Guilty Series (4 page)

“A spice caravan!” Viola burst out laughing.

Daphne looked at her in puzzlement. “Did I say something amusing?”

Still laughing, the other woman shook her head. “Amusing? Oh, Daphne! You say the most extraordinary things in the most matter-of-fact way, as if traveling by caravans is quite commonplace.”

“Well, it is commonplace,” Daphne said, laughing with her. “Although perhaps not here in Hampshire.”

The other woman's amusement faded away and she looked at Daphne thoughtfully. “Morocco,
Palestine, Crete. I cannot help but think you find Tremore Hall quite dull in comparison?”

“Oh, no! To me, living here is luxury beyond belief. I must confess that I find sleeping on a feather mattress far better than a canvas cot in a stone hut or desert tent.”

“Heavens, I imagine any woman would! You like it here, then?”

“I do. When I reached England, I had the odd feeling I had come home, though I had never been here before. Everything in England is so fresh and green, so beautiful after all the arid deserts in which I have lived. It was all my mother said it was. I do not ever want to leave.”

“And what do you think of the estate?”

“I have not seen much of it, I'm afraid. I have been so busy with the excavation work, I have not had a chance to explore, although I have walked through the gardens on occasion. It is a splendid property, but a bit intimidating when you first arrive.”

“Yes,” Viola agreed. “I know what you mean. When I was a girl, I had been at boarding school in France for several years, and when I came home, I was struck by just how intimidating it was. I had forgotten. Anthony will not let me change a thing, though. Family history and all that.”

“I can see his point.”

“You would, Daphne, for you also see the point of clay pots. If it were your home, you would be like Anthony, no doubt, and refuse to redecorate a thing.”

Daphne caught her breath at the sudden wave of
longing that swept through her at the other woman's offhand comment, but she shoved that feeling aside at once. This was not her home. She did not have a home. “I would change one thing,” she replied, forcing lightness into her voice. “I would remove those hideous gargoyle finials from the main staircase and consign them to a dustbin.”

“They are awful. When I was a little girl, they gave me nightmares. Perhaps when Anthony marries, his duchess will have them tossed into a dustbin so their children are not frightened.”

An image of Anthony and his duchess with their children came into Daphne's mind, and she banished it at once, tucking her chin to hide her expression.

“I am sure you wish to marry, Daphne,” Viola said, breaking into her thoughts.

“I…” She took a deep breath and bent down beside the table to dip the brush in the pail again. “I had not thought about it,” she said as she straightened. She resumed her task and did not look at the woman opposite her. “It is unlikely to happen.”

“Why do you say that?”

“I recognize that I am a plain woman, and rather on the shelf at twenty-four. I have little opportunity to make new acquaintances. And, if I did marry, it would only be for a deep, true, and lasting love. So, you see,” she added, glancing up with a little laugh, “the odds are against me.”

Viola did not reply, but Daphne could feel her new friend's gaze on her as she returned her attention to her work, and it was a long time before the other woman broke the silence.

“It is a shame you've not seen London.”

Daphne looked up, startled by the change of subject. “I would like to, one day. Do you and your husband live there?”

“It depends on the time of year,” Viola answered. “I spend my autumn and winter at Enderby, our estate in Chiswick, which is just outside London, while Hammond stays at Hammond Park in Northumberland. In the spring, we lease a town house for the season together. In the summer, I go to Brighton and Hammond returns to Northumberland. It is an arrangement that suits both of us quite well, for we are only required to spend a few months together each year, and that is enough for the sake of appearances.”

Daphne was rather shocked, but she did not show it. She also felt a wave of compassion for her new friend. “I see,” she murmured.

“I make Enderby quite lively in winter,” Viola went on, a brittle sort of brightness coming into her voice. “I give many house parties and surround myself with company, for I do not like being lonely—” She broke off and gave a half laugh. “Listen to me, sounding so self-pitying. I am quite ashamed of myself. My only excuse is that you are a very good listener, Daphne.”

