A Rogue Meets a Scandalous Lady: Mackenzies, Book 11

by Ashley Jennifer

  “If it is, it’s cold, dark, and damp and half a mile from my uncle’s house. You are hurt.” Sophie cupped his cheek, brushing away earth and blood with her gloved thumb.

  “Heaven,” David said with conviction. “And music. Look.”

  He repositioned himself on all fours and swiped dirt from the floor.

  A painted eye stared back at them. Its pupil was a rich brown, the lid pale ivory lined with black lashes and one black arched brow.

  “Good heavens.” Sophie gaped then helped David brush away more grit and mud to reveal once-smooth tile. “It’s a mosaic.”

  She understood in a moment why David had gone on about music. He revealed part of a lyre, being plucked by the person with the keen brown eye. More frantic rubbing revealed another figure, smaller and female, with a flute.

  “Orpheus,” David said excitedly. “Master of music.”

  “Not necessarily,” came a voice from above. The opening darkened as Uncle peered down at them. “Could simply be a chap playing at an entertainment, flute girls at his side.” The dry tone left Uncle Lucas and he clasped his hands in joy. “My dear fellow, you’ve found my floor.”

  “No, indeed,” David said. “Sophie had been diligently digging at this spot while I was vagabonding. I only widened the hole. With my body.”

  Sophie had to grin. “You could say he stumbled upon it.”

  David’s eyes began to sparkle. “I dropped in, and there it was.”

  “You unearthed it. Needing no shovel.”

  “No, indeed,” David said. “It was a bodily blunder.”

  Sophie laughed, the sound echoing strangely in the close hole. David’s smile was warm, genuine—happy.

  The expression transformed his face, erasing the tired disdain, revealing David the man. Decadence fell away to make him more handsome than ever, never mind the abrasions on his cheeks.

  His smile faded as he and Sophie studied each other, but his mask did not drop back into place. Sophie lifted her hand to hover near his hurt face.

  David quickly glanced at the opening, which was light again, Uncle having vanished. “He’s gone very quiet up there.”

  Sophie jerked her hand away and scrambled to her feet, careful of the mosaic. When she stood up fully, her head reached just above the hole. “Uncle?”

  Uncle Lucas had fallen to his knees, his hands pressed together in prayer. A tear trickled from his closed eyes.

  “Are you well, Uncle?” Sophie asked softly.

  David rose next to her, his body and hers close in the narrow opening. His warmth both comforted and unnerved her.

  Uncle Lucas opened his eyes, his face wet, a smile beaming. “I was thanking God for his guidance, and asking forgiveness for being so excited about earthly pleasures.” Uncle climbed to his feet, brushing mud from his knees. “My dear friends, this is a wonderful, wonderful thing. Thank you for making an old man’s dream come true.”

  * * *

  “One bit of floor is a long way from an intact Roman villa,” David told Dr. Pierson as they packed up their tools for the evening.

  Pierson had decided to cover the floor again but mark it, placing stones around the edges of the hole so animals or wandering humans would not fall through the pocket of earth as David had.

  “Even if I find only this mosaic, I will be happy,” Pierson said with continued good cheer. “I knew I was right.”

  “Yes, you were.” David clapped him on the back. Sophie had already headed for the house, her trim form a fine sight moving down the path toward the vicarage. “I have a suggestion. Let me send word to my friend El—the Duchess of Kilmorgan. She’s an amazing photographer. If anyone can capture this floor before it’s damaged by sun, wind, water, or curious antiquities seekers, it is she.”

  Pierson’s brows went up. “Eleanor, the woman you wished to marry?”

  David waved the objection away. “That was a long time ago. We’re both older and far more sensible. Besides, she’s madly in love with her husband.”

  Pierson looked at him in his penetrating way. “What about you?”

  “Me?” David attempted a grin. “I do admire Hart and consider him a great friend, but I’m not in love with him, no.”

  “You know I meant his wife,” Pierson said without humor.

  David gazed at the arches of the ruined abbey in the distance, the evening made bleaker because Sophie had reached the vicarage and gone inside. He preferred to dance around truth because truth could be so exposing, embarrassing, and gut-wrenching, but he was ready to acknowledge things had changed in his life.

