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It is not the man who has too little, but the man who craves more, that is poor.

SENECA

Sweat trickled down my back as I paused to dab at my forehead and cheeks with a handkerchief while surveying Mr. Perry’s field. May proved a fickle month, hot and rainy by turns. Despite a bright beginning this morning, clouds billowed in the sky, promising a storm by late afternoon.

After giving the ring and doll to Rafe for safekeeping, we made another thrilling discovery just this morning—a mosaic featuring Ganymede flying to Mount Olympus in a blaze of glory as Mr. Harrington and I swept away the debris from the cerulean-blue chips.

Mr. Harrington, eager to secure the funds from the sale of the ring, sent another letter by courier to the society. He allowed the Bramnor men to help with the excavation, but few wanted to stay long considering how he shouted orders.

Mr. Perry, of course, and Abigail, remained by my side, eagerly combing through the dirt on the hunt for more gold.

Mr. Harrington had struck a further deal with Mr. Perry, agreeing that any future items discovered might be sold, to benefit both him and the society.

Father and I had helped negotiate the arrangement, and it seemed fair that I would receive a percentage for bringing in the Society of Antiquaries—much like an agent’s fee.

Mr. Perry gladly agreed to his terms, including his plans for a tourist center to be built the following summer. He had also approved of Rafe keeping the items safe at Hawthorn Abbey under lock and key.

Mr. Harrington had gestured to the newest section of the floor. The real value will occur when you grace the summer tourist guides. I imagine families will travel across the continent to see this lost palace.

Abigail had laughed, flinging her arms around her father’s neck. We’ll be rich, Papa. She kissed him soundly on the cheek. And we’ll build a palace of our own.

Mr. Harrington added with a grin, I imagine you could charge a decent price for a walking tour. You might even open a teahouse and offer refreshments. The possibilities are endless.

I had smiled at my dear friend’s enthusiasm, especially when she shot me a meaningful look. At last, both of our vaporous dreams felt like a solid reality. If only Daniel was here to share in the joy.

As I stopped digging to grab my sketchbook and charcoal in order to capture Ganymede’s fierce gaze, the sun broke free of the clouds, brilliant and golden.

Abigail seemed in especially high spirits before she left the dig to prepare a lunch basket for us.

I had spent the morning listening to her tales of the young men who had shown interest in her following May Day.

Poor Mr. Perry would likely have his hands full in the days to come with marriage proposals.

Soon, the scent of fresh bread and cheese filled the air as Abigail returned with a picnic basket.

We gathered beneath a large oak tree, the breeze carrying the promise of an approaching storm, and spread the blanket on the grass.

While we ate, Mr. Harrington continued to discuss plans for the mosaics, his enthusiasm infectious.

Abigail, flushed with excitement, could hardly sit still, dreaming aloud of what their future might hold.

Surprisingly, I’d heard not a single peep from her about Mr. Barron.

Nor had I encountered him since that unfortunate conversation when he was last at the field and Rafe defended my reputation.

Therefore I was surprised when a shadow fell over the pages of my sketchbook, and I glanced up, squinting despite my bonnet, to see Mr. Barron hovering over me.

I jumped to my feet, dropping my sketchbook. I had not forgotten his overbearing behavior on May Day. I clapped off what soil I could from my gloves, resisting the urge to use my apron as a hand towel.

“Good afternoon, Miss Littleton.” He tipped his hat, his chaise waiting by the roadside. “Such wonderful progress, I see.”

The pages of my sketchbook fluttered on the ground, whipping in the wind, but he saw enough of my drawings, including the portrait of Rafe. He laughed at the sketch before the wind tossed the pages again. I snatched it up, holding it close.

“What brings you here, Mr. Barron?” Mr. Perry and Mr. Harrington had spotted the guest and started heading our way, their long-legged strides swiftly covering the dirt. Mr. Perry appeared none too pleased.

“I wanted to make sure all is well for you, and to pass on a warning from a concerned friend.” Mr. Barron pointed to the rows of mature orchard trees and the newly planted saplings.

