Guilty Series (2 page)

“I see what you really mean,” Viola said slowly. “You have chosen a woman who will not care that you have no respect or affection for her, and who will not be hurt that you do not love her, as long as you supply her with a generous allowance and she supplies you with a son.”

“Exactly so.”

“Oh, Anthony, really!” Viola cried in dismay and jumped to her feet. He watched as she began to pace back and forth, and neither of them spoke. She seemed lost in thought, and he hoped she was accustoming herself to his decision.

Finally, she stopped pacing and looked at him. “Have you proposed to Lady Sarah yet?”

“No,” he answered. “She is in Paris with her mother. They are to spend the autumn there.”

“Good, then I have time to change your mind.”

She gave him that beguiling smile that ever since their childhood could get nearly anything out of him she wanted, but this time Anthony was unmoved. “I have no intention of changing my mind.
If your expression is anything to go by,” he added, noting how quickly her smile faded, “the end of the world is at hand. You seem quite upset about this.”

“Of course I am upset,” she answered, and resumed pacing. “You are about to make an irrevocable choice that will ensure nothing but misery for you. I should die if you were unhappy.”

“Viola, you are being far too dramatic, as usual. I am quite content as I am, with the life I lead, and I see nothing about marrying Lady Sarah that would mar my current contentment.”

“Giving up Marguerite for Lady Sarah would mar any man's contentment,” she answered with such wry humor that he couldn't help a smile.

Marguerite was no secret, but discussing one's mistresses with one's sister was not quite the thing. On this occasion, however, Anthony felt he must make Viola understand his intentions. “I am not giving up Marguerite.”

Viola stopped pacing once again and stared at him, shocked. “You cannot possibly be thinking to keep her after you marry?”

He met the rebuke in her eyes with a direct stare. “Why not?”

“Oh, Anthony, I loathe Lady Sarah, I confess it, but such a course is so unbelievably cruel, and I cannot believe you would do such a thing.”

He stiffened at the rebuke. “You forget yourself, Viola. My choice of bride is not your concern, and neither are my mistresses.”

“Oh, do not attempt all that ducal hauteur with me, Anthony,” she shot back. “I am your sister, and
every single day of my life, I endure the pain of marriage to a man who has nothing but contempt for me. How can you justify this when you know how I have suffered?”

Viola always did tend to express her emotions with a great deal of drama. “I know that,” he answered calmly, “and it wounds me deeply. For the pain he has caused you, I would throttle Hammond with my bare hands if I could, but your situation and mine are very different.”

“How?”

“Sarah will not give a tinker's damn if I keep a dozen mistresses as long as I keep her in funds. She has no affection for me, nor I for her. You, on the other hand, still have some tender regard for Hammond, and that is why his behavior causes you pain. Although why you still harbor any affection for him is one of life's inexplicable mysteries, since he is a blackguard whose treatment of you is deplorable.”

“And it is my own bitter experience that impels me to abhor your selection of Monforth's daughter. I want you to be happy with your wife, happy enough that you do not need the companionship of women such as Marguerite Lyon, happy enough that you need not schedule your life to be wherever your spouse is not. I cannot help but believe that it is possible to be happy in marriage, despite my own poor choice.”

Something in the soft romanticism of her words irritated him, for they brought memories to the surface, memories he thought both he and Viola had buried for good. He ruthlessly shoved those memo
ries back down deep and concealed his irritation with an air of indifference. “How you can remain such a romantic, Viola, never ceases to astonish me.”

“Perhaps because I believe our parents were blessed to have loved each other so passionately, while you believe they were cursed.”

Anthony felt his fingers curl around the delicate crystal glass in his hand so tightly, he was surprised it did not shatter. He set the glass down with care. “Love is all very well,” he said lightly, leaning back in his chair, “but it has little to do with marriage. Look among our acquaintance. All of them are in love. Just not with their spouses.”

