Emily made a sound of disbelief. “The Dowager Duchess of Ariley?”
James allowed a wan smile. “Margaret Merriweather herself,” he acknowledged. “And you should keep it. She intended he give it to his wife upon a betrothal, and you do not want to cross the old crone.”
“James!” she scolded.
“You have met her?” he half-asked.
Emily admitted that she had met the woman. “A long time ago, back when she still had rooms in Merriweather Manor,” she said. “I think she liked me because I’m one of Gregory Grandby’s children, and she always felt sorry for my father because his mother disappeared when he was four.”
James arched a brow. “Did she really, though?” he asked, rather liking how comfortable it was to simply hold Emily in his lap. His legs were growing numb, though, and soon he would have to ask her to stand.
“Father said she married the butler and moved to London,” Emily replied, a teasing grin lifting the corners of her mouth. “I love that story.”
“Ah, yes, the butler story. Do you really believe it?”
Emily gave him a quelling glance. “We’re speaking of my grandmother here,” she reminded him. “And yes, I believe it because her husband, James Simpson, told it to us every time we asked him to. He always adored us. Claimed he adored all the children at Merriweather Manor when he was the head butler there.
“But then he fell in love with my grandmother, and when her first husband died, he finally told her,” she explained. “He would do anything for her.”
James inhaled slowly and reached up with a hand to cup the side of her face. “You inherited her beauty,” he whispered.
He watched as her face pinked, but then she quite suddenly stiffened in his hold. A moment later, and she was standing next to the desk with the plate of cake.
Humphrey entered the library a second later.
“Do you wish for me to bring more tea, my lady?”
Emily turned to regard the servant with an expression of sadness. “Oh, would you, Humphrey? I’m afraid I was not quick enough to serve, and now the pot has gone cold,” she replied as she moved to where the butler had set the tea tray.
Humphrey nodded and retrieved the tray. “I’ll return shortly.”
James quickly downed his lukewarm tea, marveling at his hostess’ quick thinking. And then he grunted as the pins and needles of a limb gone to sleep suffused his leg.
He had more questions for Emily, but they would have to wait until dinner.
Chapter 20
Dinner Interrupted
Back in the salon at Trenton House
Frances seemed to think twice before she placed her hand on Gabe’s and allowed him to help her to her feet. “Would you be eating alone if I had not agreed to join you?” she asked in a quiet voice.
Gabe nodded. “Indeed. In fact, I have been doing so for a fortnight.” He led her to the dining room, relieved that Barclay had placed her at his right instead of the opposite end of the long table.
Frances barely noticed the table, her attention on the long sideboard. She struggled to keep her mouth closed as she boggled at the sight of several small porcelain pieces displayed on the thin, top shelf.
Her gaze settled on the tall vase in the center.
“Did your father make that vase?” Gabe asked as he pulled out her chair. His eyes darted sideways as his suspicion grew. “Or did you?”
Frances nearly fell into the chair at hearing his query. “I... I believe I did, actually.”
Gabe settled himself in the carver, remembering how she had reacted to seeing the vase on the hall table. Remembering how Mr. Harris had referred to Frances’ father.
Frank Longworth.
Before he could put voice to another suspicion, a footman appeared and poured wine while another delivered bowls of soup. When they were once again alone, Gabe said, “Now will you tell me the truth? Are you, indeed, Frank Longworth?”
Frances’ eyes darted to the vase on the sideboard and then back to Gabe. “Only if you explain how it is you are in possession of a vase that was commissioned by an earl,” she challenged, proceeding to eat her soup as if she didn’t expect he would reply.
“I assure you, I am not in possession of any vases, my lady.”
She gave him a quelling glance, which he took to mean he had to continue with his explanation. “This townhouse is an entailed property of the Earl of Trenton. The Wedgwood pieces were all gifts from the earl to his wife. His countess,” he replied. He held up a glass of white wine, as if in a toast.
