Page 32

Without a ruler to do it against, you can’t make crooked straight.

SENECA

Early on a Saturday morning, as the sun crested over the valley, I raced Chaucer outside the abbey, letting him stretch into a full gallop.

The rosy hues of the morning sky chased away my worries.

Two letters recently delivered, both equally disturbing, had driven me to seek solace in the fresh air of the countryside.

The letter from my barrister was direct:

My buyer, Mr. Beaumont, insists on meeting in two days to assess the abbey’s antiques and the gladiator mosaics. All of London speaks of Hawthorn Abbey.

The attached clips from The Times , Monthly Meteor , and The Observer included details about the child’s remains and the salacious history of my family.

I should have been grateful Mr. Beaumont even wanted to meet with me.

Any entrance into polite society, regardless of my rank, was forever closed, thanks to the scandal sheets.

I would continue to pay for the sins of my father and the unforgivable crime of being a gentleman reduced to a trade.

Was there nothing I could do to redeem my name?

The second letter hit harder.

My military colleague wrote to me far quicker than I had expected.

Daniel Littleton is gravely ill aboard the hulk. They won’t commute his sentence. A school of vice is no straightforward thing to escape. If he doesn’t receive aid, he will be dead if he stays longer than a year, regardless of his trial’s outcome.

A sleepless night of tossing and turning had brought a pounding to my temples not even fresh air could chase away.

This was not the news I wanted to share with Miss Littleton.

It seemed I would have no choice but to be the bearer of ill tidings.

Daniel’s plight far overshadowed my ever-tightening purse.

I could ill afford to send aid to him. A groan escaped me.

I still needed to make money to cover the mounting costs.

I didn’t even want to think about repairing the abbey following the hailstorm.

Progress seemed more elusive the harder I strained for it.

I had no choice but to welcome this mysterious Mr. Beaumont and allow him access to Hawthorn Abbey’s treasures.

But if I granted him access to the gladiator mosaic, what might Bridget think?

Chaucer galloped past the newly planted orchard, allowing me a glimpse of the battered saplings while I tried to sort my turbulent thoughts.

My thoughts drifted to her, wondering if she thought of me. I could never forget her sketch.

Is this how you see me?

If I hadn’t known better, I might have assumed, nay, hoped something more lay within her fascination. I was not an artist, yet neither could I shake the image of her from my mind’s eye. How was it that in such a short period I had found myself bewitched with her? But what I wanted was irrelevant.

I returned my attention to the nature surrounding me while muttering a prayer for guidance. I had no idea how to fix the muddled mess of my life, nor that of Daniel. Nor my tenants. The more I tried to repair things, the worse the situations grew.

A horse nickered in the morning hush. Chaucer perked his ears, indicating that I had not imagined the sound.

Reining him in, I studied the ruined orchard as the cool wind rustled through the saplings.

Dawn crept slowly over the fields and the stone walls lining part of the southern field—stones Bridget claimed were taken from the Roman villa.

A figure rose from the Bacchus mosaic with a satchel, staring at me. Hat low, his features remained indistinct. Mr. Perry? I raised my hand in greeting just as the man whistled and sprinted across the grass. Chaucer snorted at an answering nicker. Perry wouldn’t flee. Treasure hunters?

I leaned into Chaucer, and with the press of my knees, he broke into a gallop while the stranger, sensing danger, threw himself onto his own creature and darted east, in the direction of Bramnor.

Chaucer needed no encouragement to take up the chase. As a war horse, he itched for battle, and with a whinny of triumph, his hooves ate up the ground beneath us. We pursued until the stranger disappeared into a copse of trees and we lost him.

When I returned to Mr. Perry’s field, the canvases normally pinned to protect the floor beneath had been pulled back to reveal a gaping hole within the moist dirt.

I halted Chaucer and dismounted. There, within the pit, lay a scattering of stones and tile and dirt. A curse escaped me. Bacchus’s impudent grin no longer greeted me.

Someone had stolen the face of the fallen god.