Chapter 28
The morning sun painted the Greek coastline in brilliant gold when Elizabeth set foot on the ancient stones of Piraeus harbor. Every nerve in her body seemed electrified by the proximity to Athens.
The warm, dry air carried scents of herbs, olives, fruit, and the smells common to a busy port. The light was more intense. The shadows were deeper. The very atmosphere hummed.
A sharp tug on her reticule sent shock racing through Elizabeth. Her head snapped around in time to see a young man sprinting away through the crowd, her small bag tucked under his elbow.
“Stop thief!” The words tore from her throat before she could think—and then the reality of her mistake crashed over her. Tommy’s warnings echoed in her mind, making her stomach clench with shame and anger at her own carelessness. How could she have been so stupid?
“Let him go,” she managed, catching Darcy’s arm when he started forward. “He will be long gone before anyone can catch him.”
“Was anything of value in your purse?” The colonel’s concern only intensified her embarrassment.
“Very little, thankfully.” Elizabeth was shaking, not from the theft but from how easily it had happened. “A few coins, a comb, and a handkerchief. Nothing of real value.” She pulled her journal to her chest. Thank heavens, that was not the target of the thief.
Darcy paled with what looked like self-recrimination. “The fault is mine. I should have been more vigilant about your safety.”
“Nonsense,” Elizabeth replied, though his protective fury sent warmth through her. “I am perfectly capable of looking after myself. I simply became complacent.”
As their carriage rolled toward Athens, Elizabeth found she could not shake the incident from her mind. If she could be caught off guard so easily in broad daylight, what other dangers might she face in their increasingly urgent quest?
Before noon, George Wickham adjusted his ragged coat and straightened his shoulders as he approached the Mary Catherine’s gangway. His timing was perfect. Early enough, the treasure hunters would be on their way to Athens, and late enough that the crew would be alert and working.
“Good morning!” he called to the boatswain with confidence. “I am George Wickham, an old friend of Mr. Darcy and the Bennets.”
The boatswain looked up from his pipe, squinting with the natural suspicion of a man who guarded other people’s property for a living.
Time for the performance that would determine everything.
“I encountered Darcy and Fitzwilliam on their way to search the ruins. To save them time, I volunteered to retrieve a document from his quarters,” Wickham continued smoothly.
“Something about ancient Greek references that he forgot in his haste to disembark. You know how absent-minded scholars can be when they are excited about their discoveries.”
“Mr. Darcy never mentioned expecting anyone,” the boatswain replied warily.
Wickham laughed with the right note of amused understanding.
“He is traveling with Mr. Bennet, who is always scribbling notes, and Bennet’s daughter, with whom Darcy is taken, as I am sure you must have noticed.
Had there been an issue with Darcy’s command, his cousin would have seen fit to interfere.
As it was, they were all grateful that I proved to be available. ”
The boatswain’s concern eased as these details confirmed his apparent legitimacy. It was almost embarrassingly easy. People wanted to trust, to believe that a gentleman with specific knowledge must be exactly who he claimed to be.
“Darcy asked me to be discreet. He would not want word of their findings spread through the port.”
“Aye, that sounds right enough. You’d best be quick about it, though. Cap’n Morrison don’t like unauthorized visitors lingering about.”
“Of course. I shall not be but a moment.”
Upon learning which cabin was Darcy’s, Wickham made his way below deck, filled with anticipation that had nothing to do with the deception he had perpetrated.
Finally, after many weeks of fruitless pursuit across the Mediterranean, he would discover what Darcy knew about the clues.
The irony was delicious. Darcy had spent years thwarting Wickham’s schemes and blocking his advancement, and now he would unwittingly provide Wickham with the very information he needed to claim whatever prize they sought. Justice, of a sort.
The quarters were as meticulously organized as the man himself.
Wickham began his search systematically, starting with the traveling desk where important papers would most likely be kept.
Nothing. Frustration built as he moved through folded clothing, examined books for hidden compartments, and checked the lining of Darcy’s traveling coat.
Where are the clues? Desperate, Wickham pulled out drawers and examined the bed frame for concealed spaces. Still nothing. The sound of footsteps on the deck above reminded him that time was running short.
His eye fell on a small jewelry case sitting on the washstand beside Darcy’s shaving implements.
Inside, nestled among collar studs and cufflinks, lay an elegant cravat pin set with a small sapphire.
The gold was of excellent quality, the stone genuine.
The piece was easily worth enough to keep Wickham fed and housed, as well as pay his passage to the next port of call.
In truth, there was a certain satisfaction in taking this small token.
He emerged from the cabin with the same confident bearing he had displayed upon arrival, satisfaction plain in every unhurried step. “Found what Darcy needed,” he told the boatswain with a grateful nod. “He will be most appreciative. Good day to you.”
The boatswain touched his cap as Wickham strode down the gangway, already planning his next move. The game was far from over, and George Wickham had never been one to concede defeat while cards remained to be played.
Their arrival at the Acropolis should have been the culmination of months of anticipation, but instead, Elizabeth fought a rising sense of inadequacy as they met their guide for the day.
