The Defiant Lady Pencavel (12 page)

“I cannot reveal my source, my dear, but I’m here to assist you in your studies.” He seemed to force a neutral expression. “It’s strange for a lovely young girl to wish it, but I hear you are interested in archeology.”

“What does someone’s visage have to do with interests? Despite what that overstuffed bluestocking said.” Melwyn’s head spun; this couldn’t be happening, her dream coming true. “I’m shocked, stunned, and everything else a giddy girl—if I were one—might say. I’m dedicated in my studies and welcome your presence.” She led him to the small room where she’d spread out her books, papers, quill pens, blotting sand and wax—the space her father had allowed her to utilize.

“I’ve been researching John Aubrey, who as I’m sure you know, was one of the first to record megalithic and field monuments here in southern England, and was the discoverer of the Avebury henge monument.” She watched Sir Arthur’s eyes widen in surprise. “No, I’m no pampered princess. Where do we start?”

****

Griffin held up the torch as Jacca pried open a crate lid. The dank smell of the tunnel of his underground passage pushed in on him. Roots poked in on the dark dirt walls shored up with wooden posts and bricks. Water dripped here and there in plunks. They’d at last retrieved the hidden loot and maneuvered it into the tunnel.

“Here one o’ them be, sir.” Jacca sat back on his heels with a grunt. “Them dirty, cracked relics from Italy.”

“Excellent.” Griffin leaned closer with the flickering torch, the smoky smell sharp. Three small statues, four vases, a leather bag of money. He inspected the bag’s contents, the
Centenionalis,  Sestertius, Dupondius, a few Quinarius  and a Siliqua—all ancient Roman coinage. Spearheads, terracotta pottery, bronze toga brooches were also here. “This looks like the real deal.” Suddenly he thought of how excited Miss Pencavel would have been to peruse these items. But would she balk at the illegalities as Sir Arthur did? He gripped the splintered edge of the lid. “Now we must contact our buyers, and see who is interested.”

“Broken pottery, ess? I has some cracked crockery at home no one would pay for,” Jacca grumbled as he touched a chip on a terracotta pot. “Me old woman shied a pitcher at me head last night.” 

“She’ll kill you some day. And that’s more reason never to marry, you cranky old sod.” Griffin dropped the lid and straightened. He fought a cringe at his own near brush with death. Were such precarious undertakings worth it anymore?

“At least in the grave I’ll have peace from her.” Jacca snorted.

“You should take her to market and sell her, as that transaction has been done.” Women, who needed them! “Leave everything here under wraps until I find a serious customer.” Griffin walked, slightly stooped because of the low ceiling, back toward the steep, hidden stairs. He set the torch in its holder, ran his fingers along the rough wood until he found the hidden latch, pulled, and the door opened with a creak.

A long ago ancestor had built the tunnel, and hidden stairs, for the same purpose Griffin used it for no doubt. Griffin had played here as a boy, with his brother. They’d pretended to be pirates, how glorious the memory!

Up the stone steps, swiping at cobwebs, to another secret door, he pushed a second hidden latch, which opened into the old priest’s hole, where during the break with the Catholic Church people hid their priests to worship illegally. The priest’s hole was tucked behind a walnut panel and a sliding painting of Henry VIII—how ironic, the king who broke with the church in the first place so he could marry Anne Boleyn.

Griffin breathed in the fresher air when he stepped from behind the painting into his library. He poured a shot of whiskey and drank the pungent liquid, savoring the smoky, grainy flavor. He walked the room admiring his many books, the walnut woodwork, brass lamps, Turkey carpets, but yet he was here alone, with no soft arms to hold him.

He did need children, and legitimate ones, to inherit all this splendor. He must continue the ancient name of Lambrick, to honor his father. He sank into brief sadness, over his lost brother, and thinking how mildly happy his mother would have been to have grandchildren. This large house needed laughter, and grubby little fingerprints on the wainscoting.

He took another gulp of alcohol. Should he search for a meek-tempered wife, when he couldn’t wipe the perfect oval countenance of Miss Pencavel, the tantalizing taste of her lips—if he could only get her to shut up—from his troubled brain?

Chapter Eleven

“I used to wander here as a child. That’s when my interest for uncovering ancient secrets emerged.” Melwyn stared across the sweeping vastness of the Bodmin Moor with its rocky landscape, scraggly heather, and granite tors. “My governess, a bland woman of little character, allowed me to do what I wished, which has added to my unbridled nature.”