  “I am no longer in love with Eleanor Ramsay.” He could say it with clarity, because it was true. “As I said, that foolishness was a long time ago. I am now friends with the Duchess of Kilmorgan. She truly is the best photographer in Britain, but no one will admit that because she’s a woman. All smile about her dabbling, more fool they. If you want a good record of this find, invite her.”

  “What about Sophie?”

  David growled in irritation. “Why are you asking me about all these ladies? What about Sophie? I imagine she will welcome the assistance. I’m obviously useless except by accident.”

  He touched the cheek that still smarted from landing on ancient decorative stone. His elbow, knee, and hip didn’t feel sound either, and his new suit was much torn and grimy. Why he’d bothered with the damned thing, he had no idea.

  Yes, he did know. He’d wanted Sophie to think him both well turned out and practical-minded. Circumstances had proved him neither.

  “You are deuced obtuse sometimes, Fleming,” Pierson surprised him by saying. “I will speak plainly so you will understand. Sophie is forming a tenderness for you, whether I approve or not. It would be awkward for her if the woman you once proposed to pushed her way in to our dig.”

  David listened in amazement. “What the devil are you talking about—a tenderness? Sophie wishes me at the bottom of the sea. She’d have left me in that hole, and good riddance, if I hadn’t fortuitously landed on a bit of Roman tile. Besides, Eleanor would never push her way in. In spite of the way she rattles on, she is a perceptive woman. She’ll give all credit to you and Sophie for the floor, snap her photographs, and go home. I suggested her because your books will be treasured forever if you include brilliant photographs to accompany your rather dry prose. But if you want blurred shots from, say, myself, then by all means, keep Eleanor far away.”

  David was surprised at his vehemence, and at Pierson’s silence. He wished the world would find something else to talk about besides David’s youthful passions. He had let Eleanor go in his heart some time ago—he would be happy when everyone else caught up.

  “I see.” Pierson watched him a while longer, reminding David without words that this man was far wiser than he liked to let on. He at last gave David a terse nod. “I suppose we can write to the duke.”

  “Or I could be terribly efficient and telegraph Eleanor this evening. Knowing her, she’ll set off at once and arrive by morning.”

  Pierson shook his head. “You do like to rush about where angels fear to tread.”

  “Always have. But you want your floor recorded for posterity, don’t you? Best to start immediately.”

  The appeal to his find clinched matters, as David knew it would. Pierson gave in with a sigh.

  “Off you go. Send your wires. I’ll break the news to Sophie.”

  He turned and shuffled toward the vicarage, the very picture of a worried guardian.

  He worried for no reason, David thought irritably as he turned up the collar of his coat, settled his mud-smeared hat, and took the path to the village and its train station, which housed the telegraph office. Sophie didn’t give a damn about David’s past, nor would she feel any awkwardness about Eleanor. Why should she?

  He was correct that Sophie would be very glad to see the back of David Fleming. He knew it in his bones.

  * * *

  Sophie was up early the next morning, washed and dressed, her hair n
eat, her boots scrubbed free of yesterday’s earth. She paced to the edge of the garden, pretending to take air after breakfast—so what if she timed the walk to coincide with the arrival of the Duchess of Kilmorgan?

  Ever since Uncle had come in last evening announcing that David was striding to the village to telegraph the woman, Sophie hadn’t been able to settle herself.

  The duchess was one of the best-known hostesses in London. The ladies of the haut ton either adored Eleanor or reviled her, depending on their husbands’ political stances. Laurie had commanded that the duchess be nowhere on Sophie’s guest lists.

  Therefore, Sophie did not know what to expect from her. She’d seen Eleanor at art openings and the like, which ladies from different factions attended, as long as they kept to their own sides of the room. The duchess was a red-haired woman who was very stylish though not a slave to fashion. She’d wafted about, unbothered by anyone’s opinions, and Sophie had envied her effortless grace.

  Sophie was not surprised David had fallen madly in love with Eleanor. She charmed all who came near her.

