Double Deceit

by Allison Lane

  What had he wrought? But it was too late to change course. Tony descended to meet his fate.

  “Mr. Linden and Mr. Torwell,” the butler intoned, preceding them into the drawing room.

  Tony followed his gaze. The lady nearest the fire was a petite blonde. A very pretty blonde, with sparkling blue eyes and a sweet smile.

  “Miss Vale,” announced the butler.

  Deformed? The girl was enchanting. But even as the thought surfaced, he spotted a crutch. She shifted, revealing a grotesquely twisted foot.

  Relief weakened his knees. He could live with a clubfooted wife. As could society, though they usually shunned anyone less than perfect. But people had become accustomed to Byron.

  Locking eyes with his quarry, he hardly noticed the second introduction.

  “Your generosity will surely be rewarded.” He smiled into those blue eyes, careful to overlay impeccable manners with the merest hint of sudden infatuation. “Offering shelter to strangers in need reveals the goodness of your heart. You have our eternal gratitude, Miss Vale.”

  “Thank you, sir.” Her responding smile produced twin dimples. “I trust Mr. Linden’s horse was not seriously injured.”

  “A strain; no more. With luck, we can continue our journey in the morning and count meeting a charming lady as an unexpected blessing. Life is full of rewards.”

  Jon jumped in front of him, executing a bow that resembled an stooping hawk more closely than a graceful swan. Grabbing Miss Vale’s hand, he raised it so briskly to his lips that he smacked it into his nose. “A goddess, forsooth! Why has such remarkable beauty remained secluded where no one can enjoy it?” But the demand lacked force. Already his nose was swelling, combining with his tight cravat to turn his voice to a nasal squeak.

  Grimacing, she rescued her hand. “This is my home.”

  “Are the neighbors dullards that they’ve allowed so tasty a morsel to remain unclaimed? Gloucestershire must be peopled by fools.”

  Battling an urge to laugh, Tony frowned at his cousin.

  “Will you please be seated?” Miss Vale cringed. “I do not enjoy people looming over me.”

  Jon nodded, vehemently. “Of course, my dear lady. I would not dream of discommoding my delectable hostess. You must forgive me.” He jerked an armchair closer, ramming it into her shin. Sweeping his tails aside, he sat, but the gesture flung his arm out, jostling a tea table. A decanter of sherry crashed to the floor.

  Miss Vale gasped.

  “Damme! What a clumsy oaf I am tonight,” he exclaimed, jumping to his feet and treading on her good foot. His face flushed crimson. As he bent to apologize, his hip knocked the table onto its side even as his head cracked against her shoulder.

  Satisfied that Jon was making an ass of himself, though irritated that he was adding new vices to a reputation that already had too many, Tony turned to the companion – and nearly tripped over his own feet.

  She was an Amazon. And not just in size. She was glaring at Jon as if she’d like nothing better than to drive a spear through his heart.

  His body stirred. He’d always had a weakness for combative women. This one could offer a real challenge. Those flashing eyes alone had his blood moving. When added to blazing hair, a generous bosom, a—

  You are a vicar, he reminded himself. Though many a vicar was more sinful than the flock he led, he was determined to play the role of a saint. He could not afford any connection to Tony Linden’s reputation, no matter what temptations he faced.

  “Dinner, Miss Vale,” announced the butler, rescuing Jon from further apologies.

  Tony extended his arm. “I fear I did not catch your name.”

  She answered his deprecating smile with a knowing look. “Miss Merideth, companion and cousin to Miss Vale.”

  Her eyes tunneled into the deepest recesses of his mind, raising considerable discomfort. What did she see?

  But the question vanished when she stood. Amazon, indeed. Taller than many men, the top of her head reached his eyes, though he stood over six feet tall. Her complexion spoke of hours in the garden without benefit of a bonnet. She had pulled her hair into a severe knot, emphasizing the masculine planes of her face, but already strands were escaping, adding to her vibrancy…

  His mind went blank when his eyes dropped to that glorious bosom. Lust coiled in his gut, sending tremors through his arm as he escorted her from the room.

  Not now.

  He repeated the admonition, stifling his instincts. Recovering the Park was too important to allow diversions, no matter how pleasant.

