“The truth of the matter is this,” he said with a sigh. “I did purchase several pieces from a dealer with whom I have had business in the past. He is not always, shall we say, nice, about the provenance of the items he brings to my attention. Some collectors are fastidious about having a clear line of past owners to ensure that their pieces are authentic.”
Lucas watched him carefully, noting that he seemed defensive. Because he was lying? It was hard to say.
“I am not all that concerned with knowing precisely where an item comes from, because I have no intention of selling my collection. I purchase things that I want and I enjoy owning them. It’s as simple as that.” His eyes grew rueful. “I know it will sound absurd after my diatribe against superstition, but there is another, more … complicated reason for me to eschew more common methods of authentication. I have a certain talent for detecting whether a piece is genuine.”
Lucas exchanged a look of puzzlement with Cecily.
“You are able to tell from looking at them whether they are from the period associated with them?” Lucas asked, intrigued.
“Not precisely,” Naughton said, his ears growing pink. “I cannot say precisely how I know, but I know.”
“I don’t understand,” Cecily said, frowning. “You must have some sort of method.”
“Duchess,” he said wearily, “believe me when I tell you that I wish I knew what allows me to determine a real item from a fake, but rest assured that I have tested my ability for all of my adult life and I have never been wrong.”
The room was silent as the Duke and Duchess of Winterson stared at their host.
Lucas cleared his throat. “Then I suppose we must take you at your word. Regardless of how you ensure the validity of the items you acquire, we do wish to know from whom you received these Egyptian artifacts.”
Looking more comfortable now that they had abandoned his odd gift, Naughton allowed his shoulders to relax. “I’m afraid that you will not be able to speak to the fellow for several weeks. He just left last week for an extended trip to the Continent.”
“Indeed,” Lucas said, surveying Naughton for signs that he was prevaricating. “We still would like to know the man’s name if we might.”
The viscount opened a drawer and withdrew a card, which he handed to Lucas. “His name is Giles Hunter. He keeps a shop at number 46 Bond Street. You may inquire from the clerk there when he can be expected back, though I presume he will be gone for some time. He has taken his sister, who is quite ill, to convalesce in Italy.”
“The antiquities trade must be very profitable,” Lucas remarked. Then, changing the subject, he asked, “Might we see some of the items you purchased from Mr. Hunter? Just so that we can determine for ourselves that they are the ones reported stolen from the expedition.”
Naughton shook his head, looking sheepish again. “I’m afraid that won’t be possible,” he said.
“Why not?” Cecily’s tone was sharp; it appeared to Lucas that his wife was also growing suspicious of Lord Naughton’s excuses.
“I do not like to admit this. Especially given the measures I have taken to ensure the safety of my collection,” the antiquarian said with a scowl, “but there was a burglary here just last week.”
His jaw clenched as he spoke of the outrage.
“The only things the thieves took were the pieces you suspect came from Lord Hurston’s expedition.”
Fifteen
The next week, Lucas found himself escorting his wife to a small dinner party at Lord and Lady Shelby’s house. Though they’d not spent a night apart since the wedding, he could not help but note the distance Cecily strived to put between them. At night she was passionate, even loving, but in the cold light of day she receded into a pleasant but reserved persona that no amount of cajoling on his part could break through. So, when they arrived at her aunt and uncle’s house, he was not surprised to see her retreat with her cousins to the corner of the drawing room while the guests waited for the sound of the dinner bell.
They had come up with no leads on the artifacts that had been stolen from Lord Naughton’s town house, and the whereabouts of Lord Hurston’s diaries remained unknown. Which in turn meant that they were no closer to learning what had happened to his brother. In the face of so much disappointment, a simple evening gathering was a welcome diversion.
He fell into conversation with Lords Deveril and Monteith about their recent trip to Tattersall’s, but was mildly surprised when Lord Geoffrey Brighton appeared at his elbow and asked if they might speak privately. Excusing himself from the other men, he followed Brighton to an empty spot near the fire.
