The Puzzle of a Bastard

by Sande, Linda Rae

  Gabe gave him a quelling glance. “It’s just a query I have about a krater.”

  Tom nodded. “Oh, of course. Well, thank you for coming. Drinks will be on me the next time we’re at White’s.”

  Grinning, Gabe said, “Aren’t they always?”

  He took his leave and climbed into the Trenton town coach, his thoughts more on Mrs. Longworth than on Aphrodite.

  Chapter 11

  Breakfast for Two

  Back at Woodscastle

  Having given precise instructions to the cook earlier that morning regarding breakfast, Emily was relieved to see a buffet had been set up on the sideboard in the dining room. She had no idea when James might come down for the morning meal, or even if he would, but she wanted him to be able to choose from a variety of foods.

  She filled her plate, delighting in the ability to select both a slice of ham and a rasher of bacon to go with the poached eggs that floated in hot water. Buttered toast was displayed in a rack, and sections of oranges had been arranged in a flower pattern on a tray.

  About to ruin the symmetry of the flower by taking one of its petals, she paused when James appeared on the threshold. “Why, good morning, Mr. Burroughs,” she said brightly.

  James gave a slight bow and joined her at the sideboard. “It is a good morning,” he agreed.

  “I do hope it’s because your accommodations are agreeable?” she half-asked.

  “Very. I slept like the dead.”

  “Oh, good, because it’s not really a very good morning, I’m afraid. It’s snowing again,” she complained with a sigh. “Will you need to go into town?” She moved to take a place at the table, opting for a seat adjacent to the carver at the head of the table, hoping James would know to sit there. “I can let Humphrey know to have the town coach readied for your use.”

  James reviewed the foods on the sideboard. “I will, and thank you for the offer of the town coach. I need to go to the bank—let them know I’ve arrived and can start—as well as see to some personal business.” His plate filled, he turned and regarded the table. For a moment he seemed flummoxed.

  “Please, take the carver,” Emily said, just as the butler brought in cups on a tray. “I neglected to ask your preference for coffee or tea in the morning, so I had Humprey bring both.”

  Humphrey set down the tray and headed back to the kitchens as James settled himself at the head of the table.

  “You needn’t have gone to the trouble on my behalf,” he said. “But coffee is welcome in the mornings. And yours smells especially delicious.” He was used to coffee with a much stronger odor, one that suggested the coffee beans had been roasted until they were burnt.

  “Our new cook has brought with him skills our last cook lacked,” Emily replied as she poured him a cup. “Do you take sugar or milk?”

  He shook his head. “Let me try it first. I was finally used to the dreck they served in coffee shops in London before I moved to Bath, and then I had to get used to a completely different flavor once there.”

  “I haven’t been to Bath in an age,” Emily said. “Father took us there—four traveling coaches, if you can imagine—”

  “It must have looked like an Eastern caravan,” James remarked as his brows lifted.

  “Children of all ages, trying our best to behave ourselves despite how excited we were because he had told us the story of the Roman baths.”

  James grimaced. “You must have been so disappointed.”

  “There wasn’t a single pig to be found,” she agreed with a giggle, referring to the ancient story of how a pig herder had discovered his pigs’ skins were soft after they wallowed in the muddy spring. That had led to the building of the pools and steam rooms that made up the heart of Bath.

  “I do hope you have been there since,” James remarked as he tucked into his breakfast.

  “I have not. A couple of my brothers went again just before Milton had to go off to Eton for school.”

  “He is the youngest, is he not?” James asked.

  “Indeed. He’ll be finished at Cambridge this year. That is, if he’s not kicked out before then.”

  James’ eyes widened. “Whatever has he been doing?”

  “Nothing good,” Emily replied, a grin displaying her dimple. “He’s always been mischievous. Vexes my mother something awful. But Father always just grins and says he’s behaving just like his namesake.”

