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Lord Ainsley’s smile also disappeared. “Beaumont’s father is in the House of Commons. One must be careful not to endanger the family name. Besides, his blessed mother desires one son enter the clergy.”

“I’m not a pious man by any means.” Mr. Beaumont offered a rakish smile. Lucy had stepped in to deliver the creamy syllabub. His gaze wandered all over her and her golden curls as if she were the luscious treat instead of the sherry dessert she set before him.

“You live well enough in the country, I daresay,” he murmured after she blushed and smiled. “I should like to explore the abbey and see this infamous apple orchard of yours. Perhaps you and I can come to an agreement that is mutually beneficial.”

I remained silent, even if he offered what I most desired. If I was to rescue my investment and protect my tenants, I had no choice but to investigate all possible options of reviving my estate and recovering the loss of the apples.

But I would speak later with Mr. Whittle and advise him to keep his daughter occupied elsewhere for the duration of the visit.

My guests refused the offer of port and cigars, instead insisting upon viewing the orchard and the gladiators.

Wind whistled through the twisted trees as we walked, and the remaining sun, a glorious display of fire, reached the tips of the damaged branches.

We had minutes at best before twilight would envelop the countryside.

When I began sharing my plans for the abbey, Lord Ainsley stifled a yawn.

“This child you discovered, when may I review the find?” Mr. Beaumont interrupted my description of the brewery as we followed the new lane skirting the trees, a lane that needed to extend another two miles toward Bramnor and Chichester.

My skin pebbled, and it had nothing to do with the brisk wind blowing across the valley.

“I have given the remains to Mr. Harrington. He believes the child to be Roman.” For some reason, I felt compelled not to mention the ivory doll, nor that I had entrusted it to Bridget.

“Harrington says this?” Mr. Beaumont looked unconvinced as he pulled out a lacquered box of snuff as pretty as a confection.

“Miss Littleton, actually, and Harrington agreed.” How easily I pictured her sitting on the settee within her drawing room when learning of the Bacchus theft, her eyes shimmering with wetness and her hands clasped tightly in her lap.

“Blazes, you believed her?” Mr. Beaumont rubbed a finger underneath his nose before the box disappeared into his coat pocket.

“Of course, a body tucked away within an orchard wouldn’t be the Christian thing.

Yes, I think I would much prefer Miss Littleton’s explanation if I were in your shoes.

Otherwise, you’d have a calumny on your hands. ”

Lord Ainsley glanced around the orchard. “Wasn’t there a rumor about your uncle? What was it, Beaumont? Help me remember.”

Mr. Beaumont smiled again, but it did not reach his eyes. “A murder. Quite delicious and clandestine. Your father, I believe. Didn’t he die?”

I dreaded the line of questioning, but I couldn’t avoid it forever. “My father was murdered at an inn just outside of Aldwick. A stable hand, Ethan Hake, found himself hanged for it.”

Ainsley and Beaumont gaped at me. I forced my features to appear impassive.

“Forgive our curiosity. We have no desire to offend you,” Lord Ainsley admitted. “It’s a curious affair.”

Mr. Beaumont hurried to add, “Regardless, it is most unfortunate Miss Littleton ruined the site. Harrington ought to take it off her hands. I offered to buy her research. She refused, the gall! I hope Mr. Perry will have the sense to reconsider my offer by morning.”

“You wish to buy Perry’s farm?” I asked, curious now. As the second son, Mr. Beaumont might be privy to a handsome allowance, but to make offers on my property and Perry’s was extraordinary. “How will you arrange the funds for such an acquisition?”

I must have probed too deeply since he halted mid-step before recovering swiftly. He glanced at me with another smirk. “I have my methods. I can be persuasive when the occasion calls for it.”

“He jests,” Lord Ainsley protested. “The Dilettanti are sixty brothers strong. We will all put in notes if need be. It’s long been our rule to fund antiquities expeditions and publish our findings in scholarly journals.”

“You do not work with the Society of Antiquaries?”

Lord Ainsley shrugged. “Partner with old men confined to their libraries? We prefer the excitement of travel and experiencing exotic locations. We are collectors, in a sense, each vetted via secret ballot votes at Brooks’s. It’s quite a rigorous process to be accepted.”

He did not answer my question, nor did he extend an invitation to join their group. Not that I would have wanted to, even if Brooks’s remained one of the most exclusive memberships for gentlemen. I understood even a few dukes attended.

Misgivings swirled within me when I showed them the gladiator mosaic. They muttered over it, walking back and forth, their boots noiseless against the fresh grass sprouting anew.

“Eh gad, but I would like to have bet on one of these fighters. Imagine them hacking at each other in the arena, hoping to cheat death!” Lord Ainsley practically glowed as he stared at the half naked forms of two men grappling with each other.

Neither man knelt on the ground like Bridget had. And their inspection took only a few moments, unlike hers.

On our walk back to the abbey, Mr. Beaumont kept pace with me.

“I admire what you are doing for the abbey. I want to help any way that I can, but I can’t throw money into ventures such as cider presses with no return.

I need to see a guaranteed outcome. Of course, I’ll take your Ming vases and the tapestries, but it’s the mosaic I want.

I’m prepared to pay handsomely for it. I suggest you take the funds and rebuild your land. ”

“I could also show you the brewery as a potential investment in the years to come—”

He raised a hand, the fingers lily white. “The mosaics, Lord Hawthorn. All of them. As much as I appreciate a stout drink, I want access to your orchard for what lies beneath. Once I purchase Perry’s land, I’ll be able to excavate the entire villa.”

“What of Miss Littleton? She was the first to document the findings. I believe all she wants is the recognition for her scholastic achievement. Will you allow her to continue to work with you?”

As soon as the challenge left my mouth, I despised the idea of her working so closely with Beaumont. However, she had admitted that she needed the Dilettanti or the Society of Antiquaries. Was partnership with them truly what she wanted?

“No one will take her seriously. If I present her findings to the society, what then? I will be the laughingstock before all the men.”

“What about the Society of Antiquaries?”

He waved aside the notion as if it were a bothersome fly. “Mr. Harrington can’t do much if he doesn’t purchase the farm first. The key to the dilemma is Mr. Perry. Not Miss Littleton, nor Mr. Harrington.”

Lord Ainsley watched me keenly. “If need be, we could rent the field at a generous price. Perhaps even the entire estate. You could leave the countryside and set up anywhere you preferred. London. The continent.”

“Or sell it,” Mr. Beaumont added. “If you are last in the entitlement.”

“I’ll think on it,” I rasped. I was not a gambling man, but I had sunk my commission into the abbey and had nothing else. The Dilettanti offered me an easy escape. But did I truly want to leave the valley, the Whittles, and my tenants who relied upon me? Or the vicar? Or... her ?

Lord Ainsley clapped a hand on my shoulder. “Come, Rafe, stop looking so morose. Your Mr. Whittle shared that a country dance is to be held soon, just in time for May Day. Why don’t we enjoy ourselves while you mull things over?”

He used my first name as if we were old friends.

We were not. With May Day fast approaching within a week, and the investigation into my estate looming ever closer, I had little desire to celebrate.

The Crown’s inquiry weighed heavily on me, threatening everything I had worked for.

Every step I took felt like one closer to losing the abbey, and I had yet to hear any promising news that might buy me more time.

Would either man persuade Mr. Perry to sell before the Crown’s decision? My steward had tried and failed. I despised the thought of Bridget being caught between such ruthless men, especially now when so much hung in the balance.

Her eyes, shimmering with unshed tears, filled my mind. She was not someone prone to tears, as far as I could tell, and the thought of hurting her brought a bitter taste to my mouth.