‘Lord Rivenhall!’ Still beaming, the gentleman pumped Max’s hand enthusiastically. ‘I am in awe, sir! Complete awe! In all my years of research I have never read an essay so thorough, so compelling or so well written! And the attention to detail in those sketches! I cannot wait to see your magnificent pot in all its glory, examine that bracelet or cast my beady, eager eyes over your roundhouse... What a day this is! What an honour it is to meet you!’
‘Er...thank you.’ His eyes darted to Effie in the hope she could shed some light on the identity of man, but she seemed to be doing her level best to blend into one of the columns behind Smithson or melt into the flagstones. ‘And you are, sir?’
The slightly older man chuckled and slapped him on the arm as two more gentlemen alighted from the carriage. One reed thin and slightly pompous looking as he cast his critical eyes over the estate, the other so beige and nondescript he would be impossible to pick out of crowd. ‘Probably should have started with the introductions first, shouldn’t I? Sir Percival Egerton at your service, my lord. A devoted antiquarian both man and boy and, aside from digging the ground for buried treasure much like your good self, I also editArchaeologiafor my sins. As soon as your paper found its way to my desk, I knew I had to meet you.’
He stepped aside and swept his arms out to encompass his painfully thin colleague who made no attempt to smile and stared at him down his long beak of a nose, his eyes drifting immediately to Max’s scars before he deigned to look him square in the eye. Openly judging him as men of supposed good breeding so often did and clearly of the belief he had every right to.
It was exactly this which made Max instantly dislike him. Undisguised disgust at his deformity aside, he’d met many men of his ilk in the Navy. All usually sat behind an ornate desk at the Admiralty, making sweeping opinions and decisions about things they knew little about and refusing to budge from them no matter what the cost. Give him a man who had worked his way through the ranks any day over one who believed he was born only for the highest. ‘This is Francis Brighouse, the Marquess of Denby, and one of the society’s most active and respected Fellows.’
Was it his imagination, or did Sir Percival’s cheerful smile suddenly look a trifle strained? The pompous Marquess merely inclined his head and didn’t bother to speak, so Max did the same, but made a point of smiling slightly as he did so to show the fool he wasn’t the least bit intimidated by Lord Denby’s superior title or attitude or blatant distaste. ‘Welcome to Rivenhall.’ It would be a cold day in hell before he tacked the wordsmy lordto any remarks to this arrogant blue blood.
‘And beside him is our honourable secretary, Lord Whittlesey.’ Sir Percival’s smile was definitely pasted on this time, which was telling. ‘He was the one responsible for sifting your paper out of the plethora which find their way to us each month, so you have him to thank for our over-enthusiastic imposition.’ And doubtless was similarly responsible for returning all of Effie’s previous efforts unopened. Already loathing him and sorely tempted to just punch him and be done with it, Max shook his proffered limp hand and tried not to curl his lip in distaste as he did so.
The bland man doffed his hat and inclined his beige head, his eyes latching on to Max’s cheek like a limpet and not leaving. ‘Lord Rivenhall.’
This was all as hideously awful as he had expected and he felt his toes curl in shame inside his boots while the angry acid churned in his stomach. ‘Lord Whittlesey.’
‘We are all three of us thoroughly thrilled to be here to see it all!’ Although only Sir Percival looked thrilled, Max noted. The other two now looked fashionably bored and vaguely suspicious, as if they had no intention of gushing about Effie’s magnificent discovery until they had clapped eyes on it themselves and satisfied their own sanctimoniously superior eyes it was not a big sham. ‘It is jolly decent of you to have invited us. Can we visit the site today? I am beyond eager to get started.’
Max responded with a bland smile. As much as he wanted to contradict the man and explain they had been dragged here under false pretences—or at least under a twisted version of the truth—he would not humiliate Effie by doing it out here in front of the servants.
‘I, for one, am eager to see how one canaccuratelydiscern wooden post holes when the said wood is allegedly two thousand years old and will undoubtedly have rotted away centuries beforehand.’ Lord Denby smirked at Lord Whittlesey and in that instant he realised these two sanctimonious nay-sayers were here solely to find cause to discredit Effie’s work not celebrate in it as it was due. They were the brakes on Sir Percival’s enthusiastic carriage and unlikely to give her a fair hearing no matter how well written and researched her paper was or how vociferously he supported her cause.