  Dinner was served in an intimate family dining room, which would allow easy conversation, relieving one of his concerns. He had feared a formal setting and larger household, for a vicar would hardly have a claim to his hostess’s side.

  Jon practically threw Miss Vale into her chair.

  Tony hid a grimace. They would have to discuss behavior tonight. Jon would do better to move slowly. No one would believe this act. Tony Linden might be considered a rakehell, but he was also noted for grace and charm.

  But this was not the place. Jon collapsed into his own chair and gulped a glass of wine, signaling the footman for more even before the butler finished serving the soup. Wishing he’d taken more time to soothe Jon’s nerves, Tony turned to Miss Vale.

  “Please forgive my cousin, Miss Vale. He has always been a poor traveler. I fear he is not quite himself this evening.” He flinched when Jon dropped a fork on the floor, the clatter drawing all eyes.

  “Travel can be quite wearying.” But her gaze stayed on Jon.

  As the meal progressed, he made a determined effort to soothe her, asking quiet questions about life at Vale House, sticking to topics he could reasonably expect a recluse to understand. She gradually relaxed, though she rarely accorded him her complete attention, watching Jon as if he were an adder.

  By the time they started the dessert course, Tony knew enough to be thankful that he was in disguise. The charade was necessary, for Miss Vale was even shyer than he had expected. Her answers were brief to the point of curtness. She cringed at every reference to Tony Linden, flinching when Jon’s braying laughter interrupted conversation.

  His reputation had obviously preceded him, and it was equally obvious that she knew his purpose and had done what she could to protect herself. Every time Jon tried to flirt, Miss Merideth distracted him, snapping out questions about his life like an angry major general. Jon stumbled more than once before giving up and turning to food.

  But she was sharp. And determined. Abandoning the personal questions her employer wanted answered, she switched to others that revealed her own burning desire to escape her lot. She was too spirited to enjoy incarceration in the country or entrapment in a menial position. He had to sympathize with her, for he would have hated such a life.

  “Tell me about London, Mr. Linden,” she asked when he stopped eating long enough to signal for more wine.

  Jon responded with a mishmash of half-truths about places no lady should know. But Miss Merideth either cared nothing for propriety or was so desperate for entertainment that she would discuss anything. When Jon turned back to Miss Vale with a leer and an impertinent comment, she interrupted him with a question about last week’s Newmarket race meet.

  Tony wrenched his own attention back to Miss Vale. Jon’s distortions did not matter. Even if the ladies caught him in a lie, it would merely add to their aversion. And he needed to concentrate on his own plan.

  “What does Gloucestershire offer its visitors?” he asked.

  “Very little this time of year,” she said absently, her attention pinned on Jon. Was she shocked by his antics or merely protective of her companion? “Most estates are embroiled in the harvest, and—”

  Miss Merideth’s voice overrode the rest of her response. “Are the rumors about Byron true?”

  Tony jumped. “It depends on which rumors you mean,” he said, his eyes keeping Jon quiet. Jon loathed Byron, becoming incoherent whenever his name arose –
like last night. Another traveler had mentioned the latest rumors, igniting a tirade that ended with Jon wondering why God had not struck the man dead for his sins.

  “The affair with his sister, of course.” Her voice had an edge he had not expected. Had finding Tony Linden at her employer’s table triggered her belligerence, or was it something else?

  You are supposed to be a vicar. Act like it. “I hardly think that is a proper subject for gently bred ladies, Miss Merideth.” Miss Vale relaxed at the words. Clearly, she did not wish to pursue the subject, so he terminated it. “He has left the country, so further speculation is pointless.”

  Miss Merideth’s eyes flashed, stirring his body. Tossing an irritated scowl in his direction, she returned to Jon. “Have you seen the Elgin marbles, sir?”

  Jon laughed until he choked, ending that topic.

  Tony glared, forgetting for the moment that it was Torwell who had studied the marbles. Jon was overplaying his role, threatening them with exposure.

  “We will leave you to the port,” said Miss Vale, gesturing for her crutch.

