by Marlowe Mia
He looked down at the wax tablet that catalogued the region’s output for the glory of distant Rome. Deirdre was reduced to a mere scratch or two on the report. A loss to be recorded, assuredly, but not given too much significance in the long scheme of things.
Caius slammed his fist down on the tablet.
Even if he thought he could manage it, killing the Roman proconsul would end the man’s suffering far too quickly. Caius had to find a way to disgrace him, to destroy him in the eyes of Rome, to ruin him. And then leave him to struggle on in a world that would despise him till he drew his last pathetic breath.
But how?
The proconsul entrusted all his correspondence to Caius. Scipianus was too busy buggering the newest little stable boy to bother with official business. Caius broke the seal on the latest dispatch and unrolled the scroll. Unshed tears made his vision waver uncertainly.
Caius pinched the bridge of his nose and blinked hard. The message on the scroll came into sharp focus, and he read the missive quickly.
This was it. The way to strike Scipianus where he would feel the blow most keenly.
An entire year’s pay for the Legion was due in next week. The proconsul was tasked with its safety and equitable distribution. If Caius were to make the payroll disappear—and he knew in a moment of blinding clarity exactly where to hide it so no one would ever find it—Quintus Valerian Scipianus would be shown to be ineffective and weak. He’d lose his rank, his wealth, his stature with the fighting men who guarded him. Every Roman hand on the island kingdom would be against him. Even if Scipianus survived the wrath of his own men, he’d forever be shadowed by a cloud of suspicion.
It was perfect.
It would inflict a festering wound upon Scipianus that would never heal.
But as much as he loathed the proconsul, Caius’s deepest contempt was for himself. More than anyone else, he’d failed Deirdre. Her blood stained his hands.
Once he made certain Scipianus knew who was the author of his ruin and why, Caius didn’t care what happened to him. Death—even a vicious, hard death—would be welcome as a warm, soft pillow.
“In the game of love, cheating is not encouraged, but it is sometimes the only way to win.”
—the journal of Blanche La Tour
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Lucian squinted at the newest wax tablet Mr Peabody brought him. He wished Daisy were here. His Latin was adequate—after all, he’d puzzled out the original ancient record that revealed the existence of the Roman treasure— but Daisy’s facility with the dead language far exceeded his own.
“Do ye any good, gov?” Peabody asked, peering over his shoulder.
“Give me a moment. It may be nothing.” They’d unearthed plenty of unremarkable lists of shipments and trade goods. Of course, antiquities scholars would find them fascinating, but when one was on the trail of treasure, bales of wool failed to excite.
There was no mark on this new tablet that indicated the writing was done by Caius Meritus. The thief had thoughtfully labelled each of his tablets with his name in the lower right corner. The fist that formed these letters was less refined than Meritus’s neat script, but a word for a legionnaire’s pay, salarius, leaped off the tablet at Lucian. Caius Meritus was named several times. The rest seemed less like a Roman report and more like gibberish. Something about a wet tongue, of all things, and a pagan blade pointing to the goddess’s sheath.
Definitely something to take to the inestimable Miss Drake, he thought with a chuckle. Blade and sheath. Pretty obvious sexual references when you add the bit about the tongue.
Daisy had been curious about Roman visual arts. What would she make of its lascivious love poetry?
“Well, what’s it say?” Peabody wanted to know.
“Nothing of import.” Even if it were significant, Lucian would never tell Mr Peabody. “We’re done for the day. Tell the fellows to collect their pay and go home.”
As Peabody obeyed, Lucian rose from his makeshift desk among the stored antiquities. Cataloguing the finds was tedious, meticulous work, and he was too restless to force himself to it any longer this day. He missed Daisy’s sunny presence in the midst of the ancient dust. And her methodical knack for bringing order to his chaos.
In the case of his antiquities, at least. Elsewhere in his life, she wreaked her own brand of anarchy.
He was eager to be by her side. Yet he felt the need to take something with him, lest it look as though he were courting her. Suppose she thought he was courting her?
