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The necessity of circumstances proves friends and detects enemies.

EPICTETUS

Three days later, I visited Abigail at her cottage to ask after her health and to see if I could persuade her to accompany me to view Lord Hawthorn’s mosaics. I dreaded offending her, but I could hardly go alone.

To my shock, and with hardly any persuasion, she changed her morning dress and joined me, her attitude a far cry from what it was on my previous visit. In fact, she seemed in such good spirits, I could only wonder at her change of heart regarding a visit to Lord Hawthorn.

When I asked her, she merely winked. “Perhaps I need to keep an eye on the competition. Let us see how impressive Lord Hawthorn’s mosaics really are. You don’t think he’ll open a tourist center, do you? Papa wondered if we could charge per guest next year.”

“A wonderful plan.” I nodded. “The mosaics could bring a steady income for years.”

She brightened considerably at my agreement, and I was glad to have my friend back. However, I noticed she carried no extra handkerchiefs within her reticule. Nor did she appear to suffer from a fever. A swift recovery by all appearances, but I was relieved for it.

I longed to share the latest news regarding my brother and to find assurance that my trials would resolve in the end, but Abigail filled the silent spaces of our walk with constant chatter regarding the town, Mr. Cording’s failing attempt to court her, and the other young men who begged her to save a dance for them at the upcoming May festival.

I stifled my own thoughts, my nods perfunctory.

“Your attention is drifting like a dandelion puff, Bridget. Did you hear a word I said?” Abigail demanded as she pushed back the brim of her straw hat to view me better.

“Plenty of men wish to dance with you. Yes, I heard you, and I heartily agree that you should set your sights on none of them. Let them play the role of the noble knight and woo you so thoroughly you’ll have no regrets if you do marry this year.”

She laughed, the sound bright and tinkling. “How romantic you sound.”

Romance was the furthest thing from my mind, even if a certain man had accused me of such fancies.

Ahead, the great stone abbey waited against a brilliant blue sky—a sky far too cheerful for ghosts and family curses. I found my steps quickening, forcing Abigail to keep pace with me. I knocked the door rapper, but no one came to greet us for several minutes.

At last, just as Abigail and I were about to turn for home, the grand door opened. Mr. Whittle admitted us into the hall, his expression harried.

“Forgive my delay,” Mr. Whittle whispered, ushering us inside as he shut the door. His worn livery jacket pinched at the seams. “The viscount is meeting with the constable.”

Mr. Whittle might hold the title for the most inappropriate butler in all of England, but I could not fault his concern for Lord Hawthorn.

“We’ve come to examine the gladiator mosaics in further detail. Lord Hawthorn invited me to do so,” I replied.

Mr. Whittle nodded, already distracted. Voices rose within the drawing room to the left of the spacious hall.

I recognized Constable Wickham’s nasal tone. “Are you quite certain it’s from the Roman era? Sounds rather convenient, don’t you think? A man buries an unwanted child out in the trees.”

“Are you suggesting foul play on my land?” Lord Hawthorn’s voice deepened.

“You must admit the finding is most unusual,” the constable retorted.

Abigail grasped my arm and shook it, her eyes wide as we waited in the quiet hall, forced to eavesdrop. Mr. Whittle, poor man, cleared his throat.

My thoughts, however, remained with the viscount. How easily I could imagine his eyes flashing with anger at the constable’s insinuations.

“Allow me to speak with Constable Wickham,” I urged Mr. Whittle while gesturing to the closed door of the drawing room. “We can put this investigation to rest.”

A moment later, Mr. Whittle announced me into the drawing room. Both men glanced at me with surprise.

“Forgive my intrusion, Lord Hawthorn, but you offered me the opportunity to look over the Roman child and the gladiator mosaics.”

Constable Wickham scowled while Lord Hawthorn inhaled deeply, his nostrils flaring. The high color in his cheeks receded when he nodded.

“Of course. Constable Wickham was just leaving.”

The constable, a small man with greasy blond hair and a shabby coat, stretched to his full height. “Let us not be too hasty. I must take the body with me and make a full report to the magistrate.”

Lord Hawthorn’s jaw jumped—a reaction I was beginning to recognize.

“There is no need for such action,” I said quickly.

“You will rob the British Museum of one of the greatest findings in our country’s history.

Why, I found an ancient figurine buried with the child.

A doll with Greek inscriptions, no less.

I assure you, the Society of Antiquaries will want to see the evidence for themselves first. They have the patronage of the king. ”

Constable Wickham gaped, his eyes bulging.

“The king,” I repeated slowly for his benefit.

The constable, now flustered, hastened to assure me that he would not incur the wrath of His Majesty. I hid my smile, but Lord Hawthorn was not so discreet. His cheek dimpled when he locked gazes with me. Amusement chased away the ire in his eyes.

As the thoroughly chastened constable left, Lord Hawthorn tilted close to me, his warm breath tickling my ear. “You are indeed a force to be reckoned with.”

This time, I could not hide my smile.