by Marlowe Mia
She rose shakily and walked away without a backward glance.
“In the dance of courtship, there are times when one must withdraw in order to see if one’s lover will follow or breathe a sigh of relief and turn away.”
—the journal of Blanche La Tour
CHAPTER TWENTY
Lucian closed the ledger book cataloguing his finds. He didn’t want to chance a fire in the shed housing his collection of Roman objects, so he didn’t allow a lamp, always stopping work when the light began to fail. He glanced out the open door of the shed. Mr Peabody dismissed the rest of the workers and began tidying the site for the night.
Lucian pulled the note he’d received that morning from his pocket and read the neat curlicue script once more.
My dear Lord Rutland,
He chuckled at the stilted formality before reading on...
With regret, I am unable to assist you at your excavation this day. As you know, Mlle La Tour suffered an injury to her ankle, and I am attending her until she is recovered. Pray do not expect me to return for at least a fortnight. Knowing you wish Mlle La Tour well, I remain, along with dear Blanche, of course,
Your partner in this Roman venture,
Miss Daisy Drake
“Oh, yes, Miss Drake,” he mused as he slipped the note once again into his breast pocket. “You’re my partner, for good or ill. And I’m sure we both wish Blanche exceedingly well.”
Last night, Lucian had stayed, hovering in the parlour, while the physician ministered to the injured ‘courtesan.’ Lady Wexford took pity on him shortly after midnight and let him know the doctor didn’t think any bones were broken. The leeches had been effective in relieving the swelling. However, Blanche had suffered a serious sprain and would be incapacitated for several days.
Daisy’s note explaining her absence made him smile. He wondered how much longer she’d be able to keep up this deception. It would prove amusing to watch her try.
His team of workmen had unearthed another wax tablet. He intended to take it to her this evening, since her Latin was far superior to his own. He wondered if she’d agree to see him as herself or if she’d insist on playing Blanche behind that beguiling feather mask.
He didn’t know which he hoped for.
Part of him didn’t want to unmask her. His father might heartily approve of Lucian dancing attendance on a French woman of pleasure, but the earl would be beside himself with rage over a liaison between Lucian and Gabriel Drake’s niece. Since Lucian wasn’t sure how he was going to handle his father’s displeasure, he was willing to play along with Daisy’s double life for as long as she wished.
Perhaps once Lucian found the treasure, the change in the Montford fortunes would also change his father’s unreasoning hatred of Drakes. Lucian hoped so. Otherwise, he’d have an unpleasant choice to make. He’d become so accustomed to mollifying his increasingly difficult father, he dreaded the confrontation that was sure to come.
Lucian dragged a hand over his face as the sun slid beneath the horizon. Soft twilight began to fade around him. The workers were climbing out of the pit and ambling away, their coarse, good-humoured speech a pleasant sound as they passed the shed.
Mr Peabody was still rattling around in the site. Lucian stood and stretched. The foreman was certainly taking his time about closing up shop.
Then he saw Peabody’s head jerk furtively, first right, then left. Lucian froze, knowing he was invisible in the darkness of the shed. The foreman stooped and picked up from the dirt something that glinted for a moment in the dying light. He shoved the item in his pocket before Lucian could make out what it was. A bit of ancient jewellery, perhaps?
Mr Peabody climbed out of the pit and strode away.
The blackguard was stealing! Anger boiled in his Italian veins. Lucian started after Peabody, ready to give the lout a good thrashing, but Daisy’s voice in his head made him skid to a halt.
Perhaps it’s not about the money.
So then why? Daisy’s infusion of cash had assured that the workers were well compensated for their labour. Surely Peabody realized he risked his position for pocketing that small item.
What could he have found that was so important?
Lucian locked the shed door and silently followed Mr Peabody into the deepening night.
Along broad thoroughfares and down crooked alleys, Lucian tailed his foreman. He maintained a discreet distance between himself and his quarry until Peabody turned down a bustling street lined with public houses. When the thief ducked through a door under the sign of a unicorn, Lucian stopped, unsure how to proceed.