Anthony's careless tone brought his sister back to his side. She sat down again and took his hands in hers. “Do be serious. Will you not at least try to find someone you could love?”

Anthony studied her face for a moment, and he did not know what to say. Viola had married Hammond for love. Despite Anthony's misgivings about the match, he had not been able to deny Viola her heart's desire, and the resulting union had been a disaster. He had no intention of making his sister's mistake and marrying for love only to be made miserable by the union.

“I beg you to at least consider my opinion,” she went on. “You deserve better than Lady Sarah. You deserve a wife with a kind and generous nature, a woman filled to her fingertips with passion for you, a woman who cares for you more than your rank or your fortune.”

All this high-blown sentimentality was bordering on the ridiculous. He jerked his hands free of hers. “God, Viola,” he said with some impatience, “I do not require passion of a wife.”

“Well, you should. Besides, Lady Sarah doesn't love you. I doubt she is capable of the emotion.”

“So what?” He met his sister's dismayed gaze with a hard and determined one of his own. “Since when has love ever been necessary to matrimony?”

Viola stared at him for a long moment, then she sighed. “Perhaps it is not necessary,” she said, and rose to her feet. “But it would be nice.”

“S
o these are his grace's latest treasures?” Sir Edward smiled at Daphne over the pieces of jewelry she had laid out on the library table. There were armbands of gold, several pairs of pearl earrings, a few cameos, and an exquisite necklace of emeralds set between hammered gold leaves. The jewels glittered in the morning sunlight that poured through the windows of the library. They made a dazzling display against the white cloth that protected the table.

“Very fine emeralds,” he pronounced, studying the necklace through his monocle.

“They are not so fine as the ducal emeralds, I daresay,” Mrs. Bennington pronounced as she leaned her short, stout frame over the table a bit to have a closer
look. Her rubicund face scrunched with disappointment. “When Bennington told me about these Roman jewels, I was so excited to see them, but now that I have, I find them rather a letdown. So crudely made. Why, no young lady would wear these!”

Daphne laughed. “But Mrs. Bennington, these are not to be worn. They are for the duke's museum. His grace intends that museum to be open not only to the wealthy and privileged, but to everyone. Is that not a noble goal? All British people, rich or poor, shall be allowed to see their history.”

“She sounds just like Tremore, does she not?” A feminine voice floated to them from the doorway.

All three of them turned to see the woman who entered the library. Daphne pushed her spectacles up the bridge of her nose to have a clearer view and recognized her at once from the portraits in the gallery. This was Anthony's sister. The portrait did not do her justice, for on canvas she seemed only a pretty blond woman with hazel eyes like her brother. But in reality, one could imagine that her face had launched the thousand ships at Troy.

Lady Hammond smiled at her and Mrs. Bennington in a friendly way, then nodded to the man at the end of the table. “Sir Edward,” she said, her hands outstretched in greeting as she walked toward him. “What a pleasure to see you again so soon.”

“Lady Hammond,” he answered, taking the woman's hands into his own. “I so enjoyed dining here at Tremore Hall last evening, and your presence made it especially delightful.”

“I enjoyed it as well, Sir Edward. I was fascinated
by your discussion with his grace about this excavation of his.”

Daphne would have loved to participate in such a discussion, but that was unlikely to happen. Being an employee of the duke, she never dined with Anthony or his guests. She took her meals with the Benningtons in a separate dining room, but it would not have mattered in any case. She had spent her evening fulfilling a request Anthony had made of her just before dinner.

Would you be able to have those pieces of jewelry finished for me by tomorrow morning, Miss Wade?

It was a time-consuming and tedious process to clean and repair jewelry, but she had willingly spent her evening and half her night in the antika accomplishing it.

The viscountess noticed the pieces laid out on the table. “These must be the emeralds my brother was talking about last night. It is hard to imagine that they were buried right on our land all this time. Are they really over fifteen hundred years old?”

“Over sixteen hundred, actually,” Daphne answered, causing the woman to turn in her direction.

