“Yes, sir,” she answered, “Going on six years. I have only been with the Gardiners recently, though.” Her chin raised a little higher. “I am Mrs. Thompson, now.”
Darcy nodded respectfully, then turned his attention back to the young woman–Lizzy, Briefly,” he replied, dragging his attention back to propriety with more difficulty than he liked. “I had business nearby and encountered Mr. Philips. How came you to be here?”
“My mistress—that is, my late mistress—is from Lambton, and she hired me as her housekeeper with recommendation from Aunt Reynolds.”
The young woman—Lizzy, Mr. Philips had called her—looked from Susie to Darcy, her expression sharpening with curiosity. Darcy had the uncomfortable impression that very little escaped her notice, even in moments of confusion.
Mr. Philips was still too occupied with alarm to observe any of it. “Elizabeth, I am not finished with you. You climbed into an unknown space beneath a flooded cellar, alone, without waiting for assistance. Do you have any understanding of how dangerous that was?”
“I have gained some understanding since you began repeating it,” she said, though her voice softened enough to show she was not entirely insensible of his concern. “But Uncle, please look.”
She opened her hand.
The object resting upon her muddy palm caught the lantern light.
Mr. Philips stopped speaking.
Darcy’s breath caught.
Gold.
But not a guinea, nor a sovereign, nor any modern coin. Even through the mud, the shape and weight of it were unmistakable. Small, round, ancient, and stamped with a severe profile that made Darcy’s heart begin to beat faster.
He stepped closer before he could stop himself.
“If I may?” he asked, his voice lower than before.
Miss Elizabeth looked not at him, but at her uncle. Mr. Philips, still staring at the coin, gave a slow nod.
She placed it carefully in Darcy’s hand.
The moment it touched his palm, the damp cellar, the anxious servants, the displaced shelf, even the young woman’s remarkable eyes faded to the edges of his awareness. He turned the coin gently between thumb and forefinger, careful not to rub away the mud too roughly. The face upon it was worn but visible. The lettering around the edge was clearer on one side than the other, though enough remained for recognition.
“Honorius,” he breathed.
Mr. Philips blinked. “I beg your pardon?”
Darcy looked up, then immediately back down, scarcely able to contain the sudden rush of excitement. “The Emperor Honorius. Late Roman Empire. This is a solidus, I believe—early fifth century, perhaps the first years of the four hundreds.”
Susie made a small sound of disbelief.
Miss Elizabeth’s eyes widened. “Roman?”
“Yes.” Darcy turned it again, the old thrill of scholarship rising through him with unexpected force. Years of study, travel, and ruined temples seemed suddenly to converge in a Londoncellar. “Good God. A coin of Honorius beneath Gracechurch Street.”
Mr. Philips stared at him as though uncertain whether this explanation clarified anything. “You are certain?”
“As certain as I can be without cleaning and examining it properly. But yes.” Darcy looked at Miss Elizabeth. “Where, precisely, did you find this?”
She pointed toward the open trap door. “Below. The shelf had hidden the door in the floor. When we moved it, I went down to see what was there.”
“Against advice,” Susie murmured.
“With advice very much present, if not obeyed,” Miss Elizabeth replied. “The lower space looks as though it might once have been used for coal or storage. The floor is rotten in places from the flooding, and when my foot broke through one of the boards, I saw something shining in the mud.”
Darcy looked toward the dark opening.
His pulse quickened further.
