The Archaeologist's Daughter (Regency Rendezvous Book 3)

by Summer Hanford

  His firm knock reached the parlor. She swiveled from the window and flipped open her book. Her lips pressed into a firm line, she forced herself to take in the words so her pose of reading wouldn’t be a lie. A moment later, footsteps sounded in the hall. She looked up.

  He was alone, his long form framed in the doorway. No one had bothered to escort him to her. No one was there to chaperone them. Grace must have spoken to the others. They were likely all a party to her scheme of seeing Lanora wed to William.

  “Lady Lanora.”

  At the sound of his rich, deep voice, a thrill went through her. She set aside her book. She used to think chaperones a silly thing, pointless. Now, she desperately wished for one. She wanted to talk, to hear him out and coolly evaluate his words. Left alone, she wasn’t certain that would happen. In Lethbridge’s office, her anger had vanished the moment his mouth met hers. It had taken all her will to call it back.

  William held out the bouquet. Not London hothouse blooms. Wildflowers, from the country. Lanora felt another bit of her resolve not to be taken in slip away. She stood, and crossed the room to accept them.

  “Thank you. They’re lovely.”

  “I thought they might remind you of home.”

  They did. How could they not? “I should call for water.”

  “I think they will keep.”

  “Refreshments…” She forgot what words came next as he stepped into the room. He looked down at her with such intensity, she wondered if he would kiss her then and there.

  “Shall we sit?” A spark of amusement glimmered in his eyes.

  Amuse him, did she? Well, she was acting like a ninny, so she couldn’t blame him. She nodded, moving to the couch. She lay the flowers on the table before her.

  He didn’t take the other side of the coach, as she expected. Instead, he settled into the chair beside her, his knee brushing hers. “Thank you for letting me call.”

  “Grace persuaded me I may have been rash in my judgement of you.”

  “Grace is a good friend. I’m lucky you have her.”

  He said it without a hint of reservation. Could he mean it? “She is very dear to me.”

  “I can see why. It’s clear she has your best interests at heart.”

  Lanora pressed her lips closed, resisting the urge to clench her hands. Why was she so nervous? She was the wronged party, not the one who needed to win him over. “You broke into Mr. Lethbridge’s office.”

  “And found you there.” He was amused again.

  Was he always so confident? “Why did you break in?”

  “When you asked me, I’d already written to Darington, and heard back. He definitely requested the funds. So I investigated Mr. Finch, the foreman in charge of getting the building up. I didn’t find him to be overly suspicious, so I followed the trail of money back to Lethbridge.”

  “You’d already written to Mr. Darington? Why not tell me so?”

  “I wanted to find an answer for you first. I meant to impress you.”

  She flushed. “Oh.” He’d broken into Mr. Lethbridge’s office for her? “Picking locks is an odd skill for a future marquess.”

  “Is it?” He grinned, an infectious expression.

  So, he didn’t deny he’d picked the lock. How could he seem so honest, yet seem as if he always hid the truth from her? “You wouldn’t have found anything. Well, maybe.” She recalled the locked box behind the painting. “But I looked through all his files. There was nothing about Darington’s home for women. Nothing from Darington at all, though I know him to be a client.”

  “I saw fragments of one letter. Burned. In the grate.”

  Lanora frowned. “How odd.”

  “Is that why you were there? To look for clues about the home for women?”

  If he was being honest, it behooved her to be as well. “No. I followed a man who was following you. He waited outside your mistress’s house. I…I wanted to confront you when you came out, but you never did, so I followed him, instead. That’s when I overheard Mr. Lethbridge talking about having taken Mr. Darington’s money.” Should she tell him about the heiress? It hardly seemed the time.

  His expression became closed. “I see.”

  Silence stretched between them, empty and harsh. William leaned back in his seat. Lanora’s gaze dropped to the flowers on the table.

  “Is she pretty?” she finally asked, feeling forlorn.

  “She is, but she is not my mistress. I believe I told you that.” He was guarded, his smile a memory.

  “You did, but it seems very difficult to believe.” How could he look at her the way he did, proclaim love for her, and yet cling to his mistress? “I assume you were with her when you didn’t appear at the theater.”

  William ran a hand through his tousled hair, his expression closed. Meeting her eyes, he leaned forward and captured her hand. “I swear to you, she is not my mistress.” His voice was low, as intense as his expression. “Who she is, that’s not my secret to tell. Someone is seeking her. If she’s found, she’ll be in danger for her life. I shouldn’t even admit to you she isn’t my mistress, but I don’t believe you will tell, or be believed if you did. That is all I can say of her. Please, don’t press me on this.”

  Lanora blinked, sorting through his words. “Her life?” She hadn’t expected that.

  He rubbed his thumb over the back of her hand. “Do you think anything less serious would make me keep this from you? Lanora, you must believe me.”

  She wanted to. She longed to. Slowly, she nodded.

  She could see the relief that washed over him. He smiled again, his large hand warm as it clasped hers. “A man never had so much trouble over a pretend mistress.”

  “You must admit, you put up a good show. The house, on that street, with someone living inside. You go there often.” She grimaced. “At least, it seems that way.”