A lapwing twittered and dove through the bog moss.

“There is much to admire out here on the moor, but this is a secret of mine.” Sir Arthur unlocked a gate, walked with Melwyn past high, pungent boxwood shrubs, and into a hidden garden. Past the gorse and yews, he moved aside brush, to show Melwyn a hollowed out area in the earth, surrounded by crumbling stone walls. He stumbled down and bent to sweep away the dirt from one of the walls, revealing a painted motif relating to Bacchus.
“I’ve been excavating this villa for eight years.”

“How have you kept this from other archeologists?” Melwyn’s pulse soared. She stepped down into the excavation, glad she wore her leather half-boots and not silk slippers. Her fingers itched to chip away at the dirt, to reveal more of this Roman villa. “I remember trying and failing to climb over that gate as a girl. I think someone might have shot at me.”

“Possibly. I call this my retreat, where I contemplate my discoveries, writings, and so on. I even have a humble cottage with thatch roof close by.” He pointed to a wattle and daub structure several yards away. “No one else has seen this. People respect my solitude.”

“And why do you honor me with this...great honor?” She eyed him with suspicion, as if he’d only brought her here to take advantage of her; yet she doubted he had the strength or inclination. He probably hadn’t enjoyed a woman since the last Ice Age.

“Let us just say you have a benefactor, unknown to you, who insists I tutor you in this field.” The old man winked. “And how could I do so without showing you my villa?”

Clowenna plodded over, holding the basket of food they’d brought. “La, why do I get stuck with such burdens? Only ‘cause ‘ee bein’ a lady can’t be alone wi’ a strange man.” The abigail tilted her head toward Sir Arthur. “An’ he be one topper o’ a strange man.”

“You keep hinting at this mysterious benefactor.” Melwyn plucked a leather flask from the basket and drank deep of the lemonade, the tartness refreshing, ignoring her maid’s complaints. “Tell me who it is.”

“He wishes to remain anonymous, my lady.” Sir Arthur averted his watery gaze.

“Is it my father?” Then she was struck by an idea, suddenly, out of the blue. Her breath hitched. “It’s my mother, isn’t it? She’s managed to elude the second under-butler, come into a fortune, and finance my interests.”

“She be too busy rollin’ in the hay, lovin’ ‘tween the sheets, and wi’ who knows how many other servants by this time.” Clowenna placed the basket on a Roman plinth.

“You knew her so well,” Melwyn agreed, though filled with regret. It wasn’t easy to have a notorious harlot for a mother. “I always hope she’ll repent the error of her ways and return to us, but as Auntie says, I digress.”

“Observe, my lady, down here we have red concrete floors, and below that the Romans created a complete central-heating system.” He pointed out the large arched flues, the various heating channels and the vertical wall-flues. “This brilliant system kept the building warm over a thousand years ago.”

“The benefactor must be my father.” Melwyn smiled slyly, not believing her papa would encourage her in anything but the heavy chains of marriage. Still, she must push for details. “When I return home, I’ll praise him profusely, and tell him I thanked you for telling me, yet shamed you for breaking the promise not to.”

“He will pretend otherwise.” Sir Arthur’s cheeks flushed, bringing color to his parchment hue of a face. His hooded eyes spoke volumes. “I’d advise against it, my lady.”

“‘Tis Lord Lambrick!” Clowenna unwrapped a meat pie and nibbled on the crust.

“Fie! Where do you see him?” Melwyn spun around, her heart in her throat. Had he come for her? Would the viscount swoop down like a white knight on his steed and carry her off to his castle, or reasonable facsimile? She smoothed down her blue striped, risen-waist taffeta gown. “How does my hair look?”

“Naw, I meant he could be your patron, I’ll be bound.” Clowenna bit into an apple from the basket. “Did ‘ee bring any gooseberry tarts?”

Melwyn’s heart did a strange flip, but at least it had left her throat. She’d gotten what she wanted, her freedom, but why did she regret it now? “Thank goodness he’s not here; I do so hate the man. His very presence would revolt me.”

“Yeah, right.” Clowenna snorted. “An’ I’m Queen Charlotte holdin’ court at Buckingham House. Georgie, the third o’ ‘ee, fetch me a tart.”

“Well, give me that food,
Queenie
. Servants eat leftovers left by their betters, remember?” Melwyn slapped the cloth back over the victuals, crackling the basket. Her appetite had deserted her. She turned to Sir Arthur. “What century was this villa built? I know the Romans inhabited here, or dominated the ancient Britons, for about three centuries.”

