The Puzzle of a Bastard Page 4

  “Mr. Harris will see to setting everything up,” Mr. Shoemaker had replied, the slight sigh at the end of his words suggesting he had decided to give up on arguing with her. “The uh.... those pots on the shelves behind you are the priority,” he stammered. “Mr. Harris has done the initial work to catalogue them, but he will need to finish the paperwork for them before they’re given to the curator for display.”

  “Very good,” she had said, giving the Greek pottery a cursory glance. “I’ll get started on them right away. Now, I’ve probably kept you entirely too long, sir. Thank you for your time. Good day.”

  That’s when she had undone the buttons of her redingote and revealed the enormous apron that covered the front of her gown. An apron that had paid witness to hundreds of reconstructions and restorations and, despite frequent washings with lye soap, had the clay and pigment stains to prove it.

  “Good day, Mrs. Longworth,” he had said, and then took his leave as he muttered to himself.

  Frances settled her makeshift cradle of pottery shards onto the worktable and began setting them out in an orderly pattern. This was her favorite kind of puzzle. Three-dimensional, usually with a piece or two missing, with little variation in the decoration.

  This particular puzzle featured light, evenly spaced swirls that covered the exterior of the brown pieces. The pattern made it fairly easy to determine which edges belonged together.

  Using a compass and a ruler, she determined the radius of the top opening and the approximate length of the cone-shaped object. To reassemble it, she required a slightly thinner but taller cone on which she could arrange the shards, one she could remove once the shards had been glued together and any cracks or missing pieces repaired.

  Having made many over the past year, she already had clay conical-shaped models on her shelf. They were solid cones of various widths, pricked with a series of pinholes, that she had created on the potter’s wheel and then baked in the kiln Mr. Harris had discovered in the boiler room.

  Placing the cone on its flat head near the edge of the table, she carefully covered the pointed bottom with the intact bottom of the rhyton. Then she began piecing together the rest, supporting the shards with sewing pins she poked into the seams and then into the pinholes of her cone. The slant of her cone helped to keep the ancient pieces in place as she worked her way down.

  Once she had every piece in place, she carefully turned the cone, studying all the edges to discover what might be missing.

  That’s when she realized that not only was the rhyton complete, the edges of the shards matched almost perfectly. There was no evidence of erosion. No evidence the rhyton had broken a thousand years ago and then been discovered in situ.

  A knock on the door had her calling out, “Come,” before she considered who might be on the other side.

  As she feared, the blond curls and chiseled face of Mr. Wellingham poked around the edge of the door. “There you are, my lady,” he said, his gaze going to the cone. “You’ve already repaired it?” he asked in awe, stepping the rest of the way into the cramped workroom.

  Frances inhaled slowly. “It still has to be glued together, of course, but... not much will have to be done to it after that.”

  She watched as Gabe moved closer, his attention on the rhyton and the seams of all the shards.

  That’s when she noticed his blue eyes.

  Bright blue eyes, which were perfect with his blond hair and fair complexion. She also noted that his face wasn’t as angular as she had first thought. It wasn’t yet chiseled, exactly, but might appear that way in ten or twenty years. The line of his jaw and shape of his cheekbones suggested they might have been chubby when he was younger.

  He had probably looked like Cupid’s brother when he was a child.

  And then the scent of his cologne drifted past her nose, and she inhaled softly. Sandalwood? A hint of spice? No amber and no citrus, but then it was winter. Men didn’t have to cover their body odor with the scent of limes during the colder months.

  “Your reconstruction technique is remarkable,” he murmured. “Your cone looks as if it works no matter how tall a rhyton is.”

  Frances straightened, stunned to hear his compliment. “Thank you, sir,” she replied, although she kept her guard up. At any moment, she expected him to add, “For a woman.”

  “What is your opinion of the breakage?”

  Her eyes widening—no one ever asked for her opinion—Frances said, “Recent. Either in shipment or during packing.”

  His attention darted to her for a moment, but he quickly redirected it to the rhyton before she could catch him watching her. “My thoughts exactly. There is no sign of wear on the edges. No evidence of weathering.” He allowed a sigh of disappointment. “It’s really too bad. It might have made for a good exhibit piece.”

  Frances furrowed her dark brows. “What do you mean, might have?” she challenged.

  Gabe knew he had mis-spoke the moment she spoke. “I just meant that... the breakage will be apparent—”

  “Not when I am finished with it,” she countered. Her hands went to her hips. “If that is all, Mr. Wellingham, I’d like to get back to work now.”

  Knowing the sound of a dismissal when he heard it, Gabe gave a bow and moved toward the door. “I... I meant no offense, my lady,” he stammered, just before he took his leave.

  Frances took a deep breath, wishing she could have responded with an explanation of what she planned to do rather than lashing out at the man.

  I’ve been on the defensive far too long, she thought as she moved to mix a batch of glue.

  Chapter 6

  A Stepmother’s Appeal

  Later that afternoon

  “Must you go so soon?” Jane Vandermeer Fitzpatrick Burroughs asked as she accompanied James up the east wing stairs of Merriweather Manor. “You’ve only just arrived.”

