Vexing The Viscount (18 page)

“Will he do, you think?” the second man asked.

“Well enough, if he keeps his sticky fingers in his own pockets,” the first said loudly.

Hearing his voice clearly for the first time, Lucian was certain of the man’s identity now. It was Sir Alistair Fitzhugh, head of the Society of Antiquaries, and to all appearances a reputable knight of the realm. What was he doing involving himself in such an enterprise?

“But we’d do well to keep an eye on Peabody. If he’ll steal for us, he’ll steal from us,” Alistair said. “Sometimes
men of good conscience are forced to deal with such riffraff for the sake of their cause, eh, Brumley?”

Lord Brumley.
The loudest detractor at his presentation was now trying to steal Lucian’s find. He almost laughed aloud at the irony.

“So have you secured our other partner yet?” Brumley asked.

Who else would be mad enough to join these lunatics? Lucian leaned slightly toward the sound as he took another pull of his ale.

“Not quite,” Alistair admitted. “But it won’t be long. After all, it was the German king who granted the exclusive charter to that South Sea group.”

The hair on the back of Lucian’s neck stood on end with foreboding.

“Without a royal monopoly, the earl would never have invested and subsequently never lost his shirt. He was duped by the usurper. I have only to hammer that nail in a bit harder and he’ll see the light. If Peabody fails us, Montford will force his son to give up the location of the treasure.”

Lucian choked on his ale.

His own father consorting with Jacobite sympathizers. Discovery would mean the earldom would be stripped from Lucian’s family. He’d lose his viscountcy as well. They might be pinched at present. If his father were branded a traitor, Lucian might as well get used to wearing this ragged coat.

Lucian’s gut churned. The loss of title and being plunged into abject poverty were far from the worst of it. If the earl were sucked into this doomed plot, his poor deluded father would die horribly.

No matter what happened—even if meant he never found the Roman treasure—Lucian couldn’t let his father wander down that dark road.

He pushed away his half-drunk mug of ale and slipped out of The Unicorn as silently as he’d slipped in.

Daisy closed the heavy edition of
Moll Flanders
and leaned her chin on her palm. Her own life was too much of a tangle for her to feel any empathy for the misadventures of Daniel Defoe’s hapless heroine. Besides, Defoe tended to moralize a bit too much for the comfort of Daisy’s conscience. She imagined that worthy Puritan author would have a good deal to say about her masquerade as a courtesan and the fleshly adventures she and Lucian had almost shared.

It was the
almost
that brought a sigh to Daisy’s lips.

“Are you in terrible pain, sweeting?” Isabella glanced up from her own book. She and Lord Wexford had been playing a companionable game of chess earlier in the far corner of the parlor. Isabella looked lovely in the soft lamplight and was thoroughly enjoying trouncing her good-natured husband. But then Lord Wexford’s valet had arrived with a note, and Geoffrey excused himself early. Isabella had been wearing a scowl ever since. Daisy didn’t think her great-aunt had turned a page in the last quarter hour.

“No, the willow-bark tea seems to dull the ache.” Daisy’s injured ankle was propped on the tasseled pillow of the cunning Turkish-style ottoman.

“Then why the sigh?” Isabella asked. “You’re far too young to have such cares.”

Daisy exhaled noisily. “It’s just…well, now that I’m no longer able to be Blanche, I can’t be myself either. I mean,
with this stupid sprain, I can’t even go to work at the excavation and—”

“And see Lucian Beaumont,” Isabella finished for her.

“Exactly.” Daisy shifted her foot to find a more comfortable position. “And yet, I have a feeling that given the choice he’d rather see Blanche than me.”

“Why do you say that?” Isabella asked. “Haven’t you and he enjoyed working together by day?”

“Yes, we have a jolly enough time, and I think he tolerates me well now, but—”

“But he presents a different side of himself to you when he thinks you are Blanche?”

Daisy nodded.

“Do you like him less by day?”

“No, I like him rather too much by day or by night,” Daisy admitted. “Oh, Isabella, what’s wrong with me? I believe I’m actually jealous of…of myself!”

“Then perhaps it’s time you put away your competition for good,” her great-aunt said. “Retire Blanche La Tour. Playing at courtesan is a dangerous game for even one night, and you’ve managed it for several. So far you’ve escaped relatively unscathed.”

