When he didn’t offer more, Emily said, “Go on.”
“For the most part, it is just a business transaction.”
“So, sexual favors for money?” Emily half-asked.
He grimaced. “It’s no different from employing a prostitute, I suppose, except a mistress is exclusive. You don’t share her with another man. She is beholden to you and only you for the term of the contract, and she is available when she is supposed to be.”
“And you say more expensive?” Emily guessed.
He made that growling groaning sound and said, “Yes.”
After a long moment, Emily sighed. “I wouldn’t need the money.”
“Emily!” He turned to find she had a huge grin on her face. “You cannot jest about such things. I cannot believe we’re even having this conversation.” He threw up his hands in exasperation.
“Except that you’ve enlightened me on a topic of which I had an interest in learning more about,” she argued. After a moment, she added, “But more importantly, now I think you know.”
He furrowed his brows. “Know what?”
She gave him a quelling glance. “That you may not want a family, but that you do want a wife.”
James swallowed and almost made that groaning growling sound again. He managed to suppress it at the last minute. “How ever did you come to that conclusion?”
She dipped her head and then regarded him with a wan smile. “You may not miss your mistress’ constant complaints—”
“I do not.”
“—but I think you miss having a woman in your bed.”
“We were always in hers,” he countered.
“You miss having a woman.”
He inhaled as if he intended to put voice to a protest, but then he sighed. “I just want a quiet life, Emily.”
“With a wife,” she insisted.
He winced again. “Can she be a quiet wife?”
A blush colored her face. “Must she be quiet in bed, too?”
“Emily!
Giggling, Emily stood up from the bench. “Come. It’s time for luncheon, and you have a book to read.”
Reminded of the book about commodities, James offered his arm. “You are not to tell anyone about this conversation,” he warned in a low voice. “If your father or... worse, your brother Tom were to hear that I spoke with you on the topic of mistresses, he would have my hide.” He almost asked that she not tell anyone about their kisses, either, but he assumed she would know better.
Emily dared a glance in his direction and struggled to maintain a sober expression. “I wouldn’t dare,” she replied, suppressing the urge to giggle. “Although I’ve never seen your hide, I rather imagine I would like it just the way it is.”
“Emily!”
She grinned the entire time it took for them to walk to the back door.
Chapter 18
Dinner with a Reluctant Guest
A few minutes later, at the museum
Gabe straightened the papers on his desk and was about to take his leave of his office when Frances Longworth appeared on the threshold. A navy wool redingote covered her day gown, and a muff hung from one hand while a reticule dangled from her wrist.
“Perfect timing,” he remarked. “I was just about to come for you.”
“I came to let you know that I have changed my mind,” Frances said, her eyes not making contact with his. “I think it best if we’re not seen together.”
“I don’t see how we can avoid it given we are colleagues and our work requires us to speak with one another,” he argued.
She huffed. “That’s not what I meant, and you know it,” she said in a quiet voice, and then seemed to change her mind again. “Outside of the museum. After work. There could be talk.”
Gabe swallowed. “Then we will not leave at exactly the same time,” he replied with a shrug. “Besides, it’s dark out, and I’ve just come from speaking with Mr. Harris and discovering something very curious. I should like to tell you about it.”
The words had her eyes widening with interest, so Gabe continued. “There should be a town coach parked directly in front of Montagu House. Four horses, all with white blazes on their foreheads. Simply get in, and I will follow you in a moment.”
Frances stepped back and looked left and right before giving him a nervous glance. “This is rather improper, Mr. Wellingham.”
“First and foremost, Mrs. Longworth. I am a gentleman,” Gabe said as he joined her at the door. “You have my promise I shall behave as such. We are merely two colleagues sharing an evening meal during which we shall be discussing ancient pottery.”
Her eyes darted to one side. “You promise you will have me returned to my home when we are finished with dinner?”
“I promise,” he said. “Now, dinner is usually served at seven, so it’s best we be on our way.”
Frances still looked as if she would bolt at any moment, but she made her way to the stairwell and disappeared from view as Gabe held his timepiece and watched the seconds tick by.
How was it a minute could go by so slowly?
When it was finally time, he pulled his door shut, hurried down the hall and up the steps, his shoes making faint tapping sounds on the marble-covered floor. He forced himself to slow down as he made his way down the front steps of Montagu House, a thought crossing his mind that in a few years, it would be replaced by the last phase of the museum’s expansion. The entire front—and the doors by which patrons would enter the museum—would look like a Greek temple.
Had anyone foresaw a century ago that the mansion would be unable to hold all the British Museum’s vast collections?
As Gabe made his way, he was glad for the gas lights that illuminated the entry area, and for the pools of light from the gas lamps lining Great Russell Street that marked the road’s edge.
The coach-and-four was where he expected it to be. His driver was quick to meet him at the curb, pulling open the door. When Gabe glanced in, he let out a sigh of disappointment at seeing it was empty. He turned to his driver. “Did you see a woman come out of the museum a minute ago? Dark coat?”
