If he thought her presence in his house would lead to her being charmed or compromised into marriage, he mistook Anne Brotherton’s strength of mind. She would not be wooed, she would not be manipulated, and by God she intended to dig up this villa. And if she had to do it entirely alone, so be it. Allowing Lithgow’s participation presented too great a danger to her peace of mind. She understood now exactly why Cynthia had to flee London. Knowing a man was a scoundrel didn’t stop one wanting him.
Chapter 13
Marcus had barely finished serving breakfast to his servants when he heard an impatient knock at the front door: Anne bright-eyed and ready to work.
“I’ve been thinking,” she said, pushing past him into the drawing room. “Before I go any further we need to take out the carpet and the curtains.”
“I bow to your experience in such matters.”
“I have no experience. At Camber I direct the housekeeper, who directs the maids and consults the house steward if a task requires the strength of a man.”
“I apologize for my ignorance of the running of an earl’s household.”
Sarcasm had no effect on her. “Any fool can see they are full of holes and if I attempt to clean them will merely fall apart. I’m not a fool and it’s only fair that I uphold my part of our bargain and get your house into some kind of barely livable condition.” Her snort of disdain was somewhat spoiled by a sneeze from the inhalation of dust. “I can’t do it alone. Will you call in your gardener?”
“Jasper doesn’t do indoor work.” He sighed. “You’ll have to make do with me.”
Together they rolled up the filthy carpet. “At least,” she said, panting lightly, “we don’t need a fire. I’m hot. Now for the curtains.”
He noticed, as they tore down the disintegrating drapes, that she avoided his proximity. Any time they came into contact by the casual brush of an elbow or hand she jerked away. What had changed to make her so wary of his touch? What went on in that neat head of hers? Not that she looked very neat now, in a floppy cap that protected her hair but was covered in dust.
“Oh look!” She peered at the paneling in the wide window embrasure. “There’s a little cupboard hidden here.”
“Let me look.” How had he missed it before? Rather too eagerly he prized open the door and discovered an ancient pack of cards. How ironic.
“Did you expect to find something? Something particular?”
“Who can resist a secret cache?” He riffled through the pack. No markings that he could detect, which meant there were none. He’d feared for a moment that his father had been playing another joke on him.
“I expect an old house like this could have all sorts of secrets. What fun.”
“If you find anything you’ll let me know, won’t you?”
“Of course I would. Why wouldn’t I?”
“I suppose I’ve dealt with too many dishonest people in my life.”
“I am not one of them.” Her eyes blazed. “As though I had any reason to steal!”
“You want my Roman villa, and presumably anything you find under that mound of earth.”
“My interest is that of a scholar. My discoveries will still belong to you. Besides, I offered to buy it from you.”
“Does that offer still stand?”
She looked away. “Perhaps.”
“Do you think I should sell the place? To you or to anyone else?”
“That would have to be your decision, Lord Lithgow.”
“I would like your opinion. Is the house and estate worth restoring?”
“I can’t speak for the land. I haven’t seen it and I was never trained for estate business. My grandfather expected my husband would see to it.”
“What about the house? What do you think of it?”
She gave the question due consideration before speaking. “It needs a lot of work. Yet I like it. It’s a handsome old place with some fine features.”
“I think so too.” Ridiculous to feel a glow of pride.
“Take this room. The paneling and fireplace are lovely. I like the contrast between the dark wood and the white ceiling.” She looked up at the strapwork, a more elaborate version of that in the hall, and shuddered. “But the cobwebs are terrible.”
He grinned at her. “I’ll get rid of them for you.” By holding on to the very end of the broom he reached up and swept away the dangling spiderwebs. “Watch out for falling creatures.” Anne scurried out of the way.
“It’s not a grand place, as you are used to.” He shook a spider from his hair.
“It could be made very comfortable. At Camber it takes so long to get from one part of the house to the other and it’s not as if I needed all those rooms. I spent most of my life in only three or four.”
