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Two are better than one; because they have a good reward for their labour. For if they fall, the one will lift up his fellow: but woe to him that is alone when he falleth; for he hath not another to help him up.

On the morning we expected the society visit, Father frowned as he reviewed the proposed menu over breakfast porridge. “A country vicar should operate within his budget,” he protested. Mrs. Herriot and I had settled on consommé, roasted turkey, and custard tarts for dinner that evening.

“It is the Society of Antiquaries. King George’s scholars. Surely, we can do more,” Mrs. Herriot retorted.

Father stood firm, and I knew we would lose the battle. “I am a vicar, not an earl. Why shouldn’t boiled potatoes be sufficient as a side?”

Mrs. Herriot groaned while I swallowed a chuckle.

Boiled potatoes, it was.

“At least dress the part instead of this...” Mrs. Herriot made it a point to study my puce muslin gown. She waved a dismissive hand, as if description of the blandness of my attire had rendered her speechless.

“Don’t worry, I won’t look like a dusty scholar,” I assured her.

After she left, Father arched his eyebrows.

“Really, Bridget, this entire situation is getting out of hand. I have no desire to attract the notice of the rector in Chichester, and I fear this excavation and the rumors surrounding it will prove unbearable if the Reverend Nathanial Pritchard gets wind of it.”

I could only agree. I had no use for overly pious men who were only concerned with their outward appearance. Any plans I had for the morning collapsed when Molly announced a caller.

“A gentleman to see you and your father, miss—though I must say, he doesn’t look the sort to be easily put off by boiled potatoes.”

I had settled at my desk in the parlor and shifted through sheets of pottery shard sketches. The sound of footsteps grew closer. I stood so quickly I nearly knocked over my inkwell.

Lord Hawthorn stood in my parlor.

The news of the theft took the wind out of my sails. I paced the room while Lord Hawthorn watched me. Father had joined us and sat on the settee opposite of mine.

My pulse skittered. “Bacchus was taken?”

“Someone cut out the face and stole it. I saw a figure out in the field early this morning, just at dawn. At first, I assumed it was Mr. Perry, but the man fled on horseback. When I went to inspect the site, I spied the damage. I’ve sent word to our constable,” Lord Hawthorn said.

He stood by the fireplace, one hand resting on the mantle.

I resumed pacing. If I didn’t stop, I would soon wear a hole in the carpet.

I forced myself to sink onto the settee. I wanted nothing more than to cover my face with my hands. All that hard work ruined, and right before the secretary of the Society of Antiquaries came to inspect the site. What if the thief ruined the mosaics in his haste to escape?

“And the other mosaics?” My voice cracked in the most undignified manner, and I turned to stare out the window.

“They appeared to be intact.”

A rustle sounded as he sat down beside me, and the settee cushion sank beneath his weight. His presence felt solid, his leg brushing against my gown.

Forcing my clenched fingers to relax, I dared to look at him. How close we sat. I could see the flecks of amber in his eyes. No longer quite so hard. Nor so cold.

In fact... I averted my gaze and inhaled deeply.

“He simply rode away with Bacchus?”

His voice was steady. “I suspect he had a wagon and help overnight. I wonder if he returned this morning to seek something else. Maybe something smaller.”

“Could it be one of your men?” I asked as I shifted ever so slightly to offset the warmth emanating from his presence.

As if sensing the same nearness, he edged away. “I’d hate to think so. But if that is the case, they will regret touching one tile.”

“Mr. Cobb showed quite an interest in Mr. Perry’s field,” Father said.

“The day we left the abbey, he stormed up to my chaise, sour faced, asking for compensation to dig with them. When Bridget said it wouldn’t be much, he retracted.

He clearly expected something more substantial, likely hoping to profit from the discovery. His disappointment was obvious.”

“Mr. Cobb,” Rafe repeated quietly, turning his attention from Father to me. “Has he bothered you?”

A simple question, but one laced with an undertone of threat to Mr. Cobb should he overstep his bounds.

I had always suspected Rafe would be a formidable opponent if crossed.

I had no other protector in my life and had discovered a measure of independence.

Yet I couldn’t deny a small traitorous thought circling in the back of my mind of how nice it would be to have such protection.

“No, he hasn’t. Of course, there was also Mr. Barron, who insisted on supporting us a few weeks prior. But I suspect his interest leans more toward my friend.”

Rafe scowled, his brows drawing down into a fearsome V.

“You will inform me if any of them trouble you again. Or anyone else, for that matter.”

I clasped my fingers together before they betrayed my nervousness. “Who do you think stole the mosaic?”

“Considering the rubbish that was printed in the London papers, anyone.” Again, the muscle ticked in his jaw.

“Mr. Perry wanted to hire the Dixon boys to guard the site,” I said, then hastened to add when a thunderous expression crossed his face, “Oh, they couldn’t be responsible for the loss. They’re simply too young and—”

“Immature,” he supplied dryly. “It’s likely they went home after working and climbed into the comfort of their own beds. I will speak with them as soon as I can.”

I shifted on the couch, all too aware of how constrained our space was and how close we sat together. “About the newspapers, I want to assure you I had nothing to do with those dreadful stories regarding the gladiator mosaic, nor the child.”

“I didn’t think you had,” he said evenly.

