The Puzzle of a Bastard

by Sande, Linda Rae

  “Now I feel ever the fool,” James murmured, returning his attention to the soup.

  “Were you introduced to him?”

  “I was, and I thought he looked familiar, but...” He sighed. “He must think me daft for not realizing it was him.”

  “You cannot be expected to recognize or remember everyone,” she said. “Our families are just too large.”

  “Thank you for your kind words. Now I’m almost afraid to ask about Mr. Harris.”

  Emily furrowed a brow. “The one that works at the museum?”

  “That would be him,” James replied, his eyes widening. “He happened to be at the bank today, and I mentioned I would be donating some Greek vases to the museum. He seemed... intrigued, but he didn’t react with the same level of interest that Mr. Wellingham did.”

  Emily straightened. “Why ever would you wish to donate Greek antiquities?” she asked in alarm, just before she allowed a sigh and settled back in her chair. “I apologize. It’s really none of my business, of course.”

  “You favor Greek vases?”

  “Well, not especially, but they have become so valuable. Apparently Tom wanted one—”

  “It arrived. He spoke of it last night,” James explained. “As for the ones I have, I cannot believe they can be too valuable.”

  “Why ever not?”

  He seemed reluctant to reply and then finally said, “I won them in a game of whist from a baron who obviously could not afford to gamble.”

  The reference to gambling seemed to knock the air out of Emily. “Oh,” she said on a sigh, turning her attention back to her soup.

  James regarded her a moment. “Are you disappointed by my decision to donate the vases? Or is there another reason I have suddenly lost your good opinion?”

  Blushing—she hadn’t meant for him to notice her sudden disinterest in him—Emily asked, “Do you enjoy gambling?”

  Immediately taking her meaning, James was quick with his reply. “Not especially. I rarely gamble. I was at a house party and was invited to sit in on a set on behalf of someone else.”

  “Oh,” she replied, heartened at his response. Perhaps he didn’t share his late brother’s proclivity for losing more than he could afford. “I do wonder why Mr. Harris didn’t seem interested in the vases. Why, one of the museum’s patrons is currently sponsoring a dig in Greece.”

  “Mr. Wellingham mentioned there are a number of Greek artifacts he is charged with cataloguing.”

  “I am so glad the museum was able to hire him. His interest is genuine, and he truly enjoys the work, I think.”

  “He’ll have nine more vases to see to when my donation is delivered. Probably on the morrow.”

  “What makes you think they aren’t particularly valuable?”

  James allowed a shrug. “I cannot imagine Baron Bradford still owning anything of value. Why, he lost his home this past year.”

  Emily’s eyes widened. “To the Earl of Wadsworth,” she said with some excitement. At James’ look of surprise, she added, “Bradford Hall is next door to Worthington House. In Park Lane. Sir Benjamin lives there. That’s where he and Lady Angelica will live when they return from their wedding trip.”

  “I do hope Wadsworth didn’t have to spend a pretty penny to make it livable,” James remarked.

  Grinning, Emily said, “Sir Benjamin had an observatory built in the back garden.”

  “Ah, yes. He’s an astronomer. Discovered a comet, I think.”

  “He did,” Emily affirmed. After a moment, she said, “You will have to let me know what Mr. Wellingham discovers with regard to the Greek vases. I admit to a certain curiosity about their value.”

  “I will,” James promised. Relieved he seemed to have redeemed himself with the young lady, he returned his attention to his dinner.

  Chapter 14

  Puzzles of a Different Sort

  In the pottery restoration workroom, British Museum

  Three days passed before Gabe dared pay another call on Frances Longworth in her workroom. The amphora he held between gloved hands had arrived the morning before, its providence reviewed and its cataloging complete. Although only a very slight chip marred its top edge, he thought it best to bring it to the workroom for Mrs. Longworth to review before turning the vase over to the curator for display.

