Page 7 of Dukes for Dessert

“Only things growing in Uncle’s garden. And from the market—wherever Mrs. Corcoran obtains her comestibles.”

“Belladonna?” he snapped. “I imagine that grows in the garden.” Mr. Fleming drew another long breath and took a second swallow. “Oil of vitriol, I swear it.”

“Nonsense. It’s a bit of pepper to warm your stomach.”

“Warm it? Or set it on fire?” Mr. Fleming coughed again, but already he sounded stronger.

“My mother swears by it,” Sophie said. “Helped my grandfather no end.”

“I can bear witness to that,” Uncle Lucas said.

“He lived a long and happy life, your grandfather?” Mr. Fleming growled.

“Indeed,” Sophie said. “Passed away at a ripe old age, falling off his horse.”

Mr. Fleming sent her a dark look. “Very encouraging.” Sophie noticed that he finished the drink.

Uncle Lucas leaned his elbows on the table. “Get some breakfast down you, Fleming, then clean yourself up. Now that you’re here, you can help work on my villa.”

Mr. Fleming groaned. “You’re not still hunting for that, are you? I thought you’d given up years ago.”

“Of course I haven’t given up,” Uncle said in a tone bordering on shock. “It’s there, mark my words.”

Sophie sympathized with Mr. Fleming’s dismay. Uncle had been scrambling around the knobby hills beyond the vicarage for years, convinced a Roman villa lay buried beneath the thick grass and scrub. He’d once found the remains of an ancient brooch of forged gold, and he was convinced that a wealthy Roman, or at least a Romanized Briton, had built a vast country estate somewhere nearby.

“A walk sounds lovely, Uncle.”

Mr. Fleming only glowered, but reached for a piece of toast from the platter on the table, scattering crumbs as he ate.

“Only you would drag a man in my condition out into the freezing mist at the crack of dawn,” David grumbled as he trudged the familiar path past the village church and out into the fields.

The sun was shining in spite of the earlier fog, and the day would be fine, if cold. David knew he should rejoice in the chance of fair weather, should skip and hop as though thrilled to be out of doors, and any moment sing along with the birdsong. He tramped forward, huddled in his coat, wondering why the be-damned birds had to sing so loudly.

He had to admit, however, that birds twittering in the trees, tiny lambs like puffs of wool on the green, and the clearing blue sky to show the ruined abbey on a far hill was a damn sight better than smoky London with dullards trying to shoot him, then banging him up for assault.

The company was much better too. Dr. Pierson was the sort of no-nonsense fellow David needed right now, and his niece …

David realized Pierson had nattered on about his niece in the past, but he’d pictured a schoolgirl in braids and never thought a thing about her. David had even heard Pierson tell him she’d married, but again, he’d had the fleeting image of a simpering young bride and then forgot about her.

He hadn’t been prepared for the black-haired beauty with green eyes and a straightforward stare who’d gazed at him fearlessly across the breakfast table. Still less prepared for her frank assessment of his half-inebriated, half-hungover state, which had obviously not impressed her.

David was used to women fawning over him no matter how he appeared. He did not confuse this fawning with delight or love or a natural reaction to the glory that was David Fleming. The ladies usually wanted something from him—money, favors, escape from their narrow lives for a few hours.

Sophie Tierney didn’t need anything from David. He was her uncle’s old friend, and that was all. She saw past his flummery and sardonic sneer to the very sad man behind it. And again, was not impressed.

She’d dressed sensibly for the outing, he noted. Female fashion had discarded the massive bustle, replacing it with sleeves so ballooning that David expected the ladies to be lifted off the ground at the first puff of wind. Miss Tierney, however, had eschewed the new style, at least for this country tramp. Her blouse was plain over a narrow skirt, and she wore a long jacket against the cold, and stout boots. No billowing sleeves in sight. Her wide-brimmed hat was large enough to keep off the sun and any rain that might fall.

David had left clothes at the vicarage over the years, which Mrs. Corcoran kept clean for him, so he had a suitable ensemble for slogging through muddy fields. It wasn’t often he had the chance to wear gaiters laced to his knees.

Thus, three mad folk trudged forth to dig up the past. At least, one mad Englishman and two people who humored him.

Unlike society ladies David did his best to avoid, Sophie didn’t fill in the space with inane chatter. No inquiries about his family, how his country estate fared, what he thought about gardening, or Gilbert and Sullivan. She was refreshingly quiet.

Of course, this meant he learned nothing about her. Who was this husband she avoided, why had she decided to hide with Dr. Pierson, why hadn’t Pierson mentioned she was breathtakingly beautiful?

He tried not to watch the way she walked, head up, back straight, her skirt swaying. She was a married woman, and not the sort of married woman with whom David had liaisons. That was to say—she was respectable.

Pierson’s strides grew longer and more animated as they neared the mounds, he as eager as ever. What he claimed were Roman ruins were little more than lumps in the middle of a pasture. The squire who owned the field, one of Pierson’s parishioners, was a patient gentleman who let Pierson dig up his land as much as he pleased, as long as the sheep didn’t mind.

---