Anne Barbour (3 page)

Hilary stood and grasped Mr. Wincanon by the arm.

“Would you care for a turn on the terrace, sir?” she inquired, lifting her gaze to his rather forbidding features. “It is a very fine night.”

A wary expression crossed his face. He glanced toward the long terrace doors, seeming to relax somewhat as he observed the number of ladies and gentlemen proceeding through them. Hilary thought she noted a flash of resignation in his eyes as he inclined his head and proffered his arm.

Once outside, they paced the stone paving in silence for some moments until Hilary turned to him impulsively.

“Actually, Mr. Wincanon, I asked you out here because there is something I wish to discuss with you.”

The wary expression increased in magnitude and intensity. Mr. Wincanon halted abruptly.

“And what would that be, Lady Hilary?”

“Do call me Hilary. Everyone does.”

“Oh, no. Surely not everyone.” Hilary’s eyes widened at the clearly discernible antipathy in his tone. “I prefer to maintain the proprieties, if you do not mind. What is it that you wished to discuss?”

Goodness, thought Hilary, startled. Even for an academic, the gentleman seemed inordinately stuffy. She shook her head impatiently.

“I want to talk to you about your Roman villa.”

Mr. Wincanon’s brows snapped together. “My Ro—! What about my Roman villa? How do you—?”

Hilary produced her sunniest smile. “Come, Mr. Wincanon. Your interest—and expertise—in Roman antiquities is well known, as is the reason you purchased Goodhurst. Everyone hereabouts has known of the villa’s existence since Sir William’s gamekeeper stumbled onto it, oh—it must be seven or eight years ago. No one paid much attention, except for me, of course, but—”

“You?” interposed Mr. Wincanon sharply.

“Yes.” She smiled shyly. “You see, I share your passion. For antiquities,” she added hastily as he frowned. “I have made a thorough study on the subject, and I have been conducting a—a scientific investigation of the remains at Goodhurst,” she finished in a rush. “You are aware, of course, that your estate marches with Whiteleaves.”

She halted, observing that Mr. Wincanon was staring at her with undisguised hostility.

“Let me get this straight, Lady Hilary.” His voice was flint striking steel. “You have been digging in—in
my
Roman remains?”

“Um, yes.” Hilary faltered. “But they were not yours at the time. Sir William—”

“Never mind Sir William!” snapped Mr. Wincanon, and Hilary gaped at him in astonishment. Never had a gentleman spoken to her in such a tone.

Mr. Wincanon drew a deep breath. “Forgive me, Lady Hilary. Allow me to compliment you on your inventiveness, if not your originality, but I assure you your efforts are unnecessary. Now, just tell me. Have you truly visited the site of the Roman villa?”

An unpleasant sensation was beginning to chum in Hilary’s interior. “Well, of course, I have. Didn’t I just say so? And, as I also just said, I did not do so without permission.”

“But not
my
permission.”

“No, but—”

“Good God, I have not even had the opportunity to visit the place myself, and you”—he drew in another deep breath—”you have actually been digging up the site with a shovel?”

“Of course not,” Hilary replied indignantly, watching with disfavor as Mr. Wincanon relaxed fractionally. “I used a trowel.”

“Oh, my God.” Mr. Wincanon rang long fingers through his hair. “Do you realize what damage you may have caused, you little—that is—Lady Hilary?”

Hilary, now thoroughly irritated, stamped her foot. “I did
not do
any damage. I was extremely careful, both in my excavations and in the handling of my finds. Now, if you—”

Mr. Wincannon grasped her shoulders.

“Your finds?” he echoed in a sibilant whisper.

“Yes. Not many, of course, but I have turned up several coins and some pottery shards—which I believe are Samian ware—as well as a shoe, and a comb,” she added eagerly.

“Oh, my God,” he murmured again. “And what did you do with these finds? Are they now adorning a table in a drawing room, along with an imitation Egyptian vase or two?”

A tide of anger swept over Hilary. What a perfectly odious man! She drew herself up to her full five feet two inches and spoke through gritted teeth.

“I have placed all the artifacts from
your
villa in a locked cabinet, and I will be pleased to return them to you at your convenience.”