The driver nodded and then pointed up the street. “Would you be referring to her, sir? I saw her looking over the horses. Thought she might have mistook this for a hackney—”
“Yes, dammit,” Gabe said, finally making out the silhouette of Frances Longworth’s figure walking south. “Meet us up the street and then take us to Trenton House,” he ordered before he took off at a run to catch up to the potter.
Frances had paused at the next corner, waving in an attempt to hail a hackney. Gabe was quick to join her, offering his arm and an apology. “Perhaps a minute was too long for me to wait,” he said as the town coach halted next to where they stood. Breathless from his run, he opened the door and held out a hand to assist her.
Appearing nervous, Frances finally placed a gloved hand on his and stepped up and into the coach. Gabe followed, making sure to take the seat opposite. “I spoke with Mr. Harris about our mysterious amphora,” he said in preamble.
Her gloved hands smoothing over the velvet squabs, Frances took a moment before responding. “I hardly think it’s mysterious,” she countered, her eyes adjusting to the dim light from the exterior lanterns that hung on either side of the coach windows. She took an experimental sniff, impressed when her nose didn’t detect the typical odors of a hackney.
“He said Lord Henley is in charge of the dig. He’s a top-notch archaeologist, although I think he is best known for his work in uncovering mosaics,” Gabe explained. “Spent several seasons on a dig near Agrigento on Sicily unearthing as many mosaic floors as he could.”
Frances listened intently. “He does not sound like one who would try his hand at painting” she remarked.
“Exactly,” Gabe agreed. “Because... well, I haven’t confirmed it just yet, but I believe the Apollo amphora was actually from a different collection. One that arrived yesterday.”
“Go on.”
“I had drinks with a couple of gentlemen a few nights ago, and one of them said he had some Greek vases he wished to donate to the museum.”
“That’s awfully generous of him.”
“It was. He sent them to my attention, but I wasn’t informed they had arrived until I spoke with Mr. Harris, not even an hour ago,” he explained. “So I hurried down to the receiving area and found the nine crates. One of those crates is empty.”
“Oh, dear,” Frances said, already imagining what might have happened.
“Exactly. At Mr. Harris’ encouragement, I left the altered Apollo amphora on a stand on the exhibit floor. I’ll have to go back and check it when I return to the museum,” he continued. “But I am fairly certain it is the one that came from that crate.”
“No paperwork on the donated items, I suppose?” she guessed.
“Not exactly,” he hedged, not yet ready to tell her about the calling cards. “So here’s where it gets a bit tricky,” he continued on a sigh. “Somewhere, there is an Apollo from the dig. I have the paperwork. The description, the measurements, everything exactly matches that of the amphora I showed you earlier today.”
“You think someone pilfered the one from the dig?” she asked in alarm.
Gabe blinked. He had been so surprised at finding the calling cards, he hadn’t even thought of the original Apollo as anything other than misplaced. “I’m not sure now,” he breathed.
Attempting to relax into the comfortable squabs, Frances was relieved to hear Gabe speak only of museum business. “Could it have ended up at another museum, do you think?” She could see him shake his head in the dim light.
“How would I have the paperwork and not the pot?” he countered.
“So you’re sure the original Apollo’s crate arrived?” she asked.
“Well, the paperwork did.”
“How much do you suppose that amphora is worth? Say, if someone did take it from the museum and were to try to sell it? What would they get for it?”
Gabe gave a shrug. “It’s doubtful a private collector would part with such a piece for less than... a hundred pounds,” he reasoned. “Perhaps more.”
A hundred pounds sounded like a good deal of blunt to Frances—she barely made two times that much in a year—but she also knew a well-preserved Grecian vase could cost well over five-hundred pounds. “Unless the seller is very much in need of money,” she countered.
Gabe’s eyes widened. The potter was obviously familiar with the other side of owning antiquities. Collectors were as passionate as they were quirky in their choice of what to buy and what to sell. “True,” he murmured. “Mr. Harris said he will make inquiries of Viscount Henley, in the event this Apollo is from the dig site and not from the donor, so we should learn something in a month or two.”
“And in the meantime? Will you keep the altered piece in your office?” She wished she could spend more time studying the paint that had been applied to it.
Gabe allowed a guffaw. “Mr. Harris already has it on display in the area designated for recent acquisitions.”
“Without knowing for sure from whence it came?” Frances asked in surprise.
“For now, he is trusting the providence that came with the original piece,” Gabe replied with a shrug. “Which is all he can do, I suppose. More crates were expected to arrive from the Sea Breeze this afternoon, and I don’t recall seeing them, but then I wasn’t looking for them, either.”
He furrowed a brow, just then remembering that Tom’s vase had also arrived on the Sea Breeze—several days ago. Surely the crates would have already been off-loaded. He supposed it helped that Wellingham Imports had seen to Tom’s shipment. They no doubt expedited the crate’s transport from the ship.
Frances nodded her understanding. “I will be ready for whatever comes,” she said.
About to remark on how smooth the coach ride was compared to a hackney, she was stunned when the coach came to a stuttering halt and Gabe said, “May I escort you to the door? Or would you prefer to go up alone? Barclay will admit you, of course.”