  He was sure the single male depicted in black on the red pottery was that of Apollo. Apparently naked and his body in profile, it was possible his nether region would require some obliteration. Although Gabe had studied it closely, he couldn’t make out anything that might be offensive to a typical museum visitor, but he trusted Mrs. Longworth to know.

  Carefully cradling the two-handled pot in one arm, he knocked on the workroom door and waited. After what seemed an eternity, he heard Mrs. Longworth’s familiar “Come” with what sounded like an exasperated sigh.

  Girding his loins for a scolding, Gabe opened the door and stepped inside, careful to close it behind him. No need for anyone to see him while he conducted business, nor did he wish to cause a scandal should another employee see them together in her workroom. “Good morning, Mrs. Longworth,” he said with a slight bow.

  He blinked as he stared at the potter.

  Mrs. Longworth was seated before a spinning potter’s wheel, her knees on either side of the wheel’s vertical support. Her hands, wet and covered with gray slip, were held against both sides of a jar that seemed to form before his eyes. Despite his presence, her attention was fully on her work.

  Gabe’s first thought was that he wished he was the pot. From the way she held her hands, from the angle of her fingers, and the manner in which the gray water dripped from her wrists, he could only think carnal thoughts.

  How could he not?

  She was the vision of an enchantress, casting her spell on the damp clay with the slightest press of a finger or the firm push of her palms. The jar grew taller, wider, and then rounded before a neck formed beneath her touch. Then she pulled her hands away and the wheel slowed to a halt.

  Gabe swallowed. Hard.

  “Good day, Mr. Wellingham,” Frances finally answered, her attention on what he held rather than on him. “What have you there?”

  Remembering to breathe, Gabe did so, and then hoped she wouldn’t notice his arousal. “An Attic pot that might require your... obliteration skills.” He glanced down at Apollo and then frowned. Now that he looked at it in the brighter light of the workroom—despite being in the basement, the room did have a window near the ceiling—he questioned his earlier assessment.

  Had Apollo’s nether region already been painted over?

  She gave him a quelling glance. “Oh, really, Mr. Wellingham,” she scolded, dipping her hands into a bucket of water before wiping them on a rag. She moved to join him. “Place it on the table, and let’s have a look.”

  Gabe did as he was told, but his attention was on what she had been creating. “Your krater is amazing,” he murmured, lowering his head so he could see the profile of the pot against a darker background.

  “Then I have failed, for it was supposed to be a volute,” she replied as she briefly glanced over at her vase. Now that the shape and profile matched that of an ancient one, she intended to slice out pieces to match the voids she needed to fill in the other pot.

  “It will be once the handles are added,” he argued. “What, pray tell, is this for?”

  “Potsherds,” she replied absently, her attention on the figure of Apollo as well as the other images that decorated the amphora he had brought with him.

  “Potsherds?” he repeated in alarm. “You... you’re going to break this into pieces?”

  “No. I will carefully cut out the pieces I am in need of and then...” She shrugged. “Then I’ll reduce the rest into a lump of clay. I am in need of three pieces to complete the puzzle of the disastrous mess that arrived from Italy yesterday.”

  The word “disastrous” had Gabe tearing his gaze from her pot. “Whatever are you talking about?” But even
as he asked, his attention went to a volute that sat on one of her shelves. Although it was in one piece, there were voids where pieces were missing, and from the craggy lines in the surface, it was apparent it had arrived as a pile of potsherds and been reassembled.

  “Etruscan?” he guessed. The ancient civilization was by no means a specialty of his, but he had certainly studied it at university. He had been most struck by how much of what had been attributed to the ancient Italians appeared as if it could have been made by Greeks.

  “That is what I was told.” She straightened from examining the amphora he had brought and shook her head. “Is this an acquisition from another museum? Or part of a private collection, perhaps?”

  Gabe shook his head. “No. Came from the same dig site in the Peloponnesus that those other amphorae came from earlier this month.”