Am I courting her? he wondered. Some might think it a logical assumption. But he couldn’t risk word leaking back to his father. Sharing a newly discovered bit of antiquity gave him an excuse to see Daisy strictly on business. Yes, he would take the latest tablet. The naughty one . . .
Lucian stood watch as Mr Peabody and the rest of the men climbed out of the excavation pit. He’d kept a sharp eye on the foreman since he’d caught the man palming that ancient necklace, but Peabody hadn’t stolen anything since. The man had actually made quite a show of pretending to find the gold links and amulet afresh, and turned it all over to Lucian directly.
As he’d been ordered to do.
Lucian still wasn’t sure how he’d keep his father from becoming involved in the Jacobite plot, but he’d already enlisted Avery’s help in watching his sire. The servant was charged with reporting immediately to Lucian whenever the earl expected to receive either Sir Alistair or Lord Brumley.
Of course, Lucian didn’t share his fears with Avery, but he could be counted upon to follow direction without troubling himself over why. Between the two of them, Lucian hoped they could keep his father from folly.
Lucian hitched up the gig and sped to Daisy Drake’s door. He gave himself up to pleasant daydreams as he contemplated how he’d spend his newfound wealth. The country estate in Kent was in even worse repair than Montford. He knew a dozen tenants whose modest residences needed new roofs, and the place could do with its own mill. With the proper investment and sound management, the earldom would thrive once again. Finding the treasure was his chance to do well for his father and himself and do good for others at the same time.
He pulled the gig up to Lord Wexford’s sumptuous town house and handed the reins to Jerome. Lucian rapped sharply on the front door. He was ushered in and directed toward the parlour.
Delightful possibilities danced in his head. Daisy’s kisses had been just as abandoned as Blanche’s. As he rounded the corner, he was greeted by the sight of Daisy and Lord and Lady Wexford seated at the gaming table in the corner.
“Oh, there you are, Lord Rutland,” Lady Wexford called. “We’ve been hoping you’d call.”
“Actually, milady,” he said as he made an elegant leg to her, “I need to see Miss Drake.” It did his heart good to see Daisy’s eyes light with pleasure at that. “My workmen have uncovered another tablet and—”
“Oh, rubbish!” Lady Wexford said dismissively. “If this is about something that happened a millennium ago, surely it can wait a bit longer. Join us, won’t you please? We’ve a serious difficulty here and need your help.”
“Of course, madam. How may I be of service?”
“Dear Geoffrey has been trouncing us mercilessly at hazard.” The former courtesan pouted prettily at her younger husband.
“We’ve been desperate for a fourth player so we can switch to whist,” Daisy explained. “Your arrival saves us from further humiliation.”
“Ah! It’s gratifying to be needed.” A card game wasn’t on Lucian’s agenda, but he forced a pleasant smile and seated himself opposite Daisy. A wicked impulse made him ask, “Why didn’t you invite Mlle La Tour to play? I’m sure being cooped up in her boudoir with nothing to do is tiring in the extreme. Why don’t I nip up to her chamber and carry her down so she can join us—Oh!”
Someone—he couldn’t be certain whether it was Daisy or her great-aunt—gave his shin a sharp kick under the table.
“Mlle La Tour?” Lord Wexfo
rd’s even brows tented on his forehead.
“Yes, dearest, you remember. My friend from Paris,” Lady Wexford said smoothly. “She came for your birthday ball and has stayed on for an extended visit.”
Her husband nodded vaguely. “Ah, yes, of course. There were so many guests at that fete; I must have met her then. Odd that I haven’t seen her about since.”
So, his lordship was not privy to Daisy’s masquerade as the French courtesan. The Wexford residence was a rambling, imposing one. Lucian supposed it might be easy for the earl to absent himself often enough not to know who else was sleeping under his roof.
“Blanche is . . . a very private person,” Isabella said. “Her professional life is so demanding—always a whirlwind of parties and entertainments—that when she’s on holiday, she sees very few people.”
“Not even her host, it seems,” Lord Wexford said with a frown.
“I believe Mlle La Tour intends to return to France as soon as possible,” Daisy said quietly.