  “Having me followed, are you?” There was laughter in his voice. “So you do care.”

  “Why is Lethbridge having you followed?” Her tone was dry. “From what I overheard, he doesn’t care.”

  “For the marquess. I told you, he requires me to be a certain sort of man. His sort. To be worthy of his holdings. To that end, he ordered Lethbridge to have me followed. My every movement is reported to him.”

  It seemed ridiculous. Outrageous. How could a father behave that way? Yet, it also seemed true. William’s clipped words and cold tone when he spoke of his father, the shadow in his blue-green eyes. It all spoke of a terrible relationship with an awful man. “So you couldn’t have courted anyone before? Not until he deemed it time?”

  “I suppose I might have, though I knew he didn’t wish me to wed too early. He’s terribly afraid I shall fall in love with some woman and go soft.”

  “But won’t he think you have? You took me riding. You brought me flowers.”

  William shook his head. “He ordered me to court you. He can’t have it both ways. Besides, there is my mistress. So long as I keep that house, he won’t worry I love you.” His expression hardened. “I admit, if he discovers I do, he’ll do all in his power to separate us.”

  Lanora brought her free hand to her chest, a jolt of worry going through her. “How can you think he won’t discover it? I’m sure Grace has told the entire staff.”

  “She said they can’t be bought.”

  “Bought? No, of course not, but they won’t think it’s a secret that you love me. They’ll simply tell people. They’re certain to be excited about it. Wouldn’t you be, if someone you loved found happiness?”

  He frowned. She saw him struggle with the idea.

  A horrible thought came to her. “Is there anyone in your life who you love, who loves you?”

  He jerked as if struck.

  “I’m sorry. It was wrong of me to ask such a thing.”

  William shook his head, slowly. “It wasn’t and yes, of course there is. There’s Darington.” He raised her hand to kiss. “There’s you.”

  “And the woman in the hou
se, who you shelter so diligently.”

  “Yes, and her.”

  Lanora felt a pang at his agreement. She wouldn’t put him through the same questions again, though. She would trust his words. “The staff will already have told people. You can be sure of it.”

  He smiled, but the edges were brittle. “Hopefully the marquess will discount such sentiment as impossible.”

  “How can you live with such a father?” she whispered.

  He looked away, angling a blank stare toward the wall opposite him. He swallowed, once, but his expression was empty. “You don’t get to choose your father.”

  She reached out, lay a hand along his jaw to draw him back to her, but he didn’t move. “Or your mother.” Yes, her mother had died, but his had gone mad. So mad, his father sent him away. All knew the marchioness had died in the madhouse, insane. Lanora felt his jaw jump, his teeth grind together.

  “I don’t care to speak of my mother.”

  She dropped her hand. No, of course, he didn’t. What was she thinking? “You say your father wishes you to marry so he may approve of your choice. Why now?”

  “He’s dying.” There was no missing the cold glee that sparked in his eyes.

  She nodded, pressing back shock. “And if you do not marry to his liking, your sister inherits his fortune?”

  “Correct.”

  “But you want the money, so you can help people, and that would include her, yes?”

  “Yes.”

  He was closed off now. Pain lived inside him, and she’d brought it too near the surface. He was answering her, true, and with all appearance of honesty. A wide gulf had opened between them, though. It filled her with unease. She couldn’t love half a man, pretending the other half didn’t exist.

  “Do you care for your sister?”

  He frowned. “I hardly know Madelina.”

  “How can that be?” She asked it before she realized it must have to do with his exile to Egypt.

  “She’s the daughter of my first stepmother. We lived under the same roof for three years. She was seven when the marquess sent her away. I haven’t seen her once in the past nine years.”

  Lanora pressed her lips together. He answered her questions, but he was so cold. She’d never felt such distance between them. Not even in the moment her aunt had introduced them. He still clasped her fingers, but his grip was lax, as if he didn’t recall he did so.

  She pulled her hand free, bringing both up to his face this time, one on either side of his jaw. Exerting pressure, she forced him to look at her. “William, whatever happened in your life, it matters not to me. All I want to know is what sort of man you are now, today. I simply wish to understand you.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  To understand him? William shut his eyes, letting the warmth of her wash over him. What was he doing, dwelling in the memories Lanora inadvertently dredged up? He was permitting the marquess to ruin even this, his chance to win the woman he loved.

  He opened his eyes and saw her worry. He claimed her hands in his, rubbed his thumbs over smooth skin, reveled in the softness. “And I wish for you to understand, to know me. I came today to convince you I am the man I claim to be. I didn’t mean to become trapped in the past.”

  She offered a tentative smile. “I shouldn’t have pried. It’s not my place.”

  “It is. I want it to be.” He would lay every secret bare to her, even the ones he’d already sworn not to, if he could have her by his side. “I brought these.” He released her to pull out the letters. “You know Darington is my confidant. I have only his side of our conversations, but I think they will reassure you.”

  She shook her head. “You don’t have to give them to me.”

  “No, but I wish to. These are only the latest few. They talk of the home for displaced women.”

