Vexing The Viscount (9 page)

And before Lucian could seriously court Clarinda Brumley.

“And so you see, my dear Lord Rutland”—Lady Brumley punctuated her speech with an aristocratic sniff —“you simply must come to the Duke of Lammermoor’s masquerade next month. Everyone who is anyone will be there and I know for a fact you received an invitation because the duchess is a particular friend of mine. She assures me you were included, as a favor to me, you understand.”

“Thank you, Lady Brumley,” Lucian said with resignation. The rain lashing the tall windows ensured that his digging was at an end this day, but he might have spent the afternoon more profitably engaged in organizing his finds alongside his new assistant.

“It will undoubtedly be the event of the Season,” Lady Brumley proclaimed, then leaned forward confidentially. “They say the king might even be in attendance.”

That meant debutantes lined up like a row of tulips, each scheming mama preening her own bud to best advantage, and an opportunity for him to trot out his threadbare best.

Not a chance in hell.

“If my schedule permits,” he said evenly, “I will certainly avail myself of the duke’s hospitality.”

He understood why his father was promoting this match between him and Clarinda Brumley. The money was the least of it. Lady Brumley’s family was well connected to the
Crown, having been elevated to the peerage when King George I came to the throne. Lady Brumley had worked tirelessly to shed her Hanoverian accent, and now she wanted to ally her daughter with the scion of an old English house. Lucian could trace his Beaumont ancestors back to the Norman conquest, and his Italian roots were well regarded as highly romantic. A venerable English earldom and a nouveau riche fortune. A match between Lucian and Clarinda made perfect sense for both parties.

But it still made his gut wrench.

“Well, of course you’ll be there,” Lady Brumley affirmed. “Dear Clarinda would be highly disappointed if you weren’t.”

Which meant Lady Brumley would be highly disappointed, and the lady’s public rages were the stuff of legend. Her daughter dimpled prettily and loosed a simpering giggle, as if on cue. Clarinda’s one virtue, aside from her impressive bosom and even more impressive dowry, was extreme shyness. The girl hadn’t said two words since they began this interminable tea.

Politeness dictated a smile, so Lucian gave her one, which resulted in such a deep blush, he wondered if she’d burst a blood vessel or two. As heir to Montford, he knew his duty was to wed and breed sons, but he shuddered to think what sort of tongue-tied male children Clarinda might bear.

Yet his smile seemed to loosen her floodgates. Miss Brumley began prattling on about her ball gown for the fete, undoubtedly the most cunning bit of French artistry yet to grace the British isle. Then when she’d exhausted her string of superlatives about her gown, she launched into an unprompted diatribe on who was coming to His Grace’s ball and who was too deeply disgraced by some social faux pas to dare show their faces—metaphorically speaking, of course, since this was to be a masked ball. Lady Brumley smiled at her daughter indulgently.

Lucian vowed silently never to so much as quirk his lips at her again. Her words flowed so fast and furious, it didn’t seem that she had time even to snatch a breath. Lucian wondered if Clarinda breathed through her ears when her mouth was busy.

His
ears were saved by the unexpected arrival of his manservant at his elbow.

“My lord, Miss Clavenhook is waiting without,” the ever sedate Avery said. “It appears she may have found something of interest among your Roman antiquities.”

“Has she?” That was fast. And perfectly timed, too. If Miss Clavenhook hadn’t been in reality Daisy Drake, Lucian could have kissed her. He stood with alacrity. “Your pardon, ladies. It seems my presence is required elsewhere. Most pressing. No help for it, I fear.”

Lady Brumley’s lips pursed sourly. “And just who is this Miss Clavenhook?”

“My assistant, madam. Expert in Latin translation, a rather bookish sort, frightfully nearsighted, but most helpful. Now, if you’ll excuse me.” He bowed over each of their offered hands. “Thank you for coming. Lovely to see you. Avery will show you out.”

He finally made good his escape, but not before being obliged to reiterate his intention to attend the duke’s blasted ball two more times. When he closed the parlor door behind him, he breathed a sigh of relief.

Daisy was waiting at the end of the long corridor, clutching something to her chest. She had those ridiculous spectacles perched on her nose.

