The Defiant Lady Pencavel

by Diane Scott Lewis

  “I wondered why you didn’t wear black. Very well. Over this way then. We are in luck that this new king Ferdinand IV, and his wife, encourage the better managed excavations.” Sir Arthur fanned his handkerchief in front of his face, his beak of a nose beet red. “Their director of archaeological works, Francesco La Vega, champions the cause.”

  “So I have him to thank for me blisters? Where’s a chariot when I need one?” Clowenna dug around in the basket and pulled out a flask. She drank deeply, then passed the leather receptacle to Melwyn.

  “Aren’t I supposed to drink first, you gluttonous harpy?” Melwyn sighed, giving up hope of ever changing her abigail. She sipped the cool punch, savoring the delicious and new flavor of pomegranate. “That’s just what I needed.”

  “Over there they’ve began to uncover the Via delle Tombe with the Villa di Diomede.” Sir Arthur waved his damp handkerchief in that direction. “This huge villa was built with staggered floors.”

  “Did everyone live in villa’s? Where’d the poor folk live?” Clowenna asked.

  “No one cared about the poor, sadly enough.” Melwyn approached the Villa of Diomedes on the south side of the Via dei Sepolcri. She walked up the steps to the entrance, which opened onto a peristyle, or courtyard. She found shade in the shadow of the colonnade and swiped damp tendrils of hair from her cheeks with the back of her hand.

  Clowenna heaved up the basket and followed with a heavy sigh. “This not be as excitin’ as ‘ee led me to believe. Never thought I’d miss the rains o’ Cornwall.”

  “The villa is thought to be the house of Arrius Diomedes, a freedman,” Sir Arthur stared balefully at the maid, “because it’s situated opposite his tomb.”

  “The place has unusual architecture, with its use of space and light.” Melwyn picked her way across the courtyard, over dust and weeds then past a stone plunge bath. Where would be the perfect spot to look for forgotten artifacts?

  “Careful, my dear. It’s still dangerous to walk around in there.” Sir Arthur staggered along the way she’d come, his blue, scrolled stockings already gray with grime. His black leather shoes with red heels were woefully inadequate for this venture.

  “Don’t worry, I’m fine. I left my father in England, sir, remember. Don’t mollycoddle me.” Melwyn stepped over a paving stone, tripped on a broken one, and suddenly, her feet felt sucked in. She tumbled, elbows and knees striking earth and rocks. She covered her face, sliding down in an avalanche of dirt. She now grappled to stop her fall, her fingers scraping at loose earth. Feet kicking, she struck a stone floor, and landed with a thump on her backside.

  Her ankle throbbing with pain, not to mention her butt, she swept dirt from her face and hair. She coughed to clear her throat and struggled to catch her breath. Using the kerchief about her neck to swipe grime from her eyes, she stared around as the air cleared.

  Debris fell from above, pinging on her head. “Are you all right, Miss Pen, uh, I mean Widow Byrd?” Sir Arthur’s anxious voice called out.

  “I...don’t know yet.” Melwyn flexed her hands and arms, where scratches stung. Her elbows smarted. “Don’t move up there, you’re making more dirt trickle in.”

  “I need to go find some help; oh dear, very dangerous as I warned.” The old man moaned. “I’ll just crawl backward, don’t wish to bury you further, and fetch someone.”

  “Oh, la, I knew she’d fall in a hole!” Clowenna cried. “Is she dead? The master will have me head, he will. Bloody hell. I’ll miss her.”

  “I’m not dead! And watch your mouth. You sound more and more like a niggling crone as you age.” Melwyn struggled to stand in the shadowed chamber. Her knees ached, stockings torn, and her skirt was ripped. She could barely put any weight on her left foot.

  The only light sifted through the hole she just tumbled from, casting a shaft of brightness over a mosaic tile floor. She brushed aside dust to reveal a depiction of warriors in blue and white tile wrestling with a bull.

  The musty-smelling chamber looked like a bathing room, with a huge communal bath cut into the floor. Strange paintings of people decorated a wall, above nooks that were probably used for clothing storage. She limped closer, wincing. “I wish I had a lantern.” The figures’ shapes and limbs seemed all over the place. Then heat infused Melwyn’s cheeks. This was one of those erotic paintings famously unearthed in the city.

