Double Deceit (7 page)

Wine!
Ignoring Miss Vale’s white face, Tony stared at Jon. An empty port glass hung crookedly from his slack fingers. He’d consumed at least six glasses of wine at dinner – Jon, who rarely finished even one, claiming he’d no head for drink.

“Know where we went from there?” Jon demanded loudly as he slumped farther. His head landed on her bosom, his tongue lolling out to lick the exposed flesh.

“N-no.”

“Christ!” Tony muttered. This was working too well. At this rate, they would be sleeping in the stables and on the road by dawn.

Miss Merideth glared at him.

He’d hardly registered that he must have spoken aloud, when his gaze again slammed into that memorable bosom, draining the blood from his brain. But he had to rescue Jon.

“Christ—” he repeated, louder, shoving Jon upright, which brought his eyes closer to Miss Merideth’s assets, “—tells us it is not good for man to be alone, but this much togetherness is not appropriate to drawing rooms. A gentleman need not disclose all his social contacts. Remember that only the righteous flourish, so refrain from seeking out the unholy and hide your own light under a basket of fish—” God! He was rambling. He couldn’t think. What the devil was he trying to say? And how would a vicar say it? “—in the Garden of Gethsemane.”

Face burning, he abruptly ceased talking. He’d thought nothing could possibly make him blush, but Miss Merideth’s glare had done it. Clearly he had lost all control of his thoughts. Even Jon was silent, and furrows creased Miss Vale’s forehead.

But Miss Merideth was the dangerous one. He had to divert her attention. She was remarkably sharp for a female. And he had better brush up on his Bible as soon as he escaped this room. Surely there was an appropriate passage that would keep Jon in line.

“Even the devil cites Scripture for his purpose,” he muttered, searching desperately for inspiration. His eyes probed the shadows.

“My God!” he exclaimed, lunging toward the corner. Reverently, he lifted the bronze statue sitting on an open escritoire. “Minerva. And a remarkable rendition of her. Where did Sir Winton get it?”

Miss Merideth had followed him. “It is mine.”

“Then where did
you
get it? This is Roman work. And ancient Roman, at that. Third century. Possibly fourth.”

“I know. I fo—“ Her eyes widened. “My God! You are
Anthony
Torwell.”

“Yes, but—” His voice froze. His card said only A. Torwell. How could she know the full name, unless—

“I’ve read several of your papers. Your description of the Roman fortifications near York is fascinating.”

“You read antiquarian articles?”

“You needn’t sound so shocked,” she snapped. “I am perfectly capable of understanding them.”

He took a deep breath. It wasn’t her words that shocked him, but the awe in her face. Worship was not a reaction he inspired in others. But he had vowed to tell the truth about everything but his name, and it was too late to deny his identity, anyway. Reconciling his two lives would happen sooner than he’d planned.

Panic danced along his nerves, leaving him vulnerable. His reputation rarely bothered him because he knew it was false. But the respect he received from other antiquarians was always tinged with questions about whether it would continue once they knew the truth. Now that he must reveal that truth, it felt like a reckless violation of his soul. No more security. Never again could Tony Linden deflect criticism with the mental shield of
if he only knew the real me…

“Forgive me, Miss Merideth. I have no doubt that you are an intelligent woman. I was surprised, not incredulous, for I know few gentlemen who are interested in the past. Never have I encountered a lady knowledgeable about the subject. So where did you find Minerva?”

She bit her lip, closely scanning his face before replying. “In the Roman temple I am excavating.”

Chapter Four

Alex watched, fascinated, as emotions flew across Torwell’s face. Excitement. Shock. Fear – that couldn’t be right. Suspicion. And finally back to interest and suppressed excitement.

Why hadn’t she been born a man? A gentleman could have approached Torwell in a straightforward manner, explained his interest, and requested information and guidance.

But she was hampered by society’s ingrained belief that ladies were incompetent widgeons who could not even stroll about the grounds without assistance, let alone excavate a Roman temple and correctly evaluate what they found.

Stupid! How could you let a moment of euphoria override all sense? He is a man, with a man’s arrogance.

