by Allison Lane
“I know.”
“Torwell received grants from several patrons, so I’ve been able to invest most of my allowance in recent years. The income is not quite large enough to support me, but my secretary is arranging purchase of a small estate in Somerset. Once people recover from the shock of learning that Torwell is the notorious Tony Linden, I may receive funding for new excavations. In the meantime, the estate income will do. You are welcome to join me.”
“I am delighted that you will have a roof over your head, Tony, and more relieved than I can say that you have prospered despite me,” he said, then shook his head. “But living together would never work. The habits of a lifetime will not change overnight. And it seems we are more alike than I’d ever thought. I, too, need to remain occupied, or I will become even more annoying.”
“Have you anything in mind?” The refusal was a relief, though not in the way he would have expected even an hour ago. They were both revising a lifetime of beliefs, but their new rapport was too fragile to tolerate strain.
“Possibly. I will know more soon. In the meantime, I’ve accepted an invitation to visit an old friend. We will leave as soon as the estate transfer is concluded. Will you be staying?”
“Only until morning. I must meet with the bankers and pray they will allow me to explain why Tony Linden expects a loan.”
“Why not Torwell?”
“I am done with deceit and done with skulking about the shadows. For good or ill, I will play myself from now on. Let me know your new direction. I will be in London for at least a month.”
Excusing himself, he went in search of his mother.
Three days of soul-searching had led to this decision. Living dual identities had influenced every aspect of his life, always negatively. The fiasco with Miss Vale was merely the latest example. He had to plan every move, every word, even his gestures, to keep the two lives separate and to prevent misunderstandings. Linden was flamboyant and frequently irreverent, inserting suggestive innuendo into even innocuous conversation. Torwell was staid, methodical, and emotionless about everything but the Romans. Neither character was natural.
Now it was over. Though it was too late for happiness, at least he could achieve a modicum of comfort.
* * * *
Sarah sighed. A third reading of Jon’s letter confirmed that she had missed nothing.
He had written it shortly after leaving, providing the first explanation she’d received for the events of three mornings past. All he’d managed in that last mad scramble was a murmur to Murch to tell Sarah I’ll be in touch. She hadn’t even known he was gone until Murch found her beating on Alex’s door.
Alex had remained in her room until early this morning, but even after emerging, she refused to reveal what had happened or why. In fact, she ignored any reference to the gentlemen’s visit, aside from offering belated congratulations on her betrothal.
When she’d pressed for answers, Alex had ordered her to be quiet or leave Vale House.
So she had welcomed Jon’s letter.
Unfortunately, he knew little more than she did. Apparently Alex had discovered the deception on her own and attacked Tony. He’d retaliated. The ensuing argument ended with Alex throwing both men out of the house – or with Tony fleeing. It wasn’t clear which.
Alex’s temper had often led to trouble, and her stubbornness usually made that trouble worse. If her curt refusal to speak was any indication, she was already regretting her reaction. And it sounded as if Tony was just as unhappy. But Jon described Tony as the stubborn sort, which didn’t sound very promising.
She sighed.
The least thought proved that Alex and Tony were perfectly suited, not that either would admit it at the moment. So it was up to her and Jon to bring them together. The first step was to make sure that each understood the reasons behind the other’s charade. And perhaps Murch would know more about that disastrous argument. Only after learning the facts could she plan a way around Alex’s stubborn pride.
Her own future looked rosier. Smiling, she slipped the letter into her writing box, hardly believing that Jon really loved her. They would be married in two months.
In the meantime, she would tell him everything she knew about Alex, and hope he would respond with similar information about Tony.
She sharpened a pen.
Chapter Fifteen
Alex scraped another layer of soil from above the temple, keeping her back firmly turned to the villa.
A week had passed since she had emerged from her room, but this was the first day she had come to the site. Though her enthusiasm for excavating was gone, he would not have the satisfaction of destroying her interest in antiquity. She had already put off resuming her work far too long. She was lucky that no one had stumbled across the mosaic.
The weather had helped. Cold rain had moved in the day after he left, keeping most people indoors and adding to the protection already provided by the haunted wood. But it wasn’t enough.
So security was her first concern. In spite of his faults, she could not ignore his warnings. How he chose to use his own knowledge was out of her hands, but at least she could hide the mosaic from others.
Rain had washed a thin coat of mud over the tiles. She’d spent the morning filling the trench and tamping it solid. Then she’d dragged dead grass, leaves, and debris across the area until it was indistinguishable from the rest of the clearing. But despite frequent reminders that she was protecting the treasure from vandals, her heart knew that her real purpose was to erase the scene of that torrid kiss.
No wonder it had melted her bones. Tony Linden was a rake of the first water. He probably had more experience than all the men in the village combined. And their encounter had meant no more to him than any of his others.
Cursing, she hacked at a mat of grass and roots that had transformed into his treacherous face.
“Damn you!”