  James paused before the carved door of his bedchamber and regarded the woman who had owned his father’s heart from a time long before Lord Andrew Maximillian Burroughs, had gone to university.

  “I’ll just be down the road at Woodscastle, my lady—”

  “Mother,” she interrupted. “You can call me mother,” she insisted.

  “All right. Please, do not take offense, Mother, for none is intended, I assure you. But I find I have a need for… for....” He paused and seemed at a loss for words.

  “Quiet,” Jane finished for him, her head angling to one side. “You are so used to living alone, so this household must seem terribly chaotic.”

  He dipped his head, secretly glad he wouldn’t have to explain himself to Lady Andrew.

  Back when he had first learned from his father that his mother hadn’t been the man’s first choice to marry, James had felt sick. Vowed he would never feel anything but contempt for Jane Vandermeer.

  But after meeting her and seeing the change in his father—Andrew’s status as a widower had been going on for nearly seven years when he returned to London from the Continent and married Jane—James slowly warmed to the dowager countess. She seemed to be genuinely in love with his father. And her skills at running his father’s household were evident in how clean and tidy all the rooms were, in how the meals were prepared and served, and in how happy the resident families seemed.

  If he didn’t feel so overwhelmed by the sheer number of people who lived at Merriweather Manor, he knew he would be comfortable staying there.

  “Exactly,” he said, sighing with relief at knowing she understood his need for quiet.

  “Well, perhaps your presence at Woodscastle will help Miss Grandby,” Jane said then. “I have been so worried for her.”

  About to open the door to his bedchamber, James paused and regarded his stepmother with a furrowed brow. “You mean because she’s there alone?” he asked. “I rather doubt we’ll spend much time in each other’s company,” he added, thinking it wouldn’t really be appropriate for them to be in the same room together without a chaperone.

  Jane s
tared at him a moment and then gave her head a quick shake. “I apologize. It’s really… it’s really not for me to say,” she stammered. “I’ll have the carriage brought ’round to take you to Woodscastle, and be sure your horse is ready, too,” she said. She dipped a curtsy before heading for the stairs.

  James managed an awkward bow and then watched as she barely lifted her skirts to descend the stairs.

  Whatever in the world did she mean by her comment?

  Help Miss Grandby? In the short amount of time he had spent with Emily earlier that day, he hadn’t been left with the impression she was in need of any assistance. Despite the rest of the family having departed, there was still a staff of servants at Woodscastle.

  “Mother!” he called out, hurrying to join her.

  Jane paused at the top of the stairs, turning to face him when he halted alongside her. “Is there something I should know about Emily?”

  Her eyes darting to one side, Jane countered his query with one of her own. “I suppose that all depends. What do you know?”

  James shrugged a shoulder. “She’s always just been little Em,” he replied. At Jane’s arched brow, he added, “Well, she’s not so little anymore, of course. She’s grown into a fine young woman.”

  “One you might...?” Jane squeezed her eyes shut.

  “Mother?” he asked, worry etching his face.

  Jane reopened one eye. “Do you suppose there’s any chance you might one day decide... she is the one?”

  James jerked back as if she had slapped him. “The one?” he repeated.

  Now Jane’s fisted hands went to her hips, as if she had to put them there or risk punching him in the face. “Really, darling. How thick are you?” Despite her words, a grin appeared at the corners of her mouth and she was suddenly struggling to keep from laughing. “Oh, forgive me. I cannot believe I just said that to you.”

  “Well, neither can I,” James retorted, allowing his own humor to show. He sobered as he scratched his forehead. “This is about me getting married, isn’t it?”

  Jane sighed. “You’re the oldest now,” she said quietly. “You’re heir to your father’s fortune—”

  “You mean he has some left after what he’s done to this place?” The words came out harsher than he intended.

  Jane rolled her eyes. Perhaps she might have to slap him after all. “He does, actually, and with Henry having died, you need an heir, which means you need a wife. You’re not getting any younger.”

  And there they were. Spoken aloud not by his father but by his stepmother.

  The two requirements for any man who found himself to be the oldest male in the family along with a reminder of his age.

  Marriage. An heir. You are getting old.

  “I thank you for the reminder,” he said quietly. “And I’ll be going now.”

  Looking as if she was about to cry, Jane said, “I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have been the one—”

  “Father wouldn’t have said a word, and you know it,” he murmured. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Will you tell me what it is that Emily needs help with?”

  Jane stared at him a moment and finally said, “A broken heart, I think.”

  Remembering how Emily gripped the ring that hung from the chain around her neck, James nodded. “I will see what I can do.”

  He doubted he could do anything for a broken heart, but he could spend some time with her. Make sure she wasn’t wallowing in pity. She certainly hadn’t seemed out of sorts when he’d left her.

  But then, neither had he.

  Chapter 7

  An Invitation Arrives

  Trenton House in Curzon Street, Mayfair, early evening

  Barclay opened the front door of Trenton House and quickly stepped aside to allow Gabe to enter. He was followed by a blast of cold air and a flurry of snowflakes.

  “Much obliged, Barclay,” Gabe said as the butler took his top hat and greatcoat.

