The Defiant Lady Pencavel (17 page)

“Include me in your big event, so I can survive.” Clowenna sucked in her breath, her wide brow furrowed. “That be too close. I’m about to lose me supper, an’ I hasn’t eaten it yet.”

“You are always included, my weak-stomached companion. We’re on to Pompeii.” Melwyn laughed, this time not like an idiot. She embraced her abigail, but dark sensual eyes in the corner of her thoughts reprimanded her recklessness.

Chapter Fifteen

Griffin stood in the former solar of Merther Manor and forced a polite smile at the pretty-enough young woman before him. “I appreciate you coming to call on me today. We might get to know one another better. What do you do for pleasure, Miss Trefoile?”

“I’m honored to be invited, sir. I embroider not too badly. And I paint, but it’s a bit mediocre. I play the pianoforte, with average skill I’ve been told.” She fluttered her stumpy eyelashes, her light brown eyes devoid of spark, as dull as watered down broth.

“And what is your opinion of the economic crisis or the war?” He took a sip of the too-sweet sherry as the girl’s parents watched from the other side of the room. He expected nothing profound on these topics, but he hoped against hope.

“Oh, I have no opinion. No one usually cares what I think on such lofty subjects.” She giggled and it raked like spikes along his spine. “My father warns me not to ponder anything too deeply.”

Could he suffer years of being wed to such a twit? Yet this is what he sought, a slow-witted girl from a respected family on which to father an heir—despite his recent declaration in that disconcerting dream he’d tried to forget. Her large dowry was also of value, but he hated to think of himself as mercenary, and he didn’t need the money.

“Indeed.” He rolled his shoulders to ease the tension there, taking another quick sip of sherry to numb his frustration. “I suppose you’ve been trained exclusively in the running of a household and a large staff of servants?”

“I hope so. I am a muddle-head at math, and I never could master any other language, except English.” She hunched her shoulders in her ivory-colored, round gown, the hue doing nothing for her too-pale skin. Her dark red hair was also unfashionable by the current standards. The girl had been shown at a few Seasons with no takers, and was no longer in the first bloom of youth at five and twenty. Although alabaster skin was a sign of the aristocracy, she could use some time in the sun.

“Isn’t this marvelous; I have such expectations.” Mrs. Trefoile smiled broadly, as if already redecorating the room and reordering Griffin’s life.

“I pray we aren’t here on a fool’s errand. I won’t have my girl played false.” Mr. Trefoile nodded his pudgy face, his eyes flinty. He rubbed his paunch.

“And what are your views on marriage and husbands?” Griffin asked the daughter. He had invited the Trefoiles here to force himself into making a commitment, and they were close neighbors. Still, they hadn’t spent much time together, and Miss Trefoile was usually in her schoolroom—learning little as it turned out.

“Oh, that I’m to be an obedient wife, and do whatever my husband wishes.” She grinned with too much gum and he cringed.

“I once wished for a woman like that as well, but now I see the idiocy of my ways,” Griffin whispered to himself.

The mischievous eyes and lively smiles of Miss Pencavel crept in and he wondered how she fared in Italy. Sir Arthur had promised to keep him informed, since it was Griffin’s money, and for no other reason.

“A faring, sir? Baked fresh moments ago.” Mrs. Loveday proffered a tray of biscuits. She smiled knowingly. “I hope everything goes well. You are such a nice, suitable, young lady, Miss Trefoile.”

“Oh, thank you. You are too kind.” The girl giggled like a silly goose again.

“Subtle, as usual, Mrs. Loveday.” Griffin picked up a biscuit and bit into it, the ginger taste tangy and rich. “I do like spice better than bland, unfortunately.”

“Bland is easier on the stomach, and easier to manage. Perfect for a man of...particular activities and proclivities, sir.” His housekeeper nodded and carried the tray over to the Trefoiles. “Unlike another peppery, foul pot of stew I won’t mention.”

“If you want to wallow in monotony, and though I know you care about me, you don’t always know what’s perfect for my singular tastes.” Griffin glared after his housekeeper, then looked down again at Miss Trefoil. He had no desire whatsoever for her, and realized, suddenly, it would be as unfair to her as it was to him, to bind her to a husband that would only use her for cold breeding. Even if many marriages were contracted in this fashion, it was not for him.

   “What are we discoursing about?” Miss Trefoile gave him another of her vapid smiles. “I’m completely lost.”

“Indeed you are, my dear. Have you ever heard of Pompeii?” he asked, certain of her ignorance. A streak of warmth threaded through him at his new design.