  Today, this paragon would arrive at the stone vicarage in a tiny village in the middle of nowhere to photograph Uncle’s mosaic. Not because she was a keen observer of archaeology or out of kindness for Uncle Lucas. She was coming because David asked her to.

  David had been quite cheerful when he’d returned to the vicarage, missing tea, to Mrs. Corcoran’s annoyance. He’d waved the duchess’s return missive in triumph, his spirits high that she’d agreed to come.

  Today. Now.

  A plain black coach belonging to the stationmaster turned down the lane and headed for the vicarage and Sophie in the garden.

  Sophie had expected a duchess to turn up in an elegant landau emblazoned with the ducal coat of arms, eschewing the ordinary train to travel in elegance. But David had said she’d come by rail, chugging out of London at an ungodly hour.

  “No hour is ungodly,” Uncle had chided him gently, and David only grinned.

  The coach slowed, the beefy man who doubled as a porter at the station pulling the horses to a halt. He climbed down ponderously, but before he could open the passenger’s door, a lady’s gloved hand reached through the open window and yanked at the handle.

  “Ah,” David’s voice came behind Sophie. “There you are, old thing.” He strode down the path, air wafting as he passed, and gallantly reached for the descending lady. “Good of you to rush to our aid.”

  A trim foot in a laced-up boot landed on the iron step, followed by a narrow gray tweed skirt that matched a gray jacket buttoned to the duchess’s chin. A wide but plain hat covered a pompadour of red hair, no flowers or feathers or birds that liberally sprinkled women’s hats these days in sight. The duchess had dressed practically for poking about muddy fields, it seemed. Sophie wasn’t certain why the fact irritated her.

  As soon as the duchess’s feet touched the ground, she turned back to the carriage and tugged a case from it. “Don’t call me old thing, and do be useful, David. There is much more in the carriage and another cart coming from the station.”

  She thrust the case into David’s hands and turned a wide smile on Sophie. “How delightful to meet you, Miss Tierney. I believe I saw you at the Royal Academy presentation last year, but of course, I was instructed to snub you, as your husband and mine are on the opposite ends of the political spectrum. Yours wants Scotland firmly under England’s thumb, and Hart wants all claymores raised until the Stone of Scone returns to Edinburgh. But that should not preclude us from being friends. We ladies have to stick together, no matter what our husbands get up to, do you not think?”

  Chapter 9

  The duchess laced her arm through Sophie’s as she spoke, and turned her up the path to the vicarage. Sophie pressed her lips closed against all the questions she wanted to ask and let the duchess more or less march her to the house. Behind them, David threw himself into helping the coachman unload Eleanor’s things, his voice cheerful.

  Uncle Lucas appeared on the doorstep. He’d dressed in his clerical collar and one of his best black coats, though his next service wouldn’t be until the morrow.

  “Your Grace.” He bowed awkwardly. “Welcome to this humblest of abodes. I hope we can make you comfortable, but I am skeptical about that, really.”

  Eleanor stepped inside and took in her surroundings with obvious pleasure. “Nonsense, I prefer small and cozy over large, damp, and draughty any day. Castles such as the one I grew up in are romantic to look at but not to live in, I assure you. And do please dispense with formality. I am Eleanor. If it offends your propriety to address a lady thus, Lady Eleanor will do, though I imagine we will all be shouting at each other by the end of the week without bothering with names.”

  Mrs. Corcoran had left her kitchen in time to hear the last of the speech. She curtseyed. “I’ll take you to your chamber, Your Grace. It’s a bit small but I’ve warmed it well.”

  “Palatial compared to mine,” David said as he struggled in, breathless from his load of cases. “I’m in a closet under the rafters. How you fit a bed up there, Pierson, I have no idea.”

  “It was here when I arrived,” Uncle answered without worry. “Are these the photographic apparatus? How exciting.”

  Eleanor made Mrs. Corcoran happy by going off with her, her effusions of gratitude floating back to them. Uncle hovered over the cases, and David straightened up, pushing his hair from his face. He winked at Sophie, and in spite of Sophie’s nervousness, she wanted to laugh.