  In the corner, where someone must have stashed them in a hurry, was a jumble of items. Dragging herself over, she saw bronze statues—she had excellent eyesight even in the gloom—gold and emerald necklaces, and blue glass vases. “Oh my! A veritable treasure trove!”

  Her head felt dizzy and she dropped to the floor again, rubbing her temples. The shadows closed in around her, her ankle swelled, and she prayed Sir Arthur found help quickly.

  “But at least I’ve made another startling discovery.” She sighed, the sound echoing around her. “I’ll miss Clowie, too, and Papa, of course; I hope he doesn’t marry the Widow Whale—an atrociously manipulating woman. And perhaps I’ll even miss Lord Lambrick; I suppose I do love him in my own odd way. All right, I do, deeply! And why do people talk to themselves when they’re alone? I best shut up now to conserve my energy.” She wiped the taste of pumice and volcanic ash from her mouth. Her body shook with apprehension. “But I’ll be brave, entombed with my bounty.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Griffin removed his frock coat and wrapped the rope around his waist, his anger prickling across his shoulders along with the heat. “How could you have let her go off alone like that? I told you explicitly to watch over her.”

  “I was right behind her, and she’s not a child, though many men treat women like they are.” Sir Arthur slumped on the front steps of the Villa of Diomedes. His bottle-green frock coat and orange velvet breeches were covered in dust. “She’s quite a determined and intelligent young lady; and if you haven’t noticed, she does what she wishes.”

  “I have noticed, never doubt that. I’m well aware of the propensities of that stubborn miss. Luckily I found you at the right moment, barely off the boat from that dreaded country filled with those evil frog-eaters.” Griffin hefted Sir Arthur to his feet and they crossed the courtyard. His worry for Miss Pencavel stunned him, tightening his stomach. “Now you say the ground is unstable over here?”

  “Very, do be careful.” The old man held his handkerchief to his large nose. “I wish I had the agility to assist you.”

  “Oh, sir, please rescue her.” The maid sat near the hole, her round face drooping, her pale-as-straw hair matted. “I been tryin’ to talk to her, to keep her spirits up, but she tole me to shut me gob.”

  Griffin kneeled close to the gaping orifice, trying not to dislodge anymore dirt. “Miss Pencavel, it’s Griffin Lambrick. Are you all right? Well, of course you aren’t as you’re stuck down a hole, but...” He cocked his ear to listen, but heard nothing. His heart constricted. “I’m coming down. If you’re near the opening, please move back.”

  Kenver, his valet, held the other end of the rope in his muscled hands as Griffin inched his way through the crumbling earth, then slipped down as more dirt scattered. He coughed in the dust and held on as he was lowered, the hemp cutting into his flesh. His booted feet touched solid ground and he squinted around him.

  In the dim light he saw a figure slumped next to a wall. He hurried to her, and touched her shoulder, caressing the back of her neck. His fears stabbed through him. “My dearest Miss Pencavel. Are you injured?”

  “An ancient Roman, or are you Isis? No, she’s a woman.” She raised her head. Her voice sounded raspy. “Now I know I’m dreaming. Lord Lambrick, you cannot be here.”

  “Look at the fine mess you’ve got yourself into, my dear. Are you hurt anywhere?” He wanted to hold her close, but instead he scanned her scraped hands and torn clothing. Then he glanced up at the wall, at the erotic paintings with ancient fertility gods cavorting. “You’ve had interesting art to look at, however.”

  “More interest
ing than I could have imagined.” She laughed wearily. “My ankle is swollen, perhaps sprained. Are you wearing a gladiator outfit, perchance?”

  “Not at the moment, my lovely earl’s daughter.” He raised an eyebrow, then pulled a small silver flask from his waistcoat pocket and opened it. He tenderly wiped dirt from her mouth. “Here, sip this brandy. The alcohol will perk you up.”

  She took a sip and coughed. “I’m perked up, thank you. I’m beginning to think you’re real. Too bad about the outfit; I think you’d look well in one.”

  “I’m quite real and confounded in my concern for one naughty chit of a woman.” He replaced the flask, realizing he thought of her as a woman and not simply a girl. He slipped one arm under her knees and the other around her back and lifted her up. Her body shifted warm against his.

  “Wait, over in that corner. There’s jewelry, statues and more.” She waved a sluggish arm.