  “That isn’t necessary,” protested Tony, taking her arm. “We would prefer your conversation this evening, if that is agreeable. We do not often have the pleasure of genteel company.” Adding a graceful compliment for her beauty, he led her haltingly to the drawing room.

  Then cursed. He had expected Jon to step aside now that Miss Vale had taken him into aversion, yet the message seemed to have bounced off his cousin’s thick head. The moment they reached the drawing room, Jon pounced.

  “We are on our way to a house party,” he said, grabbing Miss Vale’s hand from Tony’s arm and shoving her onto a couch. He joined her, crowding close enough that his leg pressed against hers. “I look forward to meeting the other guests, though they can hardly be as entertaining as those at the last gathering. What delectable ladies!” He smacked his lips as if in memory, but his face was beet red.

  Tony took a chair on Miss Vale’s other side, grateful that Miss Merideth was speaking with the butler. Miss Vale was staring at the floor, but her companion would surely question that blush. He was wondering about it himself. At three-and-thirty, even Jon was no longer a callow youth. He might not have personal experience, but he’d heard enough frank discussion at school to dispel any embarrassment.

  A footman carried in the port.

  Miss Merideth joined them, touching Jon’s arm. “Mr. Linden, perhaps—”

  “In a minute.” He shrugged her off, tossed down half a glass of port, then continued his story. “Wonderfully diverting party. Every night better than the last. Too bad how it ended, though. House fire. We’d hardly crawled into bed when it started. Place went up like a torch.” He leaned closer, lowering his voice. “Devereaux did it. Drunk. Knocked a lamp onto the bed curtains – or maybe it was onto Polly’s gown. You wouldn’t believe the shouting and shcreaming.”

  “My goodness.” Miss Vale cringed away from him, one hand clutched to her heart.

  “Not to worry. We all escaped, but few could grab even a sheet to protect their modesty.” His laughter filled the room. “One sweet little thing t-tripped and fell right into my armsh.”

  “Linden! That is not what He meant by love thy neighbor.” But Tony was fighting to keep a grin off his face. Dear Lord! Where had Jon come up with such a fable? Miss Vale had wedged herself into a corner in a bid to escape. Miss Merideth was staring in horrified fascination. “Sometimes he forgets his audience,” he said soothingly, briefly touching Miss Vale’s hand, leaving Miss Merideth to deal with Jon. “I have never found fire an appropriate subject for drawing rooms. Our chandler died in one only last year.”

  “Tragic,” said Miss Vale as Miss Merideth tugged Jon upright.

  “Very, though at least his family escaped.”

  “’Twas his own fault.” Jon had escaped Miss Merideth’s grip. He sagged against Miss Vale’s shoulder, staring down her bodice. “For real tragedy, talk to my friend Cullum. Devil of a fellow, but one of the unluckiesht I know. Why, only last week, his butler tripped over a doorshtop. Bumped the wine man into the cellar. Broke a hundred bottles of brandy. Merchant wouldn’t deliver more until he’d been paid. Damned shame. Made for a dull dinner that night. Couldn’t find a d-decent d-drink until we reached the c-cock pit.”

  Wine! Ignoring Miss Vale’s white face, Tony stared at Jon. An empty port glass hung crookedly from his slack fingers. He’d consumed at least six glasses of wine at dinner – Jon, who rarely finished even one, claiming he’d no head for drink.

  “Know where we went from there?” Jon demanded loudly as he slumped farther. His head landed on her bosom, his tongue lolling out to lick the exposed flesh.

  “N-no.”

  “Christ!” Tony muttered. This was working too well. At this rate, they would be sleeping in the stables and on the road by dawn.

  Miss Merideth glared at him.

  He’d hardly registered that he must have spoken aloud, when his gaze again slammed into that memorable bosom, draining the blood from his brain. But he had to rescue Jon.

  “Christ—” he repeated, louder, shoving Jon upright, which brought his eyes closer to Miss Merideth’s assets, “—tells us it is not good for man to be alone, but this much togetherness is not appropriate to drawing rooms. A gentleman need not disclose all his social contacts. Remember that only the righteous flourish, so refrain from seeking out the unholy and hide your own light under a basket of fish—” God! He was rambling. He couldn’t think. What the devil was he trying to say? And how would a vicar say it? “—in the Garden of Gethsemane.”

