They hurried back to the basement and parted ways, Frances immediately moving to her shelves to look for the amphora. Nothing stored there was as large as the Apollo, though.
Meanwhile, Gabe entered his cramped office, cringing at the papers that lay scattered on his desk. He’d intended to leave it more tidy, but he’d run out of time. Frances had appeared at his door to let him know she had changed her mind.
Had that only been a day ago? He glanced at his chronometer.
Almost exactly.
What if he hadn’t insisted she join him for dinner?
She would have arrived at number nine Kingly Street well before her deadline, and the issue with her landlord would never have occurred.
Her landlord would still be an old crone, though.
Poor David!
“You’ll never find it staring at your desk,” Frances whispered from the doorway.
Gabe gave a start. “Of course not,” he murmured, quickly seeing to the matter at hand. He checked under the desk and then perused the set of shelves that took up one end of the room. Only a few artifacts were there, though. Small pots waiting to be catalogued. Nothing as large as the Apollo.
His gaze went to a cylindrical ceramic container, obviously modern. Before he could examine it more closely or look at the paperwork that sat beneath it, Frances stepped in and shut the door behind her.
“What had your attention so completely just now?”
“Thoughts of you, of course,” Gabe replied, finally turning away from the shelf. “Of how different today would have been if I’d let you get away last night.”
Her expression of amusement disappeared. “Are you having second thoughts?”
He shook his head. “I am not. I’m wondering how I would have convinced you to give me a second chance.” He joined her where she stood. “Make that a first chance. I fear if I had attempted to kiss you again, you would have slapped me across the...”
He couldn’t finish his thought. Not with her lips colliding with his. Not with her entire body pressed against his front. When she finally pulled away and her heels once again touched the floor, she angled her head and said. “Or I might have just done that,” she murmured.
Staring at her a moment, Gabe pondered her response. “Oh,” he said as he blinked several times. “Oh! Still, I am rather glad it happened as it did.”
“Me as well,” Frances admitted. She glanced around the office, knowing there was no way the Apollo could be in the cramped space. “What next?”
Reminded of why they were in his office, he said, “The receiving area. I’d like to check any crates that have been opened.”
Her eyes rounded. “You do know that’s a lot of crates?”
Gabe considered the comment. “Perhaps,” he admitted. They took their leave of his office and headed up the stairs and toward the back of the building. At no point did they come across anyone as they made their way as quietly as they could manage.
In the receiving area, the nine crates of pots that had been donated by James Burroughs were where Gabe had found them the night before. “I think it would be a good idea to return the cards to these pots,” he said. “Just in case something happens to another pot.”
“I can do that whilst you look around,” Frances said as she pulled the calling cards from her pocket. She dropped one into each pot as Gabe surveyed the rest of the wooden crates, some of them haphazardly stacked and others neatly arranged. Not a single one of the easily accessed crates contained a Greek pot, which had Gabe rethinking his strategy.
“You’ve worked here longer than I have. Has this sort of thing ever happened before?” he asked as he rejoined her and then led her in the direction of a stairwell that would take them back to the basement.
Frances angled her head to one side and said, “Only once that I know of,” she said quietly.
“Was it found?”
“Indeed.” She paused mid-step.
“What is it? Or rather, what was it?”
Her eyes darting toward the ceiling, Frances seemed to think another moment before she said, “It was more of a mix-up really. One of the keepers had Mr. Peabody order something for his office. A blackboard.” At seeing Gabe’s furrowed brow, she added, “You write on it with chalk.”
“I know what a blackboard is,” Gabe replied.
“Oh. Well, it arrived, but then was delivered to the archivist for the African exhibits. He had no idea why it was brought to him, but he thought it might come in handy, so he had it mounted on one of his office walls and began to use it to track incoming artifacts.”
“That sounds reasonable,” Gabe murmured.
“Meanwhile, the keeper who ordered it wondered why he had received a black mask—one from an African king or some such—since he was the keeper of the ancient Egyptian exhibits.”
Gabe took in a slow breath, just then remembering the modern terra cotta cylinder he had seen on the shelf in his office.
“As it happens, the young man who was seeing to deliveries at the time couldn’t read very well. He saw ‘black’ and just mixed up the two items.”
“Frances, you’re a genius,” Gabe said, his steps quickening as he headed toward his office.
“I am?” She watched as he took off at a run, disappearing into his office.
Before Frances reached the door, he was back out again, carrying the cylindrical pot. “What is that?”
“One ceramic plant container, manufactured by the Apollo Pot Company,” he read aloud from the paper that had been underneath it. “Stoke-on-Trent.”
Frances gasped. “I’ve heard of them, of course,” she said. “But... who ordered a plant container?”
“Well, I certainly didn’t, and I rather doubt Mr. Harris did.” Having a difficult time supporting the pot while trying to read, Gabe offered her the paper. She took it and read it, finally allowing a sigh of frustration. “It only has Mr. Peabody’s name here at the bottom,” she said.
“Then that is where we shall start,” Gabe said as he headed to the other end of the hall. Although the door to the Acquisitions Office was closed, the handle lowered and the latch gave way.