Miss Helena Nikolopoulou was a genuinely accomplished intellectual whose expertise made Elizabeth painfully aware of her own limitations.
“Dr. Nikolopoulou has been cataloging inscriptions throughout Athens for the University,” their contact at the British consulate had explained.
“She speaks five languages fluently and has particular expertise in ancient Greek dialects. If anyone can help you decipher your clue, it would be Dr. Nikolopoulou.”
Helena was a stunningly beautiful woman of around Darcy’s age, dressed practically in dark clothing suitable for scrambling over ruins.
She had her hair pinned back in a fashion that spoke of serious academic work instead of vanity.
When she smiled at their group, she conveyed the warmth of someone delighted to share her passion for ancient history.
“Your clue intrigues me greatly,” she said in excellent English, her slight accent lending charm to her words.
“The reference to the merchant of words suggests someone involved in the book trade, potentially connected to the great Library of Alexandria. But why would such a person leave anything in Athens?”
As they climbed toward the Parthenon, Elizabeth listened with dismay as Helena and Darcy fell into an animated discussion about architectural details and historical connections. Their conversation flowed with the easy rhythm of two scholars who spoke the same intellectual language.
“The proportions here follow mathematical principles that Aristotle would have understood,” Helena observed, gesturing toward the temple’s columns. “There is a harmony between philosophy and architecture that most visitors never appreciate.”
“The golden ratio,” Darcy agreed, enthusiastic in the way he usually directed toward Elizabeth. “I studied the principles of Greek architecture at Cambridge. The precision is remarkable.”
Elizabeth tried to follow their discussion, but the technical terminology soon left her feeling like an ignorant outsider.
When Helena switched to ancient Greek to point out a particular inscription, Darcy’s halting but adequate responses added to Elizabeth’s awareness of the gap in her own education.
This was not jealousy of a romantic rival; it was far more unsettling.
Elizabeth’s feelings for Darcy had deepened beyond what she had first experienced in Rome, where those golden afternoons with him had awakened something new and precious.
But now, confronted with someone who matched his intellect so effortlessly, she wondered if she was worthy of his devotion.
“Your Greek is very respectable,” Helena said approvingly to Darcy. “You have a good foundation. Here, let me show you something that might relate to your quest.”
They bent over a weathered inscription, their heads nearly touching as Helena traced the ancient letters with her finger, explaining their significance. Elizabeth looked away.
The pattern continued as the day progressed.
Helena would identify a promising inscription; then she, Darcy, and her father would discuss its historical context in terms Elizabeth only partially understood.
Elizabeth had been relegated to the role of interested observer, no longer the active participant she had been in Rome.
The crisis came when Helena discovered what appeared to be their breakthrough—a carved owl symbol accompanied by Greek text that made the native scholar gasp with excitement.
“This is unusual,” she said, switching between English and Greek as she examined the inscription.
“The style is much later than the surrounding architecture, etched during the Hellenistic period. And the text…” She looked up at Darcy with excitement. “Can you make out the third line?”
Darcy and Elizabeth’s father studied the inscription. Darcy’s lips moved silently as he worked through the translation. “I believe it is speaking of…wisdom’s gift? The syntax is confusing.”
“Yes, exactly! And see here…” Helena pointed to specific characters.
“This word suggests the Lyceum specifically. I believe this inscription points to the ruins of Aristotle’s school.
The ‘covered halls’ mentioned in your clue must refer to the covered walkways where Aristotle gave lectures to his students. ”
Unease settled in Elizabeth’s middle as their excitement built.
Something about Helena’s interpretation bothered her, though she could not articulate what.
The merchant of words had always struck her as more commercial than philosophical.
Faced with Helena’s obvious expertise, however, she remained silent.
Her father, however, was frowning at his copy of the clue.
“Dr. Nikolopoulou,” he said. “I appreciate your translation and interpretation, but we might be overthinking the philosophical connections. ‘Where the Lyceum’s heir taught kings, and wisdom walked in covered halls, the merchant of words left his final gift. Seek the owl’s blessing where philosophy was born.
’ The Lyceum was where Aristotle taught.
However, consider the phrase “merchant of words” alongside “where philosophy” was born in this original clue.
I wonder if we should look for someone who sold books, not someone who wrote them. ”
Her father’s reasoning confirmed her own.
“What do you mean?” Helena’s confidence wavered.
Elizabeth was pleased to have an answer ready. “In ancient Athens, where would one actually find merchants selling written works? Not in the schools, surely, but in the commercial district. The Agora had a thriving book trade, did it not?”
Helena glanced at her father, then at Darcy. “But the inscription I found points toward the Lyceum…”
“Perhaps,” Darcy said slowly. “But the inscription might have been designed to lead us astray. After all, if someone wanted to hide something valuable, would they place obvious markers pointing directly to it?”
“The ancient Agora!” her father said with excitement. “We are looking in the wrong place.”
Helena’s translation had been valuable, but it was Elizabeth and her father’s practical thinking that identified the flaw in her interpretation. As they made their way toward the Agora ruins, a mixture of vindication and pride diluted the bitter flavor of insecurity she still tasted.