Ten

J onathan awoke—or rather, opened his eyes—when the first glimmer of morning spilled across his face. He very much doubted whether he’d dozed off even once, curled as he was on a short sofa with his greatcoat spread over him. His legs were stiff, his neck cricked, his eyes stinging with fatigue.

But when he peeped out a window, the answering view seemed to cure half his ailments. A glorious winter’s day—crisp, clear, and blanketed in fresh snow—followed last night’s storm. The immaculate stretch of white looked to Jonathan like a fresh start.

Yesterday may not have gone to plan, but today was a new day.

And the late-night brush with Claire had not been an outright failure. She may have refused his hand, but at least she’d accepted his apology. He could fancy he’d seen one or two layers of frostiness thaw away, and then, just before she’d bolted, a flare of…something.

A small and fleeting something, but something nonetheless.

He had seen it. He was sure of it.

He’d followed her surreptitiously to ensure she found her room, then returned to the kitchen to rebank the fire. After a slow and bleary march back to his own chamber, he’d gratefully crawled into bed—only to leap right back out.

He’d staggered away, coughing till his eyes watered, for some unpleasant and thoroughly pungent odor—camphor oil?—enveloped him. Claire and her sister must have soaked the bedclothes in it, the treacherous fiends! Were he not already retching, he might have laughed himself sick. Camphor, of all things! Someday he would have to ask those two where they’d got their inspiration.

Assuming he survived their Christmas party, that was. It appeared the tricks were not finished, after all, and Jonathan feared his endurance had reached its limit. He could only hope the bedclothes were a parting shot, and henceforth Claire would keep her word.

His faith was soon rewarded.

Well, not too soon, because first came the long hours spent languishing on a too-small sofa, awake and uncomfortable and muttering stronger oaths than treacherous or fiends . But upon stumbling bleary-eyed and muddle-brained into the breakfast parlor (from which Claire was mysteriously absent), he at last found reprieve—for he was both graciously allowed to partake of the general fare and mercifully spared the trouble of talking to anybody.

For the latter blessing he owed thanks to Mrs. Chase, who, having sat herself beside him, proved more than capable of conducting a tête-à-tête without any assistance from him.

At length, two (or three?) cups of coffee rallied him enough to leave the breakfast table and make his way into the saloon. There he hid behind a newspaper until all the guests were called to assemble outside.

On his way through the entrance hall, he observed a rushed and rather out-of-breath Claire finally making her appearance. As she descended the staircase, she donned leather gauntlets over at least two pairs of crocheted mitts, then buried both her hands in a fur muff.

A charming prospect awaited them all in the carriage sweep, by way of half a dozen horse-drawn sleighs festooned with brass bells, sprigs of holly, and red silk ribbon. Following the expected declarations of surprise and delight, the guests were shown to their conveyances, a gentleman and a lady being assigned to each.

Jonathan’s allotment was the rear-most sleigh and Elizabeth’s friend, Miss Mary Harris. She was a lively young lady with wavy red-gold hair that framed impish blue eyes. But after two minutes’ conversation exhausted their commonalities, they both fell silent and looked about.

Climbing into the sleigh ahead was Claire, who did not take her seat but leaned forward over the apron.

“Elizabeth! Psst, Elizabeth!” she whisper-shouted. In the next sleigh, a red-bonneted head turned. “Elizabeth, what are you doing back here? You’re supposed to be up front with Noah!”

Elizabeth rolled her eyes. “Noah shan’t mind if Captain Talbot does not.”

The top hat beside her turned then, too. “Indeed, I do not,” Talbot confirmed with a roguish grin.

But Noah did mind, if his horrified expression were any indication—for he had just worked out that he was to be left in the clutches of the lovesick Lady Caroline.

Like a man on trial, Noah looked imploringly from face to face. Elizabeth turned up her nose. Claire gave a helpless shrug. Jonathan felt for his friend and would have happily switched places, could such be done without slighting Miss Harris. But since that was impossible, all he could do was shake his head in sympathy.

With manful resignation, Noah squared his shoulders and donned his riding gloves. Then he began the long march toward his doom—only slightly delayed, upon drawing near his sisters, by his lunging to deliver a withering, “I’ll make you pay for this!”

“No need, brother dear!” Elizabeth called cheerfully after him. “The accounts are still in your favor!”

