He thrilled at the taste of her. Her body pressed against his, and his manhood responded. Her soft moans urged him to continue the kiss.
He had never kissed his mistress. Never kissed any woman with such passion. Never allowed himself to simply get lost and not worry about how he might find his way back to reality.
So when he finally pulled away, he did so as if coming out of a dream. Not quickly, for he didn’t want her thinking that he had decided he was making a mistake. Slowly, because he regretted having to end it.
When their lips were finally apart, he regarded her with an expression of bemusement. “I still don’t know,” he murmured.
Emily gave him a brilliant smile, her teeth bright white against her reddened lips. “Well, I should hope you wouldn’t base your desire to have a family—or not—on a single kiss,” she scolded. “In my defense, I do not have much in the way of experience when it comes to kissing.”
“Oh, the kiss had nothing to do with my answer,” he countered, his humor apparent. “And despite your claim, your kiss was by no means one of inexperience.”
She slapped her muff against his chest. “Liar,” the word said with a grin as she hit him again with the muff.
James offered his arm, and they resumed their stroll, his mind on how easily she had returned his kiss. On how she seemed to know exactly what to do.
Well, she had been betrothed, he remembered. He was about to ask just who it was that she had agreed to marry, but she spoke before he had a chance to say anything.
“So, since you are not yet ready to take a wife and fill a nursery, will you look for a mistress in the city?”
About to admonish her, James instead asked, “Why? Are you offering?”
Not expecting the quick rejoinder, Emily stared at him a moment and said, “Maybe.”
James let out a sound of disbelief. “If I were to take a mistress, and I am not saying that I will, I certainly wouldn’t take an innocent to my bed.”
“I am hardly an innocent,” she replied, nearly regretting the comment. When she saw his look of surprise, she added, “Remember, I was betrothed.”
He made that sound again. Something between a groan and a growl. Emily had a passing thought that he might make the same sound when he was at the peak of his pleasure during lovemaking. At that point when his body went still, as if he were gripped with pain, and just a fraction of a second before he reached his ecstasy.
Henry had made that same noise. Just before his release had him lowering his slight body onto hers, just before he murmured words she couldn’t understand, just before he went limp and fell asleep in her arms.
When he awoke, it was to apologize for having fallen asleep atop her. She wouldn’t have let go of him. Especially after the second or third time they had made love.
“Oh. The one who died.”
The words were said as if he finally believed she had been betrothed. Emily once again considered beating him with her muff. Maybe forgoing the muff and simply beating his chest with her fists. Or she could slap him across the face. Remove her glove to ensure it gave him as much pain as she would incur doing the slapping.
Instead, Emily simply stared at him.
James dipped his head. “That was wrong of me. I’m so sorry,” he said suddenly. “I would not blame you if you slapped me as hard as you could.” For a moment, he just stood there, not sure of what to do. He was fairly sure she was going to take him up on the offer of a slap across the face until he saw her lower lip quiver.
He gathered her into his arms and pulled her against him. “I cannot believe I said that.”
“Did you say it because you are jealous of him?”
James made that groaning growling sound again, and his hold on her tightened. “Was it that obvious?”
Emily stilled in his arms. Perhaps she should slap him across the face. “Maybe just a little.”
James dropped his face onto her fur hat, and he continued to hold her. “You will tell me all about him over dinner,” he murmured. “But not before.”
Emily lifted her head to say that she would not, but his lips once again covered hers, and she was lost in his kiss.
Chapter 16
A Perplexing Pot
Meanwhile, in the Roman and Greek exhibit hall, British Museum
“Might I have a word with you?” Gabe asked as he came upon Mr. Harris in the exhibit hall featuring the Greek and Roman artifacts.
The portly gentleman’s attention went to the vase in Gabe’s arms before he directed his spectacled gaze on the archivist. “Will it take long? I’ve an appointment with a patron soon. One who helps pay your salary, I might add.”
Gabe shook his head as he struggled to hide a wince. He hadn’t mentioned his relationship to the Earl of Trenton to any of his co-workers and had decided it was better that way. “It’s about Apollo,” he said as he moved to a nearby pedestal. A number of short columns had been arranged to accommodate the new acquisitions from the current excavation.
Mr. Harris’ eyes widened behind his glasses as Gabe lifted the amphora onto a column, centered it, and stepped back. “What about Apollo?” the curator asked as he stepped up to the Attic pot.
“He’s been... altered. Prior to shipment,” Gabe replied. “The papers that arrived with this vessel appear correct. They claim this is one of the finds from the dig happening in Laconia. But Mrs. Longworth believes Apollo was already... painted,” he explained as he pointed to Apollo’s hips. “But according to the arrangements the museum made with the archaeological team, no alterations were to occur prior to shipment.”
“His wiggly bits?” Harris asked as he bent to study the amphora. He pulled a small magnifying glass from his waistcoat pocket and examined the decoration. After a moment, he frowned and then straightened. “You’re quite sure the documents weren’t switched with another artifact?”
Gabe nodded. “If they were, it happened prior to shipment. But the description matches perfectly to this piece. I can’t imagine how any mix-up could have occurred.”
