Double Deceit (8 page)

“My references say nothing of that.”

“I’m not surprised. Few people care what preceded the Normans, let alone the Romans.” He scanned her small shelf of books. “Quite an extensive collection.”

“It is?” She couldn’t keep the surprise from her voice.

“Interest in ancient societies arose very recently. Even today, most people care only for treasure.” His eyes narrowed as he picked up a gold coin from the reign of Diocletian and Maximian. “Most money was issued locally, like these—” He pointed to a few worn bits of silver. “—so only an officer would have owned Roman coins. Minerva is also of Roman origin. Whoever lived here had to be high ranking.”

“This area was one of the designated retirement centers.”

“But outposts like Britain were rarely commanded by men from Rome itself. Most came from Gaul or the German states. Or Spain.” He stood. “You’ve an exceptional site. I am amazed that a man of Sir Winton’s reputation has allowed a female access to it, and more amazed that he has not sold the better artifacts.”

“It is Miss Vale who allows me to excavate,” she said carefully. “Sir Winton is unaware of my activities. He is rarely at home and ignores his daughter when he is.”

“An interesting problem. What do you plan to do with this?” He gestured toward the trunk.

“Study the artifacts. Since nothing is mine, my only motive is to learn as much as possible about the site and the people who lived there – which is why I do not wish to inform Sir Winton. He would destroy anything he could not sell in his search for what he could.”

He nodded, then turned briskly to business. “What do you know of excavation techniques?”

The abrupt question startled her. “I read your paper on the subject, and I studied everything I could find on the period. So far, I’ve exposed only the temple, which I suspect was deliberately sited atop the earlier shrine.”

“Interesting hypothesis.”

“I thought so. Replacing existing priests would shift power into Roman hands, reducing Druidic influence while allowing people to visit the site. Perhaps they mixed elements of various rites, making it easier for the locals to accept the new order. Pilgrims could pretend to worship the new gods while actually following the old. Within a generation or two, it would no longer be pretense.”

He raised his brows. “I’ve heard that suggestion before.”

“From Lord Mitchell, perhaps?” She enjoyed his jump. “But I doubt expediency played a role here. A villa owner would care nothing about local beliefs. The site is large enough to indicate wealth, so he probably built a temple for his personal use. Locating it there might have been a convenient way to erase the older gods.”

“Technique?” he repeated, his eyes drilling into hers.

Mentally shrugging, she pulled a sheaf of papers from the desk. “I surveyed the site before starting,” she began, handing him a map marked into squares. “I sketch everything before removing it, noting depth, orientation, and condition. The site occupies a clearing in the home wood, but few people go there. Not only is it private land, but legend claims the wood is both sacred and haunted. Old Peter swears he’s seen ghostly priests looming out of the fog. Most of the staff know I am digging, but none have come out to see my work. They have no interest in broken stones.”

“And you keep everything of value hidden.”

“Exactly.”

He looked up from her map. “This looks like Mitchell’s style.”

She could feel her face heat. “I asked him for suggestions after finding Minerva.”

“He actually agreed to help you?”

“You needn’t sound so shocked. He has no idea I am a lowly female,” she snapped, tired of having to justify her intelligence. “His response goes to our vicar. You are not the only churchman interested in history.”

“Forgive me,” he begged, with another of those crooked smiles. “You are obviously competent – more so than others I could name. I will become accustomed to the idea in time.”

“Is it so astounding?”

“Not really. Many London intellectuals are women – though I know of none interested in antiquity.” He scanned two of her sketches before frowning. “You knew I heard that theory from Mitchell because you suggested it to him.”

She nodded.

“He claimed it arose during discussions with his assistant.”

“I’m flattered that he would rate me so highly, though he did ask me to present it to the Antiquarian Society. I’ve been trying to figure out how.”

“Have someone read your paper for you. That’s what I always do. Barely half the papers are presented in person,” he said absently, brow furrowed over her most recent sketch. “What is this?”

“I’ve no idea.” She pulled out the twisted piece of bronze. “I was hoping you could identify it.”

