She hurried past the surprised landlord, murmuring that she had left something in the carriage, and out into the rear yard. The dull fellow who held the horses received a perfunctory excuse that she had need of something in her trunk. What if it was locked? She went around to the back of the curricle. There was no lock, only the heavy leather straps that buckled it to the luggage rack. What need did a man like Davinoff have for locks? Who would be mad enough to molest aught that belonged to him? Mad enough or desperate enough, she told herself as her shaking fingers fumbled with the stiff leather. It seemed to take forever to unlash the trunk. She looked over her shoulder a dozen times expecting to see him at the inn door. The boy at the horses' heads clucked quietly to them. She threw the latch and heaved up the lid of the finely tooled and studded leather case. Inside, black coats were carefully folded along with the evening cape she had seen him wear at the scene of the murder. A murderer? Her heart thudded in her breast. She rumbled down through fine linen shirts and perfectly starched cravats, stockings, and smalls. She could feel nothing like a paper. But what was this? She felt a leather pouch and heard a clinking sound. Did Davinoff keep his purse in his trunk? How odd. She opened the pouch, and tilted its contents into her hand.
The sun struck the oddly shaped silver disks and made them gleam. They were coins, she realized with a start, but like none she had ever seen. She peered at them. They had pictures of a boat on one side and writing she could not decipher on the other. The boat looked like pictures she had seen of a Viking ship. What was Davinoff doing with coins like these? There was no time to wonder. He might appear at any moment. She fumbled the coins back into their pouch and stuffed it back under Davinoff's clothes. Strange coins were not her object here.
Thinking quickly, she searched the lid for secret openings in the lining, feeling for the rustle of paper. He would come out to look for her if she tarried. In one corner, she felt a cool, smooth tube. Yes! She drew it out. But it was only a longish bottle, sloshing with some clear solution more viscous than water. Inside, dozens of tiny dark cups tinkled against the glass. What were these? They looked like nothing she knew. She peered at them. Dimpled circles of smoked glass? Not what she needed. Her hand rose to stifle a small sound of despair. But then the thought that he might find her there jerked her back to action. She pressed his clothes back into the trunk, and tucked the glass bottle with its mysterious contents under them. The fine fabric was soft on her hands. Startled by the intimacy of touching his things, she jerked away and pulled the lid down, threaded the buckles with the straps, then pulled them tight with all her strength. When she turned toward the inn, the doorway was still empty. She rushed away, calling her thanks to the oblivious boy.
When Sarah reached the taproom, Davinoff stood in silhouette in the front doorway of the inn, gazing out over the field of stones. Had he seen her? He turned as she approached.
"We cannot leave without taking a turn through the stones," he said, his voice brusque. If he knew what she had been at, he gave no sign.
Out of breath, she felt more disheveled than ever. She didn't want to walk with Davinoff. She wanted to race away to talk to Mr. Wells. Maybe he would know where else to look. But she couldn't let Davinoff see her desperation. She took a single deep breath as she felt his eyes upon her, questioning, and nodded her assent. Down the hill they walked, through the moat created when the mound of earth ringing the stones was built.
As she walked into the circle, her breathing calmed with the enormity of the place. The wind-tossed clouds, the blue of a sky that could break one's heart, arched over the straw stubble in the field and the huge irregular stones in their gigantic circle. The frantic need to find the deed receded with that strange peace that the earth could lend you. There had been probably two thousand such Octobers here, maybe more, breaking over these stones. Sarah walked to one of the large lozenge-shaped rocks that alternated with the slimmer pillars, drawn to touch its cold, rough surface. She felt Davinoff behind her.
"How long have you been coming here?" he asked after a moment.
"Years," she said. "Since I was a child. And you?"
There was a pause. "A long time." She turned and put her back to the stone. The wind took her hair. She looked out over the hills to the south, and he turned to look with her.
"There is a Roman road that crosses that hill," he said, pointing.
"Ridge Way?" she asked.
