Chapter Six
“You cannot escape yourfate.”
~ Anon
A fter leaving the library, Septimus searched for the professor, hoping Walcot could explain his daughter’s heightened anxiety, though he ventured to guess another anonymous note had found its way into her possession. From across the ballroom, he caught sight of Walcot speaking to Steere agitatedly in the doorway. Something about their hushed manner triggered his alarm, the position of their bodies and stern expressions leading him to believe they were embroiled in an exchange they wanted no one to overhear.
To his knowledge, the two brothers got on quite well, so this surprised him and at once made him curious. What could have happened to provoke them? Throughout the years, he’d never once heard the professor speak ill of his sibling. Their bond was strong, as they were only one year apart in age. In fact, the professor had referred to Steere with exceptional admiration and joy.
Determined to find out what hot subject they were conversing about, he moved through the ballroom to get closer, at the same time despising his clandestine role.
Several dancers paraded before him, forcing a halt to his progress. He waited, craning his neck to continue observing the fellows above the heads of everyone else, before hearing two women prattle behind him.
“I hear a certain widow is matchmaking again,” one declared. “You know the one of whom I speak.”
“Do tell,” the other woman said. “I have my own opinions of the marriage mart but walking into her establishment with blunt or collateral to barter for a bride is an abomination.”
Establishment? What were these two crones gossiping about?
“I couldn’t agree more.” The first woman chortled, her response making it clear what they were speaking about—a well-known gaming hell. “Rumor has it she’s taken her skills to the next level. Tell me—” she said with a self-important huff “—how many gentlemen in attendance here, do you suppose, have been devoured by that brazen lion?”
Gaming hell. Lion . Were they speaking about the Black Widow of Whitehall and the Lyon’s Den? They’d piqued his interest.
“Oh, I do not care to think of it. No, I shan’t. It’s positively outrageous to dredge up the past, let alone speak of such matters in a public forum.” The first woman hissed, sounding like a snake poised to strike. “But...” she said with a sly flick of her fan, “I have heard the most scandalous thing. Did you know that she is not barren? Apparently, she bore a child years ago. No one has seen it since, however, so there’s no way to know if it survived. Do you suppose the father is here? Now? Someone we know?”
“No!” The second woman’s gasp turned several heads in their direction. “The very thought gives me the vapors.”
More than one gentleman in attendance at the Steere’s ball had balanced wagers with a game of dice. It was the nature of the beast, a gentleman’s pastime to visit gaming hells. Septimus championed many of them for being in a dead set, inventing concerted schemes to defraud dealers at the Lyon’s Den. Every facet of humanity existed in that place on any given day. Bored ladies and gentlemen. False dispatchers of loaded dice. Men doggedly playing to lose everything. Those hunting for easy prey and High Jinks gamblers who intoxicated their adversaries, then relieved them of their coin. Woodpeckers—bystanders—betted from the sidelines, while others risked entire fortunes. The Lyon’s Den was a refuge to veterans and a nightmare for dreamers. Add to the mix a host of ne’er-do-well’s and working girls and jobs for the doormen, and there was plenty of work for the likes of Peregrine Frost.
“I cannot say for certain, but I believe the story to be true, for the Colonel said so. You know he is not one to embellish.”
“Shh. It is well and good to tittle-tattle amongst ourselves, but not in such a way that everyone knows what we are doing, Sybil.” She huffed. “Oh, can you not see?”
“Where?”
“Just there!” Septimus followed the arrow of the first lady’s fan. “Our host and his brother appear to squabble. Do you not remember Mr. W. in the old days? Why, he was quite the rake for some time. Could he not be the father?”
“The professor?” Septimus thought, and Sybil asked at the same time.
“Indeed. If you recall, no one has ever seen or met his wife, though it is said the poor dear died in childbirth.”
“Minerva!” Sybil exclaimed. “Childbirth is a dangerous affair. The odds are she did die.”
“Or did she?” Minerva quibbled, leaving a sour taste in Septimus’s mouth.
A pathway to the dance floor opened with room enough for Septimus to pass through to the other side. He left the two frothy frigates to their own broadsides and happily so, weaving through the crowd. He digested their chatter with contempt, feeling each word stick to his stomach like bad meat.
According to the two women, a dove had had a child with a man who’d frequented the Lyon’s Den, quite possibly a man in attendance this very night. Was that woman Mrs. Dove-Lyon? Was the man, Walcot?
I know what your father has done. Wasn’t that how the note that Lottie had provided the widow was worded?
He brushed against a potted palm to reach the two brothers, still engaged in conversation. “Have you heard the latest gossip?” Lord Steere queried.
“Should I have?” Walcot asked. “You know I abhor rumors.”