When Jonathan was comfortably installed, with his feet against a warming-box and a blanket over his lap, he accepted a pair of reins from the stablemaster. “Serenity’ll do well for ye, yer grace,” the man said with a bow. “No steadier horse in Sussex, I wager. She’s the far better choice.”

“Better than what?” Jonathan would have asked, had he any chance. But the sleighs ahead were already in motion, and the groom sent Serenity after them with a click of his tongue.

Amid his exhilaration, Jonathan soon forgot the puzzling remark. Greystone Castle sat amid wide pastures and gentle rises, all perfectly suited for easy and speedy dashing.

Rays of sun peeked through clouds to emblazon the glittering snow. Icicles clung to naked trees. A bracing wind whistled along to the cheery jingle of bells and the crunch of hooves meeting snow. And though the cold nipped at Jonathan’s cheeks and nose, the rest of him stayed delightfully snug beneath his blanket.

Steadfast as advertised, Serenity trotted along without any need of direction. Jonathan was therefore content to leave such matters to her and enjoy the scenery, though he found his gaze most frequently, and unaccountably, rested on the sleigh ahead of them.

While its passengers were his beloved and her new beau, Jonathan did not stare daggers at Milstead nor pine for a glimpse of Claire’s face. (Not at the moment, anyway.) In fact, all he could see of the lady was her heavy cloak, for her head lay deep inside its fur-lined hood.

That hood, however, was almost invariably tilted up toward the gentleman, who gazed down upon his companion in a manner that (Jonathan imagined) was very earnest. Though Jonathan could not see their expressions or hear their conversation, he could sense the air of gravity between them.

It was evident something of great intensity was taking place.

Miss Harris also took notice. “Begad!” she cried. “I suspect Lord Milstead is proposing at this very moment!” She craned for a better view. “Back in the castle yard, did you see how they both got under one blanket?”

Jonathan had seen no such thing and very much doubted Miss Harris had, either. Still, the mere thought opened a pit in his stomach.

Was Milstead proposing?

Had Jonathan already lost?

He quite suddenly found himself staring daggers after all, and spent the rest of the ride blind to the breathtaking scenes whizzing by.

After half an hour, the little convoy rounded a copse and, one by one, slowed to a halt in the middle of a large field. They seemed to have reached their destination: an odd cluster of snow-shrouded mounds and thatched shelters, and beside them, a great tent.

Upon leaving their sleighs, everybody gathered to peer at and puzzle over their surroundings. Except Jonathan, who peered only at Claire and Milstead, trying to detect some evidence of the alleged engagement. But they exchanged no meaningful looks, intimate gestures, or happy blushes, merely appearing rather anxious on her side and wooden on his.

The detective remained in suspense.

“Very well, cousins,” Cainewood said loudly, “you’ve had your fun keeping secrets from the rest of us. What is this place?”

Claire’s worried frown reshaped itself into a smile as she moved to the front of the group. “Lord Cainewood is right—it’s time to reveal all.”

She approached a gentleman of middle age who, though not of the Greystone party, was familiar to Jonathan. After a private but clearly friendly chat, she turned back to her guests.

“Let me introduce Mr. Hawkins, who joins me in welcoming you to the Bignor Villa.”

A chorus of “oohs” and “ahs” rang out, along with a “huh?” or two. Those native to Sussex had all heard of the Bignor Villa, for there was a great hubbub a few years ago when its Roman-era ruins were discovered beneath a local farm.

The excavation had been ongoing until quite recently, as Jonathan well knew, since it was the very reason he’d come to Greystone last year (wooing Claire had proved an unexpected bonus). Mr. Lysons, an antiquary friend and leader of the project, had invited Jonathan to come visit the site and examine its artifacts. An enthusiastic hobbyist, Jonathan had eagerly accepted and arranged to stay with an old schoolmate who happened to live nearby: Noah Chase, the Earl of Greystone.

“Since it’s closed for the winter, we shall have the place to ourselves,” Claire went on. “As a friend of our family, Mr. Hawkins has granted us special access for the day.”

A friend of their family? Ha!

The Chases had known nothing of Hawkins or anyone else at Bignor before Jonathan came along. It was he who’d first brought Noah here—and he would have brought Claire too, had the site been fit for ladies at that time. He’d promised, however, to take her at the earliest opportunity and, in the meantime, returned to Greystone many an evening with some new etching or relic to interest her and her siblings.

