He looked at Mr. Philips first, then at Miss Elizabeth, who was watching him with an expression far too intelligent to be dismissed as mere curiosity. “Forgive me. I understand the temptation. Truly, I do. But this cannot be hidden again. Whatever lies beneath this floor is not merely treasure. It is a piece of Britain’s history. It must be preserved properly.”
Mr. Philips studied him with a guarded expression. “And you propose we invite the Crown to seize it?”
“I propose we proceed carefully, honorably, and with every possible protection for Mr. Gardiner’s children.” Darcy closed his fingers around the coin, feeling its small weight like a summons. “I may be of assistance. I studied history at Cambridge, particularly Rome and the decline of the empire. I know several scholars and antiquarians who would treat such a discovery with reverence rather than greed. Men who would understand how to excavate it properly.”
Miss Elizabeth glanced again at her uncle.
Darcy continued, more urgently now. “My uncle is the Earl of Matlock. He is known to the Prince and has influence enough to ensure the matter is not swallowed by petty officials before anyone understands its importance. If the Crown must be informed, then let it be done through channels that protect both the discovery and the family who found it.”
Mr. Philips said nothing.
The cellar seemed suddenly very quiet. Somewhere above them, a door closed faintly, and water dripped from some unseen corner into a puddle with slow, steady plinks.
Darcy realized he was waiting for Miss Elizabeth’s answer as much as Mr. Philips’s.
That unsettled him.
She was muddy, disheveled, plainly exhausted, and still so compelling that he found himself watching the thoughts move across her face. Caution. Curiosity. Responsibility. A sharp flicker of hope quickly suppressed.
At last, she looked at her uncle.
Mr. Philips looked back.
Darcy stood before them with a Roman coin in his hand and held his breath.
∞∞∞
Elizabeth looked at her uncle.
For all his calm speech and practical habits, indecision was plain upon Mr. Philips’s face. It was not fear alone, though fear was certainly there. Nor was it hope alone, though that too had begun to show in his eyes despite every effort to suppress it. It was the same bewildering mixture Elizabeth felt twisting inside her own breast.
What did such a discovery mean?
Delay, certainly. Confusion, almost inevitably. Officials, inquiries, scholars, perhaps the Crown itself. The careful settling of her uncle’s affairs might be slowed by months, even years, and the children’s future had already suffered enough uncertainty. Yet if Mr. Darcy was correct—if what lay beneath this house was truly Roman, truly ancient, truly valuable beyond the ordinary understanding of value—then perhaps this hidden thing, buried for centuries beneath Gracechurch Street, had emerged at the precise moment three orphaned children most needed Providence to remember them.
Elizabeth looked once more at the open trap door. The dark square in the floor seemed less sinister now and more like a question awaiting answer.
“Uncle,” she said quietly, “think of the magnitude of it. If Mr. Darcy is correct, then this is not merely a few old coins hidden in a cellar. It may slow the children’s affairs, yes, but Edward, Sophie, and Thomas will not need the proceeds from the sale of the house this year, nor even in the next five years. They are safe at Longbourn for now. If this is handled properly, might it not someday bless them far more than a quick sale ever could?”
Mr. Philips’s mouth tightened as he considered. Elizabeth saw his thoughts moving as plainly as if he had spoken them aloud: legal duties, family obligations, risk, propriety, expense, responsibility. Then his gaze dropped to the coin in Mr. Darcy’s hand, and something in his face shifted.
At last he nodded.
Elizabeth felt excitement rise so swiftly that she nearly forgot her muddy gown, her ruined shoe, and the damp chill of the cellar. For days she had moved from one sorrowful necessity to the next, sorting, packing, soothing, listing, deciding. Now, for the first time since the express arrived, the future seemed to open rather than close.
Mr. Philips turned to Mr. Darcy. “Very well. We shall accept your assistance, sir. I know very little of Roman antiquities and even less of how such matters ought to be presented to the Crown without inviting confusion or abuse.”
Mr. Darcy’s expression eased, though only slightly. He did not smile, not exactly, but the intensity in his eyes deepened in a way Elizabeth found oddly compelling. “Then we should begin with caution. Nothing further should be disturbed below until men qualified to examine it can be consulted. I would also suggest the opening be secured and the servants cautioned to speak of it to no one for the present.”
“Agreed,” Mr. Philips said. “We shall go back to Edward’s office and put together a plan. I should like to know precisely who must be notified before we act.”
Elizabeth stepped forward at once, intending to follow them, but Mr. Philips had reached the bottom of the stairs when he paused and looked back at her. His expression, which had been all solemn business a moment before, altered as he took in her appearance again.
He cleared his throat. “Lizzy.”
“Yes?”
“You may wish to… tidy up.”
