Guilty Series (3 page)

O
ne of the many things for which Daphne admired Anthony was his practical good sense. When the duke had decided to begin excavations on his estate two years earlier, he had ordered that a cottage be built near the site that would act as the antika room for the dig, the place where artifacts could be kept until they were completely restored and taken to London.

The antika had three spacious rooms. One acted as a storehouse for all antiquities awaiting Daphne. Another served to house them after she had finished their restoration. The third room acted as her workroom, and Anthony had designed it well. Plenty of windows let in the natural light. The stone walls and floor kept the interior cool in summer, a
fact which Mr. Bennington found very appealing, but which mattered not at all to Daphne. She found England pleasant in summer rather than hot, and a far more desirable place to be in August than the deserts of Morocco.

A pump and a drain had been installed, and several massive oak tables held her works in progress. One of those works was a mosaic pavement she was about to begin restoring.

Preoccupied with her task, Daphne did not observe Lady Hammond standing in the doorway until the other woman gave a slight cough.

“I hope I am not interrupting something of vital historical importance,” the viscountess said, smiling. “My brother was giving me another tour of the site this morning when we were suddenly interrupted. The workmen, it seems, have discovered a statue of great significance.”

“Really? What statue?”

Lady Hammond waved her hand in a dismissive gesture. “I have no idea. My brother was diverted to this new find, and I saw my opportunity to escape.”

Daphne was puzzled. “Escape?”

“Yes, indeed. When Anthony's conversation turns to history and Roman antiquities, I confess I am bored to tears. Suppressing the desire to yawn yesterday as he showed me an endless array of clay pots and bronze hand-axes was difficult enough. Today's tour of stone walls, broken roof tiles, and layers of dirt twenty feet high was too much for me, and I was compelled to run away. You are like Anthony, no doubt, and find such things fascinating.
But I am not an intellectual person, I fear, and I cannot bear to devote myself to tedious discussions of broken wine amphorae.”

Daphne wondered how anyone could call such discussions tedious. In her daydreams, she had impassioned discussions with Anthony about such things every day, discussions that never happened in reality, of course, because she was usually at a loss for words whenever he was near.

“So,” Lady Hammond went on, breaking into her thoughts, “I left my brother and wandered in this direction. I spied you through the doorway and thought I might pause a moment for a visit with you. If you do not mind?”

Daphne hesitated, still feeling an acute sense of embarrassment about the sketch the viscountess had found the day before. No one liked having their deepest secrets revealed, especially to a stranger.

As if reading her mind, the Lady Hammond said, “I must warn you that I am very tiresome about secrets. I keep them.”

A look of understanding passed between the two women. “That is an admirable quality,” Daphne answered. “Your friends must be grateful for it.”

“Some of them, perhaps, although it causes my less discreet friends much vexation.”

Daphne could not help laughing at that. Anthony's sister had a forthright friendliness she liked, and she beckoned her into the antika room. “I would be glad of your company.”

“Good.” Lady Hammond came inside and
crossed the room to the table. She looked down at the dirty slab of tiled limestone on the table. “What is it you do here?”

“I am restoring a mosaic. Watch.” Daphne pulled on a pair of heavy leather gloves, then retrieved a glass bottle containing deutoxide of hydrogen from beneath the table. She pulled out the cork and slowly poured a generous amount of the liquid over the tiled surface. As the accumulated grime began to wash away, the image of a woman appeared, a naked woman lying on a shell-shaped boat.

“Isn't she lovely!” the viscountess cried, studying the image. “Do you know who she is?”

“Venus,” Daphne answered at once. “The Roman goddess of love. This square was in front of the door into the main sleeping quarters of the master and mistress of the house. Because of this mosaic, the fact that they shared their sleeping quarters, and from other artifacts found at the site, I believe that this couple's marriage, though arranged, became a love match.” She paused, looking at the image, then added, “I would like to think they were as happy as my own mother and father.”

“Was your parents' marriage a love match, then?”

“Oh, yes. They had a depth of affection and companionship of which few can boast. I was only a child when my mother died, but even then, I knew how much in love they were.”

“You believe love is important in marriage, Miss Wade?”

Daphne looked at the viscountess across the table, astonished by a question for which the answer seemed so obvious. “Of course. Doesn't everyone?”

“No, my dear,” Lady Hammond answered with a hint of irony in her voice that Daphne could not fathom. “Not everyone does. I have heard the opinion of late that love and marriage are two separate things, that they need not ever have anything to do with each other. What do you think of that?”

“Whoever expressed that opinion must be a sadly cynical person.” Daphne picked up a small bristle brush and bent down to drench it in the pail of water beneath the table. She straightened. “What other reason is there to marry?” she asked, moving the brush over the tiny tiles to remove the remaining grime from the grout lines.

“Children are an excellent reason.”

“Really?” Daphne paused, unable to resist giving the viscountess a look of feigned astonishment over the rims of her spectacles. “I did not realize one needed vows and a ceremony for the actual children to begin arriving.”

The other woman gave a smothered half laugh. “A wicked observation, Miss Wade. In society, such a statement would make people think you quite shocking.”

“Wicked perhaps, but also sensible. If children are the goal, then love between the partners would ensure plenty of them.”

To Daphne's surprise, the other woman's smile
faded and her expression became almost melancholy. “Yes, I suppose it would,” she agreed, then shook her head. “But let us continue our discussion of marriage. Aside from children, there are other practical considerations, do you not agree? Family alliances. The accumulation of wealth. To gain greater position and power in society. There are many people who feel those are more important than love when choosing a marriage partner.”