"No, that runs north and south here. It is a small branch of Fosse Road. It was used to connect Cirencester with a Roman town just south of Reading."
"I never heard of a Roman town at Reading." She was floating away on the October wind.
Davinoff pointed again. "The road follows the line of that ridge. Later, just to the other side, the Celts built the Wansdyke to defend against the Saxons. Terrific battles took place there, with much loss of life on both sides." He seemed lost in thought. "The Celts were doomed, of course. They retreated across the Wye and the Saxons took all of this country. But for a while, the Wansdyke held them south of here."
Sarah's attention wandered back to Davinoff. She had never met a man who knew so much about the land, about what had happened here. But he did not go on. They made their way back to the tavern in silence. As they approached the yard, a rider was leaving in haste, a heavy man on a large horse. Davinoff approached the landlord, busy smoothing a paper over the bar, to pay their shot. It was a copy of the crude line drawing the strange witness to the murders had made. The landlord came out from behind the bar and pushed the paper upon a nail next to the hearth. The lettering under the picture proclaimed that the man in the drawing was wanted in connection with the murders in London. There was a reward of a thousand guineas. She shuddered. From the instant she saw it, the drawing had reminded her of Davinoff.
Davinoff clinked coins on the table behind her. He was examining the portrait too. "You are right." His deep voice rumbled almost in her ear. "It could be anyone. Even me." She turned and he raised one eyebrow at her in a gesture she was coming to know too well. His eyes were dark, darker than any she had ever seen. "Shall we get on the road?" he asked.
Sarah's heart throbbed in her chest. He was right. It could be anyone. Was it? She could not put her question into words, but he must have seen it in her eyes.
"I thought you hated to spoil mysteries," he chided and strode out to the curricle.
Sarah hesitated a moment. This man was anarchy incarnate, a force of disorder disrupting her existence, even if he wasn't an actual murderer. Then she thought of Corina, leaving the ball to chase after this man. Corina would not have hesitated. She was not as bold as Corina. But Corina was not here. Instead of making her cautious, that thought gave her a tiny thrill of satisfaction, brief and guilty. She looked out after Davinoff, giving instructions to the stable boy to stand away from the horses' heads upon command, and smiled. She must keep an eye on her adversary, she told herself. Besides, he was her only way home. She went out the door and allowed Anarchy to hand her into his curricle.
The rest of the trip home was a jumble of emotions for Sarah. The ache of not finding the deed left her wondering where else it might be but, in spite of herself, her interest shifted to her conversation with Davinoff. They talked of many things: the influence of the Danes upon the language, the probability that Arthur and Guinevere were historical figures, the legend of the Holy Grail and its journey to England with Joseph of Arimathea. She wanted to ask him about the coins in his trunk, whether he was a collector, whether they were Danish. She caught herself forgetting that he was her adversary and that he was likely a murderer into the bargain. The devil had no doubt charmed his victims in this manner many times before, she admonished herself.
"You are well versed in history," Davinoff remarked. "You had it from your father?"
"He enjoyed the past for what it could tell us about ourselves," Sarah remembered. "We were especially fascinated with the Romans. There is a ruined villa on the land at Clershing, you know." Immediately she cursed her wayward tongue.
<
br /> "I know."
There was silence for a long moment. The sun set in a dramatic gesture of black clouds and red sky. Finally Davinoff said, "Josiah Wells said that you had plans to excavate it."
"I… I have always dreamed of reconstructing the ruin, and using it to show how Romans really lived." She wanted to justify the project to him somehow, to show him that she was a worthy owner of the property. If he understood why Clershing meant everything to her… It wouldn't matter to a man like Davinoff. But she pressed ahead. "I want it to be different than those horrid reconstructions of the King's Bath. They didn't care at all what the originals looked like. I want to display the finest Roman pieces in the settings where they were made and used. I want people to understand who the Romans were and what they left us." She trailed off, feeling his silence before she even allowed to occur. Of course he disapproved.
It was some time before he said, "An admirable ambition. Is it more than a dream?"
