Page 8 of Dukes for Dessert

The sheep in question, a flock that looked remarkably the same to David year after year, nibbled grass some distance away. Only a few ever strayed to the long mounds, as lusher foliage lay elsewhere.

“Furrows,” David said as Pierson squatted down to examine the long heap of dirt that hadn’t changed much since the last time David had been here. “Ancient ones perhaps, but hardly a villa.”

“Oh, ye of little faith,” Pierson returned. “I found a stone here the other day.”

“My, my.” David surveyed the vast green land, which smelled of sheep and mud, not the smoke and refuse of London. “A stone. In a pasture. How extraordinary. I ought to have placed a wager with my bookmaker.”

“He has a point, Uncle,” Sophie broke in.

David tried to hide his pleasure that Sophie agreed with him. “Ah, wisdom speaks.”

Pierson creaked to his feet and surveyed them both with pity. “A stone with Latin writing on it.”

“Oh.” Sophie sounded more interested. “What did it say?”

Pierson spread his arms to make his grand pronouncement. “It said: Left. Bottom.”

David raised his brows. “Hardly Cicero, my friend.”

More pity from Pierson. “They are builders’ marks. The blocks were marked according to the plan so the builders would know which way the walls were put together. The inscription didn’t actually spell out the words left and bottom, but had letters indicating that.”

Sounded slightly more promising, but it was David’s policy to tease Pierson whenever he could.

“You know those could be stones from a pig’s bier or a sheep pen from medieval times. Disappointing to a classicist, I know, but possible.”

“Have you ever paid any attention to my lectures?” Pierson asked. “A Roman stone and handwriting is vastly different from the medieval. In the middle ages, a builder was more likely illiterate. They still made marks, but often in pictures or simple symbols.”

“I beg your pardon,” David said, giving him a bow. “I concede your expertise. You found a stone with Latin letters on it. Excellent.”

“Quite excellent,” Sophie said. “Exciting, even. I am willing to believe in the villa, even if Mr. Fleming does not.”

“Did I ever say I didn’t believe?” David said, widening his eyes. “I am merely skeptical. Pierson wants to find this villa so much he sees things others do not.”

“It only means he is keenly observant,” Sophie said. “Where do you wish me to start, Uncle?”

“In that corner, if you’d like.” Pierson pointed to earth that had already been raked back. “Don’t tire yourself unduly, my dear.”

“Do not worry. I am quite robust.”

Pierson had taken over a deserted small byre nearby where he stored tools so he would not have to lug them back and forth from the vicarage, and had set up trays for his finds and a table where he could examine them. He unlocked its door, and Sophie dove in, choosing a trowel from the shelves.

Pierson retrieved two spades and held one out to David. “There you are. Have at it, my friend.”

David stared at the shovel. “You expect me to dig? Are you mad?”

Sophie was already on her knees, happily jabbing her trowel into the earth. “Perhaps he fears spoiling his work clothes. He seems to prefer to ruin his evening dress instead.”

“Of course,” David said. “Silk and cashmere are far better for landing on the grass. Actually, when I sought refuge here, I envisioned spending my days in the cozy sitting room with a pipe. Perhaps a brandy at my elbow.”

“That wouldn’t clear your head.” Pierson shoved the spade at him, and David closed reluctant fingers around the handle. “Good hard work is what you need. And if we find the villa, your name and Sophie’s will feature prominently in my monograph on the matter.”

“Just the sort of literature my friends peruse,” David said, straight-faced. “I’ll be famous.”

“I would be honored,” Sophie gestured with her trowel. “Can you turn over this bit for me, Mr. Fleming? Or would you rather pontificate on why you don’t wish to soil your working gloves?”

David growled, then drove the spade into the area she indicated with more emphasis than necessary.

Sophie had obviously decided David was a lily-handed dandy who couldn’t lift a finger to manual labor. Embarrassing and annoying. David had played rugby at school and still rode and boxed with the best of them. He admitted he affected the lazy persona in order to make people lower their guard with him—politics had turned him into a heinous creature. But there was more to David than met the eye. He was certain of this.

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