“What purpose do those considerations serve if one is unhappy? I would think that to marry without love would bring a lifetime of pain.”

The countess drew in her breath so sharply that Daphne was startled. She once again looked up. “Lady Hammond, are you unwell?”

“No, no.” The other woman lifted her hand in a gesture of reassurance. “I am quite well. It is just that love itself can bring its own measure of pain, Miss Wade.”

Daphne paused, her fingers tightening around the brush in her hand as she looked into the other woman's eyes. “Yes,” she admitted, “I suppose it can, if one is not loved in return. But surely the joy of the experience is worth the pain.”

“Is it?” Lady Hammond murmured, and her lips twisted into an ironic sort of smile. Her gaze moved past Daphne as if she were staring into a far distant landscape. “I wonder.”

Daphne felt a sudden empathy for the other woman. “So do I,” she admitted, “but it did sound quite noble and poetic when I said it.”

The two women looked at each other and both of them began to laugh.

“I knew the moment we met I was going to like you,” the viscountess exclaimed, still laughing. “We must become friends.”

Daphne smiled back, both pleased and touched by the suggestion. “I should like that, Lady Hammond. I have not had much opportunity to make friends, having moved about so much in my life.”

“You must call me Viola, and I shall call you Daphne. Flower names, you see? We already have something in common.”

“But not a love for clay pots.”

“No. In that respect, you are much more like Anthony, though what the two of you find so fascinating about shards of pottery baffles me.”

“Well, it is the pottery that truly reveals the history of a site—”

“No, no!” Viola held up one hand, stopping her. “I have heard this all before. I was running away from it a few moments ago, remember?”

“So you were. Very well, I shall not impose a discussion of Samarian ware, cream ware, and buff ware upon you.”

“Good, for I should much rather hear about you. Sir Edward told me you were born on the island of Crete?”

Daphne could not help being flattered. She was so seldom the object of anyone's attention. “Yes. My father was excavating at Knossos. I do not remember much about the excavation. I do remember how hot and dry it was. My mother often
described to me the meadows and woods of England. It sounded like paradise to me.”

“Both your parents were English?”

“Oh, yes. They met when he was in England to give a lecture on his findings at Knossos. He had been made a Knight of the Bath and was in London to receive the accolade. After a whirlwind courtship, they eloped and returned to Crete together.”

“And what of the rest of your family?”

“I…” She hesitated, then said, “My father was an orphan.”

“And your mother's family?”

Daphne stilled, the brush in her hand pressing against the mosaic so hard that its bristles were nearly flat. The mention of her mother's family brought back the memory of that horrible day in Tangier and the letter she had received from a London attorney two months after her father's death.

Remembering that letter brought back all the fear she had felt then, the sick knot of fear that came with knowing she was all alone, her money running out, no one to help her and nothing of value left to sell. Nothing but a passage to England.

Daphne shoved memories of that day in Tangier out of her mind. She did not want to discuss her mother's family or the shame of being unacknowledged and unwanted. “Mama never talked of her relations.”

“She must have said something to you.”

Pressed, Daphne admitted, “I know that my grandfather was a baron, but I know almost nothing else. My mother died when I was eight, and my father and I never discussed it.”

“A baron. Do you know his name, at least, or where he lived?”

“No,” she lied.

“But this is shocking! What manner of father leaves his daughter without family, means, or protection upon his death, and does not even tell her the names of her connections?”

“My father was not so harsh as you imply!” Daphne cried, compelled to defend her parent. “He was a vigorous man, and he could not know he was going to die so suddenly. He was the most loving father anyone could have, and you insult me by saying otherwise.”

Viola fell silent. After a moment, she said, “You
are correct to scold me, Miss Wade. I am quite chastened. My only excuse is that it makes me heated to see a young lady left so unprotected and made to work, but it was not my business to inquire into your affairs. Please accept my apology.”

She did indeed seem contrite, and Daphne relented. “Of course.”

“Did you remain on Crete after your mother's death?”

“No, we left the island only a few months later. Papa could not remain there. Too many memories. He was heartbroken when Mama died.”

“And did his grief obsess him?” Viola asked, a strange note of hardness entering her voice. “They were happy, but when she died, did he abandon his duties, ignore his children? Did his grief drive out his sanity?”

Daphne was astonished by this sudden, strange turn in the conversation. “What odd questions you ask! He grieved, of course, but never so much that he abandoned his duties. He never ignored me, nor lost his sanity.”

The other woman shook her head as if coming out of a private reverie. “I confess I was thinking of someone else. I am so sorry. Where did you go when you left Crete?”

“Palestine. We have also excavated at Petra, Syria, Mesopotamia, Tunis, and Morocco. Large excavations usually take many years, but after my mother's death, my father was never able to settle in one place for very long.”

“But what of society and company?”

“I have not had much of that. An occasional dinner with friends of Papa's in Rome, but that is all.”

“No parties? No balls?”

“I'm afraid not.” Daphne shook her head, smiling. “I do not even know how to dance. There is not much demand for balls in the midst of the desert. I am more accustomed to the company of donkeys, camels, Arabs, and stuffy old antiquarians.”

“Your life has been a fascinating one, Daphne, but there are so many pleasures you have missed.”

“Perhaps, but I have loved every moment of my life. I do miss my father, but I think he would have liked it that I came to England after he died. He wanted me to see it. That is why he finally agreed to the duke's offer to come here.”

“Have you seen London?”

“No. I traveled by spice caravan from Marrakesh to Tangier, then a ship to Portsmouth, and straight on to Tremore Hall from there.”