He suspected she was deciding how much to disclose.
“That is one possible interpretation,” she said at last, clasping her hands behind her as she walked. “Shall I tell you another?”
“Please do.”
“Let us suppose the two gladiators are of disparate origins.”
“Quite plausible, since they were often drawn from the far reaches of the empire.”
“Indeed. And due to their mismatched views, though the reta—roti?—”
“Retiarius.”
“Yes, though the retiarius’s gesture is sincere, the secutor takes it amiss.”
“Ah, a clash of customs.”
Claire nodded. “You agree, then, that in such cases neither party can be blamed? Not the retiarius for offering the helmet, nor the secutor for spurning it?”
“Well now, let me see…” Jonathan was still working out the parallels between fiction and reality. If he inferred the secutor to be Claire… “By chance, after the helmet is spurned, does the retiarius bestow it on another?”
She made a wry face. “Perhaps, in a moment of ill humor.”
That confirmed his inference. But what hand, if any, had this third party in causing the breach? “Has the other been receiving helmets all along, behind the secutor’s back?”
Claire coughed to cover a laugh. “I’m sure I’ve no reason to think so. But,” she added with a pert toss of her head, “who can say?”
Then Miss Harris had not been the cause. What had? And how serious were its effects?
Were Claire and Milstead finished, or merely at odds?
Jonathan shook his head. “I’m afraid I cannot answer your question without knowing what, precisely, was the original offense.”
She came instantly to a standstill. “I cannot tell you that.”
“Oh?” Though Jonathan remained outwardly calm, anger simmered inside him. Just what had the blackguard done, that she could not bear to speak of it? “Claire, whatever happened, upon my honor—and your brother’s, too—we shall set things aright. If you’ve been compromised, or threatened in any way?—”
“Horsefeathers, no!” She slapped a hand to her forehead. “Nothing like that! You read too many novels. The truth isn’t a bit sinister. It’s just…” Cringing, she kept her eyes hidden behind her hand. “It’s silly. You would laugh at me.”
“I would not.”
“Yes, you would.”
“No, I wouldn’t, and I refuse to squabble in this adolescent manner. I’ve no desire to force you to tell me.” Indeed, now reassured of her safety, he was pleased enough by his rival’s misstep, never mind the explanations. “But should you wish to tell me—as your friend—I promise I won’t laugh. I won’t even respond, unless you ask it of me.”
At length she lowered her hand, though without raising her eyes. She seemed about to speak when the silence was broken by the sound of approaching chatter.
“That’s Mr. Hawkins’s voice,” Jonathan whispered. “We can slip away if we hurry!”
Seizing her hand, he drew her outside and to the door of the next hovel, which stood ajar. But after peeping in, he shook his head and pulled back.
“Your sister and Talbot,” he relayed in another whisper, hastening her along to the next door. Pushing it open, he yanked her inside.
This hovel was mercifully empty. He left the door open for a modicum of light and unquestionable respectability.
Blinking as his eyes readjusted to the dim, he recognized the Summer Dining Room. Here was to be found a magnificent mosaic of Jupiter and Ganymede, prince of Troy. But Jonathan didn’t even glance at it, as his gaze was fixed on Claire.
She had made straight for the piscina—a low, hexagonal stone basin in the center of the wide chamber, now empty though it would have once held an ornamental fountain. He watched as she sank abruptly onto its lip and hugged her knees to her chest.