  “Cook can have your dinner ready at eight, sir,” Barclay offered. “If you’d like it earlier, you only need tell me so.”

  Despite the pangs of hunger he had been feeling for the past half-hour, Gabe replied, “Eight is fine, although seven would be preferable in the future. I find myself growing rather hungry before I’ve even taken my leave of the museum. Is there any correspondence?”

  “Indeed. I’ve put yours in the study along with the earl’s. And a note was delivered by a courier earlier this afternoon. I believe he was from Mr. Grandby’s office, sir. He didn’t wait for a reply, of course, so I left it with the letters.”

  Gabe nodded, knowing immediately that Barclay referred to Tom Grandby. He had remained in town for the holiday, claiming he had business. But then, Tom always had business. As an investor, he spent his days in search of the next important venture or invention that might prove profitable in the future.

  Gabe wondered if there might be a different reason Tom had decided to remain in town. Perhaps he would learn what it was once he read the missive.

  “I could do with a cup of coffee,” Gabe said as he headed for the study. He secretly wished for a cup of chocolate, but he knew how much trouble it would be for the cook to make it. Given the rest of the family was away, he didn’t want the servants to have to do more than they already were on his behalf.

  “Right away, sir,” Barclay replied as he hurried off toward the kitchens.

  Gabe raised an eyebrow at the sight of the silver salver on his father’s massive mahogany desk. It was piled high with white envelopes. From their formal address, most were probably invitations to events sponsored by the aristocrats who remained in London for Christmas.

  He knew his father, Gabriel, Earl of Trenton, and his mother, Sarah, Countess of Trenton, had originally intended to remain in town for the holiday. That is, until Gabe’s sister, Anne, suffered from love at first—or rather second—sight and quite suddenly married George, Viscount Hexham, the heir to the Torrington earldom.

  Having helped the viscount gain his sister’s hand in marriage, Gabe knew the attraction was mutual. Neither wanted to navigate the choppy waters of the Season and the Marriage Mart, and both were eager to start their nursery, so opting to marry before Parliament reconvened in March meant they could instead board a steamship and head to the Kingdom of the Two Sicilies for a wedding trip.

  At the same time, George’s sister, Angelica, had married Sir Benjamin, an astronomer and heir apparent to the Wadsworth earldom. They were on the same steamship.

  Not to be outdone, both sets of parents and Gabe’s brother, William, had joined the happy couples on their wedding trip, which meant Gabe was left to his own devices. Given his position at the museum, he found he hadn’t yet missed his family.

  Except at dinner.

  In a room that usually vibrated with good humor and constant conversation, Gabe found the silence in the dining room deafening.

  When Barclay delivered his coffee, he asked that his dinner be brought to the study.

  “Very good, sir,” the butler acknowledged as he set the coffee and a tray of walnuts and biscuits on the front edge of the desk.

  Having been given orders by his father to answer any invitations with his regrets, Gabe opened all the missives and took to penning responses. For those that included him, he replied that he would attend alone.

  When he found the missive from Tom, he sat back and grinned as he read the script.

  Dear Gabe,

  You’re either hosting a raucous house party or you’re experiencing profound loneliness. If the former, I am offended at not having received an invitation to join you in merriment. If the latter, I expect you to join me this evening at White’s where we can wallow in self-pity at having to spend the holidays alone.

  I look forward to seeing you and to learning how it goes at the museum. Have you met any mummies to your liking? If you’re not careful, you could find yourself wrapped up in a linen bandage, preserved for all eternity. Or perhaps all those statues of Aphrodite have you fal
ling in love?

  I’ve acquired an Aphrodite and wish to engage your services in determining her worth.

  Brandy at half-past nine. My treat.

  Thomas

  Gabe allowed a guffaw at reading his cousin’s note. He checked his chronometer, deciding he could eat quickly and make it with time to spare. “Barclay!” he called out, not surprised when the butler appeared only a few seconds later. “I’ll need the town coach at quarter of nine. That missive was from Cousin Thomas.”

  “White’s, sir?”

  “Indeed.”

  “I’ll see to it right away and have dinner served just as soon as possible.”

  Gabe nodded as he returned his attention to writing responses to invitations, wondering at Tom’s mention of Aphrodite and her worth.

  Was the man finally considering marriage?

  He also wondered at Tom’s comment about wallowing in self-pity, but he decided he had no intention of doing so.

  He would be spending too much time thinking about Frances Longworth.

  Chapter 8

  Cousins Unite at White’s

  Half-past nine o’clock, White’s in St. James Street

  Tom Grandby allowed the butler to take his hat and greatcoat as he perused the first room past the entry. Although there was no sign of Gabe Wellingham, the man who caught his eye had a huge smile aimed in his direction.

  “Where have you been?” Tom asked as he joined James Burroughs, his right hand stretched out to shake hands.

  “Where have I been?” James countered as he slapped Tom on the arm. “I tried to pay a call on you at Woodscastle this morning, only to discover you apparently don’t live there any longer.”

  Tom dipped his head as they moved to take two nearby upholstered chairs. “Apologies. I should have mentioned in my last letter that I was taking a room at Arthur’s. Saves me at least an hour of travel each day.”