Frances held up her own glass, studying the facets in the Waterford crystal before she took an experimental sip. Of course it was good wine. She wondered how an archivist could afford such an extravagance, and then realized it was probably the earl’s wine. “He has excellent taste,” she murmured, referring to both the wine and the ceramics.
Gabe nodded as he sampled a spoonful of soup. “The countess is quite taken with all of the them. In fact, she would be honored to make your acquaintance, should you be the one who is responsible for having created her favorite pieces.”
Pausing before finishing the last of her soup, Frances stared at him. “The honor would be mutual.”
Allowing a slight grin, Gabe said, “I shall see to it when she and the earl have returned from Italy.”
A pair of footmen appeared with the next dinner course and Frances was prevented from asking the next obvious question—how did he come to live in their house?
When the servants had taken their leave of the dining room, Gabe pulled out the letter he had received from Tom Grandby. “A letter arrived today. Seems we can expect more Grecian pots, but not from the dig site.”
Her attention going to the white parchment he held, Frances wondered why he used “we” when mentioning another shipment of pottery. “If not from the dig, then from where?” she asked as she boggled at the selection of foods that had been set before her.
“A private collector, apparently.” He was relieved to see the footmen had placed the platters on the table and then taken their leave of the dining room.
As he waited for Frances to help herself before he filled his own plate, Gabe was heartened to hear her murmurs of appreciation. He wasn’t surprised at seeing the slices of ham, but he was impressed by the number of side dishes. “Please be sure to take your fill,” he encouraged. “Cook is used to making meals for five and sometimes forgets to scale down the portions.”
“This is more food than I have seen in a very long time,” Frances commented, tucking into the creamed vegetables.
“So... you are usually forced to eat alone as well?”
She straightened, tempted to tell him that her usual dinner companion could barely eat solid food. “I am,” she replied. Her gaze went to the letter Gabe had set down on the corner of the table. “I believe you were about to tell me of your letter.”
Gabe finished a bite of ham. “Have you ever heard of Dr. Darius Jones?”
Frances shook her head, but then her eyes widened. “The archaeologist? Isn’t he the Duke of Westhaven’s brother?” Although she had never paid much attention to aristocrats and their families, she had come to recognize the names of those who had discovered the works on display in the museum.
“Indeed. He is married to an Italian woman and usually lives in Sicily,” Gabe replied. “He knew of ten pots that had been removed from Lord Henley’s excavation site many years ago, and he saw to it they were placed into the hands of a private collector—”
“For profit?” she asked in horror.
Gabe shook his head. “I doubt it. Lord Darius married a woman of some fortune, and I can’t imagine he has ever profited from his work on other digs.” When she seemed satisfied by his response, he added, “When he learned of Lord Henley’s dig, he arranged for the shipment of those ten pots on behalf of the museum.”
Although it wasn’t so unusual for a patron to buy something on behalf of the museum, Frances was intrigued that an antiquarian h
ad done so. “That seems rather generous of him,” she remarked. Her attention on her food, she secretly thrilled at eating her fill of ham. She never purchased the meat unless she could buy only a slice or two from a butcher. “How is it Lord Darius knows Viscount Henley?” she asked then, thinking the two men were at least two decades apart in age.
“They have worked on excavations together for years,” Gabe replied. “Henley is an expert in Greek mosaics, and Dr. Jones tends to prefer Roman relics, so their paths cross frequently,” he explained.
“So... does he say anything about the alteration to the Apollo pot?”
Gabe furrowed his brows before he turned his attention to the letter. “I don’t know.” He unfolded the missive and quickly scanned the letter, thinking he might have missed that particular detail. “He doesn’t mention the Apollo amphora, but that doesn’t surprise me. What you sorted in the coach may very well be true—that the Apollo for which I have a providence has been taken with the hope that the one donated by Mr. Burroughs would take its place.”
“Mr. Burroughs?”
