Vexing The Viscount (17 page)

His child
. He blinked back tears. Since he had been stolen from his Germanic village as a boy and pressed into the Roman’s service, he never dreamed he’d ever father a child of his own.

If it was a boy, he’d name him Artos. It was close to the name that had been his own before the slave brand was burned into his shoulder. His new Roman name had been plastered on him that day, along with the numbing salve that sped his healing. In time, the brand’s scar healed cleanly. Even though he later earned his freedom, his spirit had never completely recovered from the shock of slavery.

Now Deirdre’s love was healing his vanquished soul.

Caius wondered where she might be working now. He knew it would be foolish to display his affection openly. Even asking to purchase her had won him some good-natured ribbing from his friends. But he felt a sudden need to see her, if only to bask in the light of her fleeting smile.

He left the counting house near the wharf and trudged back to the proconsul’s villa. Deirdre might be in the lady of the house’s suite of rooms, in which case, he’d not be able to find her. But she might also be working in the kitchen or, if he were very fortunate, in the garden. He might sneak a kiss or two there.

He found her behind the grape arbor, but all thought of stealing a kiss quickly fled. She was weeping. Silent shudders racked her frame. Brown spots of dried blood marred the white of her palla across her breasts and down lower.

“You’re injured.” Caius dropped to his knees beside her.

She shook her head. “The proconsul…” Her voice trailed away.

There were ligature marks on her wrists and ankles. And
a sore-looking love mark on her nape. The Roman governor had indulged in his favorite form of entertainment.

Ravishing a bound victim.

And this time Scipianus had chosen Deirdre. Caius hugged her close and let her sob. Hatred fisted in his chest.

“He—”

“Hush.” Caius cradled her head against his heart. Best to let her cry away the pain. Reliving the ordeal by speaking it aloud would only hurt them both.

Especially since there was nothing to be done but hope the proconsul lost interest in her quickly. If she stopped struggling, if she didn’t cry out, he’d turn to one of the smooth-bottomed little boys who mucked out the stables, or maybe the new goose girl.

But Deirdre couldn’t keep silent. “He’s going to do it again tomorrow. He said so.”

In halting tones, Caius told her how to feign indifference so the proconsul would cease molesting her. It was information bought with a price. He’d been very young when Scipianus became his master.

Instead of realizing Caius shared her pain, Deirdre grew indignant. “You won’t do anything to stop it?”

“What can I do?” She belonged to the proconsul, like his horse or his hound. Caius hated it, but unless Scipianus agreed to sell her, he was within his rights to use her as he pleased.

“You could be a man.” Her chin trembled. “You could kill him.”

Before Scipianus became a politician, he’d been a soldier. Barrel-chested and beefy-armed, he was a formidable fighter, made even more fearsome by callous cruelty. Caius still occasionally woke drenched in sweat and trembling from a night terror of the proconsul. Caius was a boy again, tasting stale garlic breath, feeling thick fingers on his member, the fist that tightened on his young balls….

Caius might hate Scipianus with every fiber of his being.

But he feared him even more.

Life was all that mattered. Years of slavery had taught him that. Survive and there was hope, even if it was but a slim one. The weight of law was on the proconsul’s side. If Caius killed Scipianus, neither he nor Deirdre would see the next sunrise.

“I cannot kill him,” he admitted. Shame curled around his heart. “Please, Deirdre, say something.”

She looked at him with naked loathing, then turned away.

“Don’t you see?” He grasped her shoulders and made her face him. “If I kill the proconsul, they would put us both to death as well.”

And it would be a terrible death. Public and protracted and painful.

“Among my people, dishonor is worse than dying,” she said softly.

“You’re not among your people. This is the Romans’world,” he said. “But we will get through this somehow. I will see you free. I promise.”

“I hate you,” she said simply. “And I will free myself.”

She rose shakily and walked away without a backward glance.