  Her eyes dropped to the letters he proffered. She frowned. Snatching them from his hand, she brought one close, scrutinizing his address. “What is this?” She flipped it open, her eyes darting about the page. “Is this some mad game?” She looked up at him, angry.

  William shook his head. He’d hardly recovered from the feelings she’d stirred, the bitter memories. Now, she was angry. He felt as if he stood in the ring, but couldn’t see the opponent who kept pummeling him. “I don’t understand.”

  Lanora held up the open letter, Darington’s scrawl filling the page. “What is the meaning of this?”

  “It’s a letter from Darington. I believe he speaks of the home for women, and his daughter, as well as some of his latest finds. There’s also an ongoing discussion on Euripides and the impact of Athenian culture on—”

  “This is my father’s handwriting.”

  William stared at her. “No, it’s Darington’s.”

  She turned the letter back around. She shook her head. “It’s my father’s. I would know it anywhere.”

  William had no idea what to make of her words. Had she gone mad?

  “Wait here.” She jumped up. She was out of the room, his letters still in her hand, before he grasped her intent.

  He looked about, bereft. He took several slow breaths to try to calm his roiling thoughts. Sitting there alone, he finally noted the details of the parlor. Before, he could see only Lanora. Now, he took in the fine furnishings. Elegant but outdated. Not from lack of funds, that was clear. From lack of anyone caring. Long dead family members looked down from the mantel, not Lanora’s mother or father.

  His eyes fell on her book. Ancient Greek again. What woman read Ancient Greek?

  One who’d gone mad and run off with his letters. Should he go after her? What was she playing at? Maybe this was the torment she’d devised for his imagined transgressions.

  He shifted in the chair. His side throbbed. He’d suffered worse, but not many times. Cecilia had been an excruciating near half hour digging the bullet out. Not that he regretted the injury. Dodger was a good lad. William meant to see him brought up well, educated.

  Where the devil was Lanora?

  Rapid footsteps sounded in the hall. Though they were light, and alone, he braced himself. Only Lanora entered, bosom heaving from running. He forced his attention back to her face. This was not a time for distraction.

  She perched on the edge of the sofa, crowding him, which he didn’t mind. He did mind the wild look in her green eyes. She dropped a stack of letters in her lap, waving one at him.

  “You see?” Her voice was as animated as the rest of her. “This? This is a letter from my father.” She fluttered the letter he’d brought in her other hand. “This is your letter from Mr. Darington. What ridiculous thing have you done, William? Did you copy my father’s penmanship in some bid to make false letters appear more convincing?”

  Reaching out, he captured her slender wrists. “I can’t see anything with you shaking them about.”

  “Tell me what you’ve done. I believe you have a good heart. I really do. I’m sure you did this out of affection.”

  “I haven’t done anything,” he said, scrutinizing the letters.

  The handwriting was the same. Irrefutably so. An expert forger or…. Releasing her, he took the letters, turning them over and back. The same paper. They shared an office in Cairo. “A clerk?”

  Lanora shook her head. “No, that is my father’s hand. I’ve seen it my whole life. I can bring you old letters, from years ago.”

  “Could Darington dictate to your father for some reason?” But why dictate letters for so many years, and why would Lord Solworth play the role of scribe?

  “You lived with him in Egypt. Don’t you know if this is his handwriting?”

  William dropped his gaze. Lanora was dangerously near the truth. Did he dare tell her? Moments ago, he’d vowed to, but that was before the handwriting. Now, he didn’t know what to think. Good God, what if she and her father were conspiring with the marquess? But to what end?

  That was the answer. The marquess. The old man would know the truth.

  William folded Lord Solworth’s
letter. “May I borrow this? I will take it to the marquess and demand an explanation.”

  “That’s your answer to me? That you know nothing and must leave?” Her look was incredulous.

  “It is. Give me an hour. Perhaps two. I will return with the truth.” All of it, if she wasn’t part of this.

  Lanora threw up her hands. “Do as you will, but do not fail to return with some explanation. I believe you, William. I am taking you at your word about who you are, and what you know of this.” Her green eyes were luminous, beseeching. “Please don’t break my trust.”

  The need to kiss her was nearly insurmountable, as if this might be his final chance. Refusing to believe that, he tucked the letters into his coat and stood. “By your leave.” With a nod, he left.

  William strode from the townhouse, wincing as he jogged down the steps. “Take me to the old man,” he ordered his driver, and climbed into the carriage. It wasn’t until he set out that he realized he’d left the bulk of Darington’s letters behind.

  Hooves clattered on cobblestone. William winced with each bounce. He hadn’t told his man to hurry. Evidently, his attitude had been enough.

  They reached the old man’s townhouse in record time. William took the steps at a quick pace, giving the butler the barest nod as he shouldered open the door and hurried by. To his surprise, footsteps sounded behind him.

  “My lord.”

  The butler never spoke without being addressed. William halted, turned.

  “My lord, the marquess is not in his office.”

  “He’s not?” William pulled out his watch. The old man was always in his office at this time of day.

  “He’s above stairs. In bed.”

  William tucked the watch away. He eyed the staircase. He hadn’t entered the private areas of the house in nearly a decade. “I see.”