Frances was about to ask who Barclay was—she hadn’t thought about the number of servants who might work in his townhouse—but she shook her head. “You may escort me.”
Gabe opened the coach door and stepped out even before the driver was down from his seat. He offered his hand. Frances placed her gloved hand on it and gingerly stepped down.
She cursed herself for not having paid attention to just where the coach had been going once she was in it. They might have traveled to Cheapside or Chiswick, Cavendish Square or King Street.
A quick glance up and down the gas-lit street confirmed it was a tony neighborhood even before she fixed her gaze on the townhouse in front of her. The round light from a gas lantern illuminated a dark green door. A wrought iron fence lined the pavement, and flower boxes, now topped with mounds of snow, hung below the ground floor windows. Although the exterior of the four-story structure looked as if it were made of white marble, she knew it was merely stucco that had been painted to appear as such.
Gabe directed his attention on the driver. “I will require the coach again this evening to take my guest home, but not for a couple of hours,” he said as he held out his arm.
“Very good, sir.” The driver bowed and saw to the horses as Gabe escorted Frances to the door.
It opened before they were up the two steps in front of it. “Evening, Barclay. Mrs. Longworth, one of my colleagues at the museum, will be joining me for dinner this evening,” Gabe said as he divested himself of his greatcoat. “If you could let cook know there will be two of us.”
“Of course, sir.”
Gabe turned to Frances, noticing she hadn’t yet started to unbutton her redingote. “Barclay will see to your coat and muff.”
“Oh, of course,” she murmured, her attention on the elegant hall and what she could see beyond in the great hall. If this was Mr. Wellingham’s residence, then perhaps archivists were paid far better than she had thought they were.
“Is there any correspondence?” Gabe asked of Barclay.
“Only a note delivered by a courier late this afternoon. I put it in the study for you, sir.”
“Nothing from Italy?” The words were out before he could stop them. Gabe winced, knowing the butler would have mentioned it if there had been word from his parents. Besides, there hadn’t been enough time since his family’s departure for word of their arrival in the Kingdom of the Two Sicilies to make it back to England.
“No, sir. Should I have coffee and walnuts brought to the front salon?”
“Please do. We’ll await dinner in there,” Gabe responded.
“In the meantime, would Mrs. Longworth like the use of a ladies’ retiring room? Your sister’s bedchamber is available,” Barclay offered.
Gabe turned to the potter, who looked more uncertain than he had ever seen her. “I should like to wash my hands,” she finally murmured.
Barclay waved for a housemaid to join them and murmured instructions to the servant. With a nervous glance at Gabe, Frances followed the maid up the stairs.
When she was out of earshot, Gabe turned to Barclay. “There will be no gossip in this household regarding Mrs. Longworth and her presence here,” he stated. “She works in the museum doing pottery restoration, and we’ve some matters to discuss regarding some recent acquisitions.”
“I’ll see to it the servants are apprised, sir.” Barclay hung up Frances’ coat and muff and hurried through the great hall beyond the door.
Gabe headed to the study, eager to read the missive that had been delivered. Although the writing on the white envelope was familiar—his cousin Tom Grandby had penned Gabe’s name and “Trenton House” in his masculine scrawl—the brief note from Tom contained therein was accompanied by a tightly folded letter addressed to Thomas Grandby and the members of the museum board.
Dear Gabe,
I expect to retrieve the enclosed letter from you when next we meet, but I wanted you to be a
ware of some Greek pottery coming your way from Viscount Henley. Seems he made arrangements with another archaeologist to acquire some Greek antiquities that were taken from our dig site many years ago.
Lord Darius—you will know him as Dr. Darius Jones—knew of the missing pottery and negotiated for their purchase on behalf of the museum. Be assured they are legitimate and will arrive with their providences. Let us hope you find them as intriguing as Lord Darius did. I would hate to learn he had paid too much.
Will I see you at White’s tomorrow night? I am otherwise engaged this evening with matters having to do with a horse. As you know, horses are not my area of expertise, so I am consulting an expert on the subject.
Sincerely,
Tom
His curiosity piqued, Gabe wondered if this had anything to do with the information he sought regarding the Attic pottery featuring Apollo. He also wondered at the reference to a horse. His cousin didn’t typically ride for pleasure or for exercise.
Had his cousin decided to invest in a race horse?
Wanting to be sure Frances wasn’t left to fend for herself when she came back down the stairs, Gabe moved to the better-lit great hall to read the letter from Lord Henley. As Tom had described in his brief note, Lord Darius had indeed not only negotiated the purchase of some ten Attic amphorae and volute-kraters, but he had made sure the providences were secured as well.
The reason became clear as Gabe continued reading.
The pottery had originally been discovered by Lord Darius while he was excavating in the Peloponnese on behalf of an Italian archaeological concern more interested in Roman ruins and mosaics than the Greek artifacts found at the site.
Determined to save the Attic pieces from an ambivalent organization, Lord Darius had simply removed the pieces to the home of a private collector where they had apparently been on display for the past two decades.
Gabe rolled his eyes. ‘The home of a private collector’ was probably Lord Darius’ villa—the one he shared with his wife on Sicily.
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