Frances entered first. She stepped aside to reveal the Apollo amphora sitting on the floor next to Mr. Peabody’s desk. A small potted palm, still in its plain nursery pot, had been placed over the mouth of the amphora.
Gabe set the pot he held on the man’s messy desk and held his breath as he removed the potted palm from the top of the amphora. “Is there already soil in there?” he asked, an expression of pain crossing his face.
Frances peered inside and grinned. “None.” She moved the Apollo to the side and motioned for Gabe to set down the other pot in its place. Once he had it in position, he dropped the potted palm into it—the nursery pot nested perfectly inside the cylindrical pot.
“Well, that makes for a rather attractive display,” Frances murmured as she stepped back to admire the palm. “I wonder if Mr. Peabody could find a palm for my workroom.”
Gabe gave her a quelling glance. “Do you think he truly intended to put that tree into my Apollo pot?” he asked in dismay.
She shook her head as she placed the paper onto the middle of Mr. Peabody’s desk. “Darling, if he had, he would have already done so,” she replied. “Although your Apollo is far too large for the palm, the neck is too small for its trunk, so he couldn’t have used it as a planter for this tree if he had wanted to. You had nothing to be worried about.”
Gabe hefted the Apollo pot into his arms. “This belongs in the exhibit hall,” he said as he stepped out of the office.
“Actually, it belongs in my workroom,” she countered. “There’s a bit of painting that has to be done on it, remember?”
Wincing, Gabe asked, “Oh, must you?”
“I’ll be sure it’s removable,” she promised. “Just think. A hundred years from now, some poor potter is going to have to restore all these Attic pots to their original condition because genitals will be in fashion again.”
; “You managed to say that without blushing,” Gabe remarked.
“That’s because you’re a bad influence,” she accused.
He set the pot on Frances’ worktable and arched a brow. “Does that mean I don’t have to worry about you obliterating mine?”
Her eyes rounding, Frances did blush that time. “As long as they do my bidding, you’ve nothing to worry about.”
The two took their leave of the museum in a hurry.
Chapter 33
A Conclave of Cousins at White’s
Later that night at White’s Men’s Club, St. James Street
Gabe found Tom Grandby where he usually sat, a glass of brandy in one hand and a letter in the other. He waited until Tom noticed him before he moved to join him.
“Thank you for meeting me,” Tom said as he stood up and shook hands with his second cousin. “I half expect James to join us. I invited him when I spoke with him this morning.”
“Thank you for the invitation,” Gabe replied, noting a footman was already seeing to his drink. “I take it all was well when you arrived at Woodscastle this morning?”
Tom rolled his eyes. “It was. I may have overreacted.”
“What exactly did you expect to discover?”
“Emily, in bed with James.”
Gabe blinked and then allowed a shrug. “Although I do not know Mr. Burroughs well—I’ve only met him here the one time—I do know Emily. Why, I think she would make a fine match for him.”
“You are right, of course. It’s just, something happened last spring, and ever since, she’s been... different.”
Gabe seemed to think on the comment a moment before he asked, “Did you discover if she was indeed betrothed to Henry Burroughs?”
“She was,” Tom said quietly. At seeing Gabe’s look of pain, he added, “I confirmed it with her this morning.”
“Poor Emily,” Gabe breathed. “She never said a word of it.”
Tom pinched his lips together. “Knowing what I do about him now, I have to admit I am relieved she was never his wife.” He went on to explain the situation, Gabe listening intently.
When he finished, Gabe murmured, “So... he needed Emily’s dowry.”
“Indeed. And I cannot say that I would have discovered the truth before they said their vows. If he had not died, Emily would have been in an impossible situation.”
“Surely you or your father would have helped,” Gabe suggested.
“We would most certainly have seen to an annulment, but that would have left Emily ruined. She wouldn’t have been able to make an advantageous match,” Tom insisted.
Gabe gave him a quelling glance. “You underestimate your sister, for I have always found her agreeable,” he said quietly. “If I had never met Frances, I would have been glad to take Emily to wife.”
Tom considered his words for a moment. “Thank you for saying so.” He took a deep breath and nodded to the footman who delivered their drinks. Then he leaned back and regarded Gabe with an arched brow—a brow that then waggled in a tease. “Frances did say yes this morning, did she not?”
Gabe inhaled. “She did.”
“So what, pray tell, happened last night?”
“We had dinner together.”
“And yet she was there for breakfast this morning.”
Gabe nodded. “Yes. I invited her for breakfast.” There was no need to mention the fact that he had seen to it she was now living in Trenton House.
Tom angled his head to one side. “I recall not even a week ago that when James and I placed our bets, you were quite adamant that you were not considering her for marriage at all.”
“That’s because I wasn’t.”
At that moment, the two became aware of a rather tall man standing next to their chairs. They looked up in unison to find James regarding them with an expression that suggested he had news.
“Did I hear the word marriage?” he asked with a grin.
Gabe stood and shook hands with the older gentleman. “You did. Within a week, I shall owe you some money.”
“And what about me?” Tom asked as the three took their wing-backed chairs.