Mr. Harris shook his balding head. “Perhaps it was painted this way prior to glazing,” he suggested. “The original artist may have slipped and simply made a fig leaf where the wiggly bits would go.”
Gabe marveled at how the curator kept a straight face as he said the words. “Mrs. Longworth claims it was painted after glazing. By someone who knew what they were doing,” Gabe argued.
At the mention of Mrs. Longworth, Mr. Harris screwed up his face. “A real sourpuss, that one,” he murmured.
Gabe gave a start, surprised that he wasn’t the only one who had been left with that impression of the potter. “But her restoration work is excellent,” he murmured in her defense.
The curator’s eyes rolled up before he agreed. “True, but expected given her training.”
Glancing around to be sure no one was within earshot, Gabe asked, “At Wedgwood’s, you mean?”
Mr. Harris shrugged. “That, too, I suppose,” he allowed. When he noted Gabe’s arched brow of surprise, he added, “She was Longworth’s daughter.” When Gabe continued to stare at him, he sighed. “Before he died a few years ago, Frank Longworth was one of the factory’s very best artisans,” he explained. “Besides his skills as a potter, he was a master at painting. Did some fabulous pieces for the Countess of Torrington.”
Gabe’s eyes widened. He had met Adele Slater Worthington Grandby. Had even had a crush on her only daughter, Angelica, at one time. “Was the commission done... a long time ago?” he asked, thinking Frances Longworth couldn’t be more than five-and-twenty years old now.
Could she?
Or perhaps the commissions had been done before Longworth died.
“Oh, I suppose it’s been eight or ten years ago,” Mr. Harris said with a shrug. “Such a shame. He had a penchant for styling his pieces after the shapes of these Greek vases,” he said as he indicated the amphora and then motioned to a krater he had just finished putting on display. “Why, I’m told he co
uld create one in just a few minutes from a round lump of clay—do a dozen in an hour, and then paint them with exactly the same pattern, glaze them, and have them out of the kiln for sale the next day.”
Gabe recalled the vase that Mrs. Longworth had been making when he interrupted her. Although he had only seen her alterations on the ancient pottery, he wondered if she had her father’s skills as a painter. “His loss must be keenly felt at Wedgwood’s,” he commented.
Mr. Harris shrugged. “I suppose, especially since his death was so sudden. I had the impression he was a fairly young man.”
“So... you never met him?” Gabe asked.
“Never had the honor. I’m told he was a recluse of sorts. Worked in a room by himself. I suppose Mrs. Longworth takes after him in that regard,” he muttered as he turned his attention back to the amphora.
Gabe thought of Mrs. Longworth and wondered if she had always taken after her father in that regard. She didn’t seem ill at ease when he was in her workroom—just annoyed by his presence. Almost as if she thought he was there to berate her, or find fault with her work.
Which couldn’t be further from the truth.
When Gabe moved to lift the amphora from the pedestal, Harris waved him off. “Leave it. May as well start loading in the exhibits as they come in. You’ll run out of storage room otherwise, given all those crates that just arrived.”
Gabe blinked. “All those crates?” he repeated.
“Yes. Nine of them. Sent to your attention, in fact. They were delivered yesterday. I think they’ve all been opened.”
Gabe’s eyes darted to the side and then came to rest on the Apollo in front of him. “Oh, dear. I think I may know what happened,” he breathed.
Harris lowered his glasses on his nose. “A mix-up, perhaps?” he hinted.
“Those nine crates were a donation from Mr. James Burroughs,” Gabe explained, deciding not to add how James had acquired them. He still wasn’t sure how he would establish providences given they’d been won in a game of whist.
Frowning, Harris removed his glasses completely. “You mean the banker?”
“I do. Have you met him?”
“A few days ago,” Harris replied. “He mentioned the donation. Said you knew all about.” He pointed to the amphorae. “So... you’re thinking this may be one of those donations?”
Gabe nodded. “I’m fairly sure of it, but I’ll know more when I discover if there is another just like this one from the dig.” He was about to lift the Apollo, but Harris shook his head.
“Leave it,” he said. “You can switch it out once you know for sure.”
“But... there’s no label.”
“I’ll have the calligrapher make the label based on the paperwork,” Harris said quietly. “And in the meantime, I shall make some inquiries of our lead archaeologist.”
“Lord Henley?” Although Gabe had never met the viscount personally, he knew the archaeologist had done a number of excavations to uncover Greek mosaics in Sicily and southern Italy. His small family accompanied him on his trips but were usually in London between assignments.
“Indeed. Henley is usually very fastidious, so if this is a pot from his dig, I can’t imagine this is his doing,” Harris remarked. “So let’s hope this is just a mix-up.”
“Indeed. Now where might I find those crates?” Gabe asked.
“In the back. Last I saw, they were all lined up in our section of the receiving area.”
Gabe thought of bringing up his thoughts on the origins of pottery credited to Etruscans, but decided he would have to be put off when he pulled his timepiece from his waistcoat pocket. “Very good, sir. My apologies. I’ve kept you entirely too long, sir,” he said.