A strange relief flooded me. He had once asked me if we were to be friends, and I now felt that regard keenly. In truth, I did not keep many friends. Many acquaintances, yes, but few who truly understood me.

Father’s voice broke into my thoughts. “He that loveth silver shall not be satisfied with silver; nor he that loveth abundance with increase: this is also vanity.”

I recognized the quote from Ecclesiastes chapter five, verse ten—likely one he now contemplated for Sunday’s sermon.

“It’s a temptation, no doubt,” Rafe agreed. “Two things drive a man to reprehensible behavior. Temptation and desperation.”

He spoke as someone who had been seared by experience.

“Don’t forget pride,” Father said, with a wry tilt to his lips. “I should think the original sin counts for much of our devastation.”

“Pride, desperation, temptation, and all other philosophical or theological remarks aside, we must prepare because more hunters will flock to the dig, circling like a pack of crows. I can’t bear the thought of Mr. Perry losing his farm,” I added.

“The real question is who is responsible,” Father said as he pushed his glasses up the bony bridge of his nose.

None of us had answers.

“I’ll send men, not callow youths, to watch over your dig,” Rafe promised. “And I’ll monitor things myself as much as I can.”

“But what if there is danger?”

He offered a grim smile in reply.

I had forgotten that a hardened soldier, even a wounded one, still had fight left within him.

Then a long breath escaped him. “I wish that was all I had to share with you. I wrote a colleague of mine, one with connections to the Navy. It appears your brother is gravely ill.”

Rafe’s words hit me with the force of a blow. Daniel, gravely ill. My mind raced, the room spinning as I processed the news.

“Can we not free him?” I managed to whisper, though my heart was already sinking.

Father struggled to rise from the settee, his face as pale as parchment. His movements were slow, his hand gripping the mantel for support. “My poor son. I must go to him at once and procure a physician,” he murmured, his voice cracking under the weight of emotion.

I felt the pull of duty toward my brother—the desperate urge to rush to his side, to do something, anything to help him.

Yet the urgency of the mosaic tugged at me, refusing to let go.

Could I abandon the work that could bring much-needed funding and stability?

The two burdens warred within me, twisting my emotions into knots.

Rafe’s voice broke through my turmoil. “You will not be granted entrance into that hulk even if Daniel languishes,” he said gently, his expression stricken. “I’m afraid all we can do is wait for further news. I’m truly sorry.”

The apology hung in the air, heavy with regret. He stood to match me, rising from the low settee, and I caught the brief flicker of discomfort that crossed his face as he steadied himself. His leg must still ache from his injury, yet he never complained.

Instinctively, my hand reached out, as though I could offer him the support he had so freely promised me.

But just before our fingers could touch, I hesitated, drawing back.

The moment between us lingered—charged with concern and something deeper, something unspoken.

His presence so close to mine, his breath warm against my forehead, stirred an unsettling sensation within me.

His height loomed over me, the stark mismatch between us all the more evident in that moment of proximity. I let my gaze drift over his features—the crooked nose, the set jaw, the dark eyes that seemed to bore into mine with tenderness I hadn’t expected.

Rafe cleared his throat, and I pulled back, my knees weakening the longer I stood near him.

“Vicar, I will do everything within my power to assist you and Miss Littleton,” he said, his tone measured but sincere. He glanced toward me as he spoke, and I couldn’t help but feel that promise extended far beyond words.

Father thanked him, and I walked with Rafe to the door. As he paused, his hand resting on the handle, his gaze softened.

“I will do what I can for your brother,” he repeated, his voice quiet.

Tears stung my eyes, but I blinked them back. Despite the destruction of the orchard and Mr. Talbot’s visit, Rafe had remembered Daniel and sought to help.

“Thank you, Rafe,” I whispered, catching my mistake as his dark eyes flared. “L-Lord Hawthorn, I mean. Forgive me—”

“No,” he interrupted, his voice holding a note of surprise. “I much prefer the former. If you’re willing... Bridget.”

He said my name almost like a caress, and I felt the flutter of something dangerously close to yearning. But his next words rooted me in reality.

“Promise me you’ll call for me if trouble arises? Please, do not take matters into your own hands, no matter how capable you are. I won’t see you come to any harm.”

A calm settled over me at his promise. No one, other than my mother, had ever watched over me.

Not Father, who needed more care than he could give, and not Daniel, whose reckless choices had led to his imprisonment.

I had always been the one watching out for others.

And yet, here was Rafe, promising to look after me.

My mouth must have moved of its own accord, forming words I wasn’t entirely conscious of.

After Rafe bid me farewell, I resumed my pacing, feeling trapped between the weight of Daniel’s fate and the looming disaster of the theft.

The mosaic work needed my attention, but how could I think of that when my brother lay ill?

I halted near the window, watching as Rafe mounted his horse. How capable he seemed, how determined. He had suffered losses, yet he remained formidable—strong in ways I admired. Could I really live my life alone, facing these battles without someone by my side?

“Whatever are you staring out the window for, Bridget? You won’t spy any thieves during this hour of the day,” Father protested as he stepped away from the fireplace.

A thrill rippled through me when the horse and master galloped away. Never had Father and I needed an ally so much as in this moment.

Father joined me at the window to see what I was staring at. He pushed again on his spectacles. “Oh.”