“James Burroughs. He just returned to London to take a position at the Bank of England,” Gabe explained. “He was in Bath for many years before that.”
“Would Mr. Burroughs know who made the alteration?” she asked.
He shook his head. “I cannot imagine it. He’s not a collector—he prefers pots made in Stoke, in fact.”
“Well, if he’s not a collector, then how—?”
“He won them in a game of whist,” Gabe stated. “I’m quite sure he doesn’t recognize their value. Every one of those pots is from the Classical period. They’re all two-thousand years old.”
Frances nearly recoiled at hearing his claim. “So... whoever he won them from probably did the alteration,” she reasoned, wishing she knew what had been used in the way of ink or paint.
“I don’t know. I suppose he might have,” Gabe murmured.
“Who is he?”
“‘A bombastic baron’, is how Burroughs described him,” Gabe said as he pulled one of the calling cards from his pocket and placed it on the table. “Are you familiar with this man?” he asked, a sigh following his response.
Frances lifted the pasteboard card and blinked several times. “James Holland,” she said. “Yes, he’s from Stoke. He’s a painter. He usually does landscapes and flowers, I believe. From where did you get this?”
Gabe pulled the others from his pocket, and she furrowed her brows as she looked at each one in turn. “They’re all the same.”
“There was one at the bottom of every one of those donated pots,” Gabe said.
She leaned back in her chair. “Which means there should be one in the bottom of that altered Apollo pot, if it’s from this same collection,” she reasoned.
“Exactly.”
“No wonder the alteration was so well done,” she breathed. Then her eyes widened.
“What is it?”
“Mr. Holland paints with oils and watercolors,” she said with some excitement. “So it’s probable he did the alteration using either oil paint or watercolor.”
“Ah, so now that you have your answer regarding the kind of paint that was used—”
“If it was watercolor, I may be able to remove it,” she whispered. A brilliant smile appeared before she sobered. “Unless, of course, it’s better to leave the alteration in place.”
Gabe dipped his head. “I’m almost afraid to tell you this, but...” He allowed a sigh.
“What is it?”
“Eight pots. Eight cards. That means there are probably alterations on every single one of those pots,” he said with disgust.
“I’ll take a look at them. See what’s what before those others arrive from the Sea Breeze,” she assured him. “You must have been so pleased to discover these were as old as the others that have been sent.”
Reminded that Tom’s Attic pot had been on the Sea Breeze and was from the same era, Gabe said, “Indeed. I was recently asked to appraise a pelike—a sort of pot-bellied amphora—”
“I know what a pelike is,” Frances said with a prim grin.
“Oh, of course. Well, a private collector, Thomas Grandby, in fact, asked that I take a look at his newest acquisition.” He paused, remembering his reaction to the art on the pelike.
“Did it come from Greece?”
“Yes. And it’s a stunning piece, Frances. No doubt it’s from the Classical period—probably 350 BCE. It depicts the birth of Aphrodite, so both Hermés and Poseidon are included, as is Eros,” he explained. “I must say I look forward to the day when I might be able to acquire one of my own. Although there were probably several versions done back then, I would love a copy of his version,” he said. “Every element of artwork on that pelike is exceptional.”
Frances regarded him a moment, gratified to know he truly appreciated the ancient Greek works. “When do you suppose the next shipment of the museum’s pots will arrive?”
“I expect we’ll see them Monday,” Gabe said. At her look of surprise, he added, “They were sent on the Sea Breeze, which is already in the docks in Wapping.”
Furrowing a brow, Frances asked, “How it is you know that?”
“Mr. Grandby’s pelike arrived on that same ship three... four days ago,” Gabe replied.
Frances nodded her understanding and continued eating until she suddenly straightened. “Today is Saturday?” she half-asked.
“Yes.”
“Oh, dear,” she whispered, her eyes widening. “I apologize, Mr. Wellingham—”
“Gabe.”
“—but I really must be going. I cannot believe I...” She set her napkin on the table and pushed her chair back.