  Was she delusional? Griffin fought the urge to investigate, but he needed to get her to the surface and a surgeon. “I think you dreamt that, my dear. Put it from your mind.” His fingers flexed against her pliant flesh. He barely stopped himself from kissing her sweet, upturned lips. He’d send a footman down into this cave to investigate later.

  ****

  Griffin paced the inn’s corridor outside of Miss Pencavel’s room, his chest afire with anguish. If anything happened to her, he’d be devastated.

  “So you’re certain there was nothing of value down in that hole?” Sir Arthur asked for the fifth time. The old man looked like a skinned chicken with his freshly washed, sunburned face and big proboscis. “Perhaps it was merely too dark to see anything, old bean.”

  Griffin struggled with his conscience, surprised he still had one where artifacts were concerned. “I saw only rubble, damaged walls, shards of glass, and so forth.” He had to think this out further, wait for his footman to report back. Teeth gritted, he’d then decide what to do, smuggle the booty out or inform the correct authorities. But his fears for Miss Pencavel were paramount.

  The door opened, and Mrs. Buckett—as the maid insisted on being addressed—poked out her head. “The surgeon be finished, sir. ‘Ee may see her now, if ‘ee still wish to. Or be on your way, your choice. If I had me way, I’d say to cuddle up to her.”

  “I wish to see her, thank you very much. However, alone, if you don’t mind, Sir Arthur?” Griffin entered the room where an Italian doctor was buckling up his case.

  Miss Pencavel lay in the bed, covers pulled to her chest. She thanked the man for his service and the laudanum in perfect Italian. The surgeon bowed to her, to Griffin, and left.

  “My reckless Miss Pencavel.” Griffin pulled a chair over to the bed and sat. She smelled of rose water, and not volcanic ash, now, her hair brushed back neatly from her high, scratched forehead. He ached to touch her.

  “You were quite the gladiator, sir.” She smiled at him, her eyes sleepy. “But why are you in Italy?”

  “I like to travel and hunt beautiful, exotic animals. How is your ankle? Not broken, I hope.” He couldn’t—and wouldn’t—tell her how much her smile meant. He gripped his knee.

  “No, only a sprain. The pain is lessening.” Her near dreamy voice slid like melted butter over his skin.

  “The drug, no doubt. I daresay you’ll know better than to traipse around excavations again.” He gave her his most charming smile, chasing away his urge to kiss her. “And I will return you to England.”

  “Oh, you are so wrong.” She scooted up in the bed, then grimaced. “After what I discovered, I’ll be famous, and with any luck accepted by the male archeologists as an equal.”

  He had scant hope of discouraging her—and found he didn’t want to (he had sent her Sir Arthur)—but he remained torn about the artifacts. “Please, tell no one about what you saw, not yet. Thieves abound, and you don’t know whom you can trust.”

  “I haven’t said a word, except to you.” Her voice sounded groggy now. Her slim white neck was exposed above a silky nightgown, and it drew him like a moth to a flame. “Can I trust you not to diminish my finds, or to claim them as your own?”

  “I promise I won’t diminish your finds.” He resisted trailing a finger across the top of her breasts. But could he make that promise? He might convince her she’d imagined it all, but that sent a twinge of regret through him. He reached for her hand and gently squeezed it. “Rest, and we’ll talk later, my dear.”

  She stretched out on the pillows again. “We’re so polite to one another now, it’s hard to fathom.” She closed her eyes, then opened one of them. “I do think you’re following me, still.”

  “I am a bounder of the worst sort, as you well know. Sleep, my lady. I’m relieved you are all right.” He stood and called for the maid, anxious to leave so she wouldn’t see anything poignant on his face. Why couldn’t he admit his affection for her? He’d come all this way.

  “”Ee are a fine gent for savin’ her, if do say so, your lordship.” Mrs. Buckett tucked in her mistress and flashed him a quick smile. “She be so pig-headed, she don’t always know what’s best for her.”

  “That makes two of us, we’re an incendiary combination.” He put on his cocked hat and returned to the corridor, confused over the supposed treasure, but more so, confused about his feelings for Miss Pencavel. He loved her, of that he was pretty certain, but should they have an affair—if she allowed it—or throw in the proverbial towel and marry? But would she consent to marriage when she’d sworn she wouldn’t?

