Thomas let out a laugh. “Since when is three-and-thirty too old to wed?” he countered. “Your cousin, Milton, Earl of Torrington, didn’t get married until he was—”
“Six-and-forty,” Tom interrupted, his eyes rolling as if he’d been reminded of the earl’s late marriage to Adele Slater Worthington many a time. The products of that union, twins George and Angelica, were currently on their wedding trips to the Kingdom of the Two Sicilies. Unlike their parents, they had both elected to wed before their twenty-second birthdays.
Tom wasn’t too surprised that Cousin Milton had practically arranged for Angelica to wed a knight who was famous for having discovered a comet. Since Benjamin Fulton’s brother, Benedict, Earl of Wadsworth, hadn’t yet sired an heir, Sir Benjamin—or his heir—would be next in line to inherit the Wadsworth earldom, which meant Angelica would one day be a countess.
The newlyweds had apparently enjoyed viewing heavenly bodies together in Sir Benjamin’s garden observatory, a form of courtship Tom found amusing.
The union of George, Viscount Hexham, to Lady Anne Wellingham, daughter of Gabriel, Earl of Trenton, had been somewhat of a surprise, though. The two had barely courted and yet had claimed from their first encounter in Hyde Park that they would end up together.
The twins’ weddings were just the week before, and the happy couples had departed London—along with their parents—on a steamship bound for the Mediterranean.
“I just do not think it would be fair for me to wed and then not be able to spend much time with my wife,” Tom explained, just as they stopped before a wooden crate. “All my travels. My time at the office. It would be unfair to her.” His eyes widened. “This is it?”
His uncle nodded and pushed aside the lid, its nails having been removed upon its arrival earlier that day. “I’ll let you do the honors,” Thomas said as he stepped aside.
Tom took a deep breath and leaned down to push aside the mounds of excelsior that filled the wooden crate. When his hand touched something hard, he paused and took a breath. He spread the curled wood shavings aside and reached down with both hands to grasp the object. “It’s intact,” he murmured in awe.
“Well, I made sure of that before I sent word of its arrival,” Thomas said with a laugh. “I admit I was surprised of your interest in something from Greece. The last vase we brought in for you was from Wedgwood, was it not?”
Tom nodded. “That particular work of art has a prominent place in my office,” he replied. “The craftsmanship is excellent, as is the design featured on it. In fact, I think it rivals anything that’s coming from the Continent these days,” he said of the Wedgwood vase.
“And this one?” Thomas asked as he indicated the terra cotta pot his nephew was still working to free from its bed of excelsior.
“I expect this one shall become my new favorite.” As Tom lifted the item from the crate, he held his breath and finally allowed a long sigh. “It’s heavier than I thought it would be.”
“How old do you suppose it is?”
“Two... three-thousand years, perhaps?” Tom guessed as he held out the large, black Attic vase in front of his body. The detailed design that graced the vessel seemed entirely untouched by age. As to the figures featured in the painting, Tom was fairly sure one was Aphrodite. The others were all men, but he could only guess one might be the god Poseidon. As for the others, he didn’t know which mortals or gods they might be.
He hoped Gabe Wellingham would know.
Tom finally set the vase on the edge of the crate, but continued to support it with both hands.
“How do you expect to confirm it is what I think it is?” Thomas inquired.
The younger man finally allowed a huge grin. “With any luck, your cousin’s son will know.”
Thomas furrowed a brow, deciding Tom was referring to Gabe the Younger, the illegitimate and oldest son of Gabriel Wellingham, Earl of Trenton, and his countess, Sarah. “A student of Greek antiquities, is he?”
Tom nodded. “No longer a student, but currently employed at the British Museum as an archivist. He catalogues the Greek artifacts they’ve been acquiring by the ship full, which means he will have work for several years.”
Thomas nodded his approval. He was impressed that the earl’s son was working rather than living a life of leisure. Gabe could do so given the young man would claim his inheritance when he reached his majority. “Like you, a wise young man,” he murmured.
“He is, and I’ve sent a note that he needs to join me at White’s tonight for a brandy. Would you care to join us?”
Thomas shook his head. “Thank you, but I find I am in need of Emma’s company this evening.”
Allowing an expression of worry, Tom asked, “Is everything all right?”
His uncle nodded. “Always. But she’s spent the entire day in the accounting office, which means I haven’t seen her since we arrived this morning.”
Tom couldn’t help the red that suffused his face. “You’re as bad as Mother and Father,” he accused.
“I am in love with my wife, and have been since...” He paused and gave a slight shake of his head. Perhaps it wasn’t love at first sight, but his regard for Emma Fitzsimmons had developed over a period of less than a month. “Since I hired her to perform an audit of the company ledgers,” he murmured. “Your father knew it, damn him. Pretended he had developed a tendré for Emma even though he was secretly in love with your mother at the time.”
Grinning, Tom turned his attention back to the Greek vase.
“What are your plans for it?” Thomas asked. He thought it odd that his nephew would acquire such an artifact when he had no townhouse of his own in which to display it.