He turned the piece in his hands. “It is worked, not cast. Beautiful piece.” He turned it, much as she had done. “Where have I seen this shape?”

He was obviously talking to himself, so she merely watched his face twist as his thoughts raced.

“Ah. I believe it is a surgeon’s tool. The angles improve its leverage. It was used to lift broken bones into position for setting or to hold a wound open while bone chips were removed. The sketch I saw had only one rod, but this probably belonged to a military doctor. The shared handle would make his kit lighter to carry into the field. Where did it come from?”

“Here.” She pointed to the map. “It was atop a dressed stone, but I’ve no idea what portion of the villa this might have been, or even if it was inside or out. Though test pits indicate the site is large, I have not uncovered enough to develop a floor plan.”

“May I visit the site in the morning?” He must have read her objections, because he continued. “Miss Vale will be perfectly safe. Linden’s behavior has never come close to his reputation. And I doubt he will rise before noon, in any event.”

“We must return by noon, then.”

“Unnecessary. I promise, on my honor as a gentleman, that my cousin will do nothing to disturb Miss Vale.”

For some reason, she believed him. “Very well. Breakfast will be out by seven, in the same room as dinner.”

His smile widened, sending shivers down her back. What the devil was wrong with her? No man was trustworthy. Not even a vicar, no matter how revered he was in antiquarian circles. She could not allow a smile to deflect her caution, especially from so enigmatic a man.

As she headed up to her room, away from his overwhelming intensity, she revised some long-standing impressions of Mr. Anthony Torwell. His age was not the only surprise. His manner was just as unexpected. Torwell was known as a recluse, so she had expected him to be a shy, scholarly man.

But he wasn’t. Despite a certain wariness – probably due to his cousin’s condition – he was at ease in a drawing room. His looks and manners would make him welcome anywhere. To say nothing of an understated charm and crooked smile that could convince the weak-willed that black was white. So why did he avoid public appearances?

* * * *

Tony slowly circled the clearing, fighting to hide his growing excitement. He was a guest. This wasn’t his site.

The area was at least two hundred feet long and half that wide, larger and richer than anything he had excavated in ten years of work. Hardly a surprise. By avoiding the great estates, he eliminated most of the desirable locations that might hold villas. Digging in towns was impossible unless something turned up while constructing new buildings. So most of his work was at military encampments or small sites on marginal land.

Yearning filled him as he gazed at the wealth of stone she had already unearthed. Yet most of the clearing was untouched. And completing its exploration was beyond the abilities of one person.

She had made a good start, but it would take her years to finish. Maintaining secrecy that long would be impossible. Sooner or later a servant would let something slip, or a dare would send a boy into the haunted wood, or Sir Winton would ride out some bright morning on a whim.

Few trees dotted the clearing, proving that the remains were close to the surface, allowing only grass and shallow-rooted shrubs to flourish. He hoped the floors remained intact, though the likelihood was remote. But if he could find a mosaic…

He thrust the dream aside. Wishing for the moon was pointless. And this wasn’t his site.

Evidence of worked stone was everywhere, though only tutored eyes would spot the chisel marks that decorated broken bits. But too much usable stone remained in the temple to believe that it had been abandoned. Roman buildings had been a valuable source of material for centuries, offering quality stone that required little or no dressing.

He scanned the horizon. The valley was bounded by steep hills and sharp cliffs. A stream meandered through its center. Forest covered this portion of the floor, sloping gently toward the water.

At a guess, the nearest cliff had collapsed, burying the villa in mud and rock. That would make the site even richer – and bigger – for many of the furnishings would have slid toward the stream. An unexpected burial would offer a unique glimpse of a time he could usually study only in brief flashes.

He shivered. Just so must Winckelmann have felt when he first beheld the treasures being unearthed at Pompeii and Herculaneum. The man’s
Unpublished Relics of Antiquity
had exerted a profound influence on his own life ever since he’d discovered it at age fifteen.