If he entered The Unicorn, Mr Peabody was certain to spot him. Even dressed in his work clothes, Lucian was far better turned out than most of the men who entered the pub. He would stand out among the salt of the earth as a gentleman out of his element. If he didn’t follow Peabody, the man would probably find a fence for his stolen goods in the seedy-looking establishment and emerge with only a handful of unremarkable coins in his pocket.
“Alms, good sir,” a piteous voice bleated nearby. “Penny for a blind man.”
A bundle of rags propped against the sagging building had spoken. The man’s eyes were covered with a filthy bandage. His torn and stained coat might once have been fine, but now its colour and fabric were obscured beneath a layer of dirt and traces of previous meals. The hand extended toward Lucian was crusted with grime, the nails black and broken.
Lucian decided he’d never consider himself poor again.
“I’ve no penny, my good man,” Lucian said. “But I’ll buy that coat from you for two shillings, if you’re willing.”
It was twenty-four times what the man had asked for. More than enough to outfit him with an entire new set of used clothing and feed him for a week.
“For that much, gov, you can have me hat as well.” The beggar peeled out of his coat with alacrity, losing an almost visible cloud of stink.
Lucian donned the disreputable coat, turned up the collar and prayed mightily that the man hadn’t been infested with lice. The slouchy hat sported a greasy ring around the inner band, but no evidence of any little beasties. Lucian jammed it on his head, promising himself a hot bath as soon as he returned home.
He shuffled into the smoky pub and swept the room with his gaze. There! In the far corner, Peabody was seated with his back to the door, hunched forward in deep conversation with two other men.
Lucian worked his way around the dim room and found a seat in a booth near them, careful to keep his face turned away. The barmaid brought him a pint without being asked and accepted his coin without comment. The coat’s stench had the added benefit of making all the other patrons keep their distance. He nursed his drink and strained to hear the low conversation behind him.
“No, no,” one of the men was saying. Lucian couldn’t identify the speaker. A whispered voice might belong to anyone. “This little bauble does us no good at all.”
“But I’ll lay me teeth it’s gold, right enough,” Peabody hissed.
“It’s only a trifle,” the other man said, with a bit more force in his voice. Was there a hint of a Scots accent in his tone? “What good will it do us if ye lose your position before ye discover the location of the mother lode?”
Anger swelled in Lucian’s chest. So, someone was trying to finesse the Roman treasure out from under him using Peabody as his eyes and ears. He fought the urge to turn and confront the men. Beating them to a bloody pulp was a satisfying thought, and Lucian had been pugilistic champion in the fledgling sport at Oxford. But he didn’t know how many confederates the men might have in The Unicorn. Better to learn more now and seek to best them later on ground of his choosing.
“Don’t ye see, mon?” There was no mistaking the accent now. The man was still speaking softly, but Lucian thought he recognized the voice. “The true king willna be served by half measures. Think of the reward to the man who brings him a worthy tribute in Roman coin.”
The true king?
Lucian had learned in the schoolroom of the failed Scottish rising in ’15. Could these men be planning another attempt to place James Stuart on the English throne?
Lucian listened as the voices sank to muffled mutterings, but his ears pricked at occasional words. Bloody German and usurper surfaced with regularity.
He sipped his ale, letting the sharp bite of the liquid cool his anger. If Peabody and his associates spoke so openly, this pub must be a hotbed of sedition, and he was wise not to disclose himself.
The punishment for treason hadn’t changed since the Middle Ages: hanging, drawing and quartering. It was a heinous enough end to turn the stoutest man’s bowels to water. And to make a thinking man consider carefully before he decided to try to overthrow his king.
But once a man made such a dire decision, he might do anything. Because he had everything to lose.
“Then what would you have me do?” Lucian heard Peabody ask.
“Take this back and pretend to find it in the morning. It’s too distinctive for us to sell it without young Rutland hearing of it.”
Lucian cast a quick glance behind him and saw a flash of gold as Peabody stuffed the Roman trinket back into his pocket. The angle was wrong for him to catch a clear look at the other men’s faces.