“I beg your pardon for interrupting your conversation, Your Grace,” Brighton said, his pleasant features schooled into an expression of regret. “But I could not waste this opportunity to speak to you about your wife.”
Though he knew Brighton had known Cecily since she was a small girl, there was something about the way Brighton spoke of Cecily that put him on alert.
Still, he managed to answer with a jovial enough tone. “I am most interested to hear what you have to say, sir. Though I must confess that I am at a loss for what it could be.”
Brighton nodded. “Yes, you are right to be leery. I would not bring it up if it were not of the utmost importance.”
Lucas nodded for the man to continue.
“It has been brought to my attention that your wife is looking into the disappearance of your brother, and possibly into what happened during that last expedition before he went missing.” He paused, as if gauging Lucas’s reaction to the news.
Lucas kept his features impassive. “I wonder who could have told you such a tale. I do not believe Cecily has had much time for anything but household matters since the wedding. There is a great deal for her to do as the Duchess of Winterson now. Though I can assure you that if she is doing so, it is with my full consent.”
“Even when she places herself in harm’s way?” Brighton demanded. “I must confess that I thought you cared more for Cecily’s well-being than that. But I suppose your desire to find your brother must overshadow some of your solicitude for your new wife.”
Lucas merely raised a brow in query at the other man’s outburst, which was enough to force Brighton into a rather insincere apology.
“Forgive me, I am somewhat overwrought at the thought of seeing someone for whom I have great affection placed in harm’s way. Of course you are taking every possible care of her.”
“Indeed.” Lucas inclined his head to accept the apology. “I do hope you realize that I would not allow my wife to endanger herself unduly.”
“Of course, of course, Your Grace,” he said with a smile that Lucas began to doubt was genuine. “I must beg the indulgence given to an old friend of the family.”
“Ah, yes, but then as merely an old friend of the family,” Lucas said with deadly charm, “you have no need to worry about such things. She is under my protection now. Though I must thank you for inquiring about the matter.”
Seeing that he would be getting nothing further from Lucas, Brighton excused himself and wandered off to Violet’s side. Winterston stayed where he was, looking after the other man with puzzlement.
“What was that all about?” Christian asked, coming to his side. “I looked over and saw him giving you a look that would slice you to ribbons were it a knife.”
“Hm.” Lucas nodded. “I believe Lord Brighton is less than pleased to learn that he is no longer as influential in Cecily’s life as he once was.”
“Well, what did the fellow expect?” Christian shook his head. “It’s not as if she’s going to listen to him now that she’s married to you. As the Bible says … something about cleaving unto … someone.”
“Ah, yes, you were ever the great biblical scholar, were you not?” Lucas clapped his friend heartily on the shoulder.
“Oh, stubble it, Winterson.”
His reply was forestalled by Lady Shelby’s calling them into dinner.
* * *
Cecily found herself seated between Lord Geoffrey on her right and Lord Deveril on her left. Though she tried to respond to Deveril’s conversation, she found that more often than not Lord Geoffrey would not allow her to leave his attention for more than a moment at a time.
First he asked her about the changes in her life since her marriage. And since little more than a week had elapsed since that event, she had little enough to tell him. Especially given that most of the changes involved the fact that she now slept, most nights, with a naked man beside her—something she most definitely would not be discussing with Lord Geoffrey, or anyone else for that matter.
Then he queried her about her father’s condition, and what news the physician was able to give them regarding his long-term prognosis. On this subject, she was, thankfully, able to speak at some length, though the details of her father’s treatment were upsetting to her.
“For I cannot help but think, my lord,” she said as the footman took away the plate of nearly untouched turbot in wine sauce, “that somewhere within that twisted countenance, my father is somehow aware of everything that goes on around him, and struggles to make himself understood.”
“Surely that cannot be so, my dear,” he returned, “for has not the physician said that he can hear none of what goes on around him?”