“That’s something, at any rate,” said Mr. Wincanon, ignoring her wrathful demeanor. “I shall collect them within the week. In the meantime, concerning your mucking about in my villa—”

Hilary wrenched herself from his grasp. “I do not muck, Mr. Wincanon,” she said with great precision. “I am trained in modem excavation—” She ignored his muffled snort. “I have read Lyson and Benhurst, and employ their methods. You will find that, having used such care, I have disturbed only a small section of the villa. In the future—”

“There will be no future for you in my villa, Lady Hilary. I must congratulate you, for you have succeeded admirably in your little plan. You have certainly gained my undivided attention. However, I must ask you to cease and desist your activities there.”

“Cease and desist!” gasped Hilary furiously. “My little plan! Why, you arrogant, conceited, pompous fop!”

At this point, the Lady Hilary Merton, a redhead in every sense of the word, gave vent to her temper. Without further thought, in a manner taught to her by her brothers, she brought up her fist. The ensuing crack as it connected with Mr. Wincanon’s jaw echoed in the cool serenity of the late summer evening.

Chapter Three

“All right,” James muttered irritably to the reflection that stared accusingly at him from his shaving mirror. “I was a trifle rude last night.” Receiving no reply, he sighed.

“Oh, very well, I behaved like an unmitigated boor.”

His reflection merely continued to glare. He swung away as his valet entered the room, and, accepting shirt and cravat, he pondered the events of the evening before.

“Not,” he barked at Friske, “that I did not have just cause.”

“Of course not, sir,” murmured his valet soothingly.

“The rig she tried on me has not only been perpetrated unsuccessfully on many occasions, but, given her age and appearance, was ludicrous. Good God, she must be, what—sixteen?—and obviously has the brains of an underdeveloped parsnip.”

“Quite so, sir.”

Friske, having tenderly buttoned his master into his shirt, proffered a cravat and stood reverently aside. Mr. Wincanon, while regrettably lacking in a true sense of fashion, was possessed of a slender, elegant form. That the underlying frame seemed to be composed, to Friske’s mind, of coiled steel, in no way impinged on the fit of his clothes. Better yet, Mr. Wincanon was particular about his appearance. The daily ritual of Tying the Cravat was always performed with due respect.

On this morning, however, his master disappointed him. Snatching the length of linen from Friske’s fingers, James wrapped it perfunctorily around his throat and secured it with a knot that was little short of careless. Friske allowed his features to fall into an expression of pained disapproval. Which Mr. Wincanon ignored.

A knock sounded at the door, followed almost instantaneously by the entrance of a tall young man, meticulously garbed in a modest ensemble. His dark hair was clipped somewhat shorter than the current mode, and his eyes, also dark, were lit with a hint of laughter.

“Ah, Robert,” said James to his secretary. “You’re up and about early.”

“As always, sir,” replied Robert Newhouse primly. His lips quirked in a wry smile that contradicted his virtuous words. “I have brought the papers you requested.”

“You are a jewel of promptness and efficiency, Robert—as always. You must have swotted into the small hours on these.”

“You said you wanted them as soon as possible. In addition, I was hoping to creep off for a few hours this afternoon. Max Wentworth, your bailiff’s son, has offered to show me some of the prime fishing spots on your land, with dinner at his home afterwards.”

“Ah, plundering my resources, are you?”

Robert, who had come to know James Wincanon well over the two years he had been in the gentleman’s employ, grinned.

“Well, it’s not as though you’ll likely be doing much plundering yourself, sir. Not that it wouldn’t do you good to use God’s fresh air and sunshine for something besides rummaging about in piles of old bricks. Speaking of which,” he continued, “have you had a chance to commune with your Roman remains?”

James’s lips tightened. “No. I have been busy with Wentworth and a hundred other things I would rather not be doing. I plan to look them over straightaway after breakfast this morning.”

“Mm. It looks as though it’s going to come on to mizzle momentarily.”                        

“I shan’t be deterred by a few drops of rain, Robert. I’ve definitely earned a treat. Particularly,” he added with a grimace, “after last night.”

Robert grinned. “Ah, yes. How went the dinner party?”

James snorted. “You were wise to make other plans. It was as deadly as predicted. I think the mamas of Gloucestershire are even more predatory than their London counterparts.”

“Attacked on all sides, were you? Did not your host—an earl, isn’t he?—protect you?”

James snorted again. “Protect me! He is a widower with an unwed daughter, and she more or less led the charge.”

“Mmm. I think Max told me about her. Something of an original, I understand.”

