Chapter 9 #2
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 long, 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, which they did.
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 chat with Mr. Hawkins, a well-traveled sort always 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 then 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?”
Jonathan frowned. “Yesterday he expressed an interest in Roman amphorae.”
“Oh, he did once make 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. “But I assure you 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. Perhaps he’d try his hand at being one and see whether he could cheer her up.
Casting about for a neutral, friendly overture, he finally settled on: “Is this your first visit to the ruins, Lady Claire?”
Turning to him with brows arched in surprise, 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 was kind enough to give me a tour,” she went on stiffly. Then she appeared seized by some unsettling recollection, and an abashed look crossed her face. “I was sorry to hear of his passing soon afterward.”
Jonathan’s speech being hindered by a sudden tightness in his throat, he merely nodded his thanks.
Mr. Lysons had died in June, but the news hadn’t reached Italy till September.
He’d been a good man, a venerated scholar, and something of a mentor to Jonathan during his years at Oxford.
In fact, he was the first man who’d ever encouraged Jonathan’s academic interest, rather than prodding him toward other pursuits more befitting a duke.
“He seemed very fond of you,” she added gently.
“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 gave a hearty chuckle at that. “You do a fair impersonation.”
Her eyes danced. “‘Young Jonathan reckoned this inscrutable heap of rocks was the stables, though any fool can see it was a garden shed.’”
“Bah! Speculation on both sides, sir!”
“‘And then we discovered our seven-hundredth hypo-whatsit the day Jonathan fell through the floor.’”
“Treachery,” Jonathan cried, wiping away tears of mirth. “He promised to keep that incident secret! And the word is hypocaust.”
“La, if you say so!” When Claire’s laughter subsided, she drained her tea, regarding Jonathan over the cup with a friendlier expression. “Setting 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 aware 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, rarely found the will to answer his letters.
And then it was too late.
But talking with Claire had made him feel a little better. Jonathan liked picturing the two of them—the woman he loved and the father he’d never had—together, on a fine spring day in Mr. Lysons’s favorite place. “I’m so pleased he got the chance to meet you, Claire.”
As soon as the words left his mouth, he threw her an uneasy look, for he hadn’t meant them to sound so heartfelt.
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.
They were saved from the awkward moment by a piercing laugh.
Heads whipped round, till most everyone was staring at Elizabeth’s friend, Miss Harris, who, unaware, continued her fit of hilarity.
When Jonathan looked for the identity of her amusing companion, he was shocked to recognize Milstead.
The young chub was 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 was wild to unravel the mystery. Had he witnessed a proposal during the sleigh ride? Or something else entirely?
Either way, Milstead was a bounder to flirt with Miss Harris after his marked attentions to Claire—especially in light of the smug glances he aimed toward his former object. Clearly he was hoping to make Claire jealous.
But she refused to take the bait. Jonathan could not but admire such dignified restraint. His pride in her was nearly as fierce as his desire to learn what had happened on that sleigh.
Miss Harris must have realized she was making a spectacle of herself, for she finally checked her laugh—if not her complicity. It seemed she had no thought of discouraging Milstead’s improprieties; she was far too busy making gleefully scandalized faces at everybody else.
And the attention seemed only to embolden Milstead. A sneer marring his boyish good looks, he addressed Miss Harris at a rather unnecessary volume. “Well, madam, shall we make ourselves a tour of the villa?”
Noah’s eyes blazed in defense of his sister’s honor. “Now wait a minute, Milstead. We’re all meant to go about the place together with Mr. Hawkins. It would be ill-mannered of you to break up the party.”
Milstead turned to Claire. “Oh, but surely our hostess can spare just Miss Harris and me?” he said with polite venom. “For the two of us 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 a handful of times. It took a lot to overset her, but once she’d crossed the Rubicon, the resulting outburst could be every bit as violent and ungovernable as a 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.
“I beg your pardon?” Jonathan shouted out the front of the tent at nobody. “Lady Claire, I think the upper footman is needing you for something.”
Claire peered outside. “Where is he?”
“You don’t see him?” Jonathan rose and pulled her to her feet. “I’ll take you to him.”
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.”
“Wait—” Claire began.
“Just over here,” Jonathan said firmly, propelling her onward.