“Lady Hammond,” Sir Edward put in, “you must meet Miss Wade and Mrs. Bennington. Mrs. Bennington is the wife of the project architect, while Miss Wade—”

“Does everything!” the viscountess put in. “Or so I have been told. Sir Edward was singing your praises last night at dinner, Miss Wade. Even An
thony admitted that you were quite the best antiquarian he knew.”

“He said that?” Daphne felt a warm little glow at the idea that Anthony had been singing her praises, but she did not show it, far too afraid of having her secret feelings for him revealed. “I am gratified to hear it.”

“I should hope so, dear, for that is high praise indeed,” Mrs. Bennington put in. “Mr. Bennington tells me the duke's good opinion is very hard to earn, for it is always given with the strictest honesty.”

“Quite true,” Lady Hammond agreed. “He is always frank in his opinions, sometimes brutally so, but he said Miss Wade is a most excellent mosaicist and restorer. How did you ever come to learn such things, Miss Wade?”

“I suppose you could say I was born to it,” she answered. “I have lived and worked on excavation sites all my life.”

“Speaking of excavations,” Sir Edward went on, “I must go down to meet his grace at the site. He wishes to show me the hypocaust.”

“A hypocaust sounds most impressive,” the viscountess commented, “but what on earth is it?”

They all laughed, but it was Daphne who answered. “A hypocaust is a sort of cellar beneath the house that slaves kept filled with hot water. It made the tile floors warm in winter and heated the house. Quite a practical design.”

“I must see it then. Anything that would keep
one's feet warm in the wretched English climate would be a sound idea.”

“We could do with more of them, Lady Hammond, I am sure,” Sir Edward answered. “But forgive me, I must go.” He bowed to her.

“I shall go with you,” Mrs. Bennington declared, “for I must speak to my husband.”

“Of course, dear lady, of course.” Sir Edward offered her his arm, and they departed.

After they had gone, Daphne turned to the viscountess, who was studying her with frank interest.

The moment their eyes met, the viscountess smiled. “My brother has always wanted to excavate the ruins here at Tremore. How did he come to hire you for this project, Miss Wade?”

“My father was Sir Henry Wade, one of the most knowledgeable Roman antiquarians in the world. I was his assistant. The duke had been corresponding with Papa for several years. He would often purchase antiquities we uncovered, and Papa always offered any rare finds to his grace first. Your brother eventually hired us to come to England to work on this villa for him, but Papa died very suddenly. We—” She broke off, and swallowed hard. Nearly a year had gone by, but it still hurt to talk about Papa.

She took a moment to collect herself, then went on, “We were just finishing our work on Volubilis in Morocco and preparing to come here when he died. The duke had already paid our passage to England, and I decided to come anyway. His grace was so good as to hire me to assist Mr. Bennington.
My knowledge does not compare to that of my father, of course, but I do the best I can.”

The viscountess returned her attention to the jewelry. “These are beautiful pieces. I would not have thought ancient jewelry could remain in such pristine condition as this.”

“It doesn't, I assure you,” Daphne said, laughing. “The necklace was in pieces when the duke himself uncovered it yesterday, and several of the jewels had fallen out of their settings. I cleaned the lot, then put the pieces back together and sketched them for his grace's catalog.”

A slight frown marred the other woman's face. “No young lady should have to work so hard.”

“Oh, but his grace wants the museum open by mid-March. I don't mind the work. I enjoy it, and these pieces are extraordinary historical finds. Valuable jewelry is rare, for it is usually stolen long before an antiquarian has the chance to uncover it.”

“You must be a remarkable woman, Miss Wade. I cannot fathom what would be enjoyable about what you do. Repairing jewelry, restoring mosaic floors, and piecing together clay pots would not be my idea of enjoyment, especially under my brother's supervision. He is impossible to work for, I have no doubt.”