Surely she remembered all this? Surely Jonathan and the villa were inextricably linked in her mind?

He searched her face for signs of awareness, but she avoided his gaze and continued: “Our very kind friend has also offered to tour us about the ruins. But first, please come this way.”

She struck out directly toward the tent, trusting the others to follow. As they circled round to the front, Jonathan observed three of the tent’s four sides were draped in thick hangings to ward off the chill. The fourth was left open, revealing an interior piled with carpets, cushions, blankets, and a low table set for luncheon. The effect was luxurious and cozy.

“A picnic in wintertime, Claire?” Lady Cainewood raised a skeptical brow. “Won’t you be cold?”

Lifting her chin, Claire marched past her elder sister and claimed her place at the head of the table. This was everyone’s cue to take their own places, and they obeyed.

Beneath the table they found foot warmers and sheepskins enough to dispel all of Lady Cainewood’s doubts. Once the steaming teapot went round, the guests were quite as comfortable as they could wish.

As the duke, Jonathan had been assigned a spot beside Claire again, of course, with Mrs. Chase on his other side. His spirits revived by hot tea and Cheshire sandwiches, he lounged among a heap of cushions, feeling almost carefree. Though he would have liked to renew his acquaintance with Mr. Hawkins, whom he recalled as a well-traveled sort full of interesting stories, at the moment their relative placement allowed for no more than perfunctory conversation.

Instead, Jonathan admired the view beyond the tent opening, which was principally of the adjacent bath house. Or rather, what once had been a bath house, for all that remained of it were crumbling foundations, the rough outlines of an elegant plunge pool, and a remarkable mosaic floor.

Somebody had swept the mosaic clear of snow. Worked in thousands of tiny millennia-and-a-half-old tiles, it depicted intricate patterns of entwined snakes surrounding the head of Medusa. Though her face was ugly and cold-eyed, Jonathan knew the Roman Britons had looked upon the monster as a protector, and privately he greeted her with all the warmth of an old friend.

“Mrs. Chase,” he felt so enlivened as to inquire, “I wonder whether you share your husband’s antiquarian bent?”

“ My Nathaniel, an antiquarian?” Mrs. Chase threw back her head and laughed. “Begging your grace’s pardon, but whatever gave you such an idea?”

He frowned. “We discussed Roman amphorae?—”

“Oh, he did once made a mint off a pair of those ”—she leaned closer and whispered—“which, between ourselves, may or may not have been genuine.” She emitted a little laugh, or maybe a tiny snort. “I assure you, your grace, that is quite as far as his interest extends.”

Jonathan was dismayed by this revelation and, perhaps out of habit, looked to Claire to share his feelings. But she clearly hadn’t heard the exchange. Instead she seemed absorbed in gazing upon the Medusa, her brow once again crossed with anxious lines.

Amid feeble and fading hopes, Jonathan hadn’t forgotten her offer of friendship—and just at present, she appeared sorely in need of a friend. Though he wasn’t sure how, he resolved to try his hand at cheering her up— as a friend.

Casting about for a neutral, friendly overture, he finally settled on: “Is this your first visit to the ruins, Lady Claire?”

Startled from her reverie, she took a moment to return from wherever her mind had been before hearing his question. She shook her head. “My brother brought me here in the spring.”

He felt a pang of disappointment.

He’d wanted to be the one to show her this place.

“Your friend Mr. Lysons kindly gave me a tour,” she went on. “I was sorry to hear of his passing soon afterward.”

Jonathan nodded his thanks, for his speech was hindered by a sudden tightness in his throat. Though Mr. Lysons had died in June, the news hadn’t reached Italy till September. He’d been a good man, a venerated scholar, and something of a mentor to Jonathan.

“He seemed very fond of you,” she added kindly.

“Oh?” Jonathan cleared his throat. “Mentioned me, did he?”

She smiled sidelong. “He spoke of little else.” Deepening her voice like a man’s, she added: “‘These tremendously important shards were assembled by young Jonathan.‘“

He laughed heartily at that. “You do a fair impersonation.”

Her eyes twinkled. “‘Young Jonathan reckoned this heap of rocks was a stable, though it’s clearly a garden shed.‘ ‘And we discovered our seven-hundredth hypo-whatsit the day Jonathan fell through the floor.’”

