Claire’s worried frown reshaped itself into a smile as she moved to the front of the group. “Lord Cainewood is right—it’s time to reveal all.”
She approached a gentleman of middle age who, though not of the Greystone party, was familiar to Jonathan. After a private but clearly friendly chat, she turned back to her guests.
“Let me introduce Mr. Hawkins, who joins me in welcoming you to the Bignor Villa.”
A chorus of “oohs” and “ahs” rang out, along with a “huh?” or two. Those native to Sussex had all heard of the Bignor Villa, for there was a great hubbub a few years ago when its Roman-era ruins were discovered beneath a local farm.
The excavation had been ongoing until quite recently, as Jonathan well knew, since it was the very reason he’d come to Greystone last year (wooing Claire had proved an unexpected bonus). Mr. Lysons, an antiquary friend and leader of the project, had invited Jonathan to come visit the site and examine its artifacts. An enthusiastic hobbyist, Jonathan had eagerly accepted and arranged to stay with an old schoolmate who happened to live nearby: Noah Chase, the Earl of Greystone.
“Since it’s closed for the winter, we shall have the place to ourselves,” Claire went on. “As a friend of our family, Mr. Hawkins has granted us special access for the day.”
A friend of their family? Ha!
The Chases had known nothing of Hawkins or anyone else at Bignor before Jonathan came along. It was he who’d first brought Noah here—and he would have brought Claire too, had the site been fit for ladies at that time. He’d promised, however, to take her at the earliest opportunity and, in the meantime, returned to Greystone many an evening with some new etching or relic to interest her and her siblings.
Surely she remembered all this? Surely Jonathan and the villa were inextricably linked in her mind?
He searched her face for signs of awareness, but she avoided his gaze and continued: “Our very kind friend has also offered to tour us about the ruins. But first, please come this way.”
She struck out directly toward the tent, trusting the others to follow. As they circled round to the front, Jonathan observed three of the tent’s four sides were draped in thick hangings to ward off the chill. The fourth was left open, revealing an interior piled with carpets, cushions, blankets, and a low table set for luncheon. The effect was luxurious and cozy.
“A picnic in wintertime, Claire?” Lady Cainewood raised a skeptical brow. “Won’t you be cold?”
Lifting her chin, Claire marched past her elder sister and claimed her place at the head of the table. This was everyone’s cue to take their own places, and they obeyed.
Beneath the table they found foot warmers and sheepskins enough to dispel all of Lady Cainewood’s doubts. Once the steaming teapot went round, the guests were quite as comfortable as they could wish.
As the duke, Jonathan had been assigned a spot beside Claire again, of course, with Mrs. Chase on his other side. His spirits revived by hot tea and Cheshire sandwiches, he lounged among a heap of cushions, feeling almost carefree. Though he would have liked to renew his acquaintance with Mr. Hawkins, whom he recalled as a well-traveled sort full of interesting stories, at the moment their relative placement allowed for no more than perfunctory conversation.
Instead, Jonathan admired the view beyond the tent opening, which was principally of the adjacent bath house. Or rather, what once had been a bath house, for all that remained of it were crumbling foundations, the rough outlines of an elegant plunge pool, and a remarkable mosaic floor.
Somebody had swept the mosaic clear of snow. Worked in thousands of tiny millennia-and-a-half-old tiles, it depicted intricate patterns of entwined snakes surrounding the head of Medusa. Though her face was ugly and cold-eyed, Jonathan knew the Roman Britons had looked upon the monster as a protector, and privately he greeted her with all the warmth of an old friend.
“Mrs. Chase,” he felt so enlivened as to inquire, “I wonder whether you share your husband’s antiquarian bent?”
“My Nathaniel, an antiquarian?” Mrs. Chase threw back her head and laughed. “Begging your grace’s pardon, but whatever gave you such an idea?”
He frowned. “We discussed Roman amphorae?—”
“Oh, he did once made a mint off a pair of those”—she leaned closer and whispered—“which, between ourselves, may or may not have been genuine.” She emitted a little laugh, or maybe a tiny snort. “I assure you, your grace, that is quite as far as his interest extends.”
Jonathan was dismayed by this revelation and, perhaps out of habit, looked to Claire to share his feelings. But she clearly hadn’t heard the exchange. Instead she seemed absorbed in gazing upon the Medusa, her brow once again crossed with anxious lines.
Amid feeble and fading hopes, Jonathan hadn’t forgotten her offer of friendship—and just at present, she appeared sorely in need of a friend. Though he wasn’t sure how, he resolved to try his hand at cheering her up—as a friend.
Casting about for a neutral, friendly overture, he finally settled on: “Is this your first visit to the ruins, Lady Claire?”
Startled from her reverie, she took a moment to return from wherever her mind had been before hearing his question. She shook her head. “My brother brought me here in the spring.”
He felt a pang of disappointment.
He’d wanted to be the one to show her this place.
“Your friend Mr. Lysons kindly gave me a tour,” she went on. “I was sorry to hear of his passing soon afterward.”
Jonathan nodded his thanks, for his speech was hindered by a sudden tightness in his throat. Though Mr. Lysons had died in June, the news hadn’t reached Italy till September. He’d been a good man, a venerated scholar, and something of a mentor to Jonathan.
“He seemed very fond of you,” she added kindly.