Lucian closed the ledger book cataloging his finds. He didn’t want to chance a fire in the shed housing his collection of Roman objects, so he didn’t allow a lamp, always stopping work when the light began to fail. He glanced out the open door of the shed. Mr. Peabody dismissed the rest of the workers and began tidying the site for the night.

Lucian pulled the note he’d received that morning from his pocket and read the neat curlicue script once more.

My dear Lord Rutland
,

He chuckled at the stilted formality before reading on.

“Oh, yes, Miss Drake,” he mused as he slipped the note once again into his breast pocket. “You’re my partner, for
good or ill. And I’m sure we both wish Blanche exceedingly well.”

Last night, Lucian had stayed, hovering in the parlor, while the physician ministered to the injured “courtesan.” Lady Wexford took pity on him shortly after midnight and let him know the doctor didn’t think any bones were broken. The leeches had been effective in relieving the swelling. However, Blanche had suffered a serious sprain and would be incapacitated for several days.

Daisy’s note explaining her absence made him smile. He wondered how much longer she’d be able to keep up this deception. It would prove amusing to watch her try.

His team of workmen had unearthed another wax tablet. He intended to take it to her this evening, since her Latin was far superior to his own. He wondered if she’d agree to see him as herself or if she’d insist on playing Blanche behind that beguiling feather mask.

He didn’t know which he hoped for.

Part of him didn’t want to unmask her. His father might heartily approve of Lucian dancing attendance on a French woman of pleasure, but the earl would be beside himself with rage over a liaison between Lucian and Gabriel Drake’s niece. Since Lucian wasn’t sure how he was going to handle his father’s displeasure, he was willing to play along with Daisy’s double life for as long as she wished.

Perhaps once Lucian found the treasure, the change in the Montford fortunes would also change his father’s unreasoning hatred of Drakes. Lucian hoped so. Otherwise, he’d have an unpleasant choice to make. He’d become so accustomed to mollifying his increasingly difficult father, he dreaded the confrontation that was sure to come.

Lucian dragged a hand over his face as the sun slid beneath the horizon. Soft twilight began to fade around him. The workers were climbing out of the pit and ambling
away, their coarse, good-humored speech a pleasant sound as they passed the shed.

Mr. Peabody was still rattling around in the site. Lucian stood and stretched. The foreman was certainly taking his time about closing up shop.

Then he saw Peabody’s head jerk furtively, first right, then left. Lucian froze, knowing he was invisible in the darkness of the shed. The foreman stooped and picked up from the dirt something that glinted for a moment in the dying light. He shoved the item in his pocket before Lucian could make out what it was. A bit of ancient jewelry, perhaps?

Mr. Peabody climbed out of the pit and strode away.

The blackguard was stealing! Anger boiled in his Italian veins. Lucian started after Peabody, ready to give the lout a good thrashing, but Daisy’s voice in his head made him skid to a halt.

Perhaps it’s not about the money.

So then why? Daisy’s infusion of cash had assured that the workers were well compensated for their labor. Surely Peabody realized he risked his position for pocketing that small item.

What could he have found that was so important?

Lucian locked the shed door and silently followed Mr. Peabody into the deepening night.

Along broad thoroughfares and down crooked alleys, Lucian tailed his foreman. He maintained a discreet distance between himself and his quarry until Peabody turned down a bustling street lined with public houses. When the thief ducked through a door under the sign of a unicorn, Lucian stopped, unsure how to proceed.

If he entered The Unicorn, Mr. Peabody was certain to spot him. Even dressed in his work clothes, Lucian was far better turned out than most of the men who entered the pub. He would stand out among the salt of the earth as a
gentleman out of his element. If he didn’t follow Peabody, the man would probably find a fence for his stolen goods in the seedy-looking establishment and emerge with only a handful of unremarkable coins in his pocket.

“Alms, good sir,” a piteous voice bleated nearby. “Penny for a blind man.”

