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Life is very short and anxious for those who forget the past, neglect the present, and fear the future.

SENECA

The viscount halted in front of us, his expression fierce in the sunlight. No, I had not imagined the flash from that narrowed gaze the night before. In fact, I felt the full force of it. Ice mingled with heat.

Despite my resolve to appear fully in control, I shivered beneath that stare.

He glared at me and then at Abigail. “My steward told me I had trespassers in my fields. I scarcely believed my ears, yet here I find two recalcitrants digging holes on my property.”

The Good Lord gave me a tongue, and I found it just in time. “We’re not trespassing. This is Mr. Perry’s land.”

His eyes widened at my confident answer. Mouth pressed into a line, he swung himself off the horse, but as soon as his boots touched the ground, his left leg buckled. He grabbed the saddle and averted his face. I recognized pain in his face.

“Sir, are you all right?” I called out as I attempted to climb out of the pit to assist him.

The wet soil would have none of it, squelching its loud protest, and my soggy leather slippers, better suited to a drawing room, provided no grip.

To my chagrin, I stepped on the hem of my dress and staggered forward with my arms flailing in the most undignified way as I fell and Abigail squeaked.

When I tried again to climb out, my feet sank farther into the mud left uncleared. I stumbled and lost my footing. With a clenched jaw, Lord Hawthorn approached me and held out an ungloved hand, for which I stared at him rather stupidly.

“Take it,” he ordered. “Or you and I shall be forced to continue our conversation under the present circumstances.”

Well, I did not like the idea of him towering over me so much that he blocked out the sun.

Of course, he would loom over me regardless, but it was rather difficult to answer a man with confidence while stuck in a hole.

And I couldn’t climb out without pulling up my gown by a fistful and raising my legs to be viewed.

I wouldn’t have minded with only Abigail present, but with three men goggling, I had no intention of providing further entertainment.

I blew out an exasperated breath, and after a long pause, wrapped my fingers around his. His hand felt warm as he pulled me from the pit with one strong motion, plunking my slight frame onto the ground beside him.

My mouth suddenly dried. He was strong. Very strong. Yet I could have sworn his skin blanched even with the action.

“I don’t believe we have been properly introduced,” he said, slightly winded as he released his grip. He brushed his fingers free of the dirt I hadn’t even noticed on my appendages. “I am Lord Hawthorn.”

“Miss Littleton,” I muttered, choking on the following “pleased to meet you” bit.

By then, the other two men had dismounted and joined Lord Hawthorn.

I recognized Mr. Whittle immediately, but I had scarcely encountered the other man, with his brown felt hat pulled low over his eyes.

I surmised he was the steward, since I had seen him before on the former lord’s lands.

A Mr. Spencer, if I remembered correctly.

“My lord,” Abigail hurried to my side, linking her arm through mine and speaking before I could. “Forgive Miss Littleton and myself. We’ve been uncovering an—an—agri—an alium?” She shot me a desperate glance, her frown deepening as she struggled with the pronunciation, clearly hoping for my help.

“An atrium, a room used to greet guests, with a pool often in the middle to collect rainwater,” I supplied as I wiped my hands on my apron, leaving muddy streaks and drawing the lord’s attention again. What lay behind that flickering gaze? Dismissal?

With my stained apron and soggy attire, I was not at my best. “Lord Hawthorn, this is Miss Perry, the daughter of the farmer who owns this field. To echo her, we have discovered something marvelous that will be of significant benefit to your lordship.”

The men said not a word, each one staring at me as if snakes or horns sprouted from my head.

I cleared my throat. “It’s an ancient Roman mosaic, installed in the floor of a villa, I suspect, though I’m uncertain of the year it was built.

Enough time would have had to pass for the Romans to conquer the Iceni tribes and domesticate the valley.

However, I think we can estimate a fairly accurate date if we discover pottery or some other household artifact. ”

Lord Hawthorn’s black eyebrows could not have climbed any higher. Without another word, he angled himself at the edge of the hole to better view the newest mosaic. The other men peered at it and exclaimed their surprise.

Mr. Whittle pushed his hat back. “Zounds! Why are there snakes on her head?”

“It’s Medusa,” Abigail said in a smug tone, raising her chin.

Mr. Whittle blinked at her, then at me. “Medusa?”

“In other words, a troublesome woman, Mr. Whittle.” The new lord slanted me a wry look before turning his attention to the other men to explain the mosaic. “A very troublesome woman, should you cross her path, who will turn your heart into stone.”

I inhaled sharply. He reminded me of the letter hiding in my desk from the Society of Dilettanti. Full of condescending assurance. But at least he knew something of Roman mythology.

Regardless, I kept my voice light. “Lord Hawthorn, may we continue excavating? I believe we are standing on top of the vast grounds of a palace likely extending into your property. The findings ought to be published in antiquity journals across Europe. In fact, I suspect the Romans quarried the stones used to build your abbey.”

I braced myself for an immediate dismissal, but he unfolded those massive arms and stepped closer until I caught a whiff of sandalwood and leather. “If you are asking me permission for access to my property, how large are you assuming the site to be?”

Expecting dismissal, my jaw dropped at his question.

“Some Roman villas were as vast as forty thousand square feet, like Sicily’s Villa Romana del Casale, known for its elaborate mosaics.

