by Allison Lane
He recoiled. Fortunately, she was turned away and didn’t see.
Selfish.
Schemer.
Deceit.
The words reverberated in his head.
But you are not deceiving her. You really are Torwell. And you do respect her abilities.
Yet he was also Linden, who had arrived at Vale House under false pretenses and was determined to coerce Miss Vale into marriage so he could recover his inheritance.
“Let’s dig holes,” he grumbled, seeing no way out of the one he was rapidly sinking into. His head hurt.
Chapter Six
Three days later, Tony paused to survey the site. They had dug dozens of test holes and several trenches, finally gaining a reasonable picture of its size. Miss Merideth had been right about the temple. It marked the western boundary of the dig. And nothing turned up north of the clearing.
East and south were another matter. A huge fan of detritus stretched from the clearing east to the stream. A second fan spread south, stopping just short of the water. Its origin was obvious, but he had yet to devise an acceptable explanation for the eastern flow.
His eyes paused, for Miss Merideth had bent over to pluck something from her latest test hole, her borrowed pantaloons outlining a remarkably fine derriere. The expected wave of lust slammed through his loins, just as it did every time he looked her way. Working with a female offered some delightful benefits.
Frustrating benefits, he conceded. Suggesting pantaloons had been incredibly stupid, and contributing a pair of his own wasn’t much better. They stretched across shapely hips like a second skin before skimming the longest legs he’d ever seen. He hadn’t had a decent night’s sleep since giving them to her.
Warm afternoons made it worse. It was bad enough watching her remove her skirt. But since she accepted him as a harmless antiquarian, she also removed her habit coat whenever the work made her hot. Like yesterday. The thin cambric shirt he’d given her left nothing to the imagination, for she didn’t wear a corset. If the sun hit just right…
He’d had to move well away to keep his hands from touching.
Concentrate on business. She is too high-born for dalliance.
His conscience was right. Her mother had been a lady, and her vicar father had been a baronet’s son – bolstering Jon’s plea that he refrain from Biblical quotations. It also explained her suspicion that first evening.
Damn her for being so voluptuous. And so intriguing. She was the first person he’d met – man or woman – who shared so many of his interests. She promised to become a close friend, if he could keep his baser instincts under control. Perhaps he should look up that maid. Perpetual arousal made digging difficult.
But he had no interest in the maid.
He forced his eyes to complete their circuit of the site.
“Where was the entrance?” he muttered, mentally matching the maps they had completed last evening to the uneven ground, most of which was hidden by forest.
“Did you say something?” She tossed the piece back into the hole and joined him.
“I am trying to orient the buildings. Where would the main entrance have been?”
“Near the temple?”
“No. If this was a villa, the temple would be private. If it was a town, we are probably dealing with dozens of individual structures. If it was a religious complex, they would want pilgrims to pass through other buildings before reaching the temple.”
“Why?”
“To collect tribute. It may have been in the form of coins, offerings, or gifts, but no one reached the sanctuary without paying. And the complex would have contained accommodations.”
“That sounds huge.”
“In some places it was, though if this were a major center, some mention would have turned up elsewhere. But whether this was a villa or temple, the approach would have been from there.” He walked toward the edge of the clearing, then shook his head. “Too many trees.”
“What are you looking for?”
“The shape of the land. I know it has changed considerably, but the place must have been reached by a lane. Knowing where it ran would make it easier to find the entrance. I’d like to start excavating there, for it was likely quite ornate.” He refused to utter the word mosaic, though it echoed in his mind.
“You could always climb a tree.”
He heard the joke in her voice, but her words triggered an idea. Grabbing her hand, he headed for the cliff.
“Where are we going?” she gasped.
“Up.”
It wasn’t far, though they had to push through tangled bushes that covered the talus slope. The cliff face offered plenty of holds. Within minutes, they had scrambled to a ledge halfway up.
“Look,” he said, turning her to face the valley.
She trembled, so he kept his hands on her waist. Many people disliked heights – a fact he should have remembered sooner.
Liar, taunted his conscience.
Very well. Fear of heights made a convenient excuse, but he could not have removed his hands if he’d tried. Her heat burned through his gloves, raising images of stroking sleek flesh and kissing the ear that hovered tantalizing inches from his mouth.
“Where would the road have been?” he asked, forcing disinterest into his tone even as he prayed that she would interpret his hoarseness as exertion from the climb.
“Along the stream.”
They could see over most of the trees. Vale House stood on a rise in the distance. The stream meandered between fields before disappearing into the trees, though its breadth allowed them to follow its course even there. Their horses were tethered in the clearing.
“So the approach was along the stream. But that is not where they placed the buildings.”
“The shrine was already here.”
“That would certainly influence locating a temple complex.”
“Are you saying it would not affect a villa?”