“Is it some sort of hair tonic?” She flushed, but it didn’t improve her pasty skin.

“No, it’s a place I’ve always wanted to travel to, war or no war.” He gave her a swift bow. “If you’ll excuse me, and do forgive me if I’ve given you or your family the wrong impression, but I have plans to make.” 

He strode from the room, his graciousness shocking him. That Pencavel minx had burrowed under his skin, changing him into someone he no longer recognized. But now he didn’t mind the transformation.

****

Melwyn swiped sweat from her forehead and kicked pumice dust from her half boots as they walked down the cobbled Consular Way. “It’s a shame that the previous king of Naples had most of the artifacts stolen for his own aggrandizement.” 

“The spoiling of Pompeii has gone on for too long.” Sir Arthur hobbled beside her, his lace cuffs flapping. “Wall paintings and pottery were destroyed in the first unplanned excavations decades past, until scholars—such as I—complained.”

“Are ‘ee certain that volcano won’t erupt again, buryin’ us alive?” Clowenna, aka Mrs. Buckett, held on to her hat brim, the blue ribbon waving in the brief hot breeze. She glared over at the formation in question that thrust up like a thumb in the distance.

“There’s no certainty when it comes to volcanoes.” Sir Arthur coughed loudly, rubbing his back. “I’m getting too old for this, I fear. And with the French and Austrians fighting in and around Tuscany, I don’t feel safe.”

“Italy does have a much more sultry sun than England, even in September. And I’m sick of hearing about this war. Let the French have their revolution—as long as they don’t fire at me again.” Melwyn wiped grit from her eyes, praying the soldiers wouldn’t bother with Pompeii. She didn’t want her first official dig interrupted. “Over here, I read they’ve uncovered the Theatre area, the Triangular Forum and the Temple of Isis.” She walked toward the massive columns that looked baked reddish-brown in the relentless sun. The volcanic dust swirled around her feet. The light smell of verbena and lemon carried on the air.

“Why do we care how these people lived? If all the good items was pilfered, why bother?” Clowenna sat on a plinth, a basket in her lap. “Me feet ache like the devil.”

“There is still so much to uncover. An entire, bustling city was blanketed over in 79 A.D. Many undetected treasures await.” Melwyn studied the architecture, her heart thrumming at being here and involved. The only sour note was, she expected Lord Lambrick to rise out of the dust at every turn, perhaps dressed as a gladiator.

“Now, my dear, why are you masquerading as a widow? You didn’t by any chance marry and lose a husband while you were at Merther Manor?” Sir Arthur mopped his brow and studied her with his myopic eyes.

“No, banns must be called for three consecutive Sundays before anyone can marry. I wasn’t away that long.” She swatted aside a fly, and banished Lord Lambrick looming over her, threatening to rip her bodice, from her memory—however, inside she twinged. “I need the widowed status for propriety, although I detest propriety since it’s too limiting. Let’s move on.”

“I wondered why you didn’t wear black. Very well. Over this way then. We are in luck that this new king Ferdinand IV, and his wife, encourage the better managed excavations.” Sir Arthur fanned his handkerchief in front of his face, his beak of a nose beet red. “Their director of archaeological works, Francesco La Vega, champions the cause.”

“So I have him to thank for me blisters? Where’s a chariot when I need one?” Clowenna dug around in the basket and pulled out a flask. She drank deeply, then passed the leather receptacle to Melwyn.

“Aren’t I supposed to drink first, you gluttonous harpy?” Melwyn sighed, giving up hope of ever changing her abigail. She sipped the cool punch, savoring the delicious and new flavor of pomegranate. “That’s just what I needed.”

“Over there they’ve began to uncover the
Via delle Tombe
with the
Villa di Diomede
.” Sir Arthur waved his damp handkerchief in that direction. “This huge villa was built with staggered floors.”

“Did everyone live in villa’s? Where’d the poor folk live?” Clowenna asked.

“No one cared about the poor, sadly enough.” Melwyn approached the Villa of Diomedes on the south side of the
Via dei Sepolcri
. She walked up the steps to the entrance, which opened onto a peristyle, or courtyard. She found shade in the shadow of the colonnade and swiped damp tendrils of hair from her cheeks with the back of her hand.

Clowenna heaved up the basket and followed with a heavy sigh. “This not be as excitin’ as ‘ee led me to believe. Never thought I’d miss the rains o’ Cornwall.”