“Big houses were built for entertainment. Did you ever wish for more company? A lady in your position would expect to adorn the ton.” He strove not to sound bitter. He could scarcely imagine what it was like to be welcomed everywhere, simply by reason of his birth and position.
“I’m not a hermit,” she replied. “I enjoy the company of those I value but there aren’t many. My grandfather and Felix, while they lived. A few neighbors, girls I knew when I was growing up. Caro, always. Now Cynthia. Is it not better to have a few true friends than a multitude of acquaintances?”
“We don’t always have the choice.”
“Do you still see any of the friends from your early youth?”
“After my mother died I lived with my father and we were constantly on the move and rarely stayed in one place long enough to establish connections. I went to school for a few years.”
“I always envied boys their schools. Felix told me such tales of sport and pranks at Harrow. Besides, it’s dull work learning alone.”
He tried not to hate Felix, who was after all dead. “Mr. Pinkley’s Academy was far from fun,” he said. He’d been miserably lonely there while striving to fill the gaps in his education. The gaps that covered just about everything except waiting on his father, escaping angry debtors, and winning at games of chance. “Oxford was better. That’s where I met Robert Townsend, and life became considerably more amusing. He gave me the entrée to interesting circles.” He poked the broom into the last corner to dislodge an obstinate cobweb. The ceiling was now clean, as clean as it could be discolored by decades of smoke.
Anne had been observing his progress as they talked. “Much better.” Now she was out of danger from savage arachnids, she didn’t back away when he put down the broom and stood beside her. “Don’t think I cannot enjoy an assembly, when the company is intelligent. But gentlemen can be trying with their insincere praise.”
“You undervalue yourself, Anne. There are many things to admire about you.”
The mild compliment, delivered without forethought or ulterior motive, was startling. “Much to admire about my fortune, you mean.” Gone was the relaxed girl, swishing a broom, squirming at spiders, and chatting about life. Lady Haughty had returned. He was a fool not to have noticed before that she felt her fortune was her only asset. As a result she was terrified of fortune hunters, which would explain her wariness with him. She was, after all, no fool. But why had she come to Hinton, then? Despite the appeal of the villa, it made no sense for her to have delivered herself into his hands if she was aware of his motives.
“What time is it?” she said.
He didn’t want to part with her like this. Since he knew that what he wished to do—put an arm about her and tell her she was a lovely creature whom any man of intelligence would want—would be repelled with disbelief, he decided to melt her into a state of steaming irritation.
“You have fifteen more minutes. Don’t expect to dig up an ounce of soil until you’ve put in your full hour and a half.”
She consulted her watch. “Ten minutes.”
“Enough time to help me drag this carpet into the hall.”
“If you insist.”
“Excuse me, Anne. How are you supposed to address me?”
“If you insist, my lord.” She was as good as Travis at making an honorific sound like an insult.
Shifting the heavy old rug was an awkward and dirty job. With a combination of pushing, tugging, and rolling they got it close to the front door when the knocker sounded. Leaving Anne panting on her knees, Marcus opened it to reveal a middle-aged man whose attire and red face suggested a country squire of sporting habits.
“I’m looking for Lord Lithgow,” he said.
Marcus inclined his head. “At your service, sir.”
The visitor regarded his shirtsleeves and dusty breeches in astonishment. “Good Lord! And I heard you were a dandy! Sir John Bufton from Winkley Stoke. Your nearest neighbor.” He meant the closest member of the gentry, the inhabitants of the village of Hinton apparently not counting. Winkley Stoke was some three miles away. “Heard from Oakley you were here and thought I should call and say how d’ye do.” His bluff tones held a distinct West Country burr, a more refined version of old Jasper’s speech.
Marcus looked dubiously at his hand but Bufton, apparently not a fastidious man, seized it and gave it a hearty shake.
