His vows to her.
James straightened, surprised by the change of subject. “Thank you. I cannot say I was surprised, though. Like my mother, Henry was always on the sickly side.” He was about to say more, but thought better of it.
“But your sister, Sophia, is doing well,” Emily said, hoping to lighten the mood. “I played cards with her at a party just last week.”
Rolling his eyes, James said, “I cannot believe she has four children.”
“I cannot believe how much they look alike,” Emily said with a grin. She waited for him to respond and then waved a hand in the air between them, thinking he was suddenly lost in thought. “Don’t you agree?”
James gave a start, as if pulled from a reverie. “Truth be told, I haven’t seen them since they came to Bath a few years ago,” he replied, looking ever so sheepish.
Emily furrowed a brow. “So... you’re not staying at Merriweather Manor?” Sophia, her husband, and their four children had apartments in the sprawling manor home.
James’ eyes darted to one side. “I am, but... I’ve managed to avoid being seen by anyone just yet.”
Her eyes widening in disbelief, Emily asked, “How is that even possible?” She knew at least three families lived at Merriweather Manor as well as an army of servants. “There must be fifty people living there.” Then her eyes widened in delight. “Does Merriweather Manor have secret passages, too?”
James blinked. “Not that I know of,” he replied. “But they certainly would have come in handy last night.” He paused a moment. “I take from your question that this house must include a few?”
Her eyes darting to the side, Emily leaned forward and said, “I can get from my bedchamber all the way around the house to my aunt’s bedchamber almost without being seen,” she claimed. “My father can get from his study into the kitchen using a secret staircase.”
Grinning, James said, “Now that’s more useful, I should think.”
“So how is it you weren’t discovered last night?”
“I arrived and told the butler not to tell anyone I was there,” he said in a quiet voice, as if he feared being overheard.
Emily giggled and then leaned forward. “Is there a reason you are lying low?” she asked in a whisper.
He grinned and shook his head. “I have become so used to a quiet life. Alone, but...” He sighed.
“Alone, but not lonely?” she offered.
His eyes widened. “Yes, exactly. How is it...?” He shook his head again and his gaze suddenly darted to the door. “Where is... where is everyone else?”
Emily dipped her head, just then noticing his teacup was empty. She quickly refilled it and added some milk. “Most have gone off to Cherrywood in Derbyshire for the holiday. And lately, my aunt and uncle—the Wellinghams—have been staying in their townhouse in Kingly Street—”
“I suppose it is rather dark when they finish work in town,” James commented. “They still run Wellingham Imports then?”
“They do. And as you now know, Tom has flown the coop.”
“Leaving you all alone in this huge house.”
She shrugged. “There are the servants, of course,” she reminded him.
“I’ll have you know, I am jealous,” James remarked.
“Jealous?” Emily angled her head to one side. For a moment, she thought he might be referring to something else. Someone else. Then she remembered they were speaking of the house and aloneness. “If you’d like to move in, I know of an available bedchamber in the Wellingham wing.”
“The Wellingham wing?” he repeated, his face lighting with humor.
Emily blinked, wondering how it was she hadn’t noticed his handsome features before now. There was the faint resemblance to two of her brothers, his dark hair the same shade of brown cast with strands of gold, his eyes the same hazel, his cheekbones not yet sharp, his jawline square and centered by a chin that would never appear weak.
Try as she might, she couldn’t find any of his late brother, Henry, in his appearance.
She used a finger to point up and toward the back of the house. “My aunt and uncle have their suites up there, and all the rest of us have our suites on that end of the house,” she explained as she redirected her finger.
“Are you quite serious?”
“About the offer of a room?” she countered. “Yes, of course. No one else is using it—even when everyone is home.”
“And... when will that be?” he asked, straightening in his chair.
One shoulder lifted. “End of January at the earliest. Mayhap end of February, depending on how much snow is still on the ground at the time.”