“The villa is thought to be the house of Arrius Diomedes, a freedman,” Sir Arthur stared balefully at the maid, “because it’s situated opposite his tomb.”

“The place has unusual architecture, with its use of space and light.” Melwyn picked her way across the courtyard, over dust and weeds then past a stone plunge bath. Where would be the perfect spot to look for forgotten artifacts?

“Careful, my dear. It’s still dangerous to walk around in there.” Sir Arthur staggered along the way she’d come, his blue, scrolled stockings already gray with grime. His black leather shoes with red heels were woefully inadequate for this venture.

“Don’t worry, I’m fine. I left my
father
in England, sir, remember. Don’t mollycoddle me.” Melwyn stepped over a paving stone, tripped on a broken one, and suddenly, her feet felt sucked in. She tumbled, elbows and knees striking earth and rocks. She covered her face, sliding down in an avalanche of dirt. She now grappled to stop her fall, her fingers scraping at loose earth. Feet kicking, she struck a stone floor, and landed with a thump on her backside.

Her ankle throbbing with pain, not to mention her butt, she swept dirt from her face and hair. She coughed to clear her throat and struggled to catch her breath. Using the kerchief about her neck to swipe grime from her eyes, she stared around as the air cleared.

Debris fell from above, pinging on her head. “Are you all right, Miss Pen, uh, I mean Widow Byrd?” Sir Arthur’s anxious voice called out.

“I...don’t know yet.” Melwyn flexed her hands and arms, where scratches stung. Her elbows smarted. “Don’t move up there, you’re making more dirt trickle in.”

“I need to go find some help; oh dear, very dangerous as I warned.” The old man moaned. “I’ll just crawl backward, don’t wish to bury you further, and fetch someone.”

“Oh, la, I knew she’d fall in a hole!” Clowenna cried. “Is she dead? The master will have me head, he will. Bloody hell. I’ll miss her.”

“I’m
not
dead! And watch your mouth. You sound more and more like a niggling crone as you age.” Melwyn struggled to stand in the shadowed chamber. Her knees ached, stockings torn, and her skirt was ripped. She could barely put any weight on her left foot.

The only light sifted through the hole she just tumbled from, casting a shaft of brightness over a mosaic tile floor. She brushed aside dust to reveal a depiction of warriors in blue and white tile wrestling with a bull.

The musty-smelling chamber looked like a bathing room, with a huge communal bath cut into the floor. Strange paintings of people decorated a wall, above nooks that were probably used for clothing storage. She limped closer, wincing. “I wish I had a lantern.” The figures’ shapes and limbs seemed all over the place. Then heat infused Melwyn’s cheeks. This was one of those erotic paintings famously unearthed in the city.

In the corner, where someone must have stashed them in a hurry, was a jumble of items. Dragging herself over, she saw bronze statues—she had excellent eyesight even in the gloom—gold and emerald necklaces, and blue glass vases. “Oh my! A veritable treasure trove!”

Her head felt dizzy and she dropped to the floor again, rubbing her temples. The shadows closed in around her, her ankle swelled, and she prayed Sir Arthur found help quickly.

“But at least I’ve made another startling discovery.” She sighed, the sound echoing around her. “I’ll miss Clowie, too, and Papa, of course; I hope he doesn’t marry the Widow Whale—an atrociously manipulating woman. And perhaps I’ll even miss Lord Lambrick; I suppose I do love him in my own odd way. All right,
I do,
deeply! And why do people talk to themselves when they’re alone? I best shut up now to conserve my energy.” She wiped the taste of pumice and volcanic ash from her mouth. Her body shook with apprehension. “But I’ll be brave, entombed with my bounty.”

Chapter Sixteen

Griffin removed his frock coat and wrapped the rope around his waist, his anger prickling across his shoulders along with the heat. “How could you have let her go off alone like that? I told you explicitly to watch over her.”

“I was right behind her, and she’s not a child, though many men treat women like they are.” Sir Arthur slumped on the front steps of the Villa of Diomedes. His bottle-green frock coat and orange velvet breeches were covered in dust. “She’s quite a determined and intelligent young lady; and if you haven’t noticed, she does what she wishes.” 

“I have noticed, never doubt that. I’m well aware of the propensities of that stubborn miss. Luckily I found you at the right moment, barely off the boat from that dreaded country filled with those evil frog-eaters.” Griffin hefted Sir Arthur to his feet and they crossed the courtyard. His worry for Miss Pencavel stunned him, tightening his stomach. “Now you say the ground is unstable over here?”