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Prosperity is a restless thing; it drives itself to distraction. It addles the brain, and not always in the same way, for it goads people in different directions—some toward power, others toward self-indulgence.

SENECA

Later that morning, Mr. Archibald Harrington arrived.

His white hair was tied back, and though his coat and breeches were proper, it was his sturdy laced boots that caught my eye.

I had expected an athletic man, but Mr. Harrington appeared to be an apple with a barrel chest and spindly legs and the roundest face I had ever seen.

I longingly regarded his boots, so different from a pair of polished Hessians.

Mrs. Herriot rolled her eyes when she caught my glance at his footwear.

We went to Mr. Perry’s field, where I pointed out the sections, including the missing Bacchus.

“A terrible misfortune to lose such a valuable piece,” Mr. Harrington said as he stroked his chin.

“Your drawings at least give us some idea of what the mosaic looked like. I agree with you, wholeheartedly, Miss Littleton, that the Medusa is most unusual. Was this a portrait of the domina ? Or someone who might have been... ah... ah... a meretrix ?”

A mistress. Apparently, Mr. Harrington didn’t realize the extent of my Latin. Equally apparent was that the Roman wealthy didn’t differ much from the wilder ton, who aped the Prince Regent with his list of torrid affairs.

Within the hour, Mr. Harrington had marched across the field correcting my views on third-century Rome, regardless of what I showed him. Even my ideas of the owner were soundly rebuffed.

“No. Not a farmer, Miss Littleton. No farmer, no matter how wealthy, could afford such artistry as we see with the mosaics. I suggest we confine our search to the upper echelon.”

He corrected how we dug, suggesting we mark the land with ropes, sectioning off squares to examine and unearth one at a time.

And, of course, despite his enthusiasm for my notes and sketches, which he boldly critiqued and praised in equal turns, he recoiled when he witnessed Mr. Perry attacking the soil with a shovel.

A cracking sounded as Mr. Perry heaved the shovel full into the ground.

“Upon my word, sir! Nothing will be left!” Mr. Harrington motioned for my brush with impatient fingers. I handed it to him. He eased onto the dirt beside the mound.

“Basket!” he all but barked, and Abigail scurried to retrieve it.

After scooping up the soil, he carefully sifted it back and forth, allowing the finest particles to escape. Then, with the greatest care, as if he performed surgery, he brushed a strange piece. Pinching it between his fingers, he laughed as he held it up for us to see.

“Ah!” he cried. “Ah! By Jove!”

We had dug for weeks and found only mosaics and pottery. Mr. Perry shrugged when he met my incredulous gaze. He wiped one filthy hand across his sweating brow, leaving streaks behind.

“I see nothing to get excited about,” Mr. Perry said wryly.

“Indeed, it’s a clump of dirt at first glance.

” Mr. Harrington frowned as he removed a white handkerchief from his coat and gently polished the piece before holding it up again.

“It’s a gold ring, with a seal, no less.

I see a man’s face with a laurel wrapped around it.

Could this be the portrait of the owner of the villa? Or is this the god Bacchus?”

He carefully deposited the ring into my gloved hands. I immediately spied similar features from the mosaic. The god of vice and revelry.

“Gladiators and Bacchus. I daresay this villa saw a fair amount of wine and fighting and, likely, pretty women.” He flushed. “Pardon my language. In my excitement, I quite forgot about the ladies.”

Mr. Perry snickered, hiding his mirth behind a grimy fist.

“There’s more to discover,” I added, suddenly chilled by the thought of gladiators and women and the little child hidden beneath the twisted roots of the apple grove. “I’d really like your opinion on a grave site that was discovered on Lord Hawthorn’s land.”

He arched a bushy eyebrow, seeming torn between excavating the mound before us and investigating yet another site.

“We found the bones of a child buried with a doll the length of my hand near the Hawthorn orchard. I’ll see if we can arrange a visit with Lord Hawthorn as soon as possible.”

Mr. Harrington blinked. “That is strange to discover a child buried with a toy. And most un-Roman. How soon can I meet this Lord Hawthorn?”

We returned to the parsonage, my heart beating fast with triumph since the secretary of the Society of Antiquaries said he would write his colleagues this evening.

His enthusiasm seemed a near guarantee of the fifty pounds to be awarded to the best research.

Even with the magnificent Bacchus mosaic stolen, plenty remained to entice Mr. Harrington.

He took the gold ring to the guest room and proclaimed he would inspect it further, having brought a suitcase of his own utensils.

I went to change my dress, my spirits high.

Mr. Harrington hinted that I might write a paper on the riches of Bramnor for Archeologia , along with my illustrations of the mosaics.

But my jaw truly dropped when he casually asked if I could present my findings to the Society of Antiquaries, hinting at a permanent position as a researcher and illustrator to the tune of forty to sixty pounds per year.

Mind you, our current illustrator is retiring thanks to his eyesight. You will not earn his one hundred pounds per year. At least, not until you gain fame, he’d warned me.

As if he even needed to ask about my interest in such a proposition. My heart soared at the request I had pined for. Hope had never felt so real and tangible.

If only Daniel could stay safe and well within the hulk.

I slipped into a new chemise while Molly opened my armoire, removing one of the most overtly feminine gowns I owned. A pure confection of lace and froth, beribboned with a contrasting sapphire blue.