  Resisting the urge to laugh out loud, James knew exactly who she meant. “The antics of Milton, Earl of Torrington, in his youth are legendary,” he agreed. “Although my father implied his father’s early death helped to make him mend his ways. I believe he inherited when he was but sixteen.”

  “He was the oldest and the heir, so I would hope so,” Emily remarked. “Our Milton is the youngest of ten, terribly independent, and I think he will struggle to find his calling in life.”

  James considered her comment a moment. “Perhaps he will become a banker. Help Tom figure out what to do with all the blunt he’s been creating these past two decades. I would love a crack at it, of course, but I know I would have to prove myself before I would ever see a penny.”

  Emily stilled, her eyes darting to one side. “Roger is a banker,” she said, referring to her oldest brother.

  James straightened, another frown making him appear rather imposing. “With a competitor?” he guessed, knowing Roger Grandby wasn’t employed at the Bank of England.

  “Barclay’s. He lives a very staid life. Has a townhouse in Whitechapel. I rarely see him.”

  “But he doesn’t handle Tom’s accounts,” James said, not making it a question.

  “Your father has had that honor—or that burden—for the entire time Tom has been investing clients’ monies. Which means you may end up with the account if what you say is true about your father retiring.”

  James’ eyes rounded. “He never said a word of it,” he murmured. “I would love the challenge, of course. Tom is... he’s a master at making money. It’s as if he has a crystal ball and can see the future.”

  Grinning, Emily finished her breakfast and said, “His crystal ball is blind in one respect.”

  “Oh?”

  “He has not seen a future for himself with a wife, and yet I know he would like one,” she replied.

  Furrowing a brow, James said, “There are those of us who have avoided the Marriage Mart for so long, we missed our opportunities with the young ladies who would have made perfect wives for us. Now, none of those fresh out of the schoolroom hold any appeal, and all the older unmarried women have declared themselves spinsters and are not interested in taking on a husband.”

  Emily looked both left and right. “I have made no such declaration.”

  James made a sound of disbelief. “Then... how is it you’re still unmarried?”

  It was Emily’s turn to make the throaty sound, and she lifted a hand to grip the ring that hung from the gold chain around her neck. She hadn’t expected him to simply ask outright. Not yet, anyway.

  “My betrothed saw fit to die before we could exchange our vows,” she replied, wincing as she heard the sharp words. The familiar lump developed in her throat, and she struggled to breathe.

  Setting his coffee cup on the table, James stared at her. “I’m so sorry,” he whispered. “I... I had no idea you had accepted an offer of marriage.” Not once had Tom mentioned anything, nor had James’ father or his stepmother.

  His gaze went to her fist, the one that held the ring. “Your betrothal ring?” he asked in a whisper.

  She nodded. “I tried to give it back, but... the family would not take it.”

  “Trying to give it back was the right thing to do, of course, but it is yours,” he murmured. “I am sorry for your loss.”

  Emily angled her head to one side, realizing he had not guessed the truth of the matter. “Thank you.”

  At that moment, Humphrey appeared at the door. “Pardon, my lady, sir, but the town coach is ready.”

  Pulling his time
piece from his waistcoat pocket, James’ eyes widened. “I apologize, Miss Grandby, but I really must be going.”

  “Of course. You cannot be late on your first day,” she said, her face once again displaying a pleasant expression. “Shall we expect you for dinner?”

  James was about to say that he would eat in town, but he changed his mind at the last minute. “Yes. I’ll try very hard to be back by seven.”

  Emily smiled. “Then I will be sure dinner is ready shortly thereafter. “Have a good day.”

  He nodded. “You as well.” With that, he gave a bow and took his leave of the dining room. A few minutes later, and Emily heard the front door open and close.

  Although she struggled to hold back tears, a few escaped.

  Men could be so blind. And deaf and dumb.

  Chapter 12

  A Bold Move

  In the pottery restoration workroom, British Museum

  Trying to act as if he was on a mission when in fact the subject of his mission hadn’t yet made it back to her workroom, Gabe pretended interest in the sheaf of papers he carried in one hand.

