“I’m surprised she risked leaving you alone with me.”
She ignored the sally save for a telltale blush. “Sit down and I’ll pour you some tea.”
The tapestry-covered armchair, ancient and well-used like all Hinton’s furniture, embraced his weary bones. He settled back and stirred in sugar, trying to recall if he’d ever experienced a moment like this. Himself, a woman, a cup of tea. He’d drunk champagne with countesses and courtesans, served by liveried footmen or, on one occasion, sipped from the navel of an enterprising lady. But a cup of tea on a rainy day with a virtuous woman in his own house? This wasn’t the life of Marcus Lithgow, gamester and rogue. This was what happened to proper gentlemen with estates and families and good reputations.
“What were you doing out in the rain?” she asked.
“Mending a leaking roof.”
“Do you know how?”
“I’m learning. Mostly I stood on the ladder and handed tools to my tenant, Jack Burt, who does know. He has three children and wants to keep them dry this winter. My uncle neglected the cottages and I’m doing my best to make a few improvements. To get a better price when I sell the estate.”
She looked at him curiously, as well she might since he’d refused her offer to buy the place, leaky cottages and all. Why hadn’t he seized the opportunity to present himself in a good light as a conscientious landlord? His statement wasn’t even true. The pinch-faced children shivering in the damp house had been all the incentive he needed to invest a part of his dwindling funds in slates and nails and to pick up a hammer.
“How about you? Did you uncover the furnace yet?”
Anne sat at the desk, picked up a small brush, and rubbed away at a dirt-encrusted object. He observed the care she took not to damage whatever it was that dwelt beneath its coating of dried earth. Behind her she’d cleared a shelf on which was arrayed a growing collection of miscellaneous items disinterred from the villa and painstakingly cleaned.
“I’m very close but I keep finding things. Digging them out without damage takes time.”
“I’m waiting for something extraordinary. A statue of Venus perhaps. Or the head of an emperor. I apologize for the pedestrian nature of Hinton’s Roman inhabitants.”
“Oh no!” she said with charming earnestness. “Of course it would be wonderful to discover a work of art like that, but I like finding bits of pots and strange metal things. Cynthia and I have great fun speculating as to their use while she draws them.”
In comfortable silence he watched her work for a while. Her complexion glowed from outdoor work, enhanced by her dark blue woolen gown whose severity was broken by a crisp white ruffle at the neck. The delicate hands were a little reddened in places.
She caught him looking, put down her brush, and examined her splayed fingers. “I’m afraid I pull off my gloves without thinking. It’s so much easier to reach a dusty corner or prize a stubborn artifact from the ground without them.”
He reached over and took one of the maligned hands, caressing the palm with his thumb. “Still soft.”
“Maldon is in despair. Not even her special cream can keep my skin in the condition she thinks proper,” she babbled. “She has a recipe she refuses to divulge to anyone. I think it contains lemons.”
He replaced his thumb with his mouth. She allowed perhaps five seconds’ contact before pulling away. “Don’t.”
“I was just curious about the secret lotion. It does smell of lemons.”
She shot him a disbelieving look but he thought she was embarrassed more than displeased. She made a play of sitting up very straight in her chair and frowning. “I found a lot of new things today.” She wrinkled her nose. “This is just another piece of broken pottery. But I want to show you what I cleaned before you came in. Very curious.”
Her hand hovered over the litter of muddy lumps on the desk and found the object she wanted. “Do you remember that pendant we saw in the funny shop in London? This is the same shape, with the two spheres at the top of a long cylinder.” She frowned in bafflement. “This form must represent something of significance to the Romans.”
Evidently she was unfamiliar with the cult of Priapus. “I’m sure you’re right,” he said, his expression as impassive as though he were playing brag with a cardsharp.
“I wish I had my books with me. I have a volume on classical iconography but never had occasion to study it. It’s a little longer than Mr. Frogsham’s example but definitely the same design.” She ran her forefinger the length of the metal penis. “And rougher too.”