“Keep your teeth together and your eyes and ears open,” the obvious brains of the outfit said. “Especially when there’s a tablet found. Report back only when Rutland discovers the location of the treasure.”
Lucian hid beneath his hat’s brim as Peabody stood and stalked out of the pub. The other men made no move to leave, so Lucian decided to remain as well.
“Will he do, you think?” the second man asked.
“Well enough, if he keeps his sticky fingers in his own pockets,” the first said loudly.
Hearing his voice clearly for the first time, Lucian was certain of the man’s identity now. It was Sir Alistair Fitzhugh, head of the Society of Antiquaries, and to all appearances a reputable knight of the realm. What was he doing involving himself in such an enterprise?
“But we’d do well to keep an eye on Peabody. If he’ll steal for us, he’ll steal from us,” Alistair said. “Sometimes men of good conscience are forced to deal with such riffraff for the sake of their cause, eh, Brumley?”
Lord Brumley. The loudest detractor at his presentation was now trying to steal Lucian’s find. He almost laughed aloud at the irony.
“So have you secured our other partner yet?” Brumley asked.
Who else would be mad enough to join these lunatics? Lucian leaned slightly toward the sound as he took another pull of his ale.
“Not quite,” Alistair admitted. “But it won’t be long. After all, it was the German king who granted the exclusive charter to that South Sea group.”
The hair on the back of Lucian’s neck stood on end with foreboding.
“Without a royal monopoly, the earl would never have invested and subsequently never lost his shirt. He was duped by the usurper. I have only to hammer that nail in a bit harder and he’ll see the light. If Peabody fails us, Montford will force his son to give up the location of the treasure.”
Lucian choked on his ale.
His own father consorting with Jacobite sympathizers. Discovery would mean the earldom would be stripped from Lucian’s family. He’d lose his viscountcy as well. They might be pinched at present. If his father were branded a traitor, Lucian might as well get used to wearing this ragged coat.
Lucian’s gut churned. The loss of title and being plunged into abject poverty were far from the worst of it. If the earl were sucked into this doomed plot, his poor deluded father would die horribly.
No matter what happened—even if meant he never found the Roman treasure—Lucian couldn’t let his father wander down that dark road.
He pushed away his half-drunk mug of ale and slipped out of The Unicorn as silently as he’d slipped in.
“Anticipation is a whetstone that sharpens desire.”
—the journal of Blanche La Tour
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Daisy closed the heavy edition of Moll Flanders and leaned her chin on her palm. Her own life was too much of a tangle for her to feel any empathy for the misadventures of Daniel Defoe’s hapless heroine. Besides, Defoe tended to moralize a bit too much for the comfort of Daisy’s conscience. She imagined that worthy Puritan author would have a good deal to say about her masquerade as a courtesan and the fleshly adventures she and Lucian had almost shared.
It was the almost that brought a sigh to Daisy’s lips.
“Are you in terrible pain, sweeting?” Isabella glanced up from her own book. She and Lord Wexford had been playing a companionable game of chess earlier in the far corner of the parlour. Isabella looked lovely in the soft lamplight and was thoroughly enjoying trouncing her good-natured husband. But then Lord Wexford’s valet had arrived with a note, and Geoffrey excused himself early. Isabella had been wearing a scowl ever since. Daisy didn’t think her great-aunt had turned a page in the last quarter hour.
“No, the willow-bark tea seems to dull the ache.” Daisy’s injured ankle was propped on the tasselled pillow of the cunning Turkish-style ottoman.
“Then why the sigh?” Isabella asked. “You’re far too young to have such cares.”
Daisy exhaled noisily. “It’s just . . . well, now I’m no longer able to be Blanche, and I can’t be myself either. I mean, with this stupid sprain, I can’t even go to work at the excavation and—”
“And see Lucian Beaumont,” Isabella finished for her.
“Exactly.” Daisy shifted her foot to find a more comfortable position. “And yet, I have a feeling that given the choice he’d rather see Blanche than me.”