Squeezing her eyes closed helped no more than keeping her back to the villa or burying the mosaic. Awake or asleep, all else faded, overlaid by images of the wretch – wading along the stream, oblivious to his ruined boots; scrambling up the cliff, his shoulder brushing hers as he pointed out hints of Roman foundations; heaving stones aside, muscles rippling under a thin cambric shirt; debating where to lay out exploration trenches…
The mat disintegrated under her assault.
She had won as many debates as he had, some leading to success, others to frustration. But neither of them had expected to find that mosaic. Her hand shook, rekindling every image of that celebration…
Stop this, Alex!
Pain crashed back. And desolation.
He could hardly have reached the village before the first regret set in. Despite her charges, she knew he really was Torwell. He could not have discovered her interest before arriving, for no one knew outside the household. The staff would never have revealed it to a stranger, not even one as beguiling as him. And no man could have learned enough about Torwell and Roman remains to fool her. Not in the time he’d had available. He’d turned up on her doorstep only a few days after his father had lost Linden Park.
In retrospect, it was obvious how he’d managed to live two separate lives. Torwell was reclusive. His response to her dilemma over Mitchell’s suggestion spoke from experience. His assistant presented his papers to the Antiquarian Society, so he’d probably never met the men who held his scholarship in esteem. And he worked in remote areas from necessity, hiding his notoriety beneath a facade of shyness.
“It doesn’t matter,” she said aloud, hoping to convince her stubborn conscience.
It had been plaguing her for days. She hadn’t lost her temper so badly in years, lashing out in a pointless attempt to assuage her pain, saying anything that might hurt, and denying even obvious facts. His deceit still hurt. She’d respected him, trusted him, loved him… Yet all the time he had been living a lie.
So were you.
But that was different. She’d been protecting herself from
harm, not hiding her character. Tossing your innocent companion into a situation you dared not face yourself…
But she’d been right that Sarah would be safe. She has more integrity in one finger…
Yes, Sarah had been safe. He respected her too much to cause her any grief. And he had rarely been alone with her. He wasn’t all bad.
He isn’t bad at all, insisted the voice.
Well, maybe…
You know he’s not. And so does Sarah.
Sarah had been driving her crazy with Jon this and Jon that. He wrote nearly every day – so considerate, Alex; he even gets his uncle to frank his letters so I needn’t pay for delivery – always including long descriptions of his cousin. Sarah insisted on reading the letters aloud over breakfast, which she was unaccountably sharing these days, and referring to them in every conversation. It was one reason she’d come to the villa today.
Why couldn’t Sarah accept reality? It was over. Nothing could put their partnership back together. It was irretrievably broken. The only way to survive was to put him behind her and get on with life.
Yet Sarah persisted, painting word pictures that merely added to her pain.
Tony was far from the care-for-naught rumor described. He often helped servants, tenants, villagers, and even area residents with no claim on Linden Park. But he never took credit, using Jon to administer the anonymous funds.
Only two people mattered to him – Jon and his mother. He would do anything to protect them, particularly his mother. Most of the pranks he had perpetrated in his youth had been deliberate attempts to distract his father from castigating her. At other times, Tony had shouldered the blame for acts he had not committed or had deliberately broken his father’s rules, again to deflect the man’s attention.
Lord Linden was a harsh man who forbade everything enjoyable. He was even harsher with Tony than with his wife, setting spies to watch his every move and waging a war of wills. Instead of submitting tamely, Tony had fought back, finally exploding in a display of every vice his father abhorred. Thus was born his reputation. Despite repenting – and avoiding any repetition of that spree – rumors followed him to this day. Ten years ago, he’d given up, inventing Mr. Torwell so he could pursue his love of antiquity.
She could understand. Embracing masculine mannerisms and flaunting her education had been a futile attempt to show the world that her own father’s criticisms didn’t hurt. And hadn’t she also adopted an alter ego with Lord Mitchell? Having a father like Lord Linden would be enough to make anyone rebel.
Not that it mattered. It was too late for truth. After that exchange of insults, deceit was irrelevant. No man would forgive her taunts and stabs. She had meant to hurt him, and she had. Even if she could stretch her own love far enough to put that argument behind her, he could not. Sarah’s report confirmed his own words upon arrival, words he had repeated before she threw him out: He had come here solely to protect his mother. He cared nothing for Miss Alex Vale. He might have accepted Sarah as the price of restoring his mother’s home, but he couldn’t accept her.
“Pay attention,” she admonished herself, scraping at the next layer of soil. The temple was the one area where he had never worked. Thus it was the only place she had any hope of maintaining her composure.
The trowel struck another rock.
Sighing, she concentrated on removing it. It would be the third today, each surrounded by shattered roof tiles. She’d carefully extracted fragments, hoping to find intact floor beneath, yet so far, nothing else had turned up. Maybe the temple had held no decoration.
Interest stirred as she exposed a curved edge. It was neither stone nor tile. The color was wrong.
Excitement mounted, driving everything else from her mind. Slowly, an amphora emerged from the ground. Intact. Even its delicate handles remained.
She had never seen one before, though one of her books contained an illustration. Ancient peoples had used them as storage jars for wines, oils, grains, and possibly other things. To find one here, undamaged, was almost miraculous.