“Bah, treachery!” he cried, wiping tears of laughter. “He promised to keep that secret! And the word is hypocaust .”

“La! If you say so.” When her mirth subsided, she added more soberly: “Jokes aside, Mr. Lysons spoke of you like a son. One who made him quite proud.”

Jonathan’s pleasure mingled with a familiar feeling of guilt, for he was all too conscious he’d been a poor ‘son’ to Mr. Lysons this year. While the old scholar kept up their longtime correspondence, the young protégé, mired in gloom and self-pity, never found the will to answer his letters.

And then it was too late.

But after talking with Claire, he felt a little better. He liked picturing the two of them—the love of his life and the father he’d never had—together, on a fine spring day in Mr. Lysons’s favorite place. “I’m so glad he got the chance to meet you, Claire.”

As soon as the tender words left his mouth, he threw her a look, for he hadn’t meant to say them aloud.

Had he crossed the bounds of friendship already? Were things spoiled between them? She gazed back at him warily, perhaps asking herself the same questions.

His musings were interrupted by a piercing laugh. Heads whipped round, till most everybody was staring at Elizabeth’s friend, Miss Harris, who, unaware, continued her fit of hilarity. When Jonathan looked to see who’d sparked her amusement, he was surprised to find none other than Milstead, stretched out by her side and flirting outrageously.

If Claire felt equal shock, she had more success hiding it. The only visible change was a slight compression of her lips.

What did that signify? Jonathan wondered. He was wild to unravel the mystery. Had he witnessed a proposal?

Or something else entirely?

Either way, Milstead was a bounder to flirt with Miss Harris after his marked attentions to Claire. Why in blazes would he do that?

The last question was easily answered. Milstead’s smug glances in Claire’s direction made his intentions clear enough: He meant to make her jealous. But she refused to take the bait.

Jonathan could not but admire such dignified restraint. His pride in her was almost as fierce as his desperation to learn what had happened on that sleigh.

Apparently Miss Harris finally realized everyone was gaping at her, for she checked her laugh—while still remaining intently focused on Milstead. She had to be aware of his entanglements (and surely knew he’d crossed the border of impropriety), but she appeared far too diverted by his scandalous behavior to think of curbing it.

Which seemed to embolden Milstead even further.

At a rather unnecessary volume, he asked: “Shall we make ourselves a tour of the villa, Miss Harris?”

Noah’s eyes blazed in defense of his sister’s honor. “Now wait a minute, Milstead. My sister intends for us all to go about together with Mr. Hawkins. It would be ill-mannered of you to break up the party.”

Milstead turned to Claire. “Surely you can spare the two of us, Lady Claire?” he said with polite venom. “For Miss Harris and I wish to walk on our own .”

A corner of Claire’s mouth twitched. “If Mr. Hawkins has no objection.”

Mr. Hawkins replied that he had none, provided the unchaperoned explorers took care.

Silence reigned as a leisurely Milstead climbed to his feet, straightened his clothing, and offered Miss Harris his arm. The young lady accepted it, visibly vibrating with excitement, and ran away with her scoundrel.

Captain Talbot broke the silence. “As it happens, Lady Elizabeth and I were also contemplating a solitary ramble.” He looked to Elizabeth. “Were we not?”

She glanced from his beseeching face to Claire’s, which was starting to turn red.

“Only if my sister truly doesn’t mind,” Elizabeth said, sounding guilty—for it was plain that her sister minded very much.

Jonathan had seen Claire lose her temper just a handful of times. It was a rare occurrence, but once she’d crossed the Rubicon, the resulting outburst could be every bit as violent and ungovernable as the Roman Civil War. Now he saw signs of danger, and he could tell by their panicked faces that her siblings saw them, too. As Elizabeth froze up and Noah looked to Jonathan, he found himself obliged to take charge.

“What’s that?” he shouted out the front of the tent at nobody, then turned to Claire. “Lady Claire, I think the upper footman is needing you for something.”

Rising, Claire peered outside. “Where is he?”

“You don’t see him?” He rose as well. “I’ll escort you.”

With a hand on her shoulder, Jonathan steered her toward the tent’s opening. “Since the hour grows late,” he added, looking back to Noah, “perhaps we ought to have Mr. Hawkins begin with the six of you. We’ll join you momentarily.”