A bundle of rags propped against the sagging building had spoken. The man’s eyes were covered with a filthy bandage. His torn and stained coat might once have been fine, but now its color and fabric were obscured beneath a layer of dirt and traces of previous meals. The hand extended toward Lucian was crusted with grime, the nails black and broken.

Lucian decided he’d never consider himself poor again.

“I’ve no penny, my good man,” Lucian said. “But I’ll buy that coat from you for two shillings, if you’re willing.”

It was twenty-four times what the man had asked for. More than enough to outfit him with an entire new set of used clothing and feed him for a week.

“For that much, gov, you can have me hat as well.” The beggar peeled out of his coat with alacrity, loosing an almost visible cloud of stink.

Lucian donned the disreputable coat, turned up the collar and prayed mightily that the man hadn’t been infested with lice. The slouchy hat sported a greasy ring around the inner band, but no evidence of any little beasties. Lucian jammed it on his head, promising himself a hot bath as soon as he returned home.

He shuffled into the smoky pub and swept the room with his gaze. There! In the far corner, Peabody was seated with his back to the door, hunched forward in deep conversation with two other men.

Lucian worked his way around the dim room and found a seat in a booth near them, careful to keep his face turned away. The barmaid brought him a pint without being asked and accepted his coin without comment. The coat’s
stench had the added benefit of making all the other patrons keep their distance. He nursed his drink and strained to hear the low conversation behind him.

“No, no,” one of the men was saying. Lucian couldn’t identify the speaker. A whispered voice might belong to anyone. “This little bauble does us no good at all.”

“But I’ll lay me teeth it’s gold, right enough,” Peabody hissed.

“It’s only a trifle,” the other man said, with a bit more force in his voice. Was there a hint of a Scots accent in his tone? “What good will it do us if ye lose your position before ye discover the location of the mother lode?”

Anger swelled in Lucian’s chest. So, someone was trying to finesse the Roman treasure out from under him using Peabody as his eyes and ears. He fought the urge to turn and confront the men. Beating them to a bloody pulp was a satisfying thought, and Lucian had been pugilistic champion in the fledgling sport at Oxford. But he didn’t know how many confederates the men might have in The Unicorn. Better to learn more now and seek to best them later on ground of his choosing.

“Don’t ye see, mon?” There was no mistaking the accent now. The man was still speaking softly, but Lucian thought he recognized the voice. “The true king willna be served by half measures. Think of the reward to the man who brings him a worthy tribute in Roman coin.”

The true king?

Lucian had learned in the schoolroom of the failed Scottish rising in’15. Could these men be planning another attempt to place James Stuart on the English throne?

Lucian listened as the voices sank to muffled mutterings, but his ears pricked at occasional words.
Bloody German
and
usurper
surfaced with regularity.

He sipped his ale, letting the sharp bite of the liquid cool his anger. If Peabody and his associates spoke so openly, this
pub must be a hotbed of sedition, and he was wise not to disclose himself.

The punishment for treason hadn’t changed since the Middle Ages: hanging, drawing and quartering. It was a heinous enough end to turn the stoutest man’s bowels to water. And to make a thinking man consider carefully before he decided to try to overthrow his king.

But once a man made such a dire decision, he might do anything. Because he had everything to lose.

“Then what would you have me do?” Lucian heard Peabody ask.

“Take this back and pretend to find it in the morning. It’s too distinctive for us to sell it without young Rutland hearing of it.”

Lucian cast a quick glance behind him and saw a flash of gold as Peabody stuffed the Roman trinket back into his pocket. The angle was wrong for him to catch a clear look at the other men’s faces.

“Keep your teeth together and your eyes and ears open,” the obvious brains of the outfit said. “Especially when there’s a tablet found. Report back only when Rutland discovers the location of the treasure.”

Lucian hid beneath his hat’s brim as Peabody stood and stalked out of the pub. The other men made no move to leave, so Lucian decided to remain as well.