Marcus shifted uncomfortably.
“It has the same bulge at the end of the cylinder.”
If she went on like this he was going to have a bulge in his breeches.
Her thumb caressed the ballocks. “Unrefined. Probably the work of a lesser craftsman.”
He was feeling remarkably unrefined himself.
“Did you say something?”
“Not a word,” he mumbled.
“Do you have any idea what this shape means?” She looked at him with clear-eyed innocence and he desperately wanted to kiss her. For a start.
“I’ll be sure to let you know if I think of anything,” he said, dismissing the notion with regret. Visions of stripping off that demure gown danced in his brain. He wasn’t sure if he’d be able to stop himself from excavating her treasures. He stood abruptly and set down his teacup. “I’ll leave you now. I need to go up to the attic.”
“It’ll be chilly up there.”
Cold, preferably in a bath, sounded like an excellent plan.
On the way upstairs he asked himself what the hell was the matter. Never miss the opportunity to reel in a mark when the moment is ripe; that was Lewis’s paramount rule and Marcus had always found it effective advice. He should be kissing Anne until she was dizzy. Instead he felt dizzy himself.
He’d put off searching the dark top floor of the manor thinking it unlikely his uncle would hide anything precious in quarters occupied by servants, but he’d had no luck downstairs and there might be something of value up here. Most of the garret bedrooms had been unoccupied for years, judging by the rubbish that had been thrown into them. Who knew what might be hidden among old broken boxes, heaps of discarded furniture, and old-fashioned clothing? Not for the first time Marcus wished he had any idea what he was looking for. He forced himself to undertake a methodical search, and as the light faded he was reasonably sure he’d neither found nor missed anything of value.
At the end of the passage there was a locked door that none of the household keys fit. The stout lock was beyond his powers to pick. Casting about he spotted another door he hadn’t previously noticed. Tucked in a dark corner, it was merely a cupboard. He didn’t find a key but the answer to one mystery: a rusty chain whose presence made no sense. Shaking it produced some satisfying clanking. Thumps and ghoulish cries would be easy for a man—or woman—of ingenuity to manufacture.
Marcus turned back to the locked door with heightened interest. Faint scratches around the lock suggested someone else had attempted to pick it.
Anne couldn’t imagine her grandfather, or Felix, or even one of her stewards, superior and gently born retainers to a man, standing in the rain to help repair a roof. They had workmen to do that kind of thing. Part of her duty as the heiress, now owner, of Camber was to call on the Brotherton dependents. She found these ceremonial visits awkward. The bowing men and women were obsequious, the children quiet and still as though restrained by inner bonds, and everyone declared themselves honored by the condescension of Miss Brotherton. She always suspected they found her presence a burden. Better to do something helpful like mending a roof.
Marcus had looked weary. And wet. She wished he hadn’t cut his hair because she could envision the longer locks clinging to his skull. She tried not to dwell on it. Or on his thumb and lips caressing her hand. She’d thought he might kiss her. He hadn’t pressed and she wouldn’t have minded being pressed. But she’d been the one to pull awa
y, because she was stupidly shy. If she wanted to be kissed she should be bold enough to ask for it. She raised her fingers to her lips and caught a whiff of lemon.
Shaking off her foolish daze she turned her attention to today’s bounty from the villa. Brushing off the dried mud, she found nothing as interesting as the curious piece she’d shown Marcus. The back of it had two prongs that must be intended to attach to something. A costume ornament of some kind, perhaps. She recalled reading about Roman belt buckles. It was a possibility. What was it made of? Certainly not gold or silver, as might be worn by a man of wealth. It had a greenish tinge. Was it bronze? She missed the great library at Camber. She cradled the piece in her palm, assessing its weight, which told her nothing. Gazing at it she had a notion. An appalling notion.
Though many statues of male figures she’d come across—mostly in books—were damaged, some of them still had intact male organs. Those balls were awfully similar. But the male part—she didn’t know what to call it—was much smaller and looked soft, even when carved from marble or stone.