Sarah took a sharp breath. How could he even ask that question? If he took her land from her, her dream would turn to ashes. "There are one or two obstacles," she replied. "But I expect to start the excavations this year, now that the mortgages are cleared." Too late, she realized that her urge to set him down had confirmed that her financial situation was precarious. He must know her words were idle threats since he held her deeds.
"I see," her foe said, and she was most afraid he did.
From that moment on, the journey was just as strained as when he first took her up. Sarah wondered that he did not press her, that he did not gloat. She would have expected that. But she was bone-weary. Her mood sank lower as she contemplated the prospect that she was riding home with the future owner of Clershing.
It was near to seven o'clock when they reached the house in Laura Place. Its cheerful lights and the wafting aromas of Addie's cooking seemed like a haven from bad dreams filled with stuffy coaches and mustard waistcoats and anarchy. She did not thank him or pause to say good-bye. She wanted dinner and her bed. She would deal with deeds and Davinoff tomorrow.
But her ordeal was not yet ended. It was true that she sighed in relief as she walked through the door. The dark of the night outside could not touch the sunny marbleized paper of the entry hall. Its light, sand-scrubbed floors and the intricately carved white crown moldings all seemed indescribably dear to her, now that they might be lost. Jasco was there to take her wrap. Treasured Jasco. He had gotten jowls of late. She would give him references of course, though he was too old to get a place of the first order. Sarah wished he could do the same for her.
"Mrs. Williams asked most especially to see you when you arrived," Jasco intoned as he relieved her of her gloves. He cleared his throat, a sure sign that he was about to cross the line from servant to advisor, admonisher, or friend. Servants who had served your father while you were in frilly skirts thought they had every right in the world to advise and direct you. "It was perhaps not wise to leave the draft of your note to your solicitors on the desk."
"Oh dear. Is she upset?" Sarah had forgotten all about that half-written missive, abandoned when she decided to go to London herself.
"Very upset." Jasco handed her an envelope bearing Corina's flamboyant hand.
Sarah took a deep breath. She would not have chosen to tell Aunt Amelia about their bleak prospects just yet. Was she strong enough to bear a note from Corina? She ripped it open.
Sarah—
The moment you return, make haste to Chambroke. I shall expect you.
—Corina
Sarah heard a sob, and looked up to see a woman come drifting down the stairs, clinging to the white spindle banister and holding a handkerchief—no doubt soaked in camphor—to her lips. Amelia Williams was a plump woman some forty years Sarah's senior, bearing a connection to the family so tangled Sarah could never quite recall just how they were related. Sarah had searched out Amelia in Harrowgate, when she needed a chaperone in order to continue in Bath on her own after her father's death. There was never any question of who looked after whom.
Amelia's hair escaped in distraught wisps and her red-rimmed eyes and trembling lower lip told of recent hysterics. "Cruel child," she gasped. "How could you stay away? Are we ruined?"
Sarah prepared herself. "Come into the study, Aunt. You are needlessly concerned."
"You know the study reminds me of your father," Amelia fussed. But she followed Sarah.
Jasco had made sure a fire crackled in the marble fireplace. Normally the calm taupe walls and the heavy walnut bookcases soothed Sarah. Her eyes traced the pattern of the taupe and beige and blue Aubusson carpet, familiar now for so many years. They moved over the niches in the far wall and the bookshelves, mostly empty. So much had been sold to buy off the mortgages at Clershing. Perhaps the rugs would bring something. She shook herself. Her job was to calm her volatile aunt, no matter that weary anguish churned in her own breast. She sat in one of the two massive leather wing chairs in front of the fire and gestured invitingly to her aunt to take the other.
"I cannot imagine who could be challenging your right to Clershing." Amelia sniffed into her handkerchief. "You realize we are ruined if Clershing goes."
Sarah tried hard to remember that Amelia felt she had left behind forever the genteel poverty that the size of her competence forced upon her. Indeed, one of the most telling arguments for living with Sarah was that she should have no expense for her own upkeep. Still, her use of the word we was the tiniest bit annoying. After all, Amelia at least had her competence.