“I daresay she does.” Lucian couldn’t resist adding, “Once her ankle heals, of course.”
This time, Lord Wexford’s pale grey eyes flicked over first his wife, then Daisy. “Two women with sprained ankles in the same household,” he mumbled. “What are the odds?”
Lucian turned to Lady Wexford, a mischievous spirit urging him to goad her. “Don’t tell me you’ve suffered a similar injury.”
Daisy glared daggers at him. Evidently, there was much Lord Wexford didn’t know about his own household.
“I’m afraid I took a bit of a tumble,” she said. “Nothing to trouble over. And I’m certainly recovered enough to enjoy winning a card game. Will you deal, Lord Rutland?”
As the evening wore on it became obvious that Lord and Lady Wexford were not going to leave them alone together. ‘Blanche La Tour’ might entertain a man in her boudoir, but Miss Drake was not going to be allowed to entertain one in the parlour unless she managed it under the watchful eyes of her hosts.
The double standard confused Lucian because Lady Wexford, at least, must have been privy to Daisy’s little deception. The earl and his wife were unconventional peers by all accounts, and the whispers that swirled about them were not confined to Isabella Wren’s former occupation as a top-tier courtesan.
“Makes a body wonder, don’t it?” Clarinda Brumley had speculated once her tongue had loosened that one time he’d been unable to avoid taking tea with her and her mother. “A handsome fellow like Lord Wexford marrying ‘La Belle Wren’ instead of just keeping her, especially since she’s obviously past the age of bearing him an heir. Oh! I shouldn’t say such things!”
Then she went on to titter about several theories on the unusual pairing. Veiled slights to Lord Wexford’s manhood were the kindest of the rumours. Lucian routinely ignored gossip and had done his best to think of something else while Clarinda prattled on, but some of it trickled in like the rain found its way through Montford’s leaky roof. The rumours of outlandish goings-on in the Wexford household were at odds with Geoffrey Haversham’s conventionally dim view of Daisy receiving gentlemen callers un-chaperoned.
But Daisy Drake was a guest in his home. Lucian must conduct himself according to Wexford’s rules if he wanted to see her.
And he did want to see her—more desperately than he’d ever lusted after the French courtesan Blanche La Tour, even though she and Daisy were one and the same.
Blanche had been a boyish dream. Daisy was real.
So Lucian played whist in Lord Wexford’s parlour and took turns reading aloud from Moll Flanders. He even allowed them to coerce him into a recitation from A Midsummer Night’s Dream that soon became hopelessly muddled with a soliloquy from Twelfth Night, but the merry company declared it a shining success in any case.
Finally, when the earl and his wife settled for a game of chess, Lucian managed to corner Daisy for a private conversation on the sofa.
“This is not what I envisioned for this evening,” he said quietly.
“Nor I.”
“I suppose your great-aunt doesn’t trust me not to pounce upon you if she leaves us alone,” he said with a wicked grin. “Can’t say I blame her.”
“That almost sounds like a threat.”
“More like a promise.”
Daisy laughed and he joined her, satisfied for the moment just to bring colour to her cheeks.
“You know, this evening reminds me of happier days,” he confided. “When I was a boy, my mother organized quiet family times like this. Even Father enjoyed them.”
Daisy cast him a doubtful look.
“Oh, he wasn’t always such a dour fellow,” Lucian said. “I remember him being a lively man, quick of wit, and a fair treat on the clavichord. He and Mother would sit side by side at the keyboard, playing four-handed duets and singing together.”
“Really? It’s hard to imagine your father enjoying himself.”
“Well, he did,” Lucian said, caught up in the memory. “Mother had a soft soprano, but it was a very true voice all the same.” He chuckled softly. “She had the devil’s own time keeping Father’s off-key tenor in check.”
“Then your father and I have something in common, I fear,” Daisy said. “I try mightily, but I can’t carry a tune in a bushel basket.”
“Don’t fret, Miss Drake,” he said with a knowing grin. “You have other talents.”
“Since you constantly remind me of the incident with the pike, I don’t think you’re referring to my theatrical skills.”
“I was thinking of your kisses,” he whispered.