She sincerely hoped she was wrong because if not Marcus must have known and watched her stroking it. The idea made her hot and flustered, distracting her from her meticulous cataloguing of today’s discoveries. She set them aside for Cynthia to draw and add to the sheaf of neat sketches.
Since the carriage would arrive from Hinton shortly, she’d better go and drag Maldon away from the fascinating company of Travis. Fearing blushes in light of her recent suspicion, she prayed Marcus would still be busy upstairs.
No such luck. However, consideration of male anatomy was displaced by surprise when she met him coming across the hall armed with a large axe.
“Good Lord,” she said, eyeing the shiny, lethal head. “I often seem to meet you carrying dangerous weapons.”
“I’m going to break down a door.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s locked and I can’t find the key.”
“What door?” Not really her business, but as the manor’s only housemaid she took a proprietary interest. “I hope you won’t make a mess that someone will have to clean up.”
“It’s in the attic. I want to know what’s on the other side.”
“May I watch? There could be treasure.”
“Or a skeleton.”
“Or a ghost.”
He hesitated. “There’ll be spiders,” he warned. Thankfully there was nothing in his demeanor to refer to the recent and possibly indecent conversation.
“I rely on you to use the axe on them.” Even the giant and vicious specimens that inhabited Hinton Manor would surely fall before such a massive tool.
Although she had the impression he wasn’t eager for her company, he didn’t object when she followed him up the main stairs, along the wide central passage of the first floor, through a door at the end, and up a narrow winding staircase to the cramped upper floor. She caught herself staring at his buttocks and thighs, delineated by snug breeches. About to lower her eyes she thought, Why not? He’d never know and it was an interesting and not disagreeable sight. Not disagreeable at all. Her stomach quivered in the way that often happened when she looked at him.
“Here it is,” he said.
“It seems a shame to destroy such a stout door.”
“Its stoutness is why I need the axe. I’m not strong enough to break the lock on my own. Stand back.”
He seemed quite strong enough to Anne as he swung at the area of the door closure. Watching a man exercise his muscles proved quite stimulating, until the axe hitting wood raised a shower of splinters and she cried out and put a hand to her face.
He stopped at once. “Are you all right?”
“Something hit my nose.” She examined her palm. “No blood. I’m fine. But you are hurt.” Blood trickled down his cheek.
“It’s nothing. You’d better go downstairs, out of the way.”
“I have an idea. Did you try kicking?”
“No. I tried to force the door with my shoulder.”
“Let me try.”
“Really? Be my guest,” he said with an exaggerated courtly gesture.
She thought about it, enjoying the puzzle and determined to triumph over his skepticism. Then, with a little run, she used all her strength to thrust the sole of her foot just below the lock.
“Ow!” She hopped up and down. “My half boots are too thin.”
He laughed at her, the devil, but gave her a comforting pat on the back. “Mine aren’t. And I think you have the right idea about where to apply force.”
It took half a dozen kicks before the lock yielded and the door creaked open.
“We did it!” she said.
“Yes we did.” She saw something in his smile that was new, a mixture of affection, admiration, and an unguarded pleasure. It had a different quality than the ingenuous look that had first beguiled her until she learned it was designed to deceive. She felt her mouth curve in response, and her chest tightened at the warmth in his eyes. “You’re a clever little thing, Miss Anne Brotherton.”
She looked away, made shy by the best compliment she’d ever received. “I’m not little. As a matter of fact I’m quite tall for a woman.”
“You are right. There’s nothing small about you. In any way.”
Except for her revenge after she’d discovered him a fortune hunter. She didn’t regret plaguing him with the dullest sights in all London, but the money she’d made him spend on her pricked her conscience. He could have used it to improve his tenants’ cottages.
“Let me look at your wound.” Holding his chin steady, she gently dabbed the blood on his cheek with her handkerchief. His green eyes regarded her without wavering as she took a good deal longer than necessary to clean a scratch. Her breath quickened and her heart raced and she stared at the mouth, inches away, and thought about asking for a kiss.