"If only you were safely married," Amelia wailed. "I cannot understand how you never accepted one of the offers you had during your London season. And one a viscount, too!"
"None of them attracted me."
"You never tried," the woman accused. "True, you don't have the looks that are in fashion, like Mrs. Nandalay," she mourned. "But if you would make a push to show yourself in your best light, we might yet bring off a match with George Upcott. You cannot be waiting for a love match at your age, and so I have told you these many times."
"Many times." Sarah tried to smile. "So I absolve you of your duty to repeat them." She rose and tugged at the bell pull. "A glass of ratafia might be the thing. You will ply your needle while I play. We will put away worries until tomorrow." Sarah thought that was unlikely in her own case.
Chapter Four
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She drove out from Bath the next day in a hired gig with Jasco up beside her and her valise in the back to obey Corina's summons. Her mind was still full of her ride with Davinoff. He seemed a mass of contradictions. He was anarchy, the evil force about to strip her of her land, and yet she had found so much in common with him. The mystery fascinated her in spite of all.
But now she was for Josiah Wells. Even with the delay she would encounter at Chambroke, they could make the twenty miles to Clershing by midafternoon. She should refuse Corina's periodic demands, but she somehow never did. Her role was attendant nymph to the goddess and she knew it. Fascination with the goddess made nymphs agree to be attendant. It was raining hard as she swung up the graveled drive toward the east front of the great house. The park was green and wet. Its acres of grasslands and the huge, ancient trees rolling down toward the lake were set in a design that only seemed natural, created by Capability Brown himself.
The house was seventeenth century, a gift to the dukes of Bimerton from Queen Anne for services unspecified. A taste for dice had finished the Bimerton fortune in three generations and Corina's nabob father bought Chambroke outright. Sarah studied its symmetrical pediments and towers rising before her in the rain. She loved the park as if it were her own, but she could not love the house. It was built to be great, but it was without sympathy. Its columned porticos and huge dimensions, its cupolas and crenellations were simply overwhelming.
Jasco took the gig around to the stables as Sarah stepped up to the grand portico. Inside, she shook the droplets from her hair. Corina's emaciated butler, Reece, handed her gloves and pelisse
to a footman. The marble columns supporting every door lost themselves in echoes above her. A coat of arms carved on the entrance to the great hall just ahead was forty feet above the floor. Reece murmured that Corina was in the gold drawing room. Sarah followed him as he drifted through the maze of rooms. She hoped to be away in half an hour.
When Sarah reached the gold drawing room, Corina was just sitting down to a late breakfast in front of the huge French doors that looked out over the terrace and the formal gardens. Reece announced her and melted away. Corina was more radiant than Sarah had ever seen her. Her eyes snapped and her countenance glowed. That was a dangerous sign. The green sarsanet morning dress she wore reminded Sarah of a tart apple. As Sarah approached, Corina's countenance darkened. She motioned Sarah to the table. Corina continued with the last bite of her chilled salmon in champagne cream sauce. She pushed her plate away and glowered at her friend.
"How dare you conceal the fact that Julien Davinoff drove you home to Bath!"
"I… I did not conceal it," Sarah sputtered. "I haven't had a chance to mention it." How had Corina discovered her?
"In answer to your unspoken question, Kelston saw you together on his way to Jackson's. Davinoff played most of the night, then ordered his curricle and left town again," Corina accused.
Sarah chewed her lip. She would not willingly have told her friend about her drive with Davinoff, given Corina's strange preoccupation.
"You little traitor!" the blonde raged, misinterpreting Sarah's regretful look. "You contrived to captivate him for an entire afternoon, before he could ever see me again!"
"Corina, you mistake," Sarah soothed. "I did not want to go with him. But the stage was horrid. Arguing with Davinoff about Clershing all the way to Bath was simply less horrid."
"You argued with him?"
"When we weren't freezing each other with silence."
"Is Clershing all you talked about?" Corina was still suspicious.
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