With my hair redone and ribboned, I descended the stairs with my tin box in hand, the Roman doll safely nestled inside. I ground to a halt at the sight of two strangers waiting in my drawing room.

The first man stood by the fireplace, his back to me.

He wore a crimson superfine coat with a black collar high enough to brush against white-gold hair, breeches of the palest cream, and a pair of tasseled black boots with enough shine to rival my handheld mirror.

The second man, dressed equally well, had brown hair teased into an enormous curl dipping over his forehead.

He wore riding boots with the flat tops turned down to reveal a lighter tan leather with a delicate crest. His silken cravat brushed against his rounded chin.

I clutched the tin to my chest as I stood paralyzed at the entrance.

The first man was not as tall as Rafe, nor as big, but when he turned slowly, I stared into the iciest blue eyes I had ever seen. Handsome didn’t even begin to describe him, but the fine hair on the back of my neck stood on end. It was like having a living Apollo within my drawing room.

“Miss Littleton, I presume,” he drawled.

“Yes, but I fear you have me at a disadvantage, sir. You know my name and I do not know yours.”

“Mr. Thomas Beaumont, at your service.” His thin lips curved in what I could only deem a smile. “This is my friend, Lord Ainsley, the viscount of Harrowby.”

Yet again, I was speechless. A troublesome occurrence as of late.

His smirk deepened as he moved toward me with a careless grace. “You wrote to the Dilettanti, didn’t you? You are that same Miss Littleton who has stirred my fellow members into such a frenzy?”

“Considering the last reply I received from your secretary, I must say I’m rather surprised to see you here at all.”

“Percival has the manners of a pigeon. I apologize for his unacceptable behavior on behalf of the Dilettanti.” He stood close to me, regarding me intently. “I simply couldn’t wait on a matter this important. My carriage traveled faster than courier.”

London remained a day’s travel away. Maybe even a day and a half, if one wanted to rest at an inn. I wasn’t sure what to make of this man’s declaration. My silence seemed to further his intensity.

The second man spoke up. “Perhaps we are too late, Beaumont.” He glanced around the room, unable to hide his disdain, judging from his sneer.

Mr. Beaumont held up a hand to his friend. “Miss Littleton, I am prepared to pay handsomely for your efforts. Name the price for the artifacts and your sketches. All of it.”

I had so longed for this moment, to be pursued and recognized by the best in society, to have my research praised, to be seen , but my spirit rebelled at the offer.

“I have made other arrangements.”

He stood far too close and smelled of Bay Rum. “Who?”

“Really, it is too late for your concern, sir.”

“I doubt that,” he said, his eyes flashing. “I’ve made an offer to Mr. Perry to purchase his farm. Whether you give me your sketches is irrelevant. I can always find another artist. However, if you have anything of value, I will purchase it.”

A sense of helplessness suffused me. If Mr. Perry sold the field, all would be lost.

Mr. Beaumont studied me as if to decode the emotions no doubt flashing across my face. “In fact, Lord Hawthorn wrote me regarding his property several weeks prior.”

Surely the news was a lie, but the triumphant smile on Mr. Beaumont’s face proved that I was wrong. Nausea swept through me, rending me dizzy.

Footsteps echoed heavily and Mr. Harrington burst through the doors with a small object pinched between his stout fingers.

“My dear, this stone is astounding. I must share it with you—” He paused mid-step when he saw the young man standing too close for my comfort. I inched backward.

“Mr. Beaumont, what—what a surprise.” Mr. Harrington lowered his hand. He curled his finger around the ring and tucked it into a pocket. “What brings you here?”

“Is it such a surprise, Mr. Harrington? You didn’t think we Dilettanti would let the society corner all the adventure, now did you? Miss Littleton has invited both of us to examine her magnificent mosaics.”

Mr. Harrington’s mouth rounded as if I had denied him my dance card and relegated him solely to obtaining lemonade on my behalf while I flirted with a better suitor.

I felt the weight of both men pinning me with their gazes. “It’s true. I sent word to both societies, hoping to invite their interest. However, thanks to Mr. Harrington’s swift and enthusiastic response, I have no need for two sponsors.”

The room grew quiet with only the sound of the logs cracking in the fireplace to distract from the mounting tension. Mr. Harrington smiled triumphantly while Mr. Beaumont appeared to be cast in iron. He did not even blink.

“Mr. Beaumont, you must understand my decision. The Society of Antiquaries answered my letter first and promised to send their secretary at their nearest convenience.”

Mr. Harrington exhaled, his relief palpable. I refrained from reminding the Apollo that I had sent not one but three letters to the Dilettanti.

A long pause followed before Mr. Beaumont pivoted toward his rival. “Congratulations are in order to Mr. Harrington and his society.”

He tilted his head in my direction. “And congratulations to you, Miss Littleton.”

“A shame you made the trip and now must return.” Mr. Harrington sounded cheerful. He slid his hand into his pocket, where the ring hid.

Mr. Beaumont shrugged. “On the contrary. I intend to enjoy all that Bramnor offers before I end my stay.”

“I must warn of the inns,” I protested, hoping to deter him. “They are not fit for refined travelers.”

He brushed past me, the visit apparently over.

“So I have heard. Not to worry, Miss Littleton, I have engaged in the hospitality of Lord Hawthorn. I understand he, too, has mosaics equally as impressive as yours.”