  His throat went dry as a desert as his heart danced, waltzed and minueted, at the idea of loving her. Nevertheless, what sort of husband would he make attached to such a bold female?

  ****

  Melwyn sipped the last of her chicken broth, hot in her stomach. “He acted overly concerned for me, did he?” She stretched out her sore ankle on the mattress and winced.

  “Ess. An’ very tender his lordship was.” Clowenna grinned as she handed her a cup of chocolate. “He gazed upon ‘ee most sweetly, even though ‘ee was a mess.”

  “I do remember, down in the bathing room, his great solicitousness.” She sighed, recalling how he held her, the warmth and security of his arms. She also remembered the treasures she’d discovered. Would Lord Lambrick plunder them, and smuggle them to England—if that’s what he was doing, as she still had no irrefutable evidence. “I’m certain he followed me to Pompeii, but for what purpose? He couldn’t know I’d find anything, which I haven’t.”

  “To see to your wellbein’, o’ course.” Clowenna fluffed out the bed curtains. “His valet told me that his lordship was tryin’ to court a local heiress, but balked at her flightiness an’ sailed for here.”

  Jealously at this news pricked her. Melwyn had come to expect him showing up, following her, disrupting her plans. How could he do that with a wife in tow? She drank of the nourishing chocolate, the bitter cocoa flavor so rich, to hide her sinking of the spirit. She wanted him, yet didn’t want any man to be her master. “I can’t stay in bed much longer. I’m dying of boredom—at the risk of sounding like that person who used to be my mother.”

  After a knock on the door, Sir Arthur entered, appearing bent and fatigued. Huger bags had formed under his eyes. His garish clothes were rumpled, and why mix purple with orange? Melwyn should introduce him to Aunt Hedra as they shared the same lack-of-fashion sense.

  “Feeling better, my dear?” the old man asked in fatherly tones. “I will never forgive myself for what happened. Not the done thing to allow—”

  “It was my fault and not yours, sir. I am much better.” Melwyn set down her cup. “Have you been out to the site?”

  “I have, and the oddest thing. There are guards at the hole.” He shook his sparsely-haired head. “They won’t allow me near it.”

  “The Italian authorities?” Her heart lurched. They would steal her thunder, confiscate her cache, ruin her chance at immortality. But in reality, she had to admit it was their treasure first. “Fie! How did they find out? You
didn’t report anything, did you, Sir Arthur?”

  “No, no, why report a hole? I was concerned for safety reasons, until I saw the guards. But these men looked English to me, and the one who warned me away sounded like he was from Cheapside, not Naples.” Sir Arthur twisted his three-cornered hat in his hands. “Very perturbing and highly irregular.”

  “It might be Lord Lambrick’s doing.” Melwyn sucked in her breath. She glanced up at the antiquarian sheepishly. “Why would he guard a place of little, in fact no significance? I must be mistaken.”

  “I asked his lordship, but he denied any involvement.” The old man slid away his gaze and twitched at the lace on his sleeve.

  Melwyn decided to be firm. “How long have you known Lord Lambrick? He wouldn’t be my benefactor, would he?”

  “What has he told you?” Now the old scholar looked crafty, eyes hooded. “Or, ah, I don’t know of what you speak.”

  “They know each other well,” Clowenna confirmed as she rearranged a ribbon on a hat, as she’d become adept at tying the now trendy large bows. “I asked the valet. He has such elegant speech. Servants know everythin’, the quality not much. We should be in charge. We don’t pussy-foot about.”

  “You certainly seem overly friendly with this valet,” Melwyn snapped, annoyed that Clowenna fished out the information before her. Yet her body heated, gratified that Lambrick thought enough of her to offer Sir Arthur’s expertise. “I thank you, Sir Arthur, for all you’ve taught me, and for journeying to Pompeii with me. I realize I can be...extremely enthusiastic in my pursuits.”

  “That be a nice way o’ puttin’ it.” Clowenna picked up the chocolate cup.

  “I admire your talents, and persistence, my dear.” The old scholar sensed his dismissal. He bowed. “I give you good day, Lady Pencavel, and wishes for a swift recovery.” He plopped on his hat, dented with finger marks. “But I can’t help thinking I’m being duped about the hole.”