“The damp, dismal weather no doubt chased ‘em away,” Clowenna said. “It’s depressing, many kill themselves.”

“Go and sit under a tree and contemplate your enormous and varied sins!” Melwyn ordered, though she hated to sound abrasive to her abigail, since the low-born woman was right, she
was
the only one who put up with Melwyn’s antics. “And I sincerely doubt his lordship would finance me in anything.”

“Sins sounds like more fun than diggin’ in the grime. An’ when will ‘ee, admit ‘ee love that Lord Lambrick?” The maid plodded off and plopped down under an oak tree, her full brown skirts spreading out around her like a spray of dead leaves.

“If we may continue in spite of these domestic spats,” Sir Arthur cleared his throat, “this villa dates back to the late first century AD.”

Melwyn’s cheeks burned. Why
did
she love that villain? She had no time for love. She had a life to live, and artifacts to discover. Her head swam and she nearly toppled into the deeper elevations of the excavation. Had she just admitted to actual “love?” She scarcely knew the man. Who, except in silly romantic novels, loves someone on such short acquaintance?

She grabbed Sir Arthur’s fusty frockcoat front with its overlarge, tarnished silver buttons. “Take me with you to Italy. I must leave England as soon as possible.”

The old man’s mouth gaped, showing his yellowed teeth beneath his beak of a nose. “But you’re not yet of age, my lady. Your father would have me drawn and quartered, and then perhaps even pilloried. I’m too elderly for such stratagems.”

“Why must I be a certain age to obtain my independence? And even then I’d be considered property of some man, father or husband.” Melwyn snatched up a brush to begin dusting aside dirt under the painting of Bacchus. An edge of something solid peeked out. She brushed harder, revealing dark blue glass. More scraping and a vase took shape. Her pulse skittered. “I believe I’ve found something.”

Sir Arthur stared at her as if leery of coming too close again. He straightened his coat lapels. “Keep dusting, Miss Pencavel. Carry on.”

She did. The dark blue vase she began to uncover depicted white figures in Roman garb, lounging under a tree. “The artifact is cameo glass, I’m sure of it.” She dusted off more, then chipped around the sides with her hammer, careful not to crack the glass, and finally pulled the item out. “Behold! It’s magnificent. Much like the Portland Vase at the British Museum.”

“Bravo, Miss Pencavel, an extraordinary find.” The old man peered closer, bushy eyebrows raised. “It’s first century, confirming my estimation of the villa.” Sir Arthur clapped his bony hands together.

“At last, I’ve made a startling discovery. I’ll go down in the history books. I’ve read that cameo glass is difficult to come by.” Her heart dancing, Melwyn traced her fingers over the opaque figures; she must travel to Italy on her birthday, and forget any foolish thoughts of men—or one grossly inappropriate man in particular.

****

Melwyn laid her chipping hammer away in its leather case, on top of her Louis XV style desk with floral marquetry and cabriolet legs. “I’ll be written down in archeological magazines for my find. The Royal Society will clamber for me to join them.”

“If Sir Arthur don’t steal your discovery. ‘Ee should o’ brought that vase here an’ not let him keep it at the ruin.” Clowenna brushed the dirt from Melwyn’s hem. “That’ll need to be soaked in urine to take out them stains.”

“Always the voice of doom, aren’t you? But I will keep a gimlet eye on Sir Arthur.” Melwyn walked to her window and swept aside the muslin curtains. The rolling green land stretched toward the sea. Her time with Sir Arthur had sped by, and the bluebells and sea pinks withered among shards of granite in the August heat. The scent of flowers mixed with the briny smell of the ocean. She recalled romping on the grounds with her governess, and wondering why she had no brothers or sisters, and why her mother spent so much time in the servants’ hall.

She turned back to her maid. “I continue to ponder who this mystifying benefactor might be. Who would care so much to give me this opportunity?”

“I still say it be Lord Lambrick. He has the blunt, don’t he?” Clowenna dusted rosemary into Melwyn’s boots to sweeten the sweat. “An’ from what I seen, he loves ‘ee, as much as ‘ee love him.”

“Balderdash, on both counts.” Melwyn twitched the curtain closed as her pulse jumped. “There is
no
love between us. And why would someone with Sir Arthur’s sterling reputation deal with a man like Lambrick? I think he’s a smuggler.” She had eavesdropped on her aunt’s and the duchess’s whispers about the viscount.