James Burroughs regarded her for a long time before he finally gave a nod. “It would just be until I can find something in town,” he said. “I could almost do what Tom has done and get a room at a club, but I think—”
“Oh, you would do better with a townhouse,” she suggested. “Lots of little rooms and your own study to hide in when you return home from the bank.”
“I was thinking of my own library.”
Her eyes rounded. “A man after my heart,” she teased. “Until you have your own, you’re welcome to use the one here. Do you have a valet?”
He shook his head. “My last valet didn’t wish to leave Bath. Perhaps I’ll take on one when I live in town,” he replied.
“Well, should you decide to hire one before then, I know of two empty quarters in the servants’ hall,” she offered.
James leaned forward, his arms resting on his knees. “Are there rooms you prefer to keep to yourself? Where you might not want my company? I shouldn’t wish to impose.”
She shook her head. “The library is quite large. There’s a music room, the dining room, and this parlor. The snow is kept swept off the paths in the back gardens. Why, it’s doubtful we would even see each other except at breakfast and dinner,” she said. “Would you like to see the bedchamber?”
“A vantage looking over the front of Woodscastle?” he half-asked. “No need. I couldn’t ask for a better view.”
Emily grinned in delight. “Then I’ll have Mrs. Elliot, the housekeeper, see to preparing the bedchamber above us for you.” After a pause, she asked, “And that beautiful horse you rode here?”
James’ attention darted to the window, although the horse was beyond its vantage. “He is my own, but I’ll need to see to a town coach. I’ll have to get to the bank every day, and I cannot do it riding a horse,” he replied.
“You can use the one that’s still here as well as our driver,” she offered. “No one else is.”
He gave her a look that suggested he didn’t believer her. “Not even you?”
“I have a phaeton,” she said with an arched brow. “And I know how to drive it.”
James blinked and finally allowed a grin of his own. “You saucy wench,” he teased.
Continuing to grin, Emily replied. “I am, and don’t you forget it.”
Chapter 2
A Rhyton in Ruins
Meanwhile, at the British Museum in Great Russell Street, London
The wooden crate landed with a thud at Gabe Wellingham’s feet, and he winced. “Have a care!” he cried out, incensed at the lack of regard the two barrel-chested delivery men showed as they moved to lift another crate from the back of a dray cart. “These are priceless antiquities.”
Clouds of white air appeared and disappeared in front of his face, his exhalations of breath freezing due to the chilly temperatures. With the large doors open to accommodate the dray cart, the entire receiving area at the back of the museum was cold.
From his vantage, Gabe marveled at what lay beyond the doors. What was once called Long Fields and then Southampton Fields—the site of numerous duels and the Field of Forty Steps—was now covered in building materials for the museum’s ongoing expansion. The ingredients for concrete as well as cast iron, stacks of stock brick, and blocks of Portland stone were neatly arranged and spread out as far as the eye could see. A pi
le of timber was diminishing with each passing day as carpenters built display cases.
From the largest building site in Europe had come the new East Wing, where the King’s Library and some of the museum’s senior staff were housed. One after the other, new exhibit halls were completed and quickly filled, and yet one of the workmen had said it would be more than a decade before Sir Robert Smirke’s design for the grand neoclassical building would be complete. That would happen when the South Wing was built with its planned colonnaded portico.
Intended to make for a grand entrance on the side of the quadrangular structure facing Great Russell Street, its construction wouldn’t start until the original Montagu House was demolished, and its demolition wouldn’t begin for another few years.
Gabe wondered if he would still hold his position as an archivist of Greek antiquities when all of it was finished.
The last crate was set down atop the first one, its thud only slightly less loud than the first. Once again, Gabe winced and managed to catch the attention of a nearby carpenter.
“Sir?” the carpenter said as he approached. He carried a box of nails under one muscled arm and a hammer in the other. His dusty trousers, work shirt, and plain brown waistcoat were at odds with Gabe’s light trousers, shawl-collared waistcoat, and long topcoat.