“Oh, no,” Daphne cried. “He is a very good employer. If it had not been for Anthony, I—” She stopped, realizing she had said his Christian name aloud.

The viscountess did not appear to notice her slip
of the tongue. She looked down and caught sight of the drawings Daphne had made of the jewelry. She picked up two of the sketches to study them. “You make a drawing of each item you find? For a catalog, I believe you said?”

“Yes,” she said, relieved. “I do a sketch of each artifact. They will form the permanent record of his grace's collection.”

The viscountess studied the drawings for a moment, then set them aside. As she did so, she caught sight of Daphne's sketch book, which was also lying on the table, and she opened it.

Remembering what was inside, Daphne made a move to stop her from going further, but it was too late. The viscountess was already looking through her drawings.

“I do not believe you would be interested in those, Lady Hammond,” she said, feeling a hint of panic. “They are not for the catalog. They are just my scribblings, and quite unremarkable.”

“Miss Wade, you are too modest. These are lovely.”

Without snatching the sketch book away, there was nothing Daphne could do but watch as the viscountess studied her drawings of the excavations and the workmen. One by one, she examined each page and set it aside, coming closer and closer to the ones tucked away at the bottom of the pile.

Just when Daphne wished she could crawl under the nearest floor carpet, Lady Hammond finally reached the drawings of Anthony, and she paused
an inordinate amount of time over the last one, an image of him standing amid the excavations without his shirt. Daphne felt her cheeks heating with mortification, and she tried to look at anything in the library but the other woman's face.

After what seemed an eternity, the viscountess put the last sketch down. She replaced the drawings back inside Daphne's worn, leather-bound portfolio precisely in the order she had found them. “You have great talent,” she said, and closed the book. “The last one is especially fine. A very accurate likeness.” She paused, then added, “My brother
is
quite a handsome man, is he not?”

“I suppose so,” she said, trying to sound indifferent. “I have always made it a habit,” she said, struggling for some semblance of dignity, “to do drawings of each person involved in an excavation. It helps record the event for posterity's sake.”

“Of course.” The very gravity of the other woman's voice told Daphne she didn't believe it for a moment, but she did not point out that posterity hardly required a drawing of Anthony without his shirt.

The tap of decisive, familiar footsteps in the corridor outside the library told Daphne who was coming, and she circled around to the other side of the table, never more thankful of a distraction in her life. She grabbed a soft, damp chamois, and by the time Anthony came through the door, she was polishing a gold armband, rubbing away any last tarnish from its surface.

“Anthony!” Lady Hammond greeted him over one shoulder. “I did not expect to see you until dinner.”

“I came in search of you, Viola,” he answered, crossing the room to stand beside his sister. “I thought you might wish to see some of the antiquities.”

“With pleasure.”

Anthony proffered his arm to her, but instead of slipping her own arm through his, the viscountess pointed to the jewelry. “Look at what your Miss Wade had done. I understand these pieces were in very poor shape yesterday, yet you would never know it to see them now. Miss Wade is extraordinary.”

He looked over at Daphne, and his smile took her breath away. “Yes,” he agreed, “quite extraordinary.”

Her heart skipped a beat as he circled the table to her side. She watched him anxiously as he made a careful perusal of her efforts, and she hoped he would find no flaw with them.

He looked up, his beautiful hazel eyes meeting hers. “Excellent work, Miss Wade.”

Pleasure washed over her like the sun. She swallowed hard and nodded, unable to think of a thing to say until he had walked away.

“Thank you,” she finally managed to call out as he moved toward the door, arm in arm with his sister, but he must not have heard her words, for he did not turn to look at her again.

The viscountess did, though, glancing over her
shoulder at Daphne for a moment. There was something in the other woman's face, a speculative and thoughtful expression Daphne did not attempt to interpret. Instead, she returned her gaze to the wide shoulders of the man walking out the door.

Excellent work, Miss Wade.

Those four simple words were enough to keep her walking on clouds for the remainder of the day.