by Allison Lane
Chapter Ten
“Send for Simms,” shouted Tony when Murch opened the Vale House door. He helped a moaning Jon from his horse, then caught him when his legs gave out.
“Drunk?” asked Murch, grabbing Jon’s other arm. He had flung an order over his shoulder, then raced at unbutlerly speed to help.
“Bad fish. I warned him not to eat it.”
Jon choked, then vomited onto the drive. Little remained in his stomach, but that did not mitigate the violence of the attack.
“How long has he been like this?” asked Murch.
“An hour. I wasn’t sure we’d make it back.”
They maneuvered him up the steps and into the hall, where he sagged onto a chair.
“He’s in for an unpleasant day,” observed Murch as Simms hurried in.
“At least.” He shook Jon’s arm. “Wake up, Linden. One more flight of stairs.”
Jon groaned.
“We will have to carry him, sir.” Simms shrugged.
Half an hour passed before they finished stripping Jon and tucking him into bed. His stomach rebelled again before they finished.
Tony sighed. This was not how he had envisioned his return. But even more urgent than settling with Miss Vale were his questions about Bushnell. He had meant to stop first at the stables to make sure the baron was gone, but Jon’s illness had made that impossible. And he also wondered how Miss Vale had survived the visit.
Bushnell might be a friend of Sir Winton, but his bad reputation was well earned. In addition to the usual vices, the man was an opium-eater, which made his behavior quite unpredictable.
“Is Lord Bushnell still here?” he finally asked Murch.
“He stayed only the one night.” He paused, then continued. “I was not sorry to see his backside, sir. He was even more officious than usual.”
“Violent?”
“No. I’ve never known him to turn violent.”
Seeing the question in Murch’s eye, Tony pressed on. The Vale affairs would soon be his business. “Is Sir Winton aware that Bushnell craves opium?”
“He has said nothing to me.” But his eyes darkened with fury.
“His need grows stronger every year, leading to unpredictable and often violent outbursts. He’s injured several people in London, a fact society ignores, for his victims are from the lower classes – so far. It is only a matter of time before he turns on one of his peers.”
“He will not be welcomed here again, on Miss Vale’s orders. Thank you for providing a reason that Sir Winton cannot dispute.”
“Where is she today?”
Murch’s response died as Miss Vale burst into the room, maid in tow. Jon was rolling about in new pain.
“Miss Vale,” Tony began, but she brushed past him with only a distracted smile.
“Try to relax, Mr. Linden,” she said, snatching the cloth Simms was using to wipe Jon’s sweating brow. Crowding the valet aside, she bent over the patient. “How frequent are his attacks?”
Tony answered. “A quarter hour. Perhaps a little longer.”
“Has he had laudanum?”
“No. It always makes him ill.”
Jon’s face had been flushing and paling in rapid succession. Now he erupted in a new attack that Simms barely caught in the basin.
“Lie back,” said Miss Vale softly, adding soothing sounds as she again wiped his face. The maid produced a cup. “Drink this – slowly. It will calm you.”
“Come along, sir,” said Murch, distracting Tony from the improbable scene. “Mr. Linden is in good hands. They are experienced with nursing.”
“But—” He shook his head. He’d considered Miss Vale an insipid innocent, but she hadn’t turned a hair at Jon’s display. He’d been right. She had depths he didn’t know.
But he would have no opportunity to speak with her before dinner.
“Is Miss Merideth working today?”
Murch nodded.
“I will join her. Send word if Linden’s condition worsens.”
He doubted it would. He’d suffered from bad food often enough to know that Jon would be confined to bed until tomorrow, but he should be recovered by then.
* * * *
“Mr. Torwell!” Alex was shocked at the pleasure washing over her as he dismounted in the clearing. “We did not expect you until dinner. Are your friends well?”
“Quite, though I learned nothing about your site. But that itself is useful. If this had been a temple complex, or even a town, some reference would surely have survived. So it was likely a villa.”