“Why do you say that?” Isabella asked. “Haven’t you and he enjoyed working together by day?”
“Yes, we have a jolly enough time, and I think he tolerates me well now, but—”
“But he presents a different side of himself to you when he thinks you are Blanche?”
Daisy nodded.
“Do you like him less by day?”
“No, I like him rather too much by day or by night,” Daisy admitted. “Oh, Isabella, what’s wrong with me? I believe I’m actually jealous of . . . of myself!”
“Then perhaps it’s time you put away your competition for good,” her great-aunt said. “Retire Blanche La Tour. Playing at courtesan is a dangerous game for even one night, and you’ve managed it for several. So far you’ve escaped relatively unscathed.”
“My ankle would beg to differ.”
“I meant your heart, dearest,” Isabella said gently. “You haven’t allowed the game to run away with your heart.”
Daisy wasn’t so sure of that.
Isabella cast a long look in the direction of Lord Wexford’s exit. “Once your heart is in play, the rules change.” She seemed to give herself a slight shake. “As far as Lucian’s presenting you with a different face when you are in Blanche’s shoes, we all do that. Like a chameleon that blends into his surroundings, we become what others expect of us.”
Isabella stood and paced over to the long windows. She gazed out, her graceful arms crossed so it almost seemed as if she were giving herself a hug. “It doesn’t happen often,
but if we are extremely lucky, we find someone with whom we can simply be ourselves.”
“That’s just the trouble. Lucian doesn’t like me as myself.”
“I wouldn’t be too sure about that, but I suspect we’ll find out soon enough.”
“What makes you say so?” Daisy asked.
“Because Lucian Beaumont is walking up to the front door as we speak.”
“Oh, no! Call Jerome quickly. He has to bear me back up to Blanche’s room.” Daisy tried to reach the bell that was just beyond the grasp of her fingers. “Ring for Nanette and see if she can help me—”
The sharp rap of the brass knocker sounded, followed by the butler’s muffled greeting.
“Hush, darling,” Isabella said. “
Let us see whom he is here to see first. If he asks for Blanche, I’ll tell him she’s not up to seeing him. If he asks for you, well, that should tell you something, shouldn’t it?”
“Why should Blanche be able to hide? What if I’m not up to seeing him?” Daisy’s belly quivered, and she lowered her elevated foot to the floor.
“Can you rise unassisted?”
Daisy nodded. “As long as I keep my weight on the other foot.”
“Good girl,” Isabella said. “I won’t allow him to stay too long.”
“That’s all right, Jerome,” they heard Lucian say. “I know the way to the parlour.”
The click of his shoes on the marble entry made Isabella turn her head to the doorway.
“Good evening, Lord Rutland.” She extended a gracious hand to him that allowed Daisy to rise to her feet without his notice. “How kind of you to visit.”
“How could I not when our mutual friend is unwell?” Lucian bussed his lips over Isabella’s knuckles.
“Mlle La Tour is not receiving guests this evening,” Isabella said. “I’m sure you understand.”
Lucian cast Lady Wexford a charming smile. “She’s recovering well, I trust.”
“Resting comfortably,” Daisy said, slightly miffed that he hadn’t even glanced in her direction yet.
“I’m glad to hear it.” Lucian turned his dark eyes on Daisy. “However, I’m not here to see Blanche. I’m here to see you, Miss Drake.”
“Oh?” Her heart did a little jig against her ribs.
“Yes.” He pulled something from his waistcoat pocket. “We found another tablet late this afternoon, and I thought perhaps you might help me translate it.”
“Oh.” Her heart flopped helplessly to her toes.
“I appreciate your assistance.” His smile broadened into something almost wicked. “Unless, of course, you’re too busy attending Mlle La Tour.”
“No, Blanche has already retired for the night.” She tossed a pointed look at Isabella.
“If you’ll excuse me,” her great-aunt said, “I believe I’ll see if Nanette can brew a spot of tea, and I’m sure we have a scone or two. Lovely to see you, milord.”