She shivered. Revealing her activities was reckless. Would he scoff at her? Worse, would he spread tales about the silly woman who thought she was an antiquarian? One hint would bring her father home to investigate.

She gripped the back of a chair to hide her tremors.

“How did you clean Minerva?” he asked.

A most unusual man. Rather than jump to conclusions, he had decided to test her skill. “Vinegar baths and scrubbing with mallow-root brushes. I feared that using anything stronger might harm her. Fortunately, she wasn’t badly encrusted.”

Her pounding heart was making her lightheaded, though at least the tremors had passed. She stroked a finger along the patina coating one slender arm as hope battled fear. Would the celebrated Anthony Torwell share his expertise with a mere female? Would he keep the site a secret? Would leaving Minerva in the drawing room last night bring her luck or unmitigated disaster? So wrapped in thought was she that his voice made her jump.

“What else have you found?”

“Bits of tile. Worked stone that was probably part of the walls. Some chips that may have been pottery bowls.” She wanted to show him her workroom, but she could not leave Sarah alone with the lecherous Linden. Especially since she was supposed to be Sarah’s companion. “Miss Vale has provided a small room in the old wing as work space. Perhaps you would care to see it before you leave.”

“After breakfast. And I would appreciate a look at the temple.” His crooked smile nearly melted her bones. What the devil was a vicar doing with a smile like that? And why was a vicar digging up ruins?

She had heard of Anthony Torwell long before she found the temple. He was considered the foremost authority on Roman England, his stature so great that she had thought him the same age as Lord Mitchell. If Mitchell had not been tied to his estate by gout, she would have approached Torwell with her questions. But despite avoiding public appearances, he remained active in the field.

“How does a vicar find so much time for excavation?”

Shock flashed across his face so quickly she nearly missed it. But another of those devastating smiles drove the memory from her mind. “Curates can be quite useful. But how much time does a companion have for digging?”

“As much as I need. We rarely have callers. The valley is rather isolated. In fact, the lane terminates at a tenant farm only a mile past the gate.” She raised her brows to show him that Linden’s ruse was more than obvious.

His eyes blinked, proving he got the message. “We took a wrong turn.”

“Then I must be grateful. Would you mind answering a few questions in the morning?”

“Not at all, if you will answer mine.” With a final caress down Minerva’s spine, he returned to the others, murmured something in Linden’s ear that brought an unlikely flush to the rake’s cheeks, then resumed his seat, turning that magical smile onto Sarah.

Alex caressed Minerva in turn. He was fortunate to have a curate – as was his parish, if the curate was interested in his calling. Too many men took holy orders from necessity rather than choice. It was obvious that Torwell was one of them. Her own vicar was another. He spent most of his time contemplating Greek philosophy, offering little help to his flock.

Sarah’s flaming cheeks cooled under Torwell’s influence. Only then did Alex realize that temper had raised that vivid color.

She berated herself. In the excitement of identifying him, she had left Sarah at Linden’s mercy. What devilment had he been up to while her back was turned? Torwell might know – whatever he had said had turned Linden quiet as a church mouse – but she could not ask without drawing attention to her dereliction of duty. After setting Sarah up as a supposed heiress, she must protect her.

As for Linden, it was obvious that he had little contact with well-born ladies. No wonder he was barred from the strictest drawing rooms. Between his boorish manners and lecherous inclinations, she had grave doubts about accepting him. Never had she met anyone who could change so quickly from dull to obnoxious and back.

You haven’t really given him a chance, her conscience pointed out.

Which was true. She’d actually encouraged some of his wilder tales at dinner. And her eyes had kept straying to Torwell. Had she unconsciously suspected his identity even then?

Murch carried in the coffee tray.

Abandoning Minerva, she returned to Linden’s side. Torwell continued a humorous story, distracting Sarah’s attention. Linden had fallen asleep, an occasional snore emanating from his open mouth.

What a lout.

Torwell flashed another of those smiles, drawing a matching response from Sarah that deepened her dimples. He touched her hand in a gesture of intimacy.