“What brings you back so early?” she asked, wrenching her thoughts from the way his eyes blazed green in the sun.
“I promised to return today, and I always keep my word – though this time that meant rushing before that fish Linden insisted on for breakfast caught up with him.”
“Oh, no!”
“Afraid so. I left him tied to a basin, with Miss Vale, her maid, and Simms in attendance.” His voice turned it into a joke, though the man must be suffering.
But this meant she could not speak to Linden until tomorrow. Unconscionably pleased, she climbed out of her trench. “He is in good hands, then. Look what I found this morning.” She held out a bit of brass.
“A buckle. That’s the best discovery in days.” Gathering his own tools, he set to work.
Two hours later, Alex glanced up from a jumble of broken tile. She had returned to the trench they’d started two days ago, pushing it forward. Though flues and clumps of bricks turned up in large numbers, some still holding traces of plaster that hinted they had once formed a wall, she’d found no trace of the floor. And even undamaged tiles no longer raised enough excitement to keep her mind on work. Torwell was too great a distraction.
At first, he had talked about his trip, repeating several impious tales and sarcastic remarks he’d found in the old monk’s journal. She’d laughed, even at the earthier ones. But he’d been silent for nearly an hour now. As their trenches inched closer together, she became too aware of his coat stretching across shoulders powerful enough to wrestle rocks from the ground that she couldn’t budge. Of the narrow waist and lean hips that had once filled the very clothes she wore. Of muscular legs that added shape to even the loosest work pantaloons.
What the devil was wrong with her? She never noticed men’s physiques, and certainly should not notice Torwell’s. Working with him would become extremely uncomfortable.
She was merely unsettled from the strain of preparing to meet Linden, she assured herself. And she was warm because the day was unseasonably mild. Removing her jacket, she returned to work.
It did no good. Within minutes, her eyes were again riveted on Torwell. Exertion had also made him toss his jacket aside. He never wore waistcoats while digging. Muscles rippled as he heaved another stone out of the way. She could feel her hands sliding across that wavy surface.
Hard resilience.
That’s what it felt like. She blushed, recalling how her hands rested on his shoulders whenever he helped her dismount. Three days ago her foot had caught in the stirrup, throwing all her weight against him as she slid down that masculine chest – hard, hot, unbelievably virile…
Odd sensations tightened her breasts.
Jealousy blinding your senses…
Cheeks flaming, she drove her spade into the trench.
Stupid fool! Stronger epithets filled her mind. Sarah was right. She’d formed a tendre for the man. Somehow he’d slipped past her defenses and…
No. It wasn’t his fault. She was the one who had let him in. How could she have been so foolish?
The situation had just become impossibly complicated. Working together must cease, for she could never hide her infatuation. But the real harm would be to Linden. He was known for escorting beautiful women. It was bad enough to saddle him with a towering, mannish redhead who would be unwelcome in society. It was unconscionable to force a wife on him who was attracted to another. And not just any other, but his own cousin, a
man who was central in his life. How could she have been so stupid? She, who had sworn to avoid all men.
The spade scraped stone, but this time the surface felt different. Gasping, she exchanged it for a trowel, wrenching her mind back to the excavation. In her agitation, she had deepened the trench well below its previous level.
“My God!”
“What!”
“Mosaic.” Rubbing removed the last sheen of dirt, revealing a bed of cream and brown tiles forming intertwining lines.
Torwell squeezed in beside her. “Dear Lord!” He dug into the walls, widening her hole. “I wonder how much is undamaged.”
“Or what room this was. Would this design be in an entrance hall, or is this the family quarters? Perhaps that first trench was a storeroom rather than a new wing.”
“Or the slave quarters.”
Her eyes jerked up. “I forgot that even here the Romans used slaves.”
“Most civilizations have done so. Only now are people admitting that it is wrong. But slavery was not a permanent condition in the Roman empire. Many slaves were eventually freed. Some even achieved positions of influence.”