“My ankle would beg to dif er.”

“I meant your heart, dearest,” Isabella said gently. “You haven’t allowed the game to run away with your heart.”

Daisy wasn’t so sure of that.

Isabella cast a long look in the direction of Lord Wexford’s exit. “Once your heart is in play, the rules change.” She seemed to give herself a slight shake. “As far as Lucian’s presenting you with a different face when you are in Blanche’s shoes, we all do that. Like a chameleon that blends into his surroundings, we become what others expect of us.”

Isabella stood and paced over to the long windows. She gazed out, her graceful arms crossed so it almost seemed as if she were giving herself a hug. “It doesn’t happen often,
but if we are extremely lucky, we find someone with whom we can simply be ourselves.”

“That’s just the trouble. Lucian doesn’t like me as myself.”

“I wouldn’t be too sure about that, but I suspect we’ll find out soon enough.”

“What makes you say so?” Daisy asked.

“Because Lucian Beaumont is walking up to the front door as we speak.”

“Oh, no! Call Jerome quickly. He has to bear me back up to Blanche’s room.” Daisy tried to reach the bell that was just beyond the grasp of her fingers. “Ring for Nanette and see if she can help me—”

The sharp rap of the brass knocker sounded, followed by the butler’s muffed greeting.

“Hush, darling,” Isabella said. “Let us see whom he is here to see first. If he asks for Blanche, I’ll tell him she’s not up to seeing him. If he asks for you, well, that should tell you something, shouldn’t it?”

“Why should Blanche be able to hide? What if
I’m
not up to seeing him?” Daisy’s belly quivered, and she lowered her elevated foot to the floor.

“Can you rise unassisted?”

Daisy nodded. “As long as I keep my weight on the other foot.”

“Good girl,” Isabella said. “I won’t allow him to stay too long.”

“That’s all right, Jerome,” they heard Lucian say. “I know the way to the parlor.”

The click of his shoes on the marble entry made Isabella turn her head to the doorway. “Good evening, Lord Rutland.” She extended a gracious hand to him that allowed Daisy to rise to her feet without his notice. “How kind of you to visit.”

“How could I not when our mutual friend is unwell?” Lucian bussed his lips over Isabella’s knuckles.

“Mlle La Tour is not receiving guests this evening,” Isabella said. “I’m sure you understand.”

Lucian cast Lady Wexford a charming smile. “She’s recovering well, I trust.”

“Resting comfortably,” Daisy said, slightly miffed that he hadn’t even glanced in her direction yet.

“I’m glad to hear it.” Lucian turned his dark eyes on Daisy. “However, I’m not here to see Blanche. I’m here to see you, Miss Drake.”

“Oh?” Her heart did a little jig against her ribs.

“Yes.” He pulled something from his waistcoat pocket. “We found another tablet late this afternoon, and I thought perhaps you might help me translate it.”

“Oh.” Her heart flopped helplessly to her toes.

“I appreciate your assistance.” His smile broadened into something almost wicked. “Unless, of course, you’re too busy attending Mlle La Tour.”

“No, Blanche has already retired for the night.” She tossed a pointed look at Isabella.

“If you’ll excuse me,” her great-aunt said, “I believe I’ll see if Nanette can brew a spot of tea, and I’m sure we have a scone or two. Lovely to see you, milord.”

“Well, shall we repair to the table and begin?” Lucian strode over to the small table where the chess match had lately been held and pulled out a chair for her. He shot her an inviting grin. “
Tempus fugit
, you know.”

“Time can fly just as well from here,” Daisy said, lowering herself back onto the settee before she lost her balance. Standing stork-legged was not her strong suit, and unfortunately she’d be able to traverse the length of the room only in short hops. “Bring the tablet and join me.”

She patted the spot on the settee next to her.

“Good idea! A much friendlier arrangement.” Lucian settled beside her. “Here’s the tablet.”

“A much friendlier arrangement,” he says, and then it’s “here’s
the tablet,” all business. Blast the man!
Daisy turned her lips inward for a moment to bite back the words.
Would it kill him to notice me for once?

Daisy took the ancient tablet and squinted at the marks in the gritty wax.

“Some of it’s damaged,” Lucian pointed out.

