A memory flashed through Anthony’s mind of the night he’d found his father dead, four empty vials of laudanum beside him. “Yes, I have,” he answered. “And the results were tragic.”
He found he was no longer in the mood for conversation. Abruptly, he stood up and gave her a bow. “Forgive me, but I must have that bath or it will get cold. Good night.”
He left her without another word.
First Viola, and all her uncharacteristically romantic talk of love. Now Miss Wade. Damn it all, love was not everything. Why did women always think that it was?
As much as Daphne had come to enjoy the lush, beautiful countryside of England, it did present its share of problems to excavation work, particularly in the reconstruction of frescoes. In the deserts of Africa, Palestine, and Mesopotamia, sand could be brushed away to reveal an intact, beautifully preserved wall painting, but in England and other damp climates, it was different.
It was bad enough that mud made unearthing the plaster pieces of a fresco a messy, difficult task. The damp soil in which the fragments had lain for sixteen hundred years tended to degrade the plaster itself, making Daphne’s job of reassembling fresco pieces into a complete painting much more difficult. Matching the color and design details of hundreds of crumbling fragments could take days of exasperating work. Some days, she found, were more exasperating than others. This was one of those days.
She had already gone through the baskets of fresco pieces the men had uncovered so far and sorted them into groups by the images painted on them. Now, using a tiny trowel, she was fitting and cementing the pieces back together. Like the floor mosaic she had finished repairing the day before, this piece of the bedchamber wall was painted with an image of Venus. Reassembling it was a bit like putting together a child’s picture puzzle, but the work was much more painstaking.
She was not accustomed to frescoes that crumbled so easily, and the task required all her attention, but she found her mind preferred to wander, taking her back to that very odd evening in the library a few evenings ago, when Anthony had tried to engage her in conversation.
Daphne remembered his words that he had known someone who was happy in love but with tragic results, and she wondered who he had been talking about. Himself, perhaps? That might explain his cynicism about marriage, she supposed, and his cold, logical approach to it. She forced such speculations out of her mind. She did not care whom he married.
Since that evening in the library, he had gone out of his way to thank her for each task she accomplished, added the word please to all his orders, and had an occasional chat with her about the weather and how the cooler temperatures this week must be making her work more pleasant. He sometimes mentioned the events of the day, such as England’s current overabundance of governesses, or the dullness of London and its environs during the autumn and winter months. He even had maids come by the antika every hour or so to see if she might like a cup of tea or other refreshment. He often sent workmen in to ask if she needed their assistance.
As if such things would make her stay. Since more money had not tempted her, he was now trying to prove to her that he was a considerate employer.
She gave a disdainful sniff. He was not a considerate employer. He was selfish and toplofty and had no genuine consideration for the feelings of others. He was cold as well, so cold that he would deliberately, in calculated fashion, pick a wife he would never fall in love with.
Yet, despite all that, she had fancied herself in love with him. Why? Daphne paused in her work, staring into space, thinking it over. What was it about him that she had loved?
She thought of Cleopatra, and she realized that women were not the only ones who could possess a sort of magical appeal that captivated others. Anthony had it too.
She thought of all the times he had looked at her in a way that made her feel special, singled out for his attention, as if she were the only person in the world at that moment. But it was only for that moment, only when he wanted something he knew was especially difficult or unreasonable, then he could bring out a potent charm that made her want to please him, no matter how hard it might be to accomplish. Once that objective was obtained, he was gone, leaving her dazed and flattered and not realizing he had ordered, not requested, something that would take her hours and hours of hard work.
She knew now that all those times when he had looked straight at her in that special way, he had been looking through her without seeing her at all, his only intent to get what he wanted. And yet, the other day when he had been trying to persuade her to stay, she had felt a momentary temptation to agree, just because he had asked it of her.
Yes, he had an inexplicable alchemy that could make a maid run off to the dairy for fresh butter at two o’clock in the morning without any resentment, that made Mrs. Bennington’s breath come faster just because he was talking with her about the state of the roads, that made plain, ordinary Daphne Wade feel like the world’s greatest beauty. But it was not real.
She took a deep breath and returned her attention to her work. She was wise to him now, and that magic wasn’t going to work on her anymore.
Daphne picked up a flake of plaster about the size of her palm and began smearing wet cement onto the back of the piece with her trowel, but the pressure of such a task was too much for the delicate plaster fragment. It broke apart in her hands, falling between her gloved fingers into pieces and dust, her fourth one of the day, another priceless piece of history ruined.
“Oh, this English mud destroys everything!” she cried, and threw her trowel aside, thoroughly exasperated. It hit the stone floor with a clang. That sound was followed by a low whistle, and Daphne turned her head to find Anthony standing in the doorway of the antika.
“Careful where you throw things, Miss Wade,” he said, and bent to pick up her trowel.
“Did I hit you?”
“No,” he answered, “but it was a near miss.”
Daphne watched him cross the room toward her. She could tell he had not yet started working on the dig with Mr. Bennington, for though he wore no waistcoat or neckcloth, his shirt was immaculate, without a speck of dirt to detract from its snowy whiteness. Daphne was relieved that at least he was wearing it.
She hastily looked away. “I am gratified you are not hurt,” she said as he paused by her side.
“Why are you cursing the English mud?” He set her trowel down beside the bowl of cement on the table.
Daphne drew a deep breath and inhaled the sharp scent of lemon soap and, with it, the heavier scent of him. It flustered her, and she shifted her weight from one foot to the other. Did he have to stand so close? “It is nothing,” she said and reached for the trowel. “I am feeling rather cross today, that is all.”
“Cross? Now, I know I must be dreaming.”
She scooped up a dollop of cement. “I do not know what you mean,” she said and began to smear the adhesive on one of the small pieces of plaster she had shattered.
“I feel as if I have been lost these past few days in a bizarre sort of dream,” he continued, and moved away from her side.
