Chapter 10
For one suspended instant, Darcy forgot why he had come to Gracechurch Street at all.
The young woman before him was not beautiful in the polished London fashion.
No careful arrangement of curls framed her face.
No silk gown flattered her figure. No jewels gleamed at her throat.
She was covered in mud, her hem damp and stained, one working-glove hanging half from her wrist, and a streak of dirt lay boldly across one cheek.
By every rule of society, she ought to have looked ridiculous.
She did not.
Her eyes arrested him first. They were dark, bright, and full of intelligence, with a lively expression that seemed entirely at odds with the exhaustion around her.
Her cheeks were flushed from exertion, her lips parted slightly as though she had been caught between triumph and embarrassment, and the hand clenched around whatever she had rescued from the cellar floor trembled only a little.
Darcy realized, with some dismay, that he was staring.
He looked away at once.
She was almost certainly connected to Mr. Gardiner’s household or business.
A tradesman’s daughter, perhaps, or some young relation brought in to assist after the tragedy.
That thought ought to have steadied him.
Instead, it struck him as a shame, which was absurd.
He had met her in a cellar, covered in river mud.
It was hardly the sort of introduction that merited personal regret.
Yet regret came all the same.
“Mr. Darcy!” the housekeeper repeated, still staring at him in astonishment. “I had no notion you were in London.”
He searched his memory. “Susie, is it not? Mrs. Reynolds’ niece.”
“Yes, sir,” she answered, “Going on six years. I have only been with the Gardiners recently, though.” Her chin raised a little higher. “I am Mrs. Thompson, now.”
Darcy nodded respectfully, then turned his attention back to the young woman–Lizzy, Briefly,” he replied, dragging his attention back to propriety with more difficulty than he liked. “I had business nearby and encountered Mr. Philips. How came you to be here?”
“My mistress—that is, my late mistress—is from Lambton, and she hired me as her housekeeper with recommendation from Aunt Reynolds.”
The young woman—Lizzy, Mr. Philips had called her—looked from Susie to Darcy, her expression sharpening with curiosity. Darcy had the uncomfortable impression that very little escaped her notice, even in moments of confusion.
Mr. Philips was still too occupied with alarm to observe any of it. “Elizabeth, I am not finished with you. You climbed into an unknown space beneath a flooded cellar, alone, without waiting for assistance. Do you have any understanding of how dangerous that was?”
“I have gained some understanding since you began repeating it,” she said, though her voice softened enough to show she was not entirely insensible of his concern. “But Uncle, please look.”
She opened her hand.
The object resting upon her muddy palm caught the lantern light.
Mr. Philips stopped speaking.
Darcy’s breath caught.
Gold.
But not a guinea, nor a sovereign, nor any modern coin. Even through the mud, the shape and weight of it were unmistakable. Small, round, ancient, and stamped with a severe profile that made Darcy’s heart begin to beat faster.
He stepped closer before he could stop himself.
“If I may?” he asked, his voice lower than before.
Miss Elizabeth looked not at him, but at her uncle. Mr. Philips, still staring at the coin, gave a slow nod.
She placed it carefully in Darcy’s hand.
The moment it touched his palm, the damp cellar, the anxious servants, the displaced shelf, even the young woman’s remarkable eyes faded to the edges of his awareness.
He turned the coin gently between thumb and forefinger, careful not to rub away the mud too roughly.
The face upon it was worn but visible. The lettering around the edge was clearer on one side than the other, though enough remained for recognition.
“Honorius,” he breathed.
Mr. Philips blinked. “I beg your pardon?”
Darcy looked up, then immediately back down, scarcely able to contain the sudden rush of excitement. “The Emperor Honorius. Late Roman Empire. This is a solidus, I believe—early fifth century, perhaps the first years of the four hundreds.”
Susie made a small sound of disbelief.
Miss Elizabeth’s eyes widened. “Roman?”
“Yes.” Darcy turned it again, the old thrill of scholarship rising through him with unexpected force. Years of study, travel, and ruined temples seemed suddenly to converge in a London cellar. “Good God. A coin of Honorius beneath Gracechurch Street.”
Mr. Philips stared at him as though uncertain whether this explanation clarified anything. “You are certain?”
“As certain as I can be without cleaning and examining it properly. But yes.” Darcy looked at Miss Elizabeth. “Where, precisely, did you find this?”