  He reread a paragraph he had perused earlier that morning. One that inferred a particular red and black pot was probably from the Hellenistic period rather than the Archaic period.

  What could the Keeper of Ancient Roman and Greek Artifacts be thinking? The krater at the heart of the discussion was clearly Archaic. The art depicted in the scene that decorated the circumference of the pot wasn’t of the same level of detail as Hellenistic art.

  So engrossed was he in reading the Keeper’s notes, Gabe didn’t notice Mrs. Longworth entering her workshop. It wasn’t until the door shut that he realized he had missed her arrival.

  “Dammit,” he muttered, realizing he would have to meet with her on her turf rather than in the neutral territory of the corridor.

  He paused before knocking on her door. There was a long wait before he heard her call out, “Come,” from the other side.

  What had she been doing? She hadn’t been in the room that long.

  He gingerly opened the door, glad when she didn’t present a sour expression upon seeing him as he poked his head around the opening. “Good morning, Mrs. Longworth. I wondered if I might be allowed to take a closer look at one of the pots scheduled for your artistry?” His gaze went to the krater that sat on the worktable in front of where she stood. “In fact, that may be the one right there,” he added.

  Frances sighed loud enough so her annoyance was evident. “Yes, of course. I was just about to get started mixing some glue.” Several black shards surrounded the mostly-black krater. “Do you think you will be long?”

  Gabe stepped all the way into the workroom and took the two steps to the table. “Not if you’re able to assist.”

  Her eyes widening in surprise, Frances struggled to return an impassive expression to her face. “What is it?”

  He held up the papers. “I disagree with Mr. Harris’ assessment of this krater, but perhaps my memory of its art is flawed. I hoped to take a closer look...” His voice trailed off as he studied the krater.

  “Well, it’s clearly Archaic,” Frances announced, her arms crossing in front of her apron.

  “My thoughts exactly,” he agreed. “But Mr. Harris thinks it is Hellenistic.” He glanced up. “I left my gloves in my office. Might you... rotate this so I can study the other side?”

  Frances resisted the urge to sigh and simply did his bidding. The series of figures on the krater paraded past as she turned it, the scene depicting an alternating series of men and women.

  Although the women’s hairstyles were meant to appear elaborate, the details were somewhat muddled, as if in the firing process, the clay didn’t take on the correct coloring. Each man depicted was engaged in kissing the woman located next to him.

  All except for one man, who stood behind a figure that was bent over.

  Gabe arched a brow. “What are your plans for altering the art?” he asked, worry evident in his voice. Despite what appeared to be chaste kissing and no evidence of exposed genitals or naked breasts, there was the clearly sexual scene she might have to hide.

  “Other than filling the voids with these pieces, nothing,” she replied, one eyebrow arching suggestively.

  “Your words are a relief to my ears. I feared you would have to obliterate this scene.”

  He couldn’t help but notice how her face took on a pinkish cast. “That particular scene can be construed as one quite innocent,” she remarked.

  Gabe’s eyes widened. He wasn’t sure what she saw, but he knew what he saw. “And the kisses? Not too passionate?”

  She allowed a sound of disbelief. “Hardly. They are rather chaste, really. A surprise given the women are clearly prostitutes.”

  “Hetaira,” he corrected her as he took a seat in a wooden chair. “More like mistresses,” he added, his own face reddening. “I do hope you’re not offended by having to work on such a piece.”

  She straightened. “The artwork on pottery does not offend me in the least. Besides, I have worked on far more revealing pieces than this, Mr. Wellingham.” She remembered wishing she didn’t have to cover over any of the suggestive scenes, believing she was performing the equivalent of vandalism.

  “Have you ever had to cover scenes of this kind of kissing? Due to its lascivious nature?”

  “Lascivious?” she repeated. “I cannot recall this level of art having the ability to impart such a thought.”