“I see that.” About a quarter of the wax was bashed in, with no writing on the uneven surface. A faint curved line ran along the edge of the damage. Daisy curled her own fingers into a fist and set it into the indentation. “Well, whoever did this had a larger hand than I, but it appears someone was upset enough to slam their hand down on this tablet when the wax was still soft. Doesn’t that suggest a finger imprint?”

Lucian leaned in. “I think you’re right. The bottom of the tablet bears Caius Meritus’s mark.”

“So it does,” Daisy agreed. “Let’s see what Mr. Meritus wrote that made someone so angry, shall we?”

She bent her head to the work. After several minutes, she became conscious of Lucian’s gaze on her. She turned to face him. “You’re staring at me,” she said.

“Forgive me.” He reached up to tuck an errant curl behind her ear. A little tingle shivered over her in the wake of his hand brushing her earlobe. “It’s just that from this angle, you remind me of someone.”

Daisy didn’t dare ask who. “Shall we attend to the tablet instead of my profile?”

“Fine, but you don’t need my help. Your Latin is better than mine,” he admitted.

“So that’s why you’re here.”

“What are you angling for, Daisy?” he asked. “Do you want me to admit that I missed you today? If it will make you happy, I will.”

Only if it were true.
“What about Blanche?”

“What about her? Does Blanche miss me, you think?”
He leaned toward her. His crisp masculine scent, fresh and clean, tickled her nostrils.

“I…I didn’t think to ask her.” She turned back to the tablet to avoid the pull of his dark eyes. If she were dressed as Blanche, she’d have palmed his cheeks and drawn him down for a kiss. As herself, she didn’t dare, so she focused her attention on the ancient wax.

“What do you make of it?” he finally asked.

“It seems to be a ledger of profit and loss.” Daisy pointed to one column. “Here we have sales of wool and amber, so that represents profit. And on this side, a shipment of wheat was consumed by rodents and…”

“And what? ”

“There’s something about Deirdre, the slave girl.” Daisy’s voice sank to a whisper. “I think it was Caius Meritus who slammed his fist down on this tablet.”

“What makes you say that?”

“Well, we know Caius tried to purchase her freedom, so he must have had some feelings for her.”

Lucian shrugged. “That’s a fair guess. What does it say about her?”

“‘Mortuus per suus manus,’”
Daisy said. “Dead by her own hand. The girl killed herself.”

“This is dreadful,” Daisy exclaimed. “Of course, I understand that all the people we study in antiquity are long dead, but in my mind, they seemed to take on a life of their own. For Deirdre to take her own life…she must have been horribly unhappy.”

“I’d expect slaves generally are,” Lucian said softly. “I know I would be.”

“But Caius tried to buy her freedom.” Daisy ran her fingertips over the uneven wax, then jerked them away suddenly. For a moment, she felt searing pain emanating from the tablet. Sometimes a vivid imagination was no fun. “Wouldn’t the hope of freedom have kept Deirdre from such a dire act?”

“Perhaps she had no liking for Caius. Just because a man fancies a particular woman, it doesn’t signify that she will fall into his arms,” Lucian said. “Seems to me I recall Lord Thornheld took a shine to you a few Seasons ago, and yet here you are, still on the marriage market.”

“Ugh! I wish you wouldn’t put it like that.” She grimaced at him. “You make me sound like a spoiled apple languishing on the grocer’s shelf.”

“Not spoiled,” he teased, his dark eyes snapping. “Ripe, perhaps, would be more appropriate.”

She swatted his chest. He caught her hand and held it much longer than necessary. Something in his gaze shifted from teasing to tantalizing in a heartbeat. Fire burned behind his dark eyes.

Her belly fluttered uncertainly. He’d looked at her like that only when she was disguised as Blanche. His scorching gaze made her resolve as herself melt just as quickly as it had when she was playing the courtesan.

“I’m glad you didn’t accept Thornheld,” he said in all seriousness.

Lord Thornheld was considered no end of a catch for a young woman with no
milady
before her name, but Daisy found the middle-aged rake grasping and boorish. Thorn-held made her flesh pebble with goose bumps—the “Ew! I’ve stepped in a cow pie!” sort of goose bumps—whereas Lucian made her skin tingle in a very different way.