Frowning, Gabe asked, “What is it?”
She was halfway up from her chair. “Mrs. Hough will be angry. I cannot be late on Saturdays,” she said, as if her response was enough of an explanation.
Gabe stood up and hurried to the door. “Barclay!” he called out. “Let the driver know we must depart as quickly as possible.”
“You needn’t come with me,” Frances said as she passed him and nearly ran to the vestibule in her haste to take her leave.
Following her, Gabe said, “I will escort you, of course. I promised to see you home safely.”
Barclay helped her into her redingote and offered her the muff once she had the buttons closed. Meanwhile, Gabe had helped himself to his own greatcoat and top hat. “Barclay, give our apologies to the cook. I’ll be back later this evening.”
“Very good, sir,” the butler responded as he and Frances rushed out the front door and climbed into the town coach.
The driver opened the trap door in the ceiling. “Where to, sir?”
Gabe looked to Frances, who appeared as if she was about to cry. “Number nine, Kingly Street,” she called up. “And please hurry.”
When the driver acknowledged the address, the door closed and the town coach lurched into motion.
“Is Mrs. Hough your... your land lady?” Gabe guessed. Perhaps Frances lived in a boarding house, and there was a curfew.
But Frances shook her head. “I suppose you could call her that,” she replied, her eyes tightly closed.
Gabe noted her distress and moved to her side of the coach, an arm wrapping around the back of her shoulders once he was settled in the squabs. “What is wrong?” he asked in a whisper. “Tell me, please.” He pulled a handkerchief from his waistcoat pocket and offered it to her.
“The time. I must be there by eight o’clock on Saturdays, or...” She allowed the sentence to drift off and shook her head. Tears dripped from her cheeks, and she finally accepted the square of linen from him.
“You lose your room?”
She shook her head. “No.”
“She calls the constable and claims you’re a thief?”
Frances’ mouth dropped open, and she turned to stare at him. “No!”
Gabe furrowed both brows. “She assesses an exorbitant fine for your tard
iness?”
Frances sniffled. “Possibly.” After another moment, she added, “Probably.” Fresh tears fell, and Gabe felt her entire body shake as she sobbed.
Gabe gently tugged on her shoulder until her head finally dropped onto his shoulder. “This is my fault,” he whispered, lowering his hand to rest atop hers. “I insisted you join me this evening. I will make it right, I promise.”
“You needn’t,” she whispered, the words barely heard over the sound of the coach wheels as they sped east in Oxford Street. “I should have remembered that today was Saturday. Had it been any other day, my later arrival would not be so bad, but Saturdays...” A sob escaped.
“Please allow me to do what I can,” he urged. “I rather enjoyed our dinner together, and I would be bereft if it was to be our last over this... whatever it is.”
The coach took a sharp turn to the right and slowed to a stop. “That was quick,” Frances said as she straightened, her voice filled with hope. “What time is it?”
Gabe struggled to read his pocket watch in the light of the coach lanterns. “It’s only a quarter past eight,” he replied.
The door opened and Frances shot out of the coach as if shot out of a cannon, a muted, “Oh, no, no, no,” sounding as she made her exit.
Gabe struggled to get up and out of the squabs, hurrying after the potter as she ran up to the front door of a townhouse. A series of them were located on both sides of the street, and Gabe was sure he had paid a call on one of them at some point in the past.
Before he could remember any details, though, the door opened and an older woman appeared. Her arms crossed as she angled her head and regarded Frances with what Gabe could only describe as a sour expression. From somewhere inside, the cries of a baby made their way to his ears.
“I apologize, Mrs. Hough. I was detained—”
“You know the rules, Mrs. Longworth. No later than eight o’clock—”
“I have told you there might be times when I would not be able to leave my position—”
“He’s been the absolute worst this evening. Howling for the past two hours. I cannot even hear myself think.”
The Puzzle of a Bastard Page 14