  Somehow, the duchess and all her equipment was settled, and she shared a brief luncheon with them before they trooped out to look at the mosaic. Sophie had assumed the woman would want to rest the remainder of the day and perhaps be carried to the site on a litter with a host of servants by her side. Silly, yes, but Sophie hadn’t known what to expect.

  What she discovered was that Eleanor was a fairly normal human being, who’d grown up penniless, in spite of being an earl’s daughter, and appeared at home in the misty countryside. At luncheon she’d steered the conversation to archaeology, getting Uncle to tell her not only about the villa, but other things he’d dug up in the past. By the time the meal was finished, Uncle was besotted, and Eleanor eager to see the mosaic.

  The four walked out, each carrying a case of photographic equipment. The day was gray, but a luminous glow seemed to surround the field.

  “A most excellent specimen,” Eleanor proclaimed as she gazed down at the tiled floor. “The artistry is remarkable, is it not? A piece from so far in the past, and yet we can touch it in the present.” She let out a happy sigh. “Now then, it will be a challenge to photograph in this light. Miss Tierney, if you don’t mind, I will need your help with reflectors and such. Dr. Pierson, you ought to also have an artist sketch this. Why not David? He draws like an angel.”

  “Do angels draw?” David asked in his lazy way. “I wouldn’t think they’d have the time, what with all the harping and having to look after sinners like me.”

  “You know what I mean. If you do not have a sketch pad and pencils, procure some, please. The photos might not turn out, but a very good drawing will preserve this mosaic for all time. Like the Description de l'Égypte by Napoleon’s savants.”

  David looked dismayed. “I’m not certain my draftsmanship is up to theirs.”

  “No matter. It will be good enough. Now, may I go down? Miss Tierney, will you accompany me?” Eleanor scrambled into the hole with only Uncle’s hand to guide her.

  Sophie wouldn’t dream of remaining on solid ground while the duchess dropped into the dirty cave. She began to follow, then started when a pair of strong hands caught her around the waist.

  She looked up into David’s face, too close, his eyes briefly meeting hers. He lifted her, then set her gently down on the edge of the mosaic. Sophie caught Eleanor’s glance and the hint of her smile before the duchess turned away.

  “Mmm.” Eleanor gazed about, careful not to step directly on the tiles. “Reflectors, de
finitely. We’ll have to beam light here, and here.” She pointed. “David will have to help. He can work hard, contrary to the indolent nature he displays.”

  “I do hear you, El,” David said from above.

  “It’s rather foolish of him, this decadent man-about-town he insists upon portraying, when very few work longer hours or do more than Mr. Fleming. And then he gazes at one in astonishment when praised for his accomplishments.”

  “I’ll be returning to London, I think.” David’s tone was pained. “Then you can talk me over to your heart’s content while I sip brandy in my warm and comfortable club.”

  “Nonsense, I need you here to hold things.” Eleanor dusted off her hands. “I will have to ponder how to arrange my gear, but for now, I believe a cup of tea for us all will be best.”

  The bulk of David’s body blocked the light as he bent over the hole. “Do you mean we lugged all this out here only to lug it back again?”

  “Of course not,” Eleanor said, her blue eyes wide. “We can store it in Dr. Pierson’s shed. But the light is too bad today, and shooting into this hole will be tricky. We might as well have a nourishing cup of tea while we make plans. Help us out, will you, gentlemen?”

  Sophie could only admire how Eleanor mustered the troops. Within minutes, the equipment was stored, and they strolled back to the vicarage.

  Eleanor, her arm firmly through Sophie’s, slowed her steps, letting the gentlemen surge ahead. When David hesitated to wait for them, Eleanor waved him off. David’s expression turned wary, but he walked on, catching up to Uncle Lucas who was bent on the warm vicarage and tea.

  “Now then, my dear,” Eleanor began. “I doubt we’ll have much time to ourselves, so you must tell me everything immediately.”

  Sophie wet her lips, which the wind had dried. “Everything about what, Your Grace? I mean, Lady Eleanor.”

  Eleanor gave her a patient look. “You know exactly what I mean. Your marriage, your divorce, why David is meddling in it, and what you think of him. I see the way you look at him, so it is obvious to me what is in your head, but I want to hear it from your lips. Are you in love with him?”