“Shall we see what’s in there?” she mumbled instead. Coward.
“Of course,” he said with a little shake of his head. “Lead on.”
“You go first. It’s your house.”
He wasn’t fooled. “Aha! The spiders.”
They entered a spacious attic, dimly lit by the fading light through dirty dormer windows. The place was entirely empty except for a small traveling trunk in the middle of the rough floor. Anne fell to her knees and rubbed the dust from initials stamped on the lid: “E.C.H.” She felt Marcus tense behind her. “Ellen Hooke? Your mother? What was her second name?”
“I don’t know.” The three words struck her as ineffably sad.
She looked over her shoulder at him. “Is it locked? Will you open it?” If it were hers she’d rip off the lid.
“It’s not very large. I’ll carry it downstairs.”
“Supposing it’s full of books? Or gold bars?”
He hoisted it onto his shoulder easily enough. “No gold bars.”
Marcus stood alone in the drawing room. He hadn’t wanted to open the trunk in front of Anne. Whatever stolen or villainous thing his father had left him, he couldn’t risk her seeing it. She’d departed in her carriage, her burning curiosity obvious but unexpressed, from good manners and a natural delicacy. Before she left she’d rested her hand on his and given it a little squeeze and left him alone in the unheated room. Far worse than the chilly atmosphere was a cold fear in his heart at what he would find.
He folded his arms and stared at the leather trunk, a plain but well-made piece with an arched lid and brass hasp. All he could think of was that he didn’t know his mother’s full name. Aside from a few distant childhood memories, he knew nothing about her. He didn’t know if he dreaded more what he would find or what he would not.
He knelt and examined the closure. It wasn’t locked. Considering the efforts he’d made to find the mysterious legacy his father claimed to have left at Hinton Manor, he couldn’t understand his reluctance to look inside. His sense of foreboding was ridiculous. Pressing his lips together, he flipped up the hasp and raised the lid.
> The contents had belonged to a lady. They were the kinds of thing a woman might leave behind when she left a house to be married. Nothing of value or importance, merely the remnants of an old life not worth packing for the new: some worn undergarments, a cracked embroidery hoop, a crushed bonnet. A handkerchief bore those same initials in a corner, figured in blue thread. Marcus raised it to his nose, expecting—hoping—to be wafted back to the long-forgotten scent of his mother’s embrace. He smelled only musty linen.
At the very bottom lay a paper package, about the size of a novel. He recognized the handwriting of the inscription from the papers in the office. In his uncle’s upright and resolute letters were penned five words.
“The Sins of the Father.”
Most likely letters incriminating some rich and powerful person, blackmail material that, for whatever reason, Lewis hadn’t felt were ripe for use. If so, Marcus wanted no part of it. Though a weakness in one who thought himself impervious to most prickings of conscience, he drew the line at extortion.
He untied the knot, and a collection of neatly folded squares tumbled out onto the floor. At a glance they appeared to be written in a lady’s hand. What erring society dame’s love letters had fallen into his father’s hands? He expected a duchess at the very least. Resigned disgust had scarcely had time to settle when he noted that the addresses were all the same: to Josiah Hooke, Esq., at Hinton Manor, Wilts. When he opened one at random and scanned the closely written lines, his own name, Marcus, popped out at him. The letter was signed, Your obedient niece, Ellen C. Lithgow.
He learned when he had taken his first steps. The date told him he’d been a little less than a year old. He had no idea if that was early, or whether he’d been an unusually backward child. Either way, his mother’s pride was patent. His father’s reaction was not recorded.
Gathering up the letters, he carried them to the warm office and settled down to read them in chronological order. His mother and her uncle had been on terms of some affection but she had not been obedient. Her marriage to Lewis Lithgow hadn’t pleased him. She started out a happy new bride, excited by a move to London and a host of new experiences, eager to assure Josiah that he had been right when he reluctantly gave permission for the match. She made sure to inform him of her husband’s many virtues.
Miranda Neville Page 14