“There is no shame in being lonely,” Daphne said gently. “I, too, know what that is like. For much of my life, I have lived in desert tents miles from anywhere, places where I was the only Englishwoman within fifty miles. Papa and I stayed in Rome during the winter, and while he spent his
time with other scholars and antiquarians, I would wander about the libraries and museums, reading anything about England I could find. History, politics, society, customs. I should love to see London one day.”

“Oh, Daphne, I wish I could show it to you! It is the most exciting city. I should love it if you could come with me when I go to Enderby. You would be such good company for me, and Chiswick is only an hour's ride from London. Why, if you stayed for the season, you could come into town with us, and I could introduce you into society. We might be able to find your mother's family.”

“That is impossible,” Daphne answered. Anthony was here, and she could not imagine leaving Tremore Hall for a long time to come. “I have far too much to do.”

“Anthony's museum opens in March. Could you not come after that?”

“No, for I will still need to carry on with excavations here even after the museum opens. I doubt we will be completely finished for at least five years.”

“I understand, but it is such a shame.” Suddenly, Viola gave a cry of vexation. “Oh dear, I must go back. If my brother discovers I have run away from this excavation of his, he will be so disappointed in me. He is always trying to persuade me to intellectual pursuits.”

Viola started for the door, but turned in the doorway to look at her one more time. “By the way, Daphne, beauty does not mean a thing, you know.”

Daphne watched as her new friend vanished through the doorway, and she smiled a bit ruefully. “Beautiful women always say that,” she murmured to the empty doorway.

A
nthony leaned one hip against the pianoforte, studying Viola's expression in the candlelight as she stared into space and tapped out a soft melody on the keys. He did not fail to observe the half smile that curved her lips. “You look quite pleased with herself,” he said, “and whenever you look like that, I begin to worry. What are you thinking about?”

“Venus,” she answered, and looked up at the man standing beside her.

His eyebrows rose at such an oblique answer. “The goddess of love? What makes you think of Venus?”

“Did she ever arrange marriages between mortals?”

His eyes narrowed with suspicion. “Are you
planning to fight my marriage to Lady Sarah and arrange for me a better one? Pray desist, Viola, for you know my feelings on this.”

“No, no.” Viola stopped playing long enough to wave one hand carelessly in his direction, then resumed her music. “You have made your choice, and I know when it is futile to attempt to change your mind. I suppose,” she added with a sigh, “that when one looks at it in a prudential light, it is the best decision for you. You are the Duke of Tremore, after all, and should marry high for duty's sake, even if your choice is without love and affection. No, I have moved on to arranging a possible match for someone else, a match that provides me a far better chance of success. Daphne's.”

“Daphne?” He frowned. “I do not recall—”

“Miss Wade.”

He stared at Viola as a vague vision came to his mind of brown hair raked back in a bun, spectacles, dreary dresses covered by heavy work aprons, and an inability to speak without stammering.

“You intend to arrange a marriage for Miss Wade?” he asked, astonished.

“If I can persuade her to go to Enderby with me, I shall introduce her to some eligible young men, and we shall see what happens.”

“You will do no such thing.”

The vehemence of his tone rather startled Viola. She stopped playing again and looked at him, wide-eyed. “Why, Anthony, you sound quite heated. I had no idea you would mind so much.”

“I do mind. Miss Wade has work to do here, vi
tal, important work. I won't have her go off gallivanting about Chiswick and London with you. What happens to my museum and my excavation?”

“That excavation is all you think about these days. There are some things in this world that are more important than your Roman villa.”

“Nothing can be more important than uncovering history.” He could hear the passion he felt for the excavation in his own voice as he spoke. “Viola, this site is one of immense historical significance. It is the best site of Roman ruins ever uncovered in Britain, and it is on my estate. We are learning things about life in Roman Britain that we never knew before. The artifacts we uncover here will be of tremendous benefit to scholars and historians, and the museum in London will allow all British people to learn about their heritage. This is a piece of our history.”