“No, I’m not.” He tried to empty his mind of lust so he could think, but not until he moved an arm’s length away did he manage it. “We’ll assume, for the moment, that this was a villa. A wealthy Roman gained ownership of this valley. Maybe he bought it, or won it, or was awarded it for service to the empire. It could have been as early as the first century or as late as the fourth. Perhaps it still contained the old shrine, or maybe someone had already replaced it with a temple. But now he plans to add a house. He wants it sheltered from the elements – the worst storms come out of the north and west – but he also needs easy access to roads, for he will wish to visit Glevum on occasion.”
“I see.” She peered into the clearing, comparing it with the surrounding land. “It looks so different from up here.”
“And different now than then. The shrine was on a hill.”
“So the road probably skirted that hill to reach the villa. It may even have followed an ancient footpath serving the shrine.”
“I wonder…” He straightened, staring at the clearing. “Do you see lines down there?”
“No—” She inhaled in a quick gasp. “Maybe. But there is nothing there. I’ve checked every foot of that clearing.”
“Look again. They are faint, but I see three lines.” His heart was pounding in his throat, for two of those lines came together in a square corner.
“A trick of nature,” she said, shrugging. “That is merely the boundary between two kinds of grass, one dry, the other still green.”
“Perhaps – if you can explain why that boundary is so straight. Suppose a wall lies just below the surface.”
“Why stop there? Perhaps your mythical wall marks the entrance hall.”
He grinned. “It’s as good a reason as any for starting there. The spot is in the center of the clearing. An entrance would be flanked on each side by rooms and lead back to the atrium.”
“Maybe you are right.” She was catching his excitement. “That largest tree is positioned in line with your wall, and it probably grows in the atrium.”
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br /> “Then let’s get started. If we can find an intact floor, it may tell us what this place was.”
“Mosaics.” She headed down the cliff, not waiting for him to steady her.
He cursed her for uttering the word and thus tempting bad luck. “Finding more than fragments would be rare indeed.”
Not until they reached the clearing did he realize the significance of her sure-footed descent. If she was not afraid of heights, then she must have trembled from his touch.
You fool! He had been so focused on his own purpose – and so disturbed by his growing desire for the delectable Miss Merideth – that he had not considered her situation. To a lady’s companion, the appearance of an unmarried vicar who shared her interests must seem like a gift from the gods.
He had to prevent her from forming a tendre, for he could never offer for her. Miss Vale was the antithesis of her companion – petite, shy, boringly conformable – but he must wed her if he was to protect his family. His mother deserved a roof over her head. And once he owned Linden Park, he could force his father to let her participate in the accepted activities of their class.
He sighed. The reminder of what was at stake was necessary. To protect her employer, Miss Merideth drew Jon away whenever possible. Thus he had ample opportunity to become acquainted with his hostess. But he rarely enjoyed conversing with her.
Miss Vale was a typical society maid, unschooled beyond mastering those feminine frivolities he always found insipid. Her only virtue was eschewing the usual selfish chatter about her plans, her clothes, and the number of compliments she received from other gentlemen. She rarely spoke of others, either, not even her companion. In fact, she had little to say about anything.
But he had no choice, he reminded himself again. He could always spend more time on excavations.
In the meantime, he must nip Miss Merideth’s infatuation in the bud.
They passed the remainder of the afternoon digging. He kept his voice abrupt, uttering nothing beyond necessary instructions. And he remained as far from her as possible, on the excuse that two trenches were twice as likely to find the entrance.
Much of the rock they removed was residue from the slide, but enough dressed stone turned up to satisfy him. A foundation did, indeed, lie along the line. But no sign remained of what it had once supported.
He was about to mention the time – if they did not leave, they would be late for dinner – when Miss Merideth gasped.
“Did you find something?”
“I don’t know. Whatever I just struck does not sound like rock.” She scooped out more soil, then scraped with her hands. “It’s only another roof tile.” Discouragement filled her voice.
“We’re not likely to find another Minerva,” he snapped, stifling his pain at her shocked face. It’s necessary, that irritating voice reminded him. But far from pleasant.
“Of course not.” Yet her shock changed to interest as she finished freeing the piece. “It seems larger than the other one.”
He peered over her shoulder, then leaned closer. “It looks like a flue tile from the hypocaust.” Excitement drove his resolutions away as one finger scraped away clinging soil. “See the ridge along this edge and the groove in the other? A matching tile would fit atop it, forming a closed pipe that would bring hot air from the furnaces into the hypocaust beneath each room, heating the farthest reaches of the building. At least we know this wasn’t a barn. And it tells us where the floor level is likely to be. Congratulations.”
She smiled up at him. “I wonder if other tiles are here.”
“Tomorrow. It’s time for dinner.”
He pulled her to her feet, then gathered up their tools, locking them in the shed. He did not watch her don her skirt. Nor did he help her mount. And he scolded himself all the way back to the house.
Her smile hinted at more than simple pleasure over a careless compliment. How could he discourage her, while still treating her with the respect he owed a colleague?
* * * *
Tony enjoyed dinner even less than usual, discouraged by his lack of progress with Miss Vale. Despite turning to him even before Miss Merideth drew Jon’s attention, he suspected she was using him only to avoid Jon. Did she care at all? His fabled charm wasn’t working. She treated him no differently than when he’d arrived. Or was she pretending not to care because she knew Miss Merideth hoped to catch him?