“Glad to make your acquaintance, Sir John. I’d offer you refreshment but as you see the place is at sixes and sevens.”
“Never mind that.” Bufton strolled around the hall having a good look around. “Haven’t set foot in this house for twenty years or more and it looks like it hasn’t seen a lick of polish or a broom since.”
“You may be right.”
“Who’s this then? Oakley told me all the servants had left.”
He doubted that Anne, standing behind him with her cap flopping over her forehead, would wish to be introduced as the Honorable Miss Brotherton.
“That’s my valet’s niece, who agreed to come and help out.” She gave him a quick, reproachful glance, then lowered her eyes respectfully. Or at least discreetly. An imp of mischief seized him. “Make your curtsey to Sir John, Annie.”
She hesitated, then bobbed clumsily. Bufton was examining her with a good deal of interest, more than that of a busybody countryman without enough novelty in his life. Marcus half hoped he would chuck her under the chin, just to see how she’d react.
“Where do you come from, my dear?” he asked.
“She’s a little simple,” Marcus said. Anne’s face slackened into vacuity. “But a hard worker. Doesn’t talk much.”
“Nothing wrong with a quiet girl. Is she local?”
“She comes from the north of the county.”
“Ah, other side of the plain,” Sir John said, dismissively. “Pretty little thing.” He moved closer. Anne backed away with a look of alarm. “Shy too. The simple ones often are. Still, you’re lucky to get her. I heard the nonsense about Hinton being haunted.”
“As to that, Sir John, I’d be grateful if you could put it about that there are no ghosts here and I am looking for servants.”
“Credulous, the country folk. I’ll stop at the inn on my way through the village and put the word out. Damn shame not to put the house in order. Josiah Hooke was a queer old fellow. Neglected the land too. Wasn’t so bad before he took to religion.” He shook his head. “Thirty-nine articles is all a man needs, not that I’ve read them, mind you. Leave that to the vicar. Church on Sundays. More than that makes a man strange. Always an odd one, Hooke, but a good neighbor. Used to make calls and dine out when your mother lived here.”
Marcus’s amusement at the man’s blather turned to astonishment. “My mother?”
“Dashed fine girl, Ellen Hooke. You have a look of her. Often danced with her at the Salisbury assemblies.“
“My mother lived here?” He’d had no notion, neither had he found any sign of her in his searches. Or perhaps one. The embroidery silks in a drawer were the only feminine items he could recall.
“For a number of years, after she lost her parents. Didn’t you know?”
“I know very little about her. She died when I was a small boy.” He hesitated. “Did you know my father too?”
“A little. He spent a summer here and courted Miss Hooke.” Bufton pursed his lips as though he’d like to say more but refrained out of good manners. A common response to the mention of Lewis Lithgow.
Marcus stood in silence, lost in amazement. Uncle Josiah had never mentioned it; neither had Lewis. The knowledge enhanced his interest in the house. To think that his mother, whom he remembered only as a warm and loving presence, had walked these halls, sat in these rooms, played the spinet in the parlor. He wished he could recall her face.
“I’ll leave you now but you must come and dine, meet the neighbors. Lady Bufton will be happy to receive you, as will my daughters. Charming girls.”
“Now we’re in the suds!” Anne said as soon as the door had closed behind Sir John. “When he stops at the inn he’ll hear Cynthia and I are staying there. I know country people. They love to gossip.”
“You’ll just have to keep out of the way,” Marcus said, still distracted by Bufton’s revelation. “It’s not as though I invited you here. It’s entirely your own fault if your presence causes talk.”
“You did invite me, you just didn’t say when. And it’s not the gossip I’m worried about, so much as being asked to dinner.”
“Delightful people, I’m sure. You’d enjoy it.”
“Thank you, but no. I’m in Wiltshire for only one reason and that is antiquarian study. I shall leave Sir John Bufton and his charming daughters to you.”