“There’s a caryatid in my office,” Tom replied. “This will be perfect sitting atop it.”
“Your office?” Thomas repeated in disbelief.
“In Oxford Street. I spend more time there than anywhere else these days,” he said. “And I always admired Uncle William’s office at the bank. He surrounded himself with beautiful things. Still does.”
Thomas rolled his eyes, remembering his one less-than-pleasant visit to Sir William’s office at the Bank of England. That had been ages ago, and despite his having lived for ninety years, Sir William III was still alive.
“Do you wish to take it with you?” Thomas asked as he indicated the vase.
“I do, but... I only have my phaeton.”
“I’ll have one of my men follow you with a dray cart,” Thomas offered.
Tom thanked his uncle as he helped to repack the vase, thinking that even if he didn’t have a wife, he would at least have Aphrodite for the rest of his life.
Chapter 4
The Ride Home
Meanwhile, in Chiswick
James Burroughs mounted his bay and made his way back to Merriweather Manor, an unusual sense of calm having settled over him.
Perhaps it had been the morning ride through the falling snow, or the quiet that surrounded him as if every sound but those of hoofbeats were swallowed up by the white carpet.
It was certainly a marked contrast from the sound of chatter and the thumping of footfalls that had awakened him that morning at Merriweather Manor.
He arrived from Bath much later than he expected the night before—the hired coach in which he rode had been delayed at one of the coaching inns due to snow.
The delay had allowed his horse to rest, though. Once they reached the outskirts of London, he’d been able to arrange for his trunks to be delivered to Merriweather Manor before he rode there with only a valise stuffed with some essentials.
The thought of facing any of his relatives that morning had him skulking down the servants’ stairs and out the back door to the stables, deciding he could delay making his presence known until after a ride.
Despite the travel the day before, his horse, Neptune, seemed anxious for more exercise today. Even if he hadn’t been, James knew he could borrow another from the stables. His father kept a half-dozen or more f
or riding.
However he managed it, he had wanted to see Thomas, to commiserate and to catch up.
His father’s decision to retire could not have come at a more opportune time. The situation in Bath had grown untenable. Given his age—there were some there who thought him far older than his six-and-thirty years—and his lack of a wife or evidence he was at least courting someone, he knew some believed he was a molly.
He had staved off rumors for a time with hints of a betrothal to a lady in London. He had employed a mistress for a few years, though, but not having produced his betrothed for any of the entertainments in Bath meant the rumors would persist.
It was past time to leave Bath behind.
Since his brother’s death last spring, he had no other member of the family—close to his age—who could empathize with his continued bachelor status.
He had qualms about taking a wife.
Every woman he met seemed intent on marrying him for his fortune.
Just once, he would like to have met a woman who had no idea he was rich. Who might show an interest in him for who he was rather than what he could buy for her. Who might be attracted to him for his other qualities—loyalty, steadfastness, his pleasant disposition—rather than the handsome features sported by every man in the Burroughs family.
He knew his distant cousin experienced the same difficulties. He had put voice to his complaints the last time Thomas was in Bath on business, half expecting Thomas suffered the same problem.
Tom, he amended, remembering how Emily referred to her second-oldest brother.
His thoughts turned to her, and he slowed his mount. Despite her age, Emily had seemed so at home running the household while everyone else was away. She had been dressed in a bright gown the color of violets, her fitted bodice and bell-shaped skirt suggesting a pleasing figure and long legs. Her simple jewelry—pearl earbobs and a string of tiny pearls around one wrist—was perfect for her age and coloring. Only the ring on the gold chain had seemed out of place.
She offered her hospitality so easily. Drawn him in with her easy smiles. Plied him with tea and cakes and offered a place for him to stay. Never once had she seemed motivated to do so by his fortune.
Because she probably has one of her own.
He blinked and then rolled his eyes.
Did she have the same issues with her suitors? Did men only show interest in her in the hopes of gaining her dowry?
She was quite attractive, but not in the elegant, overdone manner of his last mistress, Marjorie, or any of the Burroughs women he could claim as aunts.
Emily’s features were softer, her dark blonde hair highlighted by strands of gold, her green eyes filled with mischief, her easy grin highlighting a dimple and lips he just then thought of kissing.
He allowed a sound of surprise that must have startled Neptune, for the bay suddenly quickened his step to a trot. James pulled back on the reins, not wishing to arrive at Merriweather Manor just yet. He wanted a few more minutes of quiet. A few more minutes of solitude before facing a houseful of people.
He almost turned around and headed back to Woodscastle. There was solitude there.
Well, not complete solitude.
Emily was there. Probably back in the library, reading a book.
The thought had him trying to remember her age. Had she already reached her majority? Opted to take her dowry and forego marriage in favor of the independent life of a spinster? If that was the case, she wouldn’t still be living at Woodscastle.
Would she?
Four-and-twenty.
The age came to him in a flash.
He had been twelve when she was born. Despite the chaos of all her older brothers and sisters, Emily had always been the calm in the middle of the Grandby storm of children. Quiet and reserved, watching as if she was on the outside looking in. Joining the fray when invited, but always the first to step out.