Tony was right. The site must have flooded, cushioning corners with mud that had protected them from the slide.
He would love to see this, wouldn’t he, Alex?
How true. He would be so excited. He might even kiss her again…
Heat instantly seared her body.
“Damn you!” she shouted as tears coursed down her cheeks. “How am I supposed to work with you looking over my shoulder?”
Scrubbing her face dry with her skirt – she had locked the pantaloons in her workroom, determined to set the past firmly behind her – she put away the tools. “I won’t let him ruin this excavation. I won’t let him invade my dreams. And I will not shed another tear for that man.”
She pulled out a sketch pad.
Her life was her own, just as she had always planned. His intrusion had been too brief to matter. Her disappointment would fade. So would her pain. In the meantime, she must stay busy.
Once she finished the sketch, she gently lifted the amphora from its bed of mud. Cradling it in her arms, she headed for her workroom.
* * * *
Jon ignored Tony’s glare. He’d expected it, though understanding the cause did not negate the pain.
Tony had left Linden Park the day after they’d arrived, without even bidding him farewell. Nor had he responded to letters in the two weeks since. So he’d come to London.
“Don’t let that stubborn temper build a new barrier between you and the world,” he said now. “You are behaving just as stupidly over this as you did about wrecking your reputation.”
Tony slammed a fist onto the desktop that separated them. “I cannot believe you came all the way to London to meddle in my affairs. Are you sure Sir Winton’s agent did not throw you out?”
“Positive. He has kept the staff intact and approved the plans for next year’s planting. That is as far as his concern extends, for his tenure will end next summer. Sir Winton has already told Alex that she will be unwelcome at Vale House after the Season. Either she weds or she starves.”
“It’s her choice,” he said.
“It is also yours. Alex is miserable.”
“Because she has to find a new companion – if she bothers doing so. She’s odd enough to flout even that convention. Now change the subject. I am not interested in her activities, her looks, or her feelings.”
“But Sarah says—”
“Enough, Jon.” He strode to the window, keeping his back to the room. “It’s over. I misplayed the hand and lost. End of discussion. It’s time to move on.”
“I don’t believe that. Nor do you, if you would only look beyond your grief and pain.”
“Much of it caused by your persistence, Jon. Why must you torment me?” His fists clenched.
Jon flinched. “I owe you too much to let pride destroy your best hope of finding the happiness you so richly deserve.”
“You owe me no—”
“You welcomed me, Tony,” he said, hoping a reminder of those days might soften Tony’s antagonism. “You supported me through the worst period of my life, accepting my intrusion into your world, giving me more affection than most boys accord a brother, and not once criticizing my tears or demanding to know why it took me more than a year to recover. Many children lose their parents, but they manage to move on.”
“You needn’t refine on it. I was lonely and needed a playmate.” But he’d stiffened.
“Uncle Thomas told me he’d let the sordid details out of the bag. But even he doesn’t know everything.” He had to inhale deeply to keep his voice steady. “I found them that day, sprawled in pools of blood. I held my father’s hand while he begged my forgiveness, tears streaming down his face. I watched him draw his last breath. So don’t talk to me of finality and impossibilities. As long as you can breathe, you can repair any breach.”
“A lovely thought,” said Tony, walking to the door. His averted head hid his own tears. “But not in this case. You don’t know
the facts, Jon. Nor does Sarah, or she would not keep pressing. It’s over.”
Jon gave up, allowing Tony to push him out – for now.
* * * *
Tony grimaced as he returned to his desk. It was bad enough that Jon had shown up in person to berate him. But why had he trotted out his parents’ deaths? Dear Lord, it had been worse than he’d thought. No wonder Jon had been so distraught.
But he had done nothing to help Jon recover, so bringing up such ancient history was merely another way of applying pressure. And this was only the beginning. They had agreed to dine together.
He should have stopped at the vicarage before leaving Linden Park, but he hadn’t felt up to facing those judgmental eyes. Not when he was already reeling from emotion. Leaving the Park for the last time had been harder than he’d anticipated. Despite years of conflict, the Park was home. He’d expected to live out his life there and be buried with his ancestors.
As if that wasn’t enough, a host of other feelings had swirled through his head – hope that the fragile truce with his father would continue, guilt for failing his mother, pain… He couldn’t have faced another of Jon’s sermons.
The Vale House fiasco had strained their relationship badly. He had never expected Jon to become a dedicated matchmaker. This latest confession merely made it worse.
“It’s over,” he repeated, focusing on piles of paper atop his desk. “Everything’s over.”
He’d finished the article for The Edinburgh Review, working late into the night so he’d be tired enough to sleep without dreaming.
Surprisingly, Simms had found a banker willing to loan Tony Linden money, though the letter of recommendation from his father might have helped. An agent had settled the purchase of the Somerset property, so at least part of his life was proceeding smoothly. He could take possession within a fortnight. Not that he would personally do so. It was too close to Gloucestershire. Before heading west, he had to put the Vale House visit behind him. So he would go north.