“Your bet was for six months. His was less than four,” Gabe reminded him.
“Is this the same woman you said was prickly?” James queried.
“She... had a reason to be, but I believe I have seen to it she will no longer be.” Gabe paused. “Prickly, that is. I still expect she will be particular. Which is a necessary trait in our line of work.”
James leaned forward. “What have you done?”
Gabe inhaled before he said, “I proposed. This morning. She finally accepted, and we’re to be married. Soon, I hope.”
James looked to Tom. “Well, it seems you were telling the truth this morning at breakfast.”
Tom gave him a look of chagrin. “Of course I was. And I’d like to think I helped Gabe gain an advantage with the young woman—”
“Advantage?” Gabe repeated. He turned to James. “He made me out to look like a fool.”
“I did my due diligence,” Tom argued. “I had to see to it that she understood just how good a catch you were.”
Confused, James shook his head. “What the hell happened?”
Gabe said, “We had dinner together last night. We spoke of many things, and... well, let’s just say I’ll be a father a bit sooner than I ever expected. Gladly, though. Her son David is—”
“Not yours, I hope,” James interrupted in a whisper.
“Oh, no, of course not. But, I will recognize him as my own, just as soon as I can.”
“How old?”
“About seven months.”
“Seven months?” Tom struggled to keep his voice down. “How can that be?”
“She was with child when she started work at the museum,” Gabe replied, keeping his voice low.
“No one said anything about it,” Tom murmured.
“That’s because no one knew.”
Tom glanced around, as if he feared eavesdroppers. “Why in the devil would she leave Staffordshire if she was with child?”
Gabe hadn’t wanted to explain too much, but Tom was family, and he had a stake in Frances’ position at the museum. “She applied for the position at the museum because she had to get away from her situation in Staffordshire. Away from a man who threatened to give away her secret if she didn’t... accommodate him.”
James’ wince matched Tom’s. “Whatever secret could a woman possess that would be worth that sort of... of blackmail?” James asked in a hoarse whisper.
Gabe directed his answer to Tom. “If I tell you, you must promise me she will not lose her position at the museum.”
“I cannot do that if she’s done something illegal,” Tom argued.
“She has not. Well, other than misrepresent her identity.”
Draining his brandy, Tom gave a nod. “All right. I promise she will not lose her position.”
Gabe inhaled slowly. “She was Frank Longworth.”
Tom narrowed his eyes. “I knew it,” he said.
“What? How?”
“When you spoke of her having done commissions for your father. Those vases were most definitely done by Frank Longworth.”
Clearly not understanding the importance of Gabe’s claim, James furrowed his brows. “Who was Frank Longworth?”
“Frances Longworth,” Gabe replied.
“Not the daughter... or... or the widow of Frank Longworth?” Tom half-asked.
“Daughter of,” Gabe replied. “But when the real Frank Longworth suffered an apoplexy and could no longer create pottery, she took his place at the potters’ wheel.”
“And this Frank is important... how?” James queried, obviously still confused.
“He... she created pottery on commission at Wedgwood’s studio up in Staffordshire,” Gabe replied. “Beautiful pieces. All attributed to Mr. Francis Longworth.”
“I have one of Longworth’s vases in my office,” Tom murmured.
Gabe
said, “My mother has at least five, including the large urn on the table in the front hall. All of them were commissioned by my father.”
Tom gave a nervous laugh, and then he sobered. “She must have been rather proud to see one of her pieces so prominently displayed.”
“She was not.”
When Tom frowned, Gabe added, “She couldn’t understand how it was that pieces she had created under commission ended up in a house to which she had been invited to dinner.”
“Surely she knew she was in Trenton House,” Tom remarked.
Gabe didn’t reply, but James allowed a guffaw.
Rolling his eyes, Tom remembered their discussion over breakfast. “You hadn’t told her you were Trenton’s son.”
“I hadn’t, but she knows now.”
Another brandy appeared at Tom’s elbow, and he was quick to take a drink. “Prickly, was she?”
“Damn you,” Gabe countered.
“Oh, good God,” James said suddenly. “That’s probably when you had to tell her you’re a bastard and won’t inherit the title.”
“Oh, I already had,” Gabe said. “I mean, I had told her I was a bastard, but that was before she learned who my father was. Is.”
Tom leaned forward. “How did the topic even come up?”
Gabe regarded his brandy a moment before a brilliant smile lit his face. “David is about the same age I was when father found out about me,” he said in a quiet voice. “Which brings me to the reason I came tonight, even though I would much rather be at home with them.”
“Oh?” Tom and James weren’t sure if they should be offended or impressed.
“I was wondering if you might consider being his godfather?”
A laugh erupted from Tom before he sobered. “I am honored, of course,” he murmured. “But... I am not married—”
“Your cousin Milton was not, either, but he took on over twenty godsons and goddaughters before he took a wife,” Gabe reminded him.
Dipping his head, Tom said, “True.” He gave the request a moment of thought. So far, none of his siblings had requested he be the godfather for their offspring, but then, he was already their uncle. “Perhaps it’s time I consider such matters.”
The Puzzle of a Bastard Page 25