Alex frowned. Was he really covering Linden’s vulgar manners, or did he think to win the fortune for himself? Vicars rarely earned enough to support the digging Torwell did. A curate might free his time, but it would also reduce his income. Since he was related to Linden, he could justify taking over the estate – on grounds that Linden did not deserve it, if nothing else. He’d certainly monopolized Sarah at dinner. Perhaps he was smitten by her beauty and thought to rescue her from his villainous cousin.

But this was no time to brood. She had to make her own decision. Turning to Linden, she jostled his arm, meeting his bleary eyes. “I heard of your father’s misfortune, Mr. Linden. Are your parents all right?”

“As well as can be expected, no thanks to you.” But the flash of pain crossing his face relaxed her. A man who felt his parents’ woe could not be all bad.

“Miss Vale knew nothing of the encounter until long afterward,” she continued. “I trust you are not planning to retaliate.”

“I—I—” His face flushed.

Torwell suddenly towered over her. “What my cousin is trying to put into words is the question that has bedeviled him since he learned the facts four days ago: What kind of people would toss his mother onto the road without a penny to her name?”

“Wha—” Sarah blanched.

“If that is why you staged an accident on our doorstep, you came to the wrong door.” Alex rose, glaring at Torwell. “I—we were as appalled as you, but Miss Vale’s solicitor confirms that she has no power to change the agreement under which Lord Linden and Sir Winton formed the trust. She wrote to the London bankers who administer it, but they have not yet replied.”

“He had expected to see Sir Winton.” Torwell’s voice was quieter.

“Then he must go to London. Sir Winton is recovering from a broken leg.”

“Divine retribution?” His eyes twinkled.

“One might consider it so.”

Linden suddenly groaned. “Tiring day. Good night.” Lurching to his feet, he made a grotesque bow, then staggered toward the hall, more than a little green.

So much for deciding anything tonight. She stifled a grimace. He must have been half-seas over when he arrived. She’d been congratulating herself that the notorious drunkard had consumed only six glasses of wine at dinner, but she’d not considered other sources. No wonder he seemed so coarse and clumsy. He was nearly unconscious from imbibing several bottles of spirits. Pray God he would reach his room before losing it.

“I, too, have had enough excitement,” said Sarah, collecting her crutch.

Alex delayed her until Linden could escape. She wasn’t sure if Sarah knew why he’d left so abruptly, but the last thing Sarah needed was to tangle with a drunken libertine. Gentlemen three sheets to the wind assumed that all females were harlots – as she’d learned from dealing with her father’s friends. She’d had to slam Abernathy’s head into a door to discourage him on his last visit. Thank God she outweighed him.

Finally, she turned to Torwell. “Unless you must help your cousin, would you care to see my workroom?” With Linden drunk as a lord, she need not fear for Sarah’s virtue tonight. Only time would reveal how common this situation was. In the meantime, she was free to indulge her own interests.

“Simms will see after him. Lead on.”

She took the proffered arm, directing him to a former still room in the old wing. Rough shelves covered two walls. She had moved an old desk against a third. The locked trunk sat unobtrusively in the corner.

Torwell walked slowly along the shelves, fitting stone fragments together to clarify a chiseled phrase, fingering a curved piece of roof tile, part of a bowl, a rotted piece of brass that might have been anything from a belt buckle to a bit of armor.

“How much of the site have you bared?”

“Very little, if my calculations are correct. I’ve uncovered a quarter of the temple, but test holes indicate a larger structure nearby – possibly a villa.”

“A rich site, then.” His eyes gleamed. “I’ve found less than this on entire digs. Any coins?”

“A few, all fitting the parameters elucidated in your treatise on using coins found at military encampments to date the stages of the Roman conquest.” She opened the trunk, thrilled when his eyes blazed a brilliant green. If the great Torwell was excited, then she hadn’t exaggerated the importance of her work.

Squatting beside her, he picked up a seated clay figurine. “A Celtic mother goddess.” His finger stroked gently over the babe in the woman’s lap. “A rather archaic form, so it probably predates the Roman era by several centuries.”

“There is an earlier structure beneath the temple. I thought it was Druid until I found this last week. Now I wonder.”

“Druids served as priests for all the gods. And more. They formed the upper class of their society, acting as rulers, lawmakers, and judges – or so I believe. The few references from Roman times indicate that Druids held absolute authority over every aspect of life.”