Steere glared at his sibling. “You should pay more attention, brother.”
“If this has anything to do with me, I have learned to ignore the opinions of others.”
“You cannot ignore this, Bertie. My hands are tied. I have decided your daughter must marry before the Season is over.”
“We cannot hasten these things,” Walcot said. “Else history will repeat itself.”
Septimus strained to overhear Steere’s response. “And look where that philosophy got you.”
In the awkward silence that followed, Septimus cleared his throat to make his presence known. “Lord Steere.” He bowed his head, then acknowledged Walcot. “Professor.”
“Grey,” the viscount heralded, his demeanor and facial expressions, rapidly altered. “Are you enjoying yourself? Have you tried the Old East India Madeira? I’d like to know if it meets your expectations.”
“I have yet to sample the refreshments but look forward to a taste of India.”
“Capital,” Steere replied. Then turning to the professor, he laid his palm on his brother’s shoulder. “Think about what I said, will you?”
Before the professor could respond, the viscount left them and reunited with his wife to speak to other guests.
“Is everything all right, Walcot?” Septimus asked, hoping to learn what had transpired between them.
“Antiquities are not the only enigma in this world, Lord Grey. Humanity is.” The professor surveyed the ballroom carefully, his right eye twitching. “Do not be misled by whisperers who strum their own harps.”
“I do not understand, sir.”
“I think you do,” he said simply, his expression earnest. “But you are a true gentleman not to say so. Let us drop the subject there.”
He nodded reassuringly. “Of course.”
“As for this ball, I am sure you are aware that I am not the type to kick out a hind leg and grovel to my betters, though it pains me to say it. I may have been born to this life, but I am as foreign to this sphere as the Parthenon Marbles are to collectors like the 7th Earl of Elgin. All I have ever wanted to do was explore and give my daughter a good life.” He hesitated, stiffening like the very statues he studied and cataloged. “My heart is in the trenches, you see. That is where I wish to be, with no other task but investigating and understanding ancient worlds, times, and places.”
Septimus tugged on his lapels and gave his head a soft shake. “That pleasure was taken from me the day my brother died. You are lucky to sail your own ship.”
“Luck.” Walcot chuckled. “On a broken rudder?” Without missing a beat, the professor changed topics. “It is true, I do not belong in this house but at the museum where our discovery will change the profession. Mark my words, no matter what other scholars acknowledge, the demotic text on the Rosetta Stone is not entirely alphabetical. A belief that allowed unfortunate false starts, slowing our progress.” He nudged his glasses up the bridge of his thin nose and raised an impassioned fist, his color heightening. “I say, no longer. Young’s discovery will turn what we know about the stone and the rulers of Egypt on its head. Imagine Cleopatra and Ptolemy, Grey. From this stone will come an understanding of the earliest hieroglyphs. We shall be able to read tombs, learn how the Romans and Egyptians lived. An importance that will pave the way for historians throughout the Empire.”
“Young did not discover this on his own,” Septimus reminded him, knowing perfectly well where credit was due. In the many years since he’d known Walcot as a professor, mentor, and friend, he’d understood the man’s mission to launch continuing support for the antiquities market and protecting and regaling relics collected from the past. “I have always respected your brilliance.”
“You are too kind, my lord.”
An announcement signaled throughout the large room that supper was served.
“I speak the truth.” He tapped the professor’s shoulder affectionately. “Come. Let us sup. Perhaps your daughter is already in the next room.” Which was where Septimus hoped to find her—her previous upset, the gossip he’d heard, and the odd confrontation between the two brothers, troublesome.
He followed Walcot to sets of oblong tables decorated with flowers and lined with a dignified service of French and English china, and gold and silver plates that promised lavish indulgences.
Septimus had been to balls providing ices, confectionaries, and fruits at two in the morning, allowing dancers a respite before the musicians performed again at three. But Lord and Lady Steere’s supper managed to surpass even Mrs. Beaumont’s extravagant Society balls in superiority of taste. Triumphant floral arches led guests to soup tureens, poultry dishes, mustards, peaches, cherries, and grapes in abundance. Ices and confections lined another table, and servants guided gentlemen to a table of delectable wines: Old East India Madeira, Burgundy, Claret, and Barsac, while Champagne bubbling in crystal glasses was accessible to anyone from the salvers the servants carried.
“My brother has outdone himself,” the professor said. “But I ask you, is my daughter in the room, my lord? Do you spy her anywhere nearby?”
Septimus’s height allowed him to peruse the room at his leisure. “I believe she is with her cousin, near the ices.”
“Excellent. Those girls are tighter than wattle and daub, I tell you. Only a select few admire their terra sigillata and classic Arretine forms, which are just as rare as finding a complete Roman vase in a dig. Lady Parthenia will marry well, I am sure.”