“I am not concerned with history, dear brother,” Viola said, with no understanding at all of what he was attempting to achieve. “I am concerned with the life of a young lady of good family who has been forced by circumstance to seek employment, is allowed no life of her own, and has had no amusements or society in her entire life. Why, she does not even know how to dance. It is appalling how neglectful her father was of her comfort and care.”

Viola paused for a quick breath, but before Anthony could point out that history and serious antiquarian study were far more important than dancing, she went on, “And now, Daphne is forced
to earn her living. A young lady working herself to exhaustion scrubbing mosaics and piecing clay pots back together like a servant. Worst of all, she has no future prospects for her life except more drudgery.”

Anthony frowned, displeased by the accusatory note in his sister's voice, as if Miss Wade's so-called drudgery were his fault. “The work Miss Wade does for me is crucial to the success of this project, and she is paid quite well for her efforts.”

“Her future seems precarious to me.”

“Hardly. The museum in London will be open in mid-March, but it will take far longer than that to finish the villa. She has employment here for the next five years, at least.”

“And after that is finished? When your museum is complete and your excavation is done, what happens to her then?”

“She finds a new position, I suppose.”

“By which time she will be nearly thirty, an age which virtually eliminates her chances of ever marrying. Did you know she is the granddaughter of a baron?”

“That is absurd. Her father had no such relations.”

“I am talking of her mother's father. She knows no other details about him, or if she does, she did not wish to impart them to me. I do not believe she intended to tell me anything at all, but that bit about her grandfather slipped out. Why she should wish to keep it a secret, I do not understand. Pride, perhaps.”

“Or a need for privacy. Some people do value
their privacy, Viola,” he pointed out. “In any case, her future is her own affair.”

“I am making it my affair.” Before he could reply, she went on, “This is no sort of life for a baron's granddaughter, even if she has been left in virtual ignorance of her own background. Since she knows so little of her relations and she has no friends to help her—”

“She seems to have found a friend in you.”

“Yes, she has. I like her, and we have become friends. In fact, I am envisioning her as a sort of protégée. I should like to introduce her into society, help her make new acquaintances, and perhaps even secure her matrimonial future. I know quite a few young men to whom I should like to introduce her. She might take a fancy to one of them, and nature will take its course.”

“Poor girl.”

Viola shot him a look that told him she did not find his dry comment amusing. “Not everyone chooses a wife as you do, Anthony, picking the one least likely to win your heart. Nor does everyone who falls in love end up unhappy. I should like to see Daphne have a season in London, have a romance of her own, and make a sensible and affectionate marriage to an honorable gentleman of good character who will love her and provide for her.”

He felt compelled to mention the obvious. “I do not see why you wish to embark upon such a futile exercise. Women like Miss Wade are not made for romance, and they do not marry.”

“Anthony, what an extraordinary remark. What on earth can you mean by it?”

“I mean, the girl hasn't a romantic bone in her body. If she had a dowry, or if her connection to this baron were established, her prospects for matrimony would be better, but without them, you are embarking on a hopeless business. One only has to look at the girl to know that.”

“I do not know it, and I have looked at her quite a bit in the last day or two. I should imagine any number of well-bred young men would find her quite charming.”

“Charming? With that horrible bun she wears and those dreary clothes, the girl's as noticeable as a stick insect on a twig. She is so much a part of the background, I doubt any man would even see her unless she were standing a foot in front of him, and even then, he would forget her the moment she was out of his line of vision. I know I do.”

Viola stiffened. “I did not realize that a woman's physical beauty was the only quality that made her worthy of a man's attention,” she said coldly.

Anthony felt the sting in those words. “I did not mean it that way.”

“What did you mean?”

“Her face never changes expression, and you never know what she is thinking or feeling. Unless she is talking about artifacts, the girl cannot even carry on a conversation.”