“Which doesn’t make the practice right.”
He grinned. “A reformer. I should have known.” His eyes dropped back to the tile. “Let’s see what we’ve got here…” They had exposed two feet of floor, intact.
“Beautiful, but I thought Roman mosaics formed pictures.” She kept her voice carefully neutral. His grin had nearly made her swoon. This had to be their last day together. He wouldn’t want her assistance once he learned the truth anyway.
“They did, but most also include a border. The floors commonly found in this area have very complex borders. In fact, this reminds me of the inner frame at Woodchester. That mosaic starts with an outer band of line work. Inside is a wider band of square panels, each displaying a different geometric pattern, though they are so damaged that the actual designs are difficult to follow. Inside that is the picture. They are quite different from the mosaics found in Lincolnshire, which rarely have more than one narrow frame.”
“You wrote a paper expounding regional variations, as I recall.”
“Which you read. I’ll try not to repeat myself.” He gazed at the mosaic, awe clearly lighting his face. “This might be a variation of the Woodchester design – if it’s in a room. Mitchell once postulated that wealthy Romans used mosaic even on paths in courtyards.”
He was already widening the trench, tunneling into its side to follow the floor. She did the same in the other direction. At least this discovery was exciting enough to distract her from his nearness.
“This is so similar to the Woodchester floor that it could well be by the same artist,” murmured Torwell, more to himself than to her. “I can’t believe its condition. This fragment alone is in better shape than the best piece there. How was it spared?”
The question set her mind working. Only distraction had caused her to dig so deep. But she’d turned up an undamaged floor, so their conclusions about the original ground level must be wrong. Yet those ideas had been based on the volume of hypocaust remnants they’d found at higher levels. Were there two villas, or had the slide churned debris until depth had no meaning?
She glanced toward the cliffs. Perhaps the complex had extended farther to the north, with the slide scraping away even the foundations of the first buildings it encountered, then dumping them atop the buildings that had filled what was now the clearing.
* * * *
Jon awoke, afraid to blink lest it set his stomach roiling. Never again would he ignore Tony’s suspicions about food.
Pain sliced through his abdomen, but this time it settled into a dull ache similar to those spawned by overexertion.
“Good. You’re awake.”
Miss Vale. His face heated at the memory of her hand on his brow as he retched his insides out, again and again. Why the devil had Tony allowed her into his bedchamber? Squeezing his eyes shut, he tried to pretend she wasn’t there. Never had he been in so compromising a position.
“Drink this.” A soft hand turned his head. “Come on. I know you can hear me. This will make you feel better.”
“What is it?”
“Peppermint tea.”
Aunt Mary had used peppermint tea. Cracking one eye, he opened his mouth. She spooned in tea, washing away the foul taste. Peppermint curled warmly in his stomach, easing the ache.
“Thank you,” he murmured when he finished.
“I believe he can manage a little more, Bessie.”
The words jerked his eyes wide open.
Bessie pulled a kettle from the fire, adding liquid to his cup. Simms sat in the corner, stitching up the shirt he’d ripped leaping off his horse when the first attack hit yesterday. Miss Vale had pulled a chair closer to his bed and was reaching out to wipe a cool cloth over his forehead. He’d not had such an audience for sleeping since that bout of influenza when he was fourteen.
His blush deepened.
“Are you feverish?” she asked, touching his brow.
Not the way she meant, though he was burning from head to toe. “Merely embarrassed.” But the admission brought on a new wave of heat. Finding a pretty girl in his bedchamber would never embarrass Tony Linden.
“You needn’t be. This is not the first time I’ve treated a victim of bad food.”
“Really? Nursing is not a usual occupation for a single lady.”
Delicate pink touched her cheeks. “Perhaps not, but our doctor is so incompetent that I’ve had little choice. Tenants often need help, as do the villagers.”