“How do, Barstow? I could use a strong arm,” Gabe said as he indicated the two crates. “Our newest acquisitions from Greece,” he added.
One of the benefits of the museum’s ongoing construction meant there was always a carpenter nearby to help with prying the lids off the shipping crates.
Gabe hefted a pry bar and handed it to Barstow before helping himself to another. The two worked the sharp edges under the crate’s lid, and soon the nails securing the wood gave way. Barstow helped to move the top crate off the one below it and they pried the lid off of it.
“Thank you,” Gabe said as Barstow gave him the pry bar and went on his way.
Gabe took a deep breath and used his hands to move aside the excelsior that protected the first crate’s treasure—an ancient Greek krater that featured a scene with the god Apollo. He lifted it from the bed of packing material, awestruck. The krater was intact. No obvious chips on the rims. There was a slight imperfection in the figure of Apollo, but he knew that could be repaired.
The museum employed an expert in pottery restoration. He hadn’t yet met the man, but the evidence of his expertise could be seen by the trained eye in several of the artifacts already on display in the museum.
Setting the krater on a nearby table, Gabe turned his attention to the other crate. Pushing aside the lengths of wood strands, he frowned when he couldn’t find what the packing list claimed was inside—a rhyton. The conical drinking cup wouldn’t be especially large, but it should have been evident in the crate.
Gabe continued to push aside the packing material until his hand intersected something.
A shard.
He winced as he pulled out the dark brown curved piece of pottery. He pushed his hand back into the crate, reaching to the bottom to discover that the entire rhyton was in pieces.
Had it broken en route? Or had it been shipped this way?
He finally started scooping excelsior from the one crate into the other, moaning when he discovered the remaining pieces of the rhyton at the bottom. “Dammit,” he murmured.
“Really, sir, it’s not as bad as that,” a voice said from his right.
A female voice.
One he was sure included a very slight Stoke accent.
Gabe straightened to regard the owner of the voice—a dark-haired woman who might have been his age. She was wearing a humongous apron and sporting a bun atop her head that was sprung so tight, he was sure her facial features were pulled out of their natural shape. Her gloved hands were both fisted and resting atop her hips.
He gave a bow. “My lady?” he replied. “Isn’t it... ruined?”
She rolled her green eyes. “It won’t be after I’m finished with it,” she said as she held out her right hand, intending to shake his. “Mrs. Longworth. I perform the restoration on pottery.”
Gabe immediately bowed over her hand and brushed his lips over her knuckles, noting the gloves were not silk, but rather cotton, and slightly soiled from what might have been clay.
Frances Longworth gave a start, jerking her hand from his hold. When she realized she had overreacted, she stepped back and managed a curtsy. “Apologies. I... I just wasn’t expecting... that,” she stammered.
“Gabe Wellingham,” he said, rather wishing there had been someone to do the introductions. “Archivist. I’ve recently been hired to catalogue the Ancient Greek antiquities.”
The woman’s gaze took in the cut of his clothes, the perfectly tied cravat, and the simple but expensive waistcoat that peeked above his fashionable black wool topcoat. One that was pinched in at the waist and then flared out in perfect pleats to the sides and back. “It’s very good to finally meet you, sir,” she said, as she moved to the side of the crate holding the shards that had at one time made up a brown rhyton.
“You, as well, my lady. How is it I haven’t made your acquaintance before today?”
Lifting the front of her apron into a makeshift hammock, Frances carefully scooped the pieces into the apron and dipped a curtsy. “No need, I suppose. Good day.” Cradling the pottery shards as if they were a baby, she turned to go.
“Wait,” Gabe said as he moved to follow her. “Where...where are you taking them?”
Frances allowed an expression that suggested she thought him daft. “To my workroom, of course.”
“But...”