  “But it’s clear to me,” he argued. “There is passion here. These women are important to these men. Perhaps they even have feelings of love for them,” he murmured as he studied the artwork more closely. “Kissing can be so much more than the simple touching of lips. So much more than—”

  “Really, Mr. Wellingham. You speak as if you think I have never been kissed,” she remarked.

  Gabe’s eyes widened. “Have you?” Challenge tinged his voice.

  Frances rolled her eyes. “Does not the fact that you call me Mrs. Longworth suggest that I am or have been married?”

  Straightening in the uncomfortable wooden chair, Gabe regarded her with surprise. “I call the housekeeper Mrs. Thorton, but she is not married,” he countered. His brows furrowed. “Are you married?”

  About to answer that it was none of his business, Frances instead allowed a sigh of defeat. “I am not, but you will keep that information to yourself.”

  “So... you haven’t been kissed.”

  Her shoulders dropped as she let out a humph. “Whether I have or have not is none of your concern, Mr. Wellingham,” she stated, her annoyance most evident in her pinched expression.

  “Do you wish to be?”

  The question was so unexpected, Frances stepped back as if she’d been slapped. Before she could respond or run from the room, Gabe dropped his head into his hands. “Forgive me, my lady. It is none of my concern,” he murmured. “I do not know what compelled me to ask.”

  Frances wrapped her arms around her middle, giving a feminine shape to the form beneath the oversized apron she wore. “Why do you call me that?”

  Gabe lifted his head and shook it. “What?”

  “My lady. You’ve used the honorific nearly every time you’ve addressed me—”

  “Habit,” he answered quickly. “I was raised to do so in a household where...” He paused, just then remembering he had never mentioned the identity of his parents. “Where I was expected to address all the women as ‘my lady,’” he explained. “Would you prefer it if I did not refer to you by those words?”

  Frances considered all the reasons why Mr. Wellingham might have been required to use ‘my lady’ when addressing women, finally deciding he must have been the son of a servant employed in a lord’s home. Or perhaps a footman who had been given the opportunity to attend university. Or mayhap he had been employed in a shop that catered to ladies of the ton.

  “I rather like it, actually,” she murmured. “Makes me sound as if I’m... worthy of... consid
eration.”

  Gabe furrowed both brows and stood. Frances looked as if she would take another step back, but she held her ground. “Why would you think you are not?” he asked.

  Inhaling sharply, she allowed a shrug. “I am not of noble birth—”

  “But you are educated,” he argued.

  “I am a commoner who happened to have a father who...” She stopped speaking.

  One of Gabe’s eyebrows arched up. “Who was your father?” He took another step in her direction. Her bottom was now pressed against the shelves. If she leaned too far back with her head, an intact Roman glass vase from the first century would be in danger of tumbling from its perch and ending up in a thousand tiny shards on the floor.

  “He was a potter,” she stated, as if she had come to the same conclusion about the Roman vase and decided it best to remain where she was.

  Gabe angled his head to one side. Her slight Stoke accent, frequently heard in those who spoke a Potteries dialect, had him jumping to a conclusion. “He worked for Wedgwood.” After his discussion with Tom at White’s, he had begun to piece together just how it was Mrs. Longworth might have gained employment at the factory.

  Nepotism.

  Frances’ eyes widened. “How... how did you know?”

  Gabe shook his head. Wedgwood’s factory had been one of the few that had survived the recession, all because its owner and founder, Josiah Wedgwood, had invented cost accounting. By creating pottery for the masses in volume and a few select high-end pieces for the well-to-do and royalty, the business had thrived. “I’ve seen you work with plaster. With clay. Only someone who had grown up watching an artisan work his magic would develop the skills you have,” he claimed, deciding she was far too young to have become such a craftsman of her own accord.

  Her expression softened. “You think I have skills?” she whispered in reply.

  “You would not be employed here if you did not. Your skills are exquisite, my lady,” he replied, “Even if you are required to use them to obliterate beautifully rendered genitals from Greek antiquities.”