thing her father could do about it then.
Brumley lifted his mug. “To the king over the water.”
They clinked rims and drank. The sour bite of ale wasmother’s milk to Alistair. And the sharp sting was made all the better by the enlistment of Lord Brumley to the glorious cause.
“What did you make of Lord Rutland’s claims this morning?” he asked.
“Roman treasure? A fool’s errand, if you ask me,” Brumley said.
“And yet perhaps not so foolish.” Alistair wrapped his hands around his mug and stared into the dark brew as if he were a Gypsy fortune-teller considering tea leaves. “The antiquities he’s unearthed so far are convincing.”
“So?”
“So, it could add up to a tidy sum if it’s true,” Alistair said. “I’ve done a bit of research this day. A par tic u lar friend of mine holds the classical studies chair at Oxford. I happened to catch him in town. He says scholars agree the
stipendium
for a Roman legionnaire’s pay was a silver denarius a day. Multiplied by a three-hundred-day year, the calendar used by the ancients.”
“You expect me to become enthusiastic over three hundred silver coins. What twaddle!”
“At one time, the number of Roman soldiers on our island swelled to fifty-five thousand men,” Sir Alistair said. He raised a brow. “Mayhap you need quill and ink to do the cipher.”
The sudden bob of Brumley’s Adam’s apple showed he was quick enough in his head with figures. “Holy God.”
“Holy God, indeed. Think what we could accomplish with millions in Roman silver. If we’d had such a cache of coin in’15, the Rising might not have failed,” Alistair explained.
The Scottish Uprising in 1715 had met with sharp resistance from the English, who inexplicably preferred George I, the dour German Protestant, as king over His Catholic Majesty James Stuart. Alistair didn’t give two flgs about hismonarch’s religion, but his Scottish blood called for a Scottish king. And now that the first George was dead and gone, this second one was no more palatable than his predecessor.
“If the Roman treasure is real, it could go a long way toward the Restoration,” Alistair said. “A n army has needs, ye ken.”
Ordinarily, he kept his accent at bay through intense concentration, but when he felt passionately about a subject, the brogue resurfaced.
“War is a messy business. An assassin’s dagger has fewer needs,” Brumley suggested.
“Very forward-thinking of you.” The Scot raised his mug in approval. “But that requires a hand close to the king being willing to wield the blade. Your wife’s connections put ye in the royal circle, near enough to do the deed. If ye felt yourself equal to it, we might keep the lion’s share of the Roman hoard
and
earn the gratitude of the true king by dispatching the usurper. But to kill a king, even a false one, is no light matter.” Alistair leaned forward and skewered Brumley with a searching look. “Is it in ye, man?”
Brumley’s gaze dropped to the worm-eaten table.
“Never ye mind,” Alistair said. Even a weak ally was better than none. “We’ll see if we can search out the truth of Rutland’s Roman coins. If we can manage to slip that treasure out from under the whelp, we’ll have done well enough by James Stuart. Besides, I’ve another idea or two yet.”
And another unhappy English lord besides Brumley whom Alistair judged ripe to entice into his web.
“A man will dispute it with his dying breath, but in his secret heart, he lives to be deceived.”
—the journal of Blanche La Tour
Chapter Seven
“Your pardon, milord.” Avery, the estate’s aging butler, leaned over the lip of the pit as far as his arthritic back would allow. “Your new…partner has arrived. She awaits your pleasure in the parlor.”
Lucian drew his bare forearm over his sweaty brow. He and Percy, the stable lad, had managed to move a good bit of earth since breakfast. Now he’d reached a level where he must lay aside his
Brumley lifted his mug. “To the king over the water.”
They clinked rims and drank. The sour bite of ale wasmother’s milk to Alistair. And the sharp sting was made all the better by the enlistment of Lord Brumley to the glorious cause.
“What did you make of Lord Rutland’s claims this morning?” he asked.
“Roman treasure? A fool’s errand, if you ask me,” Brumley said.
“And yet perhaps not so foolish.” Alistair wrapped his hands around his mug and stared into the dark brew as if he were a Gypsy fortune-teller considering tea leaves. “The antiquities he’s unearthed so far are convincing.”
“So?”
“So, it could add up to a tidy sum if it’s true,” Alistair said. “I’ve done a bit of research this day. A par tic u lar friend of mine holds the classical studies chair at Oxford. I happened to catch him in town. He says scholars agree the
stipendium
for a Roman legionnaire’s pay was a silver denarius a day. Multiplied by a three-hundred-day year, the calendar used by the ancients.”
“You expect me to become enthusiastic over three hundred silver coins. What twaddle!”
“At one time, the number of Roman soldiers on our island swelled to fifty-five thousand men,” Sir Alistair said. He raised a brow. “Mayhap you need quill and ink to do the cipher.”
The sudden bob of Brumley’s Adam’s apple showed he was quick enough in his head with figures. “Holy God.”
“Holy God, indeed. Think what we could accomplish with millions in Roman silver. If we’d had such a cache of coin in’15, the Rising might not have failed,” Alistair explained.
The Scottish Uprising in 1715 had met with sharp resistance from the English, who inexplicably preferred George I, the dour German Protestant, as king over His Catholic Majesty James Stuart. Alistair didn’t give two flgs about hismonarch’s religion, but his Scottish blood called for a Scottish king. And now that the first George was dead and gone, this second one was no more palatable than his predecessor.
“If the Roman treasure is real, it could go a long way toward the Restoration,” Alistair said. “A n army has needs, ye ken.”
Ordinarily, he kept his accent at bay through intense concentration, but when he felt passionately about a subject, the brogue resurfaced.
“War is a messy business. An assassin’s dagger has fewer needs,” Brumley suggested.
“Very forward-thinking of you.” The Scot raised his mug in approval. “But that requires a hand close to the king being willing to wield the blade. Your wife’s connections put ye in the royal circle, near enough to do the deed. If ye felt yourself equal to it, we might keep the lion’s share of the Roman hoard
and
earn the gratitude of the true king by dispatching the usurper. But to kill a king, even a false one, is no light matter.” Alistair leaned forward and skewered Brumley with a searching look. “Is it in ye, man?”
Brumley’s gaze dropped to the worm-eaten table.
“Never ye mind,” Alistair said. Even a weak ally was better than none. “We’ll see if we can search out the truth of Rutland’s Roman coins. If we can manage to slip that treasure out from under the whelp, we’ll have done well enough by James Stuart. Besides, I’ve another idea or two yet.”
And another unhappy English lord besides Brumley whom Alistair judged ripe to entice into his web.
“A man will dispute it with his dying breath, but in his secret heart, he lives to be deceived.”
—the journal of Blanche La Tour
Chapter Seven
“Your pardon, milord.” Avery, the estate’s aging butler, leaned over the lip of the pit as far as his arthritic back would allow. “Your new…partner has arrived. She awaits your pleasure in the parlor.”
Lucian drew his bare forearm over his sweaty brow. He and Percy, the stable lad, had managed to move a good bit of earth since breakfast. Now he’d reached a level where he must lay aside his
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