else was to know that we had stepped away from the investigation.
“Let us start at the highest point and work down.” I looked at Florence with what I know was a puzzled expression. “There is a chapel at the top of the highest hill in Athens. I so dearly wish to see it.”
“But what about the Parthenon, and the Agora, and…” she cut me off using her sweetest tone. “The chapel is a special place to me. If you don’t mind I wish to see it. If we remain here longer you shall see all the renown sites; if not, then I promise we shall return to Athens, someday.” She patted her pocket. Athena had been fed and tended before we left. The little creature seemed perfectly content to ride silently in her rescuer’s skirt.
Relieved to be stretching my legs after all the time spent in carriages, trains, and ships, I did not question my mentor as we struck out walking a rugged road uphill. Pine trees covered the base of the hill but we soon worked our way past them. Halfway up the mount I was thankful I had worn my boots, as the stroll was anything but a mere walk. The dirt and rocks could have been my undoing had not Moon rushed to my side, begged my pardon, and caught my arm. Florence was a dear to pretend not to notice that he had placed his hands on me. I kept my stumbles to a believable amount.
We paused in our trek and gazed up at the whitewashed building that crested the hill. It stood out like a daytime star against the clear blue sky. Florence kept her eyes fixed on the chapel as she spoke. “That is the Chapel of St. George. I forgot what a climb this was.”
A caravan pulled up alongside us. The weathered old driver leaned over, took off his cap, and labored to speak in broken English. When Florence responded in Greek, he beamed, motioning to the back of the covered wagon.
“An angel has come to our rescue. This man is bringing supplies to the chapel but has room in the back for all of us—if we sit tight.” Florence urged us into the back of the covered caravan. Relief came over me as my body melted onto the rough board seat that happily faced Moon. It was a relief to get out of the blazing sun and off my tender feet.
“Are you comfortable, Miss Throckmorten? And Miss Nightingale?” Moon asked, his voice at once familiar and yet strange. It seemed lower than I remembered.
Moon rubbed his thumb over the edge of his seat, circling in slow movements that had a curious effect upon me. If he was flirting with me in some way I had yet to learn, he was succeeding. I stared at his finger as if it were the most seductive thing I had ever seen. Just dandy! Never had I read of such a thing in any of my novels. Was I supposed to respond? I peeked at Florence but she paid him no mind. I was left on my own to ponder the meaning of the moving thumb—if there was a meaning.
The team of horses continued at a slow clop, clop up the hill.
“I visited the ruins that stood where The Chapel of St. George is now. At that time it was the crumbled remains of an early Byzantine church. It was the type of place that caught a young girl’s imagination.” Florence took our entire party in as she described what she had seen. When no questions were forthcoming, she continued, “Because it is so difficult to reach, it was abandoned centuries ago.” The coach lurched causing silence to reign; but soon we were clopping up the hill again.
“I visited Athens with my parents when I was a young girl. Legend has it that the goddess Athena created this hill when she dropped a limestone mountain she had been carrying for the building of the Acropolis. Isn’t that charming?”
Seeing my friend in such a lively mood did my heart good, for her only pleasure seemed to be what she did for others. She never thought of her own happiness—till this little jaunt. The least we could do would be to enjoy it with her.
Florence was happily engaged in recounting her story and did not notice that the flirting level in the caravan had reached extreme levels. What was Moon signaling with his thumb?
Beneath his livery coat of black with red and white trim, his chest rose and fell evenly. I rested my hands in my lap and tried not to be distracted by the motion of his thumb.
“The original chapel, the Byzantine church, was abandoned since it was too hard to reach. Can you imagine?” Florence knotted her face at the illogic of such a thing; because something was a challenge to reach it should, in her mind, make it more desirable—not less. I knew how my mentor thought.
The wagon rolled along, lurching and jerking. “I have so longed to see this restoration for it is nothing short of a miracle.” Florence allowed each of us to lean out of the rear of the wagon for a preview as if to instill a bit of her passion for the place we were about to visit.
“I recently read of a monk who journeyed to St. George’s a few years ago. When he didn’t return from the top of the mount, those who knew him assumed he had died during the climb. But three years later someone saw lights burning at the top of the hill. They were of course curious and went to investigate as all inquisitive folks should. They discovered the monk had created a small paradise and fully restored the chapel; he had even cleaned the murals that were buried in the rubble. He had constructed a lovely garden, which supplied his food, and a patio where he performed his evening prayers.”
She intrigued us with her tale, promising vistas like no other once we reached the top of the hill for we would be able to see the city of Athens in all its picturesque beauty.
Chapter 36
The caravan pulled to the front of the chapel, a lovely whitewashed building half the size of Mr. Averoff’s house. Simple in design, it was pristine with three small turrets each topped by a religious cross.
“I will be bringing the supplies to the good Brother,” our Samaritan said, now more comfortable in speaking to us in his broken English. “I shall wait a bit with him in the garden and then take you all back down. Tis a long walk.” With a nod he jiggled the reins and drove his wagon to the back of the chapel.
The view of Athens from the stone plateau was breathtaking. Moon was at my side, while the guard stood with Florence taking in the perspectives of the hundreds of small, whitewashed houses that lay scattered over the hillside.
“Shall we go inside?” Moon asked. I knew what he had in mind, a few stolen moments of alone time. I nodded and followed him into the chapel, where it took a while for my eyes to adjust to the darkness after being in the strong sunlight. The colorful murals done in what I knew were Greek Orthodox religious style depicting saints, Christ, and Mary with the baby Jesus dominated the nave of the church and lined the altar area. Cream colored stone created an arch that rose almost twenty-feet over the transept just before the altar. How had one
lone monk accomplished all of this?
Gasp! I slammed myself against the wall, shoving Moon with my left hand while clutching my throat with my right. There in the shadows of the confessional stood Mr. Averoff. He was talking to the girl with the white hair—the maid who had served us the toxic tea. Although his voice was so low it was impossible to hear what he was saying, his animated gestures clearly showed his anger.
Putting my finger to my lips, I cautioned Moon to remain still. Averoff and the girl were unaware of our presence. Our kindly host and benefactor was behind the poisoning of Lord Melbourne? How could that be?
We remained in place until Averoff exited out a side door hidden in an alcove. As he left the rest of our party entered the chapel in silence. The timing was perfect for the culprit was unaware of our presence.
The white-haired girl took notice of our group but since I was the only one of our party she might recognize, she watched what she thought were tourists. It was only when I called out to Moon who had stepped away to catch her that she bolted. When will I learn to contain myself?
Since I had messed up a perfectly decent capture, I felt I must make it right. I scampered through a row of pews and cut her off at the doorway.
Drawn by the commotion, Florence thundered our way, followed by the Dragoon.
“Catch that girl!” she hollered. By the time the guard realized what Florence was asking I had thrown myself at our poisoner, landing solidly on the lass. She fought like a tiger but the anger in my heart, and the knowledge that Moon was right behind me, gave me the strength to subdue her. Sounding like an injured guinea pig, she gave up.
Under Florence’s direction, they set her in a pew near the confessional. All this was done with only a yell, a yelp, and one squeal. No one outside our group came to inquire. Even Athena did not seem disturbed. She was a feisty little bird.
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