Just like me, he thought, which had him coming to his senses to discover he was already in the half-round drive of Merriweather Manor. Despite wishing for just a few more minutes of quiet, a few more minutes of time by himself, his arrival had been noticed. Besides the groom who hurried up to take his horse, several happy children were spilling out the front doors to greet him.
Well, he had sent word ahead that he would be coming to stay for a night or two. Perhaps his trunks had already been delivered.
The memory of Emily’s brilliant smile had him pasting on one of his own as he accepted the cries of welcome and the hugs of nieces and nephews and his father and stepmother.
Later, though, he would make his way to town and look for Tom at White’s.
At least he was still a bachelor.
Chapter 5
Reconstructing a Rhyton
Back at the museum
Sweeping into her cramped workshop and shoving the door shut with one foot, Frances allowed a sigh of relief as she settled her back against it. For nearly a month, she had been avoiding any contact with the newly hired Mr. Wellingham, sure he would take issue with her sex.
By timing her arrival in the receiving area to coincide with the dray cart she had seen pulling onto the museum grounds, she knew she could catch him—and her newest project—on neutral ground.
The last thing she wanted was to have him seeking her out in her workroom, or for her to have to meet him in the office he had been assigned upon his hiring—it was smaller even than her workroom!
She had seen him before, of course. Watched him make his way from the museum entrance to the hallway leading to the Greek and Roman exhibits. He had probably seen her before, but simply thought she was a patron there to view the artifacts.
From the cut of his clothes and the crown of blond curls that topped his perfectly chiseled face, she knew Mr. Wellingham had attended university.
Probably Cambridge.
Had probably studied the Classics.
Add to that his voice, devoid of a regional accent, and she was sure he was the son of some landed gentry, or worse, the nephew of a wealthy merchant or tradesman and raised here in London.
He probably even had a membership in one of the men’s clubs.
She considered how he had reacted to her appearance, and then wondered at how he had addressed her.
My lady.
As if.
But what had surprised her most on this day was what he hadn’t done. He hadn’t put voice to any shock or taken umbrage at learning she was a woman. In fact, he seemed far more concerned about what she planned to do with his rhyton.
Just the year before, the man who had hired her had certainly been surprised by her sex. She hadn’t given him a chance to take issue with it, though.
Frances had appeared before Evan Shoemaker, an updated character in hand along with his letter she had received the week before, offering her the position of Pottery Restorer.
“You’re Mr. F. Longworth?” he had asked in dismay.
“Mrs. Frances Longworth, yes. Pleased to make your acquaintance, sir,” she said as she held out her right hand. “If you’ll just show me to my workshop, I can get started right away.”
She had learned years before to simply take charge of the awkward situation, act as if she knew what she was doing—because she did—and get on with her assignment.
“But...” he had started to say, finally noticing her hand. He had given it a half-hearted shake.
“Yes, I’m aware I am a woman, but my training is quite extensive. I have learned from the very best, and you’ll find my skills exceed any man you might have employed in the past for the same position.”
She remembered how he had blinked. How he had been so tongue-tied, he had simply turned and led her to some stairs.
Down they had gone until they reached a poorly-lit corridor in the basement. A series of doors on either side reminded her of the hotel in which she had taken a room for her first week in London.
Here, the floors were concrete, though, while those in her hotel were carpeted. The workroo
m he opened was probably the same size as her hotel room, although it felt far more crowded given the shelves of pots, a tall worktable, a potter’s wheel, and the general mess that had greeted her that day.
“Where’s the kiln located?” she had asked, her entire body turning to take in the workroom where she would be spending her days, hopefully for a very long time.
She’d had no intention of returning to Staffordshire.
“Kiln?”
“The oven. For firing pottery?” she had clarified. “For creating the patches necessary to fill in any gaps in the event there are pieces missing from an amphorae or a krater.”
Mr. Shoemaker’s eyes had darted sideways. “I am not sure we have one,” he had replied.
She remembered having done a quick inventory as the man spoke. She had found some clay that wasn’t yet hard as a rock, a tray of powdered pigments, oil paints, brushes, protein glue, and plaster. “Is there waterglass?” she remembered asking. “And kaolin?”
From the expression on Evan Shoemaker’s face, she doubted he even knew what she was asking about.
“There is a clerk that sees to ordering supplies, of course,” he had finally replied, perhaps realizing he needed to simply allow her to do the job for which he had hired her.
She had to be better than the potter who worked there for the past few years. His restorations had been so poor, the curators had threatened to accept positions in Paris. “Just down the hall. Mr. Peabody. He’ll see to whatever it is you need.”
“Does that include my pay at the end of the month?”
Frances wanted Mr. Shoemaker out of her workroom, but she didn’t want him to forget he had hired her, nor did she want him lowering her agreed-upon salary just because she was a woman. “I trust the position still pays what you offered in your letter.” She had made sure not to make this last comment a question.
She didn’t want him reconsidering anything.
The Puzzle of a Bastard Page 3