The time was nearly half-past five o’clock. If she hadn’t changed her mind, Mrs. Longworth would be joining him for dinner that evening, which meant he had a half-hour to find nine crates and their contents.
“Oh, think nothing of it. I’m always up for a good mystery,” he commented. “Which I suppose is usually the case with these Greek artifacts. Good evening.”
Gabe made his way back to the receiving area, nearly running in his haste to find the crates.
As Harris had described, there were nine of them lined up, each with their lid slightly ajar.
One crate was empty.
“Dammit,” Gabe breathed as he checked the contents of the others. He quickly ascertained that every pot was authentic, all probably from the Classical period.
He also discovered that every pot that might have featured a naked man or a partially clad female had been painted to hide any nudity.
Remembering James’ comment about a “bombastic baron” having been the owner of the pots, he thought to simply write to the banker and ask if he might learn the man’s name. Perhaps the baron would know who had done the painting, and from there, he could let Frances know.
About to return to his office, he paused and stared down through the opening of one of the volutes. Sure he could make out something at the bottom, he removed his top coat, reached into the volute, and felt a pasteboard card. Pulling it out, he held it close to a nearby lamp and frowned.
What the hell?
He went to the krater next to it and discovered a card at the bottom of it.
The same calling card.
Every pot contained the same calling card.
He was tempted to run back to the Apollo amphora to discover if it, too, contained a card, but a quick glance at his chronometer showed it was nearly six o’clock.
With any luck, Mrs. Longworth would be joining him for dinner.
Chapter 17
Of Mistresses and More
Meanwhile, back in the gardens behind Woodscastle
Emily and James resumed their stroll through the empty gardens, the sun doing its best to warm the winter air. They didn’t mention their second kiss, nor did they speak of what had initiated it. As with their first kiss, neither one had made the move to end it, exactly. Both had simply pulled away when it seemed appropriate to do so.
So when they came upon the stone bench that marked the end of one crushed granite path and the beginning of another, Emily was surprised when James announced, “I will not be taking a mistress.”
She moved to take a seat on the bench. “Should I be offended you didn’t make me an offer of carte blanche?” she asked, trying hard to keep her voice light.
He joined her on the bench, once again making that growling groaning sound. “You should be glad. My last mistress complained bitterly.”
Emily inhaled sharply. She almost asked the obvious question, but James was quick to give her a quelling glance. “Not about me, exactly,” he said. “But it seems her life as a mistress was rather lonely. She was never satisfied with anything I gave her—”
“Not even flowers?”
“I... I don’t recall ever giving her flowers,” he stammered.
“Well, there was your problem,” Emily said, a grin teasing the corners of her lips.
“Do not tell me flowers would have been more welcome than baubles. She made it known that gifts of brooches, bracelets, and earbobs were expected,” he said in his own defense.
“Well, they are if she has someplace to show them off, I suppose,” Emily argued. “What’s the fun in having expensive jewelry if you cannot wear it so others might see it?”
Well, she had him there. But Marjorie always seemed so pleased to receive jewelry, her attentions for a time more amorous than usual. But she also begged to be allowed to join him for Society entertainments. “I couldn’t take her to every event I was invited to,” James said. “It wouldn’t have been appropriate.”
“I suppose not.” Emily sighed, but she noticed he still seemed perplexed. “Did you feel affection for her?”
“Never once. In fact, by the time I ended our contract, I found I didn’t even like her.”
Emily sobered, surprised to hear his comment. “So, she wasn’t amenable?”
“Not in the least.”
After a pause, Emily sighed. “May I inquire as to why you employed her to begin with?”
He had a hard time speaking of a matter a young woman had no business knowing anything about. And yet Emily’s queries were forcing him to come to terms with what had happened in Bath. With why things had ended so badly with Marjorie.
“I didn’t choose her, of course,” he said.
Emily made the groaning growling sound she had heard him make so many times during their walk. “James!”
“What?”
“If you didn’t choose her, then how did she become your mistress?”
He allowed a heavy sigh. “These... arrangements are not how you’re imagining them,” he explained. “I let a friend know I was in want of a mistress, and he made inquiries on my behalf with friends of a mistress, and then those friends let her know someone was interested in her services, and then a contract was drawn up, and we met and decided on a term—a length of time—and the other details—”
“Details?”
“Housing, a modiste, pin money,” he said in a huff. “And then when all was in agreement, we signed the contract.”
“And then you went to bed?”
James guffawed. “Eventually, but it didn’t happen right away.”
A look of disappointment crossed Emily’s face. “It all sounds so much like a business transaction. As if she were a... a commodity.”
“It is,” James concurred, wincing at her use of the word commodity. “She was. An expensive one.”
“So there is no regard for one another? No affection?”
He sucked in another lungful of cold air and let it out slowly. “Sometimes. I have friends who love their mistresses,” he said. “My uncle James, in fact—”
“The Duke of Ariley?”
“Yes. He loved his mistress. Lily bore him two daughters before she died. He loves them dearly, as do I. Daisy and Diana are two of my favorite cousins.”
The Puzzle of a Bastard Page 11