He hid his smile behind a cough and strode toward her. It was deucedly thoughtful of her to keep up her Miss Clavenhook disguise in case his father should happen a long. But no one would mistake her for a wellborn heiress at present.

A small puddle of rainwater pooled at the hem of her
sodden, mud-speckled skirt. Her blond hair, which had been artfully curled, now hung in limp, wet strands. Her lips had a blue tinge, and she was drenched to the skin.

But her smile was radiant.

“What have you found?” he asked.

“This.” She thrust the tablet toward him.

He’d bet his fortune, if he had one, that she didn’t have a clue how transparent wet muslin became. The thin fabric of her bodice clung to the tops of her breasts and followed the curves into the sweet hollow between them. Her flesh was rosy and glowing beneath the oatmeal muslin. Her corset was made of sterner stuff, confining and concealing the bottom half of her breasts. Her nipples were shielded from his gaze, but the slightly darker skin of part of one areola winked at him.

For a moment, he imagined dipping his hands into her bodice and freeing those bound breasts. Would they be soft and pliant in his hands? Would her nipples draw tight at his touch? His mouth went suddenly dry and his breeches were suddenly tighter.

“Lucian,” her voice called him back. “Don’t you see?”

That was the crux of the problem. He was seeing entirely too much at the moment. He gave himself a mental shake. As enticing as those breasts were, they were Daisy Drake’s breasts. No good could come of unlacing that bodice.

“Oh, yes.” He willed himself to look away from her and at the tablet.

“Here,
Caius Meritus
, signed by his own hand.” She pointed to the signature mark at the bottom of the text. “It says…Oh, Jupiter! I can’t read it upside down.”

She turned it back around. “‘Bought at auction: one female Celtic slave, answers to Deirdre, to serve the master’s wife.’I thought you said Caius Meritus was a freedman. Why would he call someone master?”

“For form’s sake, I imagine.” Lucian took the tablet from her and ran his finger over the incised block. “Our man Avery refers to my father as ‘the master,’and he’s no slave. I suspect Meritus uses the word the same way, because the tablet I originally found declared the thief was a freedman. Seemed to be a par tic u lar bone of contention with the proconsul, Quintus Valerian Scipianus, that this Caius Meritus would serve the man who freed him so ill.”

Lucian frowned down at the tablet.

“What’s wrong?”

“Well, I know it’s foolish, but I hoped you’d found something more. Something that gave us a clue as to where the hoard was stashed.” Lucian sighed.

“But I did find something else about Caius Meritus. If we learn more about the man, perhaps we’ll be able to figure out where he hid it,” Daisy pointed out. “Did you think we’d find an ancient map with an X to mark the treasure?”

He chuckled mirthlessly. “No. I never expected this would be easy, else the Romans would have found it.”

She tapped her forefinger on her lips. “Perhaps the theft wasn’t about the money.” Daisy’s tone was suddenly more thoughtful.

“What do you mean?”

“Maybe Caius Meritus was motivated by something else.”

“A whole year’s pay for an entire legion?” Lucian said. “Of course it was about the money. What else could it be?”

Her green eyes went suddenly unfocused, and Lucian could have sworn he saw her thinking, little hypotheses being tried on and discarded like ill-fitting suits of clothing. He’d rarely seen men exhibit such intense concentration. A woman, never.

“How likely would it be for someone to steal that much and get away with it?” she finally said.

“You have a point,” he conceded. “Not very, I imagine. Meritus must have known he’d have every Roman sword in the country after him.”

“Then his motive wasn’t to gain wealth.” She folded her arms beneath her breasts.

Lord help him! One of her nipples eased above the confines of her corset, a taut pink bump in the smooth, wet muslin. His collar had suddenly become too tight for him to swallow. He tucked a finger in and gave it a tug.

“He did go to great lengths to hide the payroll till he could return and retrieve it.” Lucian forced himself not to let his gaze wander from her eyes.

“Are you certain he meant to return?” Her delicate brow arched in question.

“Well, the tablet I found—”

“Which was written by someone other than Caius Meritus,” Daisy put in.

He conceded the point with a nod. “The writer of that tablet was convinced he meant to.”