“To say the least. She seems the complete hoyden. She trotted out the breathless-interest-in-antiquities humbug. I’m afraid I deflated her rather rudely. Although I paid dearly for my transgression.” Ruefully, he rubbed the shadowed bruise on his jaw and described for Robert the scene that had occurred in the darkness at Whiteleaves.

“Lord,” he concluded. “Even in the moonlight, I could see those amber eyes, flecked with golden sparks and spitting like little volcanoes.”

Robert chuckled. “She sounds most, er, unusual. However, she’s somewhat older than she looks, and Max said she is known to be an aficionado. She’s even been seen pottering in the villa remains. I understand Sir William allowed her free rein.”

“So she says. She must have known for some months of my efforts to purchase Goodhurst and grasped the opportunity to begin an early campaign. Lord, out here in the wilds of Gloucestershire, I had hoped to escaped the machinations of scheming females.”

Robert smiled. He was well versed in his employer’s problems with the gentle sex. He had stared unbelievingly at balls and dinner parties where Mr. Wincanon had been positively swarmed on by avaricious mamas and their daughters. They waylaid him on the streets, for God’s sake. He had once seen a young woman fall to the ground in front of his horse in the park, so she could pretend the animal had run her down. And she was the daughter of an earl! Another female hired a street urchin to snatch her reticule so that Mr. Wincanon would rush to her assistance in Oxford Street.

“Well, it sounds as though you made short work of her.” Robert continued offhandedly. “By the by, have you seen the current issue of
The Gentleman’s Magazine?”
Receiving a negative head shake, he continued. “It seems as though your friend Mordecai Cheeke has scored another triumph.”

“Cheeke!” exclaimed James. “Now what?”

“According to the article, he claims to have uncovered a temple to Ceres in Kent—near Tenterden.”

“Oh, that. He mentioned it the last time we met—at a meeting of the Antiquarian Society, I believe.”

Robert uttered a muffled snort and James raised his brows.

“You disapprove of the eminent Mr. Cheeke?”

Robert flushed. “It is not my place to approve or disapprove, sir, but I wouldn’t be surprised if this Ceres thing is all a hum. Of course, I have only met him a few times, in company with other of your colleagues, but”—he blurted—”the man strikes me as a self-aggrandizing buffoon. In fact, I’m not so sure he wouldn’t stoop to fraud to get his name in the newspapers.”

“I must admit I’ve suspected the same,” replied James mildly.

Robert continued somewhat belligerently. “It’s my belief the fellow has, in the past, stolen some of your theories. Lord knows he’s always sniffing around anytime you embark on a new project. In fact, I wouldn’t be surprised to see him turn up here, once word of the villa circulates in antiquarian circles.”

“Like a ferret,” James agreed with some amusement. “With nose and whiskers aquiver. And now,” he concluded briskly, donning the coat held out to him by Friske, “enough of this unpleasantness. The ancient past awaits. Have you breakfasted?”

The two gentlemen swung from the room, and an hour or so later, fortified with steak, eggs, and a tankard of ale, James departed from the house astride a mettlesome bay.

At about the same time, Hilary left her own abode, gowned in yet another serviceable muslin and sturdy boots, Jasper at her side in the gig. She had been advised by both her father and their housekeeper, Mrs. Fimble, against going out today on the grounds that the weather looked extremely threatening. She had ignored these warnings, however, not to be put off from the unpleasant task that lay ahead of her. In the seat between her and Jasper reposed a sturdy umbrella of oiled silk.

“Can you believe that anyone would act in such a rude, overbearing manner?” she demanded of the dog, whose only reply was a short, sharp bark.

“The nerve of the man, implying that...” She paused uncertainly. Just what was it that he had implied? What was all that about her plan? He seemed to think that she had lied about her interest in the ancient world, and that she was trying to perpetrate some sort of fraud on him. How perfectly ludicrous, to say nothing of insulting! Well, he would think twice before offering her such an indignity again.

She squirmed uncomfortably. Perhaps she had been a bit hasty in striking him. Fortunately, their quarrel had been unobserved, but certainly she had destroyed any chance of working with him. Of course, he had already ruined that opportunity.

She went over his words again. Inventive but unoriginal? And what had he meant about her efforts to gain his attention? Surely, he could not believe she would engage in a complicated fraud simply to attract his notice? The man must be possessed of a monumental conceit!