“I’ll have the finished piece delivered to you when it’s reconstructed,” she added, just before she left the receiving area.
Gabe watched her go, realizing two things at once.
Mrs. Longworth wasn’t the man he had thought she was, which had him wondering if others in the museum’s employ knew M. Frances Longworth was a woman.
And she would be positively lovely if her bun wasn’t so damned tight.
Chapter 3
Aphrodite Arrives
Meanwhile, at Wellingham Imports
“Has it come yet?”
Tom Grandby regarded his uncle and namesake, Thomas Wellingham, with an expectant expression as he struggled to catch his breath. He had practically raced all the way to the brick building housing the offices and warehouse of Wellingham Imports in his high-perch phaeton, making it from his office in Oxford Street in under a half-hour. “I was in a meeting when your caddy dropped off your cryptic note.”
The older gentleman—sixty-two years old but still seeing to the day-to-day operations of his import and export concern—grinned at his nephew’s enthusiasm. “Just this morning. Came on the Sea Breeze a day ahead of schedule,” Thomas Wellingham replied. “These winter winds have played havoc with shipping lately.” He waved for Tom to follow him. “What do you hear from your mother?”
Christiana Grandby was his sister, and he hadn’t seen her since she and most of her brood had departed Chiswick to spend the holiday at the Burroughs’ family country estate, Cherrywood. Tom, her second oldest son, had elected to stay behind, claiming he had business to attend to in London.
Tom gave a short laugh. “Although she dearly loves spending time in Derbyshire, she misses Aunt Emma and Emily.”
Thomas stopped short. “Emily?” he repeated. “Didn’t she go with the rest of the family to Cherrywood?” Although Emily was twenty-four, Tom’s youngest sister hadn’t yet married.
“Surely you would have noticed. She’s staying at Woodscastle,” Tom replied, referring to the manor home the Grandbys and Wellinghams shared in Chiswick. “At least, I thought she was,” he added as a frown furrowed his brows. “Should I be worried that she might have been whisked away by some devious rogue intent on marrying her for her dowry?”
As far as he knew, Emily wasn’t being courted by anyone, more because she wasn’t actively seeking a husband th
an because there were no interested men. He hadn’t thought to ask her why, deciding it was more his mother’s concern.
Thomas shook his head as they made their way to a crate in the warehouse. “She’s no doubt there. I just haven’t been,” he said. “Emma and I have been spending our evenings at the townhouse in Kingly Street.” He paused as an expression of worry darkened his face. “I don’t miss the seven-mile drive from my office after dark, but the fact that you haven’t seen Emily of late means you haven’t been staying at Woodscastle, either,” he accused.
Dipping his head slightly, Tom said, “I have not. I took a room at one of my clubs—Arthur’s, in fact. For the very same reason you have been staying in town at night,” he added. “I thought my business would slow when the snow started falling, but I seem to have more clients now than I did before Father decided to retire.”
His father, Gregory Grandby, had spent most of his years helping others invest their funds into profitable ventures. Having inherited a princely sum from his late father when he was but four years old, Gregory had learned early on how to choose investments that would pay handsomely, although not always quickly. His last large investment had been in several railroads, and it would be at least a decade before those would show a profit.
“Perhaps you should take on a partner,” Thomas suggested. “Best thing I ever did for this business.”
Tom chuckled. “As I recall Father telling me, you had to marry Aunt Emma to make her a partner,” he accused.
“That’s because she owned a good deal of this company’s stock,” Thomas said, sotto voce. “My decision to marry her was the best decision I ever made, and not just because she was already an owner.” He paused a moment. “She is the joy in my life.”
Tom noticed the gleam in his uncle’s eyes and he grinned. Then he sobered when he suspected the reason for his uncle’s words. “I am not courting anyone. I am not looking to court anyone, and why is it you still think I should marry? I’m... I’m rather too old to consider matrimony now, don’t you suppose?”
The Puzzle of a Bastard Page 2