  Face burning, he abruptly ceased talking. He’d thought nothing could possibly make him blush, but Miss Merideth’s glare had done it. Clearly he had lost all control of his thoughts. Even Jon was silent, and furrows creased Miss Vale’s forehead.

  But Miss Merideth was the dangerous one. He had to divert her attention. She was remarkably sharp for a female. And he had better brush up on his Bible as soon as he escaped this room. Surely there was an appropriate passage that would keep Jon in line.

  “Even the devil cites Scripture for his purpose,” he muttered, searching desperately for inspiration. His eyes probed the shadows.

  “My God!” he exclaimed, lunging toward the corner. Reverently, he lifted the bronze statue sitting on an open escritoire. “Minerva. And a remarkable rendition of her. Where did Sir Winton get it?”

  Miss Merideth had followed him. “It is mine.”

  “Then where did you get it? This is Roman work. And ancient Roman, at that. Third century. Possibly fourth.”

  “I know. I fo—“ Her eyes widened. “My God! You are Anthony Torwell.”

  “Yes, but—” His voice froze. His card said only A. Torwell. How could she know the full name, unless—

  “I’ve read several of your papers. Your description of the Roman fortifications near York is fascinating.”

  “You read antiquarian articles?”

  “You needn’t sound so shocked,” she snapped. “I am perfectly capable of understanding them.”

  He took a deep breath. It wasn’t her words that shocked him, but the awe in her face. Worship was not a reaction he inspired in others. But he had vowed to tell the truth about everything but his name, and it was too late to deny his identity, anyway. Reconciling his two lives would happen sooner than he’d planned.

  Panic danced along his nerves, leaving him vulnerable. His reputation rarely bothered him because he knew it was false. But the respect he received from other antiquarians was always tinged with questions about whether it would continue once they knew the truth. Now that he must reveal that truth, it felt like a reckless violation of his soul. No more security. Never again could Tony Linden deflect criticism with the mental shield of if he only knew the real me…

  “Forgive me, Miss Merideth. I have no doubt that you are an intelligent woman. I was surprised, not incredulous, for I know few gentlemen who are interested in the past. Never have I encountered a l
ady knowledgeable about the subject. So where did you find Minerva?”

  She bit her lip, closely scanning his face before replying. “In the Roman temple I am excavating.”

  Chapter Four

  Alex watched, fascinated, as emotions flew across Torwell’s face. Excitement. Shock. Fear – that couldn’t be right. Suspicion. And finally back to interest and suppressed excitement.

  Why hadn’t she been born a man? A gentleman could have approached Torwell in a straightforward manner, explained his interest, and requested information and guidance.

  But she was hampered by society’s ingrained belief that ladies were incompetent widgeons who could not even stroll about the grounds without assistance, let alone excavate a Roman temple and correctly evaluate what they found.

  Stupid! How could you let a moment of euphoria override all sense? He is a man, with a man’s arrogance.

  She shivered. Revealing her activities was reckless. Would he scoff at her? Worse, would he spread tales about the silly woman who thought she was an antiquarian? One hint would bring her father home to investigate.

  She gripped the back of a chair to hide her tremors.

  “How did you clean Minerva?” he asked.

  A most unusual man. Rather than jump to conclusions, he had decided to test her skill. “Vinegar baths and scrubbing with mallow-root brushes. I feared that using anything stronger might harm her. Fortunately, she wasn’t badly encrusted.”

  Her pounding heart was making her lightheaded, though at least the tremors had passed. She stroked a finger along the patina coating one slender arm as hope battled fear. Would the celebrated Anthony Torwell share his expertise with a mere female? Would he keep the site a secret? Would leaving Minerva in the drawing room last night bring her luck or unmitigated disaster? So wrapped in thought was she that his voice made her jump.

  “What else have you found?”

  “Bits of tile. Worked stone that was probably part of the walls. Some chips that may have been pottery bowls.” She wanted to show him her workroom, but she could not leave Sarah alone with the lecherous Linden. Especially since she was supposed to be Sarah’s companion. “Miss Vale has provided a small room in the old wing as work space. Perhaps you would care to see it before you leave.”