She smiled at him, her cheeks pinking again. “I thought perhaps you meant my Latin. You said you found something today at the excavation.”
“Oh, yes.” The pleasant pursuits of the evening had driven the wax tablet from his mind. Now he pulled the carefully wrapped package from his jacket’s deep pocket. “Not written by Caius, but he’s mentioned. Several times.”
Daisy took it from him and held it to the light of the candelabrum. Her brow furrowed as she read.
“Perhaps I should warn you”—Lucian lowered his voice to a whisper—“it seems a bit . . . risqué.”
“Then I shall read to myself,” she said with a grin.
“Where’s the fun in that?”
Her grin flattened. “Oh!”
“What?”
“I think . . . I think this may be what you’ve been looking for,” she said, all traces of teasing gone. Her finger skimmed along the old wax. “The writer seems to be the proconsul, Quintus Valerian Scipianus. He tells of capturing Caius Meritus on the river as he was trying to escape.”
“Must mean the Thames.”
Daisy nodded. “He used what he calls ‘standard methods of interrogation’ on him. Oh, dear. That doesn’t sound very pleasant.”
“Remember, Caius Meritus was a thief. He stole from every Roman on the British isle.”
“I know,” Daisy said. “But I hate the idea of his torture.”
“What information did he give up?”
“It seems he would only repeat a love poem,” Daisy said with a puzzled frown.
“Is it recorded?”
“Yes. Looks like there’s a rhyme scheme. Oh, I’ll never get the pentameter right.”
“Best you can manage,” Lucian encouraged.
She stared at the tablet for a few moments.
“O, whither is the cherished flown?
Up the long, wet tongue, I veil my own.”
A scarlet spot bloomed on Daisy’s cheek. “Oh, this next part is wicked.”
“Better read it quick then, or I’ll be tempted to stand up and use it for my next recitation,” Lucian threatened with a sly wink.
“Oh, all right, but I want you to remember that my interest in antiquities is purely academic.”
“Never thought otherwise.”
“Liar,” she accused with a grimace. “Very well. Here is it is:
“Her legs she spreads. And ankles crossed,
&n
bsp; My treasure she wraps between her knees.
Where pagan blade points to goddess sheath,
There shall my love be pleased.”
Daisy cocked her head at him as if to say, I told you so. He waggled his brows at her, since she seemed to expect a reaction. She rolled her eyes and continued.
“Spent, wasted, ravaged, lost,
Too soon my love is o’er,
Spent, wasted, untold cost,
It rests forevermore.”
She heaved a sigh.
“Is there more?” Lucian asked.
“Just that as he died, Caius Meritus swore the poem told where the Roman payroll was hidden. It seems none of the proconsul’s advisers could puzzle it out.” Daisy turned to him, a look of quiet sadness on her little heart-shaped face. “I think perhaps he was raving.”
“No!”
Lord and Lady Wexford both looked up from their chess-board at his outburst. Lucian flashed them an apologetic smile.
“No, Caius Meritus is riddling.” His tone was softer, but there was a spine of steel in it. He hadn’t come this far, spent money he didn’t have, just to meet a dead end. All his plans, the changes he intended to make to the estate, the change he hoped to see in his father, even his budding relationship with Daisy, everything hinged on finding the Roman hoard. “The clues have got to be there, hidden in the poem.”
“But if the Romans didn’t understand—”
“The Romans were angry.” A muscle ticked involuntarily along his jaw. “Angry people miss things.”
Daisy turned her lips in on themselves for a moment. “Be careful you’re not angry, too.”
He drew a deep breath. “I’m not angry. I’m determined. There’s a difference.”
Daisy still looked doubtful. “If Caius was riddling, it’s tucked in a rather awful poem. I can’t see much here beyond love lost.”
“The payroll was lost, too,” he reminded her. “A riddle is just a way of hiding information in a web of words. What can be bound, can be unbound. And one way or another, I’m going to untie this knot.”
“One wishes at times that love were like a cunning pair of shoes designed for one pair of feet. Alas! Sometimes, it simply won’t fit.”