“That is true, regardless of the doctor’s skill,” he mumbled. “Many people cannot afford professional fees, and some cannot even pay an apothecary. Aun-Mother sees after as many as possible.” Which wasn’t as many as she would like. Uncle Thomas did not want her gallivanting about the countryside.
His eyes sagged shut as he continued. “Poor Mrs. Watts might have died last winter without help. She was widowed many years ago, but her portion barely covers her barest needs. We found her half-frozen in February, suffering a serious ague, and with coal enough for only the meanest cooking fire. I brought her home until she recovered, then organized the neighbors to call on her regularly.” His voice fell as he slid toward sleep. But remembering his fury at Uncle Thomas roused him. The man had actually berated him for allowing the woman to recover at the vicarage. She was on the list of those he disapproved, because she occasionally played loo for pennies with other village widows.
“We have widows in that position, as well,” said Miss Vale, pulling him out of his thoughts.
He’d better pay attention. Tony would be furious if he revealed the truth by prattling overmuch – and rightly so. Only his own stubbornness had put him in this bed. And it must have prevented Tony from confessing – again. He’d probably gone out to his digging.
He glanced at the window. Sunlight. So the charade must continued a few hours longer.
She was watching him, a frown creasing her forehead.
She certainly was easy on the eyes. And relaxing to talk to. Their daily chats delighted him, for she was the first woman he’d ever met who didn’t make him trip over his own feet – except for that first night.
He blushed to recall his gauche behavior. Tony had assumed he was playacting, but that was untrue. He’d been terrified, unable to admit his failings, yet knowing they would come out. He froze around strangers, unable to think or behave in any normal way. Even with people he knew, he could never relax with females unless they were very young or very old. From the moment Tony had broached this masquerade, he’d known that he could never manage the role. Yet he’d had to try, for Aunt Mary’s sake.
In desperation, he had gulped wine, trying to banish his fears – and paid dearly for the stupidity. Yet even after he’d made a complete ass of himself, Miss Vale accepted him. He no longer felt awkward or backward with her. She radiated contentment, relaxing anyone nearby.
Tony h
ad better take very good care of her, and not just materially. He would not sit by and allow his cousin to ignore her. She deserved to be cherished.
Sir Winton’s descriptions echoed in his ears. Freak. Deformed. Unnatural. When Tony had repeated them, he hadn’t believed that anyone could describe his own child in such terms. Even Uncle Thomas had never gone that far. For all the man’s tirades, he loved his son.
But Miss Merideth had confirmed that Sir Winton despised the clubfoot and refused to even eat with the girl. Murch had said the same thing. How could anyone turn against someone so warm and caring? And how could anyone become warm and caring with a father who despised her?
“Miss Horton has the same problem,” Miss Vale said.
He’d missed quite a bit of conversation. “But you will take care of her,” he murmured.
“As best I can.”
“What would you recommend for rheumatism? I know several people who suffer from it.”
She sighed. “Nothing relieves it for long, but I’ve had positive results using powders of devil bit – the root of the devil’s claw – and a tonic containing willow bark tea and St. John’s wort. Soaking the hands in warm water helps local stiffness,” she added unnecessarily. Everyone knew that effect.
His eyelids grew heavier. “How long until Ton-Torwell returns?”
“Two or three hours, at least. You know they always use every minute of daylight.” She picked up a piece of needlework and settled back into her chair. “Did you enjoy visiting Mr. Torwell’s friend?”
“Very much. Both of them.” She made a soothing picture that banished the last of his embarrassment.
“Were they traveling together?”
“No.” He blinked, forcing his mind off the needle sparkling between long, elegant fingers. “The second lives near Gloucester. His library contains records from an ancient abbey. Torwell had hoped to find references to the temple Miss Merideth is excavating, but his brief search was unsuccessful.”
They talked for at least an hour. He took pains to describe Tony in the best possible light. She would need that image to counter the shock of learning Tony’s identity. With luck everything would be settled by evening, including the wedding.
