Double Deceit Page 6

  “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.”

  “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 ha
d 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.