“But if his motive was something other than wealth, he might not have intended to return,” Daisy said.

“He had to know he might not outlive the deed,” Lucian admitted.

His growing respect for her sharp mind didn’t distract him from her pert nipple. It was as taut and inviting as Blanche’s rouged ones. He wondered brief y if Blanche would let him practice kisses on anything other than her lovely mouth this evening. If she would, he had a definite idea where he’d like to start.

“What would drive a man to commit an act of such desperation?” Daisy mused.

She was so lost in thought she seemed not to notice that his attention was fading in and out as well. But Caius Meritus was not the object of his fascination. Her nipple was still above her corset, the darker skin visible beneath the wet
muslin, but now it was perfectly smooth. Quiescent. Then, as if by magic, the little bump began to rise again.

“Love, perhaps?” she said.

“What?” That jerked his gaze back to her face.

“Perhaps Caius Meritus was motivated by love,” Daisy explained. “Perhaps he had something to prove to someone.”

“Does love entice a man to such lengths?”

“Love drives a man to all manner of stupidity. Have you forgotten Helen of Troy? Men have fought wars for love.”

“That was lust, most likely.” Lucian shook his head. “Not love.”

“Then it was even more stupid.”

“Well, if love makes a man stupid, I thank God I am not likely to be afflicted by it. However, I make no such claims for lust,” Lucian said with a grin, and was perplexed by her scowl. Then he noticed her teeth chattering. “Come, let’s get you into the study. Avery’s laid a little fire there.”

He put a hand to the small of her back and directed her into the tidy room. A lap robe was flung over one of the wing chairs, and he draped it over her shoulders. It shielded her from his gaze, and perhaps that was no bad thing. He derided himself for a cad. He’d been so caught up in the mysteries of her wet breasts beneath the thin muslin, he’d neglected to notice she was chilled from the rain shower she’d sprinted through to bring him this news.

“I’m sorry, Daisy.” He used her name without thinking. “I should have realized you were cold and in need of a fire.”

“That’s all right.” She snugged the rug around her with an almost feline grin. “You were distracted by my discovery.”

He decided not to let her know he was distracted by something other than the tablet he held in his hands. Two somethings his hands itched to hold but shouldn’t.

He heard the heavy tromp of boots and his father’s voice in the hall. He couldn’t make out the words through the thick oak door, but the tone was angry. His father was always angry these days. The stomping and growling faded as his sire moved on.

“Revenge,” Lucian said softly. “Perhaps revenge spurred Meritus. Men are motivated by that dark emotion often enough.”

Lord knew his father was. And Lucian had no clue what to do about it.

Londinium, a.d. 405

The sound charmed Caius toward the garden. The girl’s voice was like a flute, all rounded and wispy, with air wrapped around the tone.

And sad.

In all his life—and as nearly as he could reckon it, he was around thirty years old—Caius had never heard such a lament. The song weaved its melodic fingers around his heart and squeezed.

He peered from the corner of the villa into the mistress’s herb garden. The air was alive with the steady hum of tiny honeybees and the sweet scent of green, growing things. The new girl, Deirdre, was bent over, clawing at weeds, singing her sad Celtic song as she worked.

Then the song stopped and she straightened, arms extended over her head in a huge stretch. Her palla rose almost to her knees, baring shapely calves and delicate ankles. Her feet were naked, her toes and heels grass-stained. The fading sun flashed behind her, showing the separation of her thighs and a shadow of the dark triangle of hair under her thin palla. When she leaned down to grasp a long-stemmed cankerwort by its stubborn root, Caius saw the outline of her breasts swinging free.

The girl yelped suddenly.

Bee sting
, Caius decided.

She stuck her finger in her mouth, sucking fiercely. The innocent gesture made his body respond in a not-so-innocent way. He’d desired women before, but none had ever made him stiffen quite so unexpectedly.

He’d never had a woman.

When he’d been a slave, his master hadn’t permitted it. But now Caius was a freedman. If he wished, he might take a woman to his pallet. Though male slaves were in danger of emasculation if they were caught in unsanctioned coupling, a female slave was more prized if she proved fertile. He would bring the girl no harm if…