She pointed toward the open trap door. “Below. The shelf had hidden the door in the floor. When we moved it, I went down to see what was there.”
“Against advice,” Susie murmured.
“With advice very much present, if not obeyed,” Miss Elizabeth replied. “The lower space looks as though it might once have been used for coal or storage. The floor is rotten in places from the flooding, and when my foot broke through one of the boards, I saw something shining in the mud.”
Darcy looked toward the dark opening.
His pulse quickened further.
John, who had been watching with increasing pride at having had some part in the affair, spoke eagerly. “The shelf was fastened to the wall, sir. Not recent neither. Old iron straps, handmade pins.”
Darcy glanced at him sharply. “Fastened deliberately?”
“Aye, sir. Took some doing to loosen it.”
“And the trap door was directly beneath?”
“Just so.”
Miss Elizabeth nodded. “The flooding must have disturbed whatever lay beneath the boards. I believe there are more.”
Darcy turned back to her slowly.
“More?”
She looked slightly uncertain beneath the full force of his attention, though she did not retreat from it. “More coins. I saw several edges in the mud. I did not have time to look properly before Susie made me come back up.”
“I did not make you,” Susie protested. “I prevented you from attempting to bury yourself alive in a Roman cellar.”
Darcy scarcely heard the exchange.
More coins.
A hidden lower chamber.
Gracechurch Street, near the old heart of Roman Londinium.
A gold solidus of Honorius.
He looked again at the coin in his palm, then at the trap door. The implications struck one after another with dizzying speed. If there were more—if this were not a single lost coin but a hoard—then they might be standing above something extraordinary. Not merely valuable. Historically invaluable.
“Do you understand what you may have found?” he asked.
Miss Elizabeth hesitated. “Something old.”
“Something priceless,” Darcy said, then caught himself and corrected the excess of feeling with effort.
“Not only in money. In history. This may be connected to the very end of Roman Britain. Honorius ruled when imperial authority here was collapsing. If this was hidden beneath the old city, and if there are more coins below, then it may have lain undisturbed for fourteen centuries.”
Mr. Philips drew a sharp breath.
Miss Elizabeth looked from Darcy to her uncle, and the excitement in her face dimmed beneath a more practical concern. “Then what do we do? Is it ours to keep?”
Mr. Philips answered before Darcy could. “No. Not if Mr. Darcy is correct.”
Her brow furrowed. “So not ours, then?”
“Gold or silver hidden in the ground, when no owner can be known, belongs to the Crown under treasure trove. At least, that is my understanding.” Mr. Philips rubbed a hand over his face, suddenly looking older and more tired than he had in the warehouse.
“Though what officer must be informed, and in what manner, I confess I do not immediately know.”
Susie looked toward the open trap door with evident alarm. “Then perhaps it had better go back where it was until we know.”
Mr. Philips’s mouth tightened. “There is another question. If this belongs to the Crown, and if discovery brings officials, scholars, workmen, and God knows who else into the house, it may delay the sale. Perhaps make a sale impossible for a time. I do not relish saying it, but the simplest course might be to leave it buried and allow the next owner to discover his own complications.”
Darcy straightened.
“No.”
The word came more sharply than he intended, but he did not withdraw it.
All eyes turned toward him.
He looked at Mr. Philips first, then at Miss Elizabeth, who was watching him with an expression far too intelligent to be dismissed as mere curiosity.
“Forgive me. I understand the temptation. Truly, I do. But this cannot be hidden again. Whatever lies beneath this floor is not merely treasure. It is a piece of Britain’s history. It must be preserved properly.”
Mr. Philips studied him with a guarded expression. “And you propose we invite the Crown to seize it?”
“I propose we proceed carefully, honorably, and with every possible protection for Mr. Gardiner’s children.
” Darcy closed his fingers around the coin, feeling its small weight like a summons.
“I may be of assistance. I studied history at Cambridge, particularly Rome and the decline of the empire. I know several scholars and antiquarians who would treat such a discovery with reverence rather than greed. Men who would understand how to excavate it properly.”
Miss Elizabeth glanced again at her uncle.
Darcy continued, more urgently now. “My uncle is the Earl of Matlock. He is known to the Prince and has influence enough to ensure the matter is not swallowed by petty officials before anyone understands its importance. If the Crown must be informed, then let it be done through channels that protect both the discovery and the family who found it.”
Mr. Philips said nothing.