“It should be easy enough to avoid him since you spend all the daylight hours at the manor. Be sure to be here in good time tomorrow morning. There’s plenty to do.”
With a smile on his face, Marcus watched Anne stalk off with an infuriated little huff to find her hat and cloak. If he wasn’t mistaken she’d shown symptoms of jealousy of the Misses Bufton. More importantly, however, when introduced as the witless Annie she’d enjoyed it. He’d seen them: a gleam in her eye and a twitch of her mouth, both over in a flash.
He began to doubt that the hardworking, antiquarian-loving, and sometimes cheeky maid could coexist in the same body with the haughty heiress. There was a real possibility that Anne Brotherton had been feigning the ugly side of her character.
He started to whistle the tune to a bawdy Italian song. Eventually he’d find out why.
Chapter 14
Anne’s back ached—not as much as it had, she was getting stronger—but she forced herself to continue. She’d painstakingly cleared the top layer of soil from the atrium, making herself approach the task in a methodical manner. She felt a little lonely and would have enjoyed a companion in her work, even the dastardly Lithgow.
Especially the dastardly Lithgow. She must not let their pleasant morning weaken her defenses against him, or make the mistake of believing his interest in the ancient remains anything but feigned.
It was time to dig deeper and she could hardly wait. Her reward came quickly. A layer of sacking, rotten but stout enough to retain its shape, stretched over the ground six inches beneath the surface. Tearing off her earth-clogged glove, the better to explore by touch, she enlarged a hole in the burlap and found the unmistakable ridges of tiny tiles. Careful scraping with fingers, trowel, and her handkerchief cleared a section of mosaic about a foot square.
She scrambled upright to gain perspective. Staring at the pattern of black, brown, and orange tesserae, she thought she could make out the head of an animal and couldn’t wait to test the assumption.
“It’s a lion.”
She jumped and spun around. “What?”
A gentleman sat on one of the grassy mounds, leaning forward on a walking stick. “My apologies for shocking you. I’ve been watching for some time and didn’t want to disturb you.”
“What makes you think it’s a lion?” Anne asked.
“I saw it thirty years ago, before Hooke abandoned the work. The terrace was in quite a remarkable state of preservation, then.” He rose to stand beside her, regarding the mosaic from her viewpoi
nt.
“Let’s hope it still is. At least someone had the sense to cover it.”
Anne studied the newcomer. He was older than she’d first thought, a handsome middle-aged man with cropped salt-and-pepper hair, dressed in sensible country clothing, but with a certain air of style. She did some rapid calculations.
“Were you a child, then?”
“You flatter me, madam. I was quite grown up when I became acquainted with Mr. Hooke.” There was something about his demeanor that didn’t quite fit the country gentleman.
“Do you live nearby, sir?”
“A few miles hence.” He waved in the direction of the hill behind Hinton Manor. “I heard a rumor that someone was digging again, and since I enjoy a good walk and the weather is uncommonly fine, I decided to investigate. I didn’t expect to find such a pretty explorer. Do you work alone?” His smile was charming, his voice mellifluous. Too much so.
“For the moment,” she said. “I have decided laborers may lack the delicate touch needed to excavate these fragile remains.” She stepped aside to put more distance between them.
“Are you planning on making a lengthy stay, then?”
“My plans are uncertain. Lord Lithgow has kindly given me permission to explore the site.”
“Lithgow, eh. Young Marcus. I heard about his good luck. A peerage and an estate, from different sides of his family.”
“Are you acquainted with him?”
“My visits to Hinton were before he was born. I live mostly in town and saw little of Hooke in later years.”
Despite her misgivings, Anne indulged the curiosity that had been raised by Sir John Bufton. “Did you know Lord Lithgow’s mother?”
“Ellen? I knew her long ago. She was a beautiful young woman.”
“I have the impression,” Anne said hesitantly, “that Lord Lithgow may wish to meet those who remember her. May I tell him your name and direction?”
Miranda Neville Page 12