“She is amiable enough. But do you not have grand schemes for your own daughter, Walcot?”
“The future of my brother’s daughters is more certain.” The professor’s smile faded. “My daughter is stubborn like her father. I fear she has other plans.”
“What plans?”
“She is a kind, giving soul.” The look in Walcot’s eyes made Septimus more curious as to what the man was willing to admit. “I am all she has, and vice versa. She will not leave me, though I wish her every happiness and all that implies for her. Astonishingly, she has some strange idea that I cannot manage on my own.”
Touched by Lottie’s steadfast protection of her father, Septimus admired her looks from afar. She was indeed a rare and precious jewel. The marriage mart was full of dowagers and mothers and doting aunts forcing their progeny on hapless men. But then again, Lottie didn’t have a mother. While the very idea she’d been a motherless child made him uncomfortable, he could not help but relax.
He regarded her closely. Her hair was parted down the middle, and dark curls framed her oval face. She smiled suddenly at something her cousin said, then laughed gaily, the adorable cleft in her chin a mesmerizing confection. His gaze strayed lower to her long neck, angling gracefully like a swan to the beaded cross, which hung from a silver ribbon over her pert breasts.
Perfection.
“By the way,” the professor said. “Talking about managing my time reminds me of the antiquities market. Have you seen Steere’s copy of Herakles ? Of course, the original is in Lord Lansdowne’s possession. Charlotta has seen it and can describe it in detail. If you would be so kind, could you direct her to me?”
Septimus bowed his head. “Nothing would give me more pleasure.”
He left Walcot at the wine table and made his way across the room, weaving through the crush to where Lottie stood with her cousin. But before he could get there, the two women dispersed, and Lottie slipped out onto the veranda alone.
What calamity was she inviting now?
Lottie breathed deeply, inhaling the air circulating on a fresh breeze. She preferred the outdoors, its quiet places to read, the sense of space, and the wonder nature brought to one’s soul. Papa had always suggested it was in her blood since he found digging in untried fields immensely pleasing. And then there were times when Papa had told her stories about her mother and the joy they’d found picnicking by strawberry fields.
She shook off her melancholy, choosing to breathe and regain control over her emotions. Though it was late, she was expected to remain at the ball until the last guests departed. But all she wanted to do was withdraw from the evening’s entertainments, so she could read the note that branded her skin. There were plenty of hiding places in the garden in which she knew she could find privacy, but she didn’t dare venture farther from the house. To do so endangered her more than standing alone on the veranda.
Why not read the note now? Or should she wait like the refined lady she’d been raised to be until she retired to her bedchamber? Was she willing to risk being seen?
She glanced over her shoulder at the closed door, eyeing the guests who mingled and partook of the pleasant meal her aunt and uncle provided.
She turned back to the garden and pulled the note out, clasping it between her fingers. She felt faint as she broke the seal, her heart pounding, the crunching wax sounding louder to her ears than the babble of conversation indoors. Opening the parchment, the black ink gleamed wickedly from the page.
A dalliance of the heart without dishonor is the gravest scandal. ~Anon.
“What are you doing out here alone?” a male voice frightened her half to death.
Surprised, she gasped and dropped the note, watching helplessly as it sailed to Lord Grey’s feet.
Before she could retrieve it, he scooped up the foolscap. “I believe you dropped something.” He righted the parchment, turning it over in his hands. The seal caught the lantern light before he handed it back to her.
“Thank you,” she said, seizing the note with fickle calm. She stashed it in the top of her left glove while her heart whispered back, Do not trust him. He will only lie to you again. Still, the tight knot within her begged to be released. “You are too kind.”
“It is I who startled you.” Awkwardly, he cleared his throat. “Forgive me for interrupting your solitude, but I saw you leave the refreshment room and thought I might be of service. It isn’t safe for a woman to be outside alone, especially after you were overcome with the vapors only a short while ago.”
Warmth flooded her even at the receiving end of his scolding tone. Though there was censure in his voice, relief filled her that it was Lord Grey who’d come upon her and not any other man. She knew how to handle Lord Grey. “I am a woman grown, my lord. I assure you, I can take care of myself. I am long past leading strings.”
“Your frightened expression when I came upon you tells me otherwise.”
“My frightened expression?” She blinked. “ You startled me .”
“Yes.” He gazed at her speculatively, then nodded. “Again, I ask with cautious concern, is anything amiss?”
She struggled with uncertainty. Everything was amiss—Papa’s reputation, her future, the beating of her own heart. But how could she admit that to him without revealing all? Admitting the fact that she was being blackmailed chipped away at her pretense, allowing panic and apprehension, barely controlled by decorum and calm, to filter through her like sand through a sieve.