Page 15 of Dukes for Dessert

The swallow that moved her throat gave David some hope she cared whether she saw him again. Not that it mattered. Sophie was in an awkward situation, and David pursuing her would only make it more awkward.

He hadn’t exaggerated when he said he needed to fight the murder charge. A letter from his solicitor had found him—his solicitor knew every place David took himself off to whenever he fled London. The solicitor had informed him that Griffin continued to claim David had shot at him and wanted him to stand trial for it. Only the influence of Hart and Detective Superintendent Fellows kept the police from making David await the trial in Newgate.

David had other things he wanted to pursue in London as well, but he knew he’d be unwise to tell Sophie and Dr. Pierson about them.

Sophie fixed him with an unreadable green gaze. “We will miss you.”

“Will you?”

She studied him as she had when he’d daringly touched her a few days ago, unable to stop himself. Courageous, unswerving. Beautiful.

“Of course.” Sophie shook herself and turned away, sinking to her knees on the tarp she’d spread across the damp ground. “Uncle enjoys your chats in the evening, and I enjoy winning our draughts games.”

“Draughts, chess, cards, puzzles, riddles …”

He liked the smile she shot him. “Your own fault for not paying attention. Though I imagine a game of Pope Joan is not very exciting to a man used to the card tables at White’s.”

“My dear, the company at White’s is ghastly. Any game can be exciting if the stakes are right.”

“Matchsticks?” she asked impishly.

“I’ll have you know, I hoarded those matchsticks like gold until I had to turn them all over to you and your uncle. You two are such sharps, you could form a syndicate and fleece the multitudes.”

“Yes. Such a pity Uncle is a vicar.”

David relaxed, happy to hear her teasing. He’d miss it …

No, this was for the best. He should leave now, before it became more difficult. If he didn’t go, he’d linger, let his solicitor and Hart take care of Griffin, hope Sophie grew so fond of him she wouldn’t mind if he enticed her to his bed.

His bed, which at the moment lay in a tiny space below the ceiling beams in her uncle’s house. David mentally cuffed himself. He was an idiot.

Sophie reached into the hole she’d been sifting through and delicately retrieved a small pebble. “This is pretty.”

David, interested in spite of himself, leaned to look. Sophie brushed the mud from her find and held it up.

What little February sunlight leaked through the bank of clouds winked on a fragment of blue stone, rendering it translucent. The edges were jagged, a piece broken long ago.

Sophie unfolded to her feet, ignoring David’s hand, which he’d instantly thrust out to help her. “What do you suppose it is?” she asked, eagerness in her voice.

David peered at it, but it remained a piece of stone to him. “Who knows? Broken vase? Glass from a farmer’s ale bottle?”

“One this blue?” Sophie turned and waved at Pierson. “Uncle! Come and see!”

About twenty yards from them, Pierson calmly set down his measuring stick and got to his feet, dusting off his knees. He tucked his notebook under his arm and walked to them, betraying no anticipation. He’d been disappointed so many times about this villa, David supposed he’d grown stoic.

Sophie scrubbed off the stone with the handkerchief David lent her. Polishing it brought out more of the deep blue color, the piece almost glowing, but it wasn’t glass.

Pierson studied the fragment that lay on Sophie’s palm. He poked at it, then he picked it up and turned it this way and that with professional detachment.

David saw when his eyes lost their resignation and took on a gleam of excitement. And then triumph.

Dr. Lucas Pierson, the learned, unruffled man who’d taught David that there was good in most people if one looked hard enough, suddenly leapt into the air and let out a yell.

“I knew it!” Pierson landed again, his boots splattering mud. “I knew there was a villa here! Take that, British Museum. And that, Antiquarian Society.” He punched imaginary foes with a balled-up fist. “My dear niece, you are a genius!”

“Mr. Fleming dug the hole,” Sophie said generously. “What is it, Uncle? Part of an amphora? Or a bit of jewelry?”

“No, no, nothing so staid. This is a piece of tile.” He opened his hand. “See how it is so precisely cut on this side? It is part of a mosaic, probably from a floor. No army hut would have mosaics on the floors. This is part of a larger building, like a bathhouse, or a villa.”