His head spun. Why had he embarked on this stupid charade anyway? Every day it grew harder to remember what he was doing and why. He could no longer relax with Miss Merideth. Miss Vale remained shy, refusing to discuss anything personal. He wanted to pack up and leave.
But he couldn’t.
If he failed to recover the Park, his mother would suffer. So would the family dependents. Not only did Miss Vale lack the strength of character to demand a role in administering her dowry, but Sir Winton might well regret losing so lucrative an estate, forcing his daughter into wedding someone he could dominate. But that would cause even worse problems for the Park’s dependents.
It was too late to confess and start with a clean slate. Changing course would alienate both ladies. And his original reasoning still held. Tony Linden’s reputation dominated every interaction. Miss Vale’s maid and butler hovered over her during the day, prompting Jon to limit his afternoon conversations to a single hour lest he unduly disrupt the household. Miss Merideth worked hard to keep Jon away from her employer in the evenings. A footman patrolled the ladies’ wing at night. He had to believe that they were tolerating Tony Linden’s presence only to keep Torwell around.
“Is it true that ladies have more freedom in London than in the country?” Miss Vale asked, pulling him from his thoughts. “Mr. Linden was telling me the most diverting stories this afternoon.”
“I’m sure he was.” Here was another problem. Though he’d often teased Jon about leading a monastic life, he’d never expected such complete ignorance. Nor had he known that Jon possessed the imagination to fill voids in experience with improbable tales. “That depends on how you define freedom. While London offers opportunities, it also sets traps for the unwary.”
“What do you mean?” She widened her blue eyes, reminding him too sharply of the flirtatious chits who staged come-outs every Season.
“Many activities are found only in town,” he said carefully. “Exhibitions, for example; the opera; the royal theater; gardens like Kew or Vauxhall. And society entertains constantly, with dozens of events scheduled every day. With so much variety, people are free to amuse themselves however they wish. In the country, one can choose only to accept an invitation or remain at home.”
“And that choice is possible only if one has an invitation to consider.”
He nodded, cursing himself for offering this particular example. By now, he hardly noticed her foot, but he suspected that few invitations arrived at Vale House. There had been no callers in the time he’d been there.
“But what do you mean by traps?” she asked.
“It is frightfully easy to tarnish one’s reputation. Actions that draw only a raised brow in the country – galloping one’s horse or walking unescorted, for example – can invite cuts and even ostracism in town.”
“Walking alone?”
He nodded. “It creates an opportunity for unwanted advances, and can be downright dangerous. London is the largest city in the world. Mayfair may be opulent and beautiful, but there are places that I would not go at high noon accompanied by a dozen Bow Street runners. And some of them adjoin Mayfair.”
She effected an artistic – and totally false – shiver. “Since no one of sense would go there, they hardly matter. Surely a lady can walk a short distance along her own street without escort. Yet Mr. Linden insists that is not possible.”
“Since he lives in London, you must believe him,” he said, grateful that Jon had said something sensible for once. “Appearance matters far more than truth. A lady walking alone is inviting advances. Whether she would accept them is irrelevant.
Allowing the opportunity is not acceptable.”
“You are sure?”
“Very. I have visited London often enough to know its customs,” he said, determined to keep his lies to a minimum. She was slow to form an attachment. The longer the masquerade lasted, the harder revealing it would become. Every lie would make it worse.
Later, he admonished himself. Having embarked on this game, he could only play out the hand. “Oxford students often visit London, and I have conducted business there more recently.”
“Then you must be familiar with St. Paul’s.” Her smile deepened her dimples, but he hardly noticed. Temper flashing in brown eyes was more enticing. “Is it as awe-inspiring as I have heard?”
“More.” He gazed up as though overcome, but his mind was frantically trying to recall his one visit to the cathedral – at age ten, when his tutor had dragged him there. Twenty-two years had dimmed those memories. And he had paid little attention, even then, for the trip had been his father’s idea. Exposure to London cathedrals was supposed to inspire piety and discourage pranks. It hadn’t.
“It is like nothing you will have seen,” he said finally, trying to inject enthusiasm into his words. Why hadn’t she directed this question to Jon? He probably recalled every detail. “St. Paul’s is as different from a village church as Hampton Court is from a tenant cottage. Wouldn’t you say so, Cousin?” he asked Jon, who was floundering through a convoluted explanation directed at Miss Merideth. She had a knack for leading him into the most confused tales anyone ever heard. If this kept up, Jon might blurt out the truth merely to escape.
He had to conclude his courtship before things grew worse.
“About what?” Jon asked, relief lighting his eyes.
“St. Paul’s. It is difficult to describe it to someone familiar only with a parish church.”
“It is impressive,” he agreed, then shrugged and added, “if you like that sort of thing. My own taste runs to Jackson’s Saloon and Cribb’s Parlor.”
“What are those?” asked Miss Vale.