He saw Viola staring at him in dismay, but he went on, “When she does manage to get out a few words, she cannot seem to string them together
without stammering. In truth, I do not know what came over her. The first day she was here, she talked well enough, but she has scarcely said a word since then. Taken all in all, she is the most insignificant creature I have ever met.”

“Yet she is so important to your excavations that she cannot leave. Therefore, she must have some desirable qualities.”

“She is intelligent, I grant you that, and excels at her work. She can translate Latin, Greek, and I do not know how many other ancient languages. She is an excellent mosaicist and restorer. She draws well. But those attributes hardly qualify her for matrimony. She has no dowry, no connections but a mythical baron, and no feminine appeal to make up for those deficiencies.”

“She knows me, and if her grandfather is a baron, then she has two connections, at least. If we can find her grandfather, he might provide her with a dowry. As to her other so-called deficiencies, that is only your opinion. You see her as just another person employed by you, like Mr. Cox, or Mr. Bennington, or one of the servants. I doubt you have once looked at her as a woman.”

“Miss Wade is not a woman. She is a machine. An efficient, well-ordered machine. She is never ill, she never makes mistakes. You know, I do not think I have ever heard her laugh.”

“Oh, don't be absurd. I heard her laugh only this morning.”

“I never have.” Anthony paused, trying to think how to describe Miss Wade to Viola from a man's
point of view. “When looking for a wife, a gentleman would not want a machine. He would want a woman with some womanly attributes. Miss Wade, unfortunately, has none. It is rather pathetic, really.”

“I had no idea that you see her in such an unfavorable light,” Viola said slowly.

“I believe any other man would share my opinion about the girl.”

“Will you stop calling her a girl?” Viola countered with some irritation. “She is twenty-four. She is a woman.”

Anthony thought of the shapeless apron that concealed any womanly shape Miss Wade might possess. “If you say so.”

“I do say so. Everything you have mentioned is a flaw of upbringing, not character or beauty. I think Daphne could be quite pretty, with some proper advice from me. She has lovely eyes and a beautiful complexion. A bit too tanned for fashion, but surprisingly light if one considers she has lived so much of her life in the desert. She has a nice smile, she is intelligent and well-read, and I can assure you, that though she might be a rather serious young woman, and is perhaps a bit shy, she is quite capable of laughing.”

“You had better find her connections, then, for plain, shy, serious young ladies who fade into the wallpaper do not catch husbands otherwise. They become spinsters. An unfortunate dictum, but true.”

Viola gave him a cold stare that told him more
clearly than words what she thought of his opinion, and he felt a hint of self-reproach. Perhaps he was being harsh, but really, Daphne Wade was as drab as an English February. He decided it would be wise to give no further opinions on the subject. “It hardly matters, so let us not argue. The girl is not going anywhere until my museum and excavations are finished.”

 

A stick insect on a twig.

Daphne felt frozen, her hand still poised to push open the door leading into the music room. The door was slightly ajar, and the conversation she had overheard hung in the air like the acrid smell of smoke that lingered after a fire.

No feminine appeal.

She stared down at the wax-coated wooden tablet in her other hand, her mind blank. Upon her soul, she could not remember now why she had been so excited to find Anthony and show this to him the very moment she had finished translating it. She couldn't even remember what it said.

Hugging the tablet to her chest, she turned away from the door and ran, unaware of where she was going, unable to force the coherent thought of a destination to the forefront of her mind. She was too dazed to think, too numb to feel, but she could hear, over and over again, the carelessly brutal opinion of her uttered by the man she adored.

Miss Wade isn't a woman. She's a machine. It's rather pathetic, really.

Like a moth blundering in lamplight, Daphne
stumbled her way through the maze of Tremore Hall's many corridors, only instinct guiding her to the refuge of her own bedchamber on the other side of the house.

Once inside the privacy of her own room, she slammed the door behind her, dropped the tablet heedlessly to the floor, and clamped her hands over her ears, but it was a futile gesture. She could still hear Anthony's words ringing in her ears, muted only by the sound of her own sobs as her heart fractured into pieces.