Miss Merideth had probably stumbled onto this site when erosion exposed the temple, but why would she have recognized the stones as significant? Few people could identify dressed stone even when it was not covered in dirt and moss.

Her comments had become increasingly terse as they approached the clearing, as if she were nervous, though that seemed unlikely. If Mitchell thought her good enough to submit a paper, then she was already more knowledgeable than half the members of the Antiquarian Society. She must know that.

Lady Luck was finally shining on him. The villa provided the perfect excuse to stay until Miss Vale agreed to wed him. Sir Winton could not return for weeks, so he need not rush his courtship. Miss Vale accepted her companion’s interest in antiquity, which boded well for the future – she would understand his own frequent absences.

Jon would be relieved that he could abandon last night’s antics.

“Have you permission to cut any trees?” he asked, noting two that might have to come down.

“The steward will take care of it once I ask him.”

“Sir Winton lets his steward take orders from you?”

She paled. “He knows nothing of estate affairs. The steward does whatever is necessary.”

He saw the fear in her eyes. “Do you understand the gravity of keeping this a secret? Sir Winton could transport you for disturbing his property without permission.”

“Miss Vale and the steward are aware of my activities,” she said, turning away. “They agreed to let me study the artifacts before revealing anything, lest Sir Winton dispose of them to cover his latest gaming debts.”

“It’s your risk. But I would hate to see a serious scholar ruined.” Shrugging, he resumed his study of the site.

If a landslide had buried the villa, it would have swept the roof and at least part of the walls toward the stream – and many of the furnishings. He studied the cliffs, but time had erased any sign of the slip. It could have come from any of several spots, each crossing the clearing in a different direction. Turning the other way, he headed for the stream.

It meandered through the trees a hundred yards away. Ignoring the damage to his boots, he clambered into the water, working his way first upstream, then down as he studied the bank.

“What are you doing?” Miss Merideth finally asked.

“Looking for traces of the villa. Not only are there too many dressed stones remaining, but Minerva would have been removed from the site if it had been abandoned or looted. Nothing in such perfect condition would have been left behind, which means the villa was probably buried in a mudslide. Finding the direction of the flow will make it easier to excavate the rubble.”

“Why didn’t you say so? I dug a roof tile from the bank several months ago.”

She headed upstream, leaving him to slip and splash through the water as best he could. They rounded a wide bend before she finally stopped.

“It was here,” she said, pointing. “About two feet from the top.”

“You are sure?”

“Quite.” She pointed to a length of black wool looped around the branch of a nearby tree. It was above eye level, invisible to anyone who was not looking for it.

“Have your found other pieces along the stream?” His voice was colder than he liked, but he was mentally kicking himself. Underestimating her was not a mistake he would make again. She might have drawn her maps à la Mitchell, but her site organization followed his own treatise on the subject. Even though she had admitted reading it and was good enough that Mitchell claimed her as an assistant, he had not truly accepted her expertise.
Idiot!

“Nothing useful. I found five pieces of worked stone in the stream – including those bits with the inscription – but I’ve no idea where they originated. Only that one piece of tile has come to light.”

“Only one that was recognizably tile,” he countered. He had been scraping away at the bank while she spoke and now pulled out a thumbnail-sized bit. “Much of the tile will look like that – chips and shards that bear no resemblance to a roof.”

“Good heavens. This stuff is everywhere.”

He nodded absently, staring back toward the cliffs. “This isn’t right. For a slide to move in this direction, it would have had to originate there.” He pointed toward a low mound. “If something big enough to spread this far had collapsed, the site would be buried under at least twenty feet of muck.” He pulled himself up the bank. “Show me your test holes.”

She started to speak, then snapped her mouth shut and turned away. Only then did he realize how condescending he sounded. But she gave him no chance to apologize, slipping through the woods until she reached the edge of the clearing.

“This is the farthest from the temple I’ve dug. Rain has washed new debris into the hole, but about three feet down is a paving stone – actually the joint between two paving stones.” She moved thirty feet farther, near a tree. “I found nothing here, though it might be the garden portion of a courtyard.”