“Well, of course he says that,” she said with some feeling, “but when I sit with him, sometimes I will speak to him of what has been going on in my life…” She smiled sheepishly. “I suppose it is silly of me, but I have found that if I tell him about mundane matters, or Winterson, or even sometimes you, he squeezes my hand in such a way that I cannot help but think that he does understand me.”
Lord Geoffrey stopped with his spoon halfway to his mouth, putting it back down again. “You have spoken to him about me?” he asked, his gaze intense. “What did you say?”
“Just that you have been speaking of him, and how wonderful his last expedition was. Indeed, when I told him about your kind offer to write us a catalog of the items that were found in the final tomb, he squeezed my hand.”
“Did he? Did he indeed?” Brighton’s arrested expression sent a pang of sympathy through her. As her father’s oldest and dearest friend it was probably difficult for him to see how Lord Hurston’s fine mind and strong body had been affected by his illness.
She reached over and patted his hand. “He did.” She nodded. “Furthermore, I know how much you have done to ensure that my father’s legacy be preserved with the Egyptian Club. And do not doubt for a moment that we are not grateful for all your assistance.”
Lord Geoffrey nodded. “It is little enough, my dear,” he said, turning his hand over to squeeze hers.
Cecily caught a glimpse of Lucas watching them from across the table, and hastily removed her hand from Lord Geoffrey’s. Why she should feel embarrassed about the moment, she could not say. However, when Lady Shelby announced that dinner was finished, she rose to her feet with relief to follow the other ladies into the drawing room. Leaving her husband and Lord Geoffrey to work out that conflict between themselves.
* * *
After dinner, because the party was small enough to make it manageable, Juliet suggested that the younger couples engage in some parlor games. Lucas allowed himself to be cajoled into participating, though he felt foolish in the extreme. As a married couple, he and Cecily could just as easily have bowed out, but he could see that Cecily wished to play along, and where she was concerned, he found it almost impossible to think of his own wishes.
“The first game,” Juliet said, once card tables had been set up, “is to be one of transpositions.” She and Madeline, who was clearly her cousin’s cohort in this scheme, passed out slips of paper and pencils to each of the eight couples.
“I will name the category, and then the ladies will have one minute to write down a word fitting that category, only rearranging the letters to make it unrecognizable. Once it is done, the gentleman will have to guess what word the lady has given him. If he cannot guess before two minutes have passed, then he will have to pay a forfeit. Then we will switch to gentlemen, then ladies and so on, until one half hour has passed. At which point, the couple who have paid the fewest forfeits wins.”
“But first,” Madeline said, “we must break into pairs. I have written down the numbers one though eight and put them into two piles. Each lady and each gentleman will choose a number from the appropriate pile. The lady with the number one and the gentleman with the number one will form a pair and so on.”
Trying not to be a poor sport, Lucas duly waited his turn and chose a slip of paper. He unfolded it and looked. Seven.
The others were all milling about calling out their own numbers and finding their partners.
“Seven,” he said dutifully, scanning the ladies who were not yet paired up. “Who has number seven?”
To his surprise and delight, Cecily, who had also been scanning the others, met his gaze.
“Seven,” she said with a rueful smile. Her slightly exasperated expression seemed to indicate that she suspected her cousins of playing matchmaker. Though as they were already a match it seemed a bit beside the point.
“Everyone to their tables,” Juliet directed them, following her own partner, Lord Christian Monteith, to the table with a place card reading “7/8.”
Lord Geoffrey had been pressed into service as timekeeper, and had taken up a position at the head of the room with his pocket watch and a small sand-filled hourglass.
“The first category,” Brighton announced, “in honor of our hostess and her sisters, is to be flowers. Each lady must rearrange the letters in a flower name with more than seven but less than ten letters.”
He took the hourglass, and held it up. “Your time begins…” He turned the glass. “Now!”