Which did not bode well. For either her or him.
‘They are quite discernible—I can assure you. If you know how to properly discern them, that is.’ He could look down his nose, too, especially as he topped the skinny windbag by a good four inches and was probably twice as wide. ‘I suppose that is what makes this discovery so unique. To anamateur’seye all mud is merely mud.’ Max smiled to soften the edges of his blatant insult, pleased that the buffoon bristled regardless. ‘It takesrealskill and intelligence to find what nobody else has managed thus far. Wouldn’t you say, Lord Denby?’
‘I shall reserve judgement until I see it.’
Max felt his eyes drawn to where she still stood rooted to her spot behind the pillar, saw her defeated posture and miserable expression as she stared down at the floor awaiting his judgement. It tugged on his heart as her reality slapped him in the face. If it was this hard for a man to be taken seriously, and he was already beyond frustrated by the lofty lord’s scepticism, then he couldn’t imagine what each day was like for Effie. Each knock back. Each disparaging dismissal because a woman wasn’t supposed to succeed in a man’s world.
And there I was, thinking you were different from everyone else!
Her words, spat in anger, came back to haunt him because he suddenly realised he, too, was no different from the men currently looking down their noses. How could he possibly be any different if he actively lent a hand to scuppering all her dreams as well? When he knew more than anyone how unbearable it was to lose all hope and all purpose. All she wanted was to see her work published. How could he not help her do that?
‘And see it you shall.’ Although doubtless he would bitterly regret the decision in the coming days. ‘But not until tomorrow—’ out of the corner of his eye he saw Effie’s head whip up in confusion ‘—as we have been plagued with a week of rain and the ground will need at least another day to dry out. Tonight, you may examine the artefacts we have found thus far instead and marvel at our magnificent discovery.’ Without thinking he threw out his palm to encompass Effie, hoping she would come to his aid.
‘We?’ Sir Percival followed his gaze and suddenly beamed from ear to ear.
‘Yes... We...’ He was thinking on his feet now, lost in the ocean with no compass to guide him, but certain he needed to change course. ‘Allow me to introduce you to my...um...’ He turned to her, smiling, hoping she could see the panicked message in his eyes and nobody else could. Hoping her quick brain would come to both their rescues because his was floundering. ‘Miss Effie...’
‘Jones!’ She stepped out of the shadows and slanted him an odd glance. ‘Miss Effie Jones. Lord Rivenhall’s assistant.’
‘You have a female assistant?’ Lord Denby seemed affronted by the idea and he addressed Max rather than acknowledge her. Something which made his blood boil until the fool spoke again and vaporised it into shooting steam. ‘I have never heard anything so ridiculous! Is there a shortage of good manpower here in Cambridge?’
‘It is her talented hand which drew all the sketches.’ He would give Effie as much credit as he could without arousing their suspicions, just to vex this arrogant arse. ‘I am afraid I cannot draw for toffee.’
‘Still—with the finest university in the country practically on your doorstep, I fail to see...’
‘A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Miss Jones.’ Sir Percival stepped into the breach. ‘And may I say, what magnificent sketches they were, too...’ He wasted no time bowing, clearly thoroughly attracted to Effie, and took his time over kissing her hand. Something which filled Max with irrational jealousy, which he covered by turning to his stony-faced but rapidly blinking butler.
‘Smithson, fetch my sister, will you? As I placed her in charge of getting theroomsready.’
‘Of course, my lord.’ Smithson nodded slowly. ‘But first I shall have the tea and sandwiches sent to the drawing room immediately... Or perhaps somethingstrongerto revive your guests after their journey while theirbaggageis brought in and Ispeakto Mrs Baxter?’
In that moment he could have hugged his astute butler. ‘Yes Smithson. See to that immediately... Gentlemen—if you will kindly follow me.’
Effie wasn’t entirely sure what was going on, but certainly wasn’t about to contradict Max when he had apparently had a last-minute change of heart. She was trailing after the men to the drawing room when a very flushed and slightly out of breath Smithson intercepted her. ‘If I could borrow you for a moment, MissJones?’