And Nero’s Golden House, while once covering about three hundred acres in grounds, enclosed a substantial space with its sprawling, frescoed rooms. To think that Mr. Perry stumbled across this with his plow”—I brushed aside an annoying strand of hair determined to blow across my mouth, which drew the lordship’s flinty inspection to that area, making me almost lose my train of thought—“it’s a-a rare gift for our valley.

Did you know that the artists Raphael and Michelangelo crawled underground in the shafts in Rome to study Nero’s palace?

Their discoveries changed the world of antiquity.

“I believe Mr. Perry’s find will do the same.

But to ensure that, we need to buy a wagon, horses, and perhaps hire a night guard.

Treasure seekers swarmed Fishbourne six years ago after a similar discovery.

If we continue the dig, the rewards could be astounding.

Bramnor might even host tours, allowing the public to view the mosaics.

It would be a tragedy to keep such a prestigious find hidden.

We have so much to uncover about the Romans. Who knows what secrets we’ll discover?”

I stopped to catch my breath, and a muscle in Lord Hawthorn’s jaw jumped. Was that a spark of interest in his eyes?

“How long to complete such a dig?”

An intelligent question, and one that encouraged me considerably.

“It’s hard to ascertain. One year. Three years. Perhaps more. It all depends on what we unearth. Of course, there might be nothing more than a few mosaics on Mr. Perry’s land.”

He shoved a hand through his midnight hair, which remained shorn as befitting a military man. “Miss Littleton, as intriguing as your proposal sounds, I have other plans for my estate. Plans that will bring a reliable income to the valley.”

A vein throbbed in my temple. Surely, I could somehow save this unraveling situation.

“Aye, the Good Lord made these fields to be planted and this grass above for sheep,” Mr. Whittle interjected as he jammed his thick hands into his coat pockets and rocked on his heels.

“And for orchards and rye. Not for jabbing around in the dirt for a bit of tile. Don’t you be pestering his lordship with such fangled notions, miss.

The lordship has only just returned, and he’s got more than enough to deal with at the moment. ”

“Your lordship.” I drew out the title as carefully as I could. “My proposal will bring excellent income for all involved. I only need permission to explore further. With the right benefactor to fund the project, and I’m certain you are the—”

“No.”

His blunt answer sliced me to the quick.

“No?”

Instead of answering, he turned and motioned for the men to return with him. “Check the borders of the property, Mr. Spencer, and be certain that we possess this section. Otherwise, we are finished here.”

Mr. Spencer’s mouth curved in the most unpleasant manner. “Miss Perry, you run along and tell your father to keep to his side. I’ve warned your family before, and we’ll not do it again. Not unless you want the full force of the law pressing down on you.”

Abigail cried out, but desperation propelled me forward to follow the new viscount. I had no trouble keeping up with his uneven stride as he reached the great onyx horse, who waited patiently. I withheld a shiver as I approached. I’d hated horses since that awful accident with my brother.

As Lord Hawthorn swung himself into the saddle, whatever pity I might have felt for his injury dissipated at the coldness in his manner.

“Please, sir, imagine the accolades and national interest you would achieve!”

He leaned over, his saddle creaking, affording me a view of his eyes. Not the hue of ebony as I had assumed last twilight, but polished mahogany gleaming in the sunlight, and just as hard. Each word was enunciated with exaggerated care.

“Miss Littleton, I do not want acclaim. Nor do I want my land crawling with greedy men. I want to—how is it you so delicately put it?—be an improvement and tend to my community’s needs. I suggest you stay on your side of the fence from hence forth.”

With that curt answer, he bent low and muttered a curse, then urged his horse to gallop. Speechless, I could only gape at his flight and flair for dramatics.

“A vicar’s daughter ought to be visiting the sick.

” Mr. Whittle shook his head, tsk-tsking and drawing my attention away from the lord.

“She ought to be in service to her community, not running around chasing after buried rubble and childish notions.” He grabbed his reins and tried to place his foot in the stirrup, albeit far less gracefully than his lord had done only moments before.

The bay horse edged forward, leaving him to hop with it.

He finally swung himself onto the saddle with a loud plunk as Mr. Spencer followed suit on the other horse.

Mr. Whittle tipped his hat, his mouth curved into an amused line.

“Many plans are in play, miss. Oh yes, you’ll see soon enough.

Our viscount will be the one to make things right again within our valley.

Don’t be pestering for money or wagons and taking men from their work because of foolish dreams. It won’t do. Not at all.”

I threw up my hands in disgust as they left. Instead of impressing the viscount, I had further bungled my case.

Abigail chewed her bottom lip, her arms folded across her middle, appearing like a chastened child. “That went rather...”

“Abysmally,” I supplied as I descended once more into the pit to retrieve my tools. I slid them into my pocket and motioned for her to assist me.

“Er, yes.” She eyed me with dismay, then held out one calloused hand and then the other, and with the most unladylike grunt, pulled me up onto the level ground.

To assist her, I jammed my foot into the soaked dirt and heaved myself out, a disheveled, sweating mess, revealing plenty of ankle and ruining my stockings.

Meanwhile, my heart sank. I had utterly failed in my quest.

I might have bluestocking tendencies, but even I knew a lady had only one opportunity to impress, whether on the ballroom floor or amid a farmer’s mucky field.

As Abigail and I gathered our tools, frustration welled inside me.

We had no choice but to stop for now—at least until we heard back from the Society of Antiquaries.

Then, perhaps, we’d have the ammunition to defy Lord Hawthorn.