Lucas watched with fascination as Cecily looked at some unknown point in the air as she searched her brain for a flower name. Finally, having arrived at something she found doable, she began to write, scribbling the letters as quickly as she could, then passing the slip of paper over to him.
He looked down at the paper and sighed. XATLODFA.
Next to him, Christian let out an audible sound of displeasure.
“Do you wish us to lose?” he demanded of Juliet.
“My thought exactly, old fellow,” Lucas said.
Clearly the cousins were enjoying themselves, for they both gave shrugs of indifference and sat back to watch their partners struggle to solve the puzzles.
The room was silent as all the males in the room got to work. One by one, cries of flower names rang out as gentlemen began to solve their puzzles.
“Daffodil!”
“Harebell!”
“Primrose!”
“Daisy” was disqualified as being composed of fewer than six letters, which annoyed Madeline greatly. The same fate befell Lucy Huntington’s choice of “pasqueflower” for being too long.
Ignoring the din around him, Lucas got down to work and arranged the letters of his clue into some semblance of order. In the end he was only able to guess because he had just been conversing about this particular flower with his mama last week as it was also a bit of a nuisance and had taken root in the back garden at his London house.
“You are running out of time, Your Grace,” Cecily warned in a singsong voice.
“I had no idea what a competitive creature you are, my dear,” he returned as he quickly made sure his answer was correct. Finally, he looked up into her eyes and slapped his answer onto the table.
“Toadflax,” he announced.
Though she had teased him, he could tell that Cecily was pleased that he had solved the puzzle.
Thinking to give her a taste of her own medicine, for his first clue to her, he gave her what he thought was a moderately difficult one: ECADNLAINE.
But she had solved it in seconds. “Celandine!”
When his next turn came around, he chose an even more complex flower name: OKDCSAYLM.
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br /> “Lady-smock!” she said with even less time remaining on the clock than before.
Again and again, Lucas tried to stump his wife, having long ago given up the restraints of the game and giving her clues that involved many more letters than ten, and again and again she unraveled the letters like a child pulling a thread in a scarf.
“How do you do it?” he demanded. He assumed it had something to do with her facility for languages, but was interested in knowing whether there was some sort of process she employed.
“I’m not quite sure,” she said with a shrug. “I look at the letters and somehow I am able to see them forming the word, even when they are jumbled together without rhyme or reason.”
“She’s always been like that,” Juliet added. “Maddie and I were always loath to play at any sort of games with her in the nursery, since she was always sure to win. Not that we minded, but there’s not much sport in playing when you know you’ve no chance of winning.”
“I did try to let you win sometimes,” Cecily protested. “Many times!”
“Yes, but you were never very patient about it,” the other girl said, her grin taking the sting from her words. “I know it cannot have been very pleasant for you to be forced to play with us, when we could never offer you any competition.”
Lucas watched his wife and her cousin’s exchange and imagined what she must have been like as a child. A grave, serious girl with an intellect that separated her from her peers. The very thought of it made his chest constrict.
As if sensing the mood had become too serious, Christian spoke up. “Well, I suppose Winterson knows what it’s like to always lose to a superior opponent. The story of his whole childhood, he and Will being forced to bow to my overwhelming prowess at every possible sport. It’s a wonder he survived at all.”
Lucas flinched at the mention of Will, though he was grateful that his friend had drawn the conversation away from Cecily’s difficult childhood. Still, the mention of his brother in that context reminded him that Will had always been a dab hand at word puzzles as well. Which triggered another memory—of Will’s letters home from his last trip to Egypt, which were crossed and recrossed to conserve paper, but had seemed illegible to both Lucas and his mother. What if the letters weren’t illegible? What if they were written in a cipher of sorts? Lord Hurston had been careful enough to write his journals in code. Well, what if Will, as his secretary, had employed a similar technique for recording his thoughts about the expedition? Only he sent them home to his mother rather than recording them into his personal diaries.
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