  It was Frances’ turn to blink. “Then someone at the dig site did the obliteration before they shipped it,” she stated, using his word with disgust. “Did a passable job of it, though. The black paint matches perfectly, and the result is well done.” She had pulled on a pair of gloves, and her forefinger was tracing the profile of Apollo.

  “What?” Gabe joined her at the worktable. “That... that cannot be. We were assured that all the vessels would be shipped here after no more than a light cleaning of the exterior.”

  She shrugged. “Well, someone altered this.”

  Gabe furrowed a brow. “You are saying someone... painted the... the wiggly bits before it went into the crate?”

  Frances rolled her eyes. “I cannot imagine anyone painting the ‘wiggly bits’ after it was in the crate, unless they were in there with it.” She angled her head to one side. “Are you quite sure this didn’t come from another museum?”

  At the moment, Gabe was only sure that if he didn’t get very far from Frances Longworth and very quickly, he was going to kiss her.

  And he knew his advances would not be welcome.

  “I have the providence papers that came with it,” he murmured. “A lengthly description of where it was found, its circumference, its height, and a brief description of the decoration. It all matches.” He dipped his head, struggling to keep his mind on the matter at hand instead of the intoxicating scent of the potter that had just drifted past his nose.

  How could she smell of spring lilies when she should have smelled of earthy clay?

  “What is it?” she asked, her dark brows furrowing.

  “I think it best I leave and come back another time,” he whispered.

  She made a sound of disgust. “If you think I’m gong to change my opinion of what has been done to this amphora just because—”

  “I do not.”

  She continued to frown. “Then what is it?”

  Gabe squeezed his eyes shut, hoping he could overcome his desire for her. Perhaps honesty would gain him an advantage with the prickly woman. “I wish to kiss you, my lady,” he whispered. “I know it is wrong, but I cannot help it.”

  Frances took a step back from the table, her face displaying a look of shock. “Really, Mr. Wellingham. What is it about you and... and kissing?”

  Lifting his gaze to meet hers, Gabe sighed. “I find I... I like you, Mrs. Longworth. Against my better judgment—and yours, I’m sure.”

  Frances blinked and wavered a moment, her eyes darting about as if she was looking for a means of escape from the workroom. “Well, I’m sure it’s just a... a temporary situation,” she managed to get out. Especially if he recognized it was against her better judgment. And his.

  Should she feel offended by the remark?

  Or flattered?

  “I thought so, too, but... I find myself thinking of you at the most inopportune times,” he replied.

  Her eyes widened. “Inopportune?” She glanced at the door to determine if she could make it there before he could intercept her.

  Except that he stood between her and the door.

  She thought of screaming, but who would hear her down here in the basement? Mr. Peabody in Acquisitions was all the way down at the end of the hall. And even if he came quickly, what would he find? Her, in a compromising position with Mr. Wellingham? She couldn’t abide a scandal. Not now. Not here at work.

  Gabe nodded. “I apologize. I truly am sorry. I do not mean to embarrass you, nor do I mean to make you fearful of me,” he murmured.

  Angling her head to one side, Frances neither bolted for the door nor took another step back. Instead, she regarded the archivist with curiosity. “What exactly... what exactly are your thoughts when you’re... thinking of me?” The words came out in a whisper, and she cringed at the thought she might be encouraging him.

  But she was curious.

  Gabe straightened. “I think of how I wish to kiss you again, of course.”

  A frisson darting through her entire body, Frances sucked in a breath and cursed herself for the unexpected reaction. “Oh? Is that all?”

  He shook his head. “I wish to take you to my home so that we might share a dinner and conversation.”

  “Dinner?” She took another breath, cursing her stomach at how it growled just then, reminding her she hadn’t yet helped herself to the small luncheon of cheese and bread she had brought from her tiny room in the boarding house in Kingly Street. “And what would you expect in return?” Her query sounded of suspicion and contempt, although part of her wanted desperately to accept the offer.