“I just paid a visit to Lord Hawthorn. I see he is thoroughly enjoying the day with his visitors. In fact, they plan to go riding later this afternoon. When I stepped into the hall, I overheard their conversation. You might be interested to know that our viscount is in league with the Dilettanti. In fact, I believe they plan to pay him for several valuable antiques in the abbey. And they want to open a rival tourist attraction.”

I didn’t mind about a rival tourist attraction, and I already knew about the items to be sold, especially since I had sketched some of them.

Rafe could do as he pleased with his property, but the thought of him arranging a business partnership with the men who’d tried to oust me sent a shiver of consternation across my shoulders.

“Mr. Barron, I fear I cannot spare another moment for gossip. You are mistaken regarding Lord Hawthorn. He has proved to be an ally, not a rival,” I protested.

The innkeeper stepped closer to me, and I backed away, fully intending to smack him with my sketchbook. In fact, he came so close to the edge of the pool that a chunk of dirt dislodged and tumbled across the ancient floor. Something cracked just below his riding boot.

I tore my attention away from the ground and focused on him.

He grimaced and moved away from the mosaic. “Is it gentlemanly behavior to sell a gold ring he’s been entrusted to protect?”

Shock rippled through me, stealing the breath from my lungs.

We had all solemnly promised we would not breathe a word to anyone outside our circle regarding the signet ring.

How, then, could Mr. Barron have known of its existence?

Had he truly overheard Rafe offer to sell it?

And I had given it to him freely. Surely Mr. Barron was wrong.

Surely it was a misunderstanding. But how, then, did he know Rafe held it at the abbey?

Of course, Mr. Beaumont would want such a trophy to take back to the Dilettanti.

Worse, how could Rafe allow those men to stay with him this long? Why had he not turned them out by now, unless he planned on receiving their promised investment? Nausea clawed its way up my throat.

“Forgive me, Miss Littleton. It would appear my unfortunate news has grieved you. But can we really be surprised that a Hawthorn backed out on his word?”

I opened my mouth to protest but not a sound came out. Mr. Barron eased away as the men approached, waving to Mr. Harrington and leaving me with a roiling stomach.

There was a simple solution to this problem.

I would visit Rafe as soon as possible and demand an explanation.

Hang propriety. I would not wallow in the parsonage, nursing my fears regarding his behavior or his intentions.

If he had kissed me only to win my trust so he could sell the ring, he would have a piece of my mind.

But I didn’t think such a thing was possible. I refused to believe that the man who’d stood within my drawing room and reached for my hand had a nefarious plan.

In my distress, I didn’t look where I was headed.

My foot pressed into the edge of the field lining the pool, and I heard a cracking beneath the pressure of my slipper.

I knelt, fingers brushing something unusual—pot shards.

I tugged, but the largest piece wouldn’t budge.

Resting on my knees, I pushed back my bonnet and pondered what to do.

When I glanced up, Mr. Barron slanted a strange look at me before walking away, his continued attempts at influencing Mr. Perry apparently a loss.

I ignored his departure, eager to be free of his accusations and his intensity.

Mr. Perry and Mr. Harrington continued discussing a covering for the mosaics, one that would allow the open air to rush through the structure so large crowds wouldn’t overheat.

I rummaged in my satchel for my trowel and dug.

With only a few inches of dirt to scrape away, unlike the deeper pool, I suspected the object wouldn’t take long to free from its earthy prison.

But Mr. Harrington, apparently in need of tea, called my name and offered a ride home in the chaise. I felt torn between staying and playing the role of a proper hostess. At last, my manners won, and I agreed to return with him to the parsonage.

The ride’s balmy wind cooled my cheeks, but I could barely focus on Mr. Harrington’s chatter. Who had betrayed us regarding the ring? Mr. Harrington? The Perrys? Or Rafe?

No one seemed a logical choice.

In my mind, two thoughts vied for competition as we hurried home. I had felt something in the soil, and I must return this evening to retrieve it before anyone else did. And I needed to talk to Rafe as soon as possible.