  When was the last time she had enjoyed a dinner with another adult?

  He shook his head. “Nothing, of course,” Gabe replied. “Other than a few servants, I am the only one in the house for at least another couple of months, and I find myself in need of companionship.”

  The word had her eliciting a heavy sigh.

  Companionship.

  He may as well have said “sexual intercourse” or offered carte blanche, because wasn’t that what he truly wanted?

  A mistress?

  Before she could reply, he said, “I know you must be thinking the worst of me. That I am offering... carte blanche... or expecting some sort of favor in return, but I assure you. I only wish to share my dinner with you.”

  “And kisses,” she countered, a bit too quickly. For some reason, the thought of his kisses was rather welcome just then.

  Gabe’s eyes rounded. “Only if you offered them freely.”

  Pausing perhaps a moment too long, Frances said, “I would never do such a thing, Mr. Wellingham.”

  Never? The word sounded ever so final.

  “I understand. Dinner only, then. I have a town coach scheduled to arrive at six o’clock to take me home. After dinner, I will have the same town coach take you to... wherever it is you live. I can even escort you to your front door—”

  “You will do no such thing,” she whispered. Although she was ready to agree to having dinner with him, the very last thing she wanted was for the archivist to know where she lived!

  Gabe jerked back as if she had slapped him across the face. “But, I insist you arrive home safely,” he argued.

  Her hands going to her hips, Frances sighed. “If you truly wish my company for dinner, then you will not see me home.”

  His face screwing up in a grimace, Gabe finally nodded. “Agreed.” Even if she didn’t tell him where she lived, he could ask his driver for the address once the man returned to Trenton House.

  Frances swallowed. “Six o’clock,” she said, her voice nearly a whisper.

  “I will come for you then,” he whispered, rather liking how their quiet words sounded in the workroom.

  He was about to turn and take his leave when his attention went back to the amphora. “I suppose there is no reason to leave this with you,” he murmured.

  “I suppose not,” she replied. “But should you ever discover how it came to be altered, I hope you will share what you learn.”

  “You will be the first person I tell,” he assured her, just before he scooped up the amphora, bowed, and took his leave.

  Frances allow
ed a sigh as she regarded the back of her gloved hand.

  He hadn’t kissed it upon his arrival, nor had he done so before he left her workroom.

  Would he do so later that evening?

  Chapter 15

  A Walk in the Garden

  Meanwhile, in the library at Woodscastle

  “I missed you at breakfast this morning.”

  Emily gave a start at hearing James’ comment as she entered the library. “Oh. Good morning,” she said as she turned to find him regarding the shelves behind the massive desk. She couldn’t have counted how many times she found her father ensconced at that desk over the years, pouring over stacks of papers and muttering to himself about inventors and innovations. “I slept entirely too late, but I should be excused since I was reading until nearly four o’clock this morning.”

  James pulled a rather thick tome from an upper shelf. “Sounds like you were reading a good book. Surely better than any I have had to read of late,” he remarked.

  “I finally finished The Story of an Earl.” She moved to the mullioned windows at the front of the library and looked out. “Baron Sommers wrote it just after I was born. A piffle of a book, really.”

  James watched her as she leaned over the library table beneath the window, his reward a quick view of her ankles. He found her profile rather fetching as well. Her hair had been styled a bit differently, and her gown accentuated a slim waist. “Did you sort who all the characters were in real life?” he asked, allowing a grin at hearing her assessment of the book. “I hear that was the sport of the day back when it first appeared in bookstores.”

  She joined him at her father’s desk. “I did. Especially Cousin Milton, of course, since he was the inspiration for the book.” She paused a moment. “Are you perhaps one of his godsons?”

  Milton, Earl of Torrington, was famous for having agreed to be a godfather to no fewer than one-and-twenty girls and nearly that many boys back when he was a younger man.