shovel and rely on a small whisk broom lest they destroy a delicate artifact with the sharp edges of their spades.
“She’s here? I thought she was sending an agent.” He shrugged on his discarded shirt before turning back to the boy who was digging with him. “Keep working with the broom, Percy. If you find something, don’t try to remove it. Just brush the dirt away and I’ll be back directly.”
Lucian climbed the ladder out of the excavation pit and strode toward his father’s manor house. From this distance, the shoddy roof and neglected gardens weren’t as readily apparent. Montford had suffered over the past years not from lack of care, but lack of funds. There simply wasn’t enough left after meeting their basic needs to put into new roof tiles or roses.
But that would change. Lucian would see to it. Montford would be his someday, and even though he wasn’t Englishborn,enough English blood flowed in his veins for him to feel pride of place.
He’d been born in Italy, his mother’s homeland. His first memories were of sun-drenched palazzos and the fecund smell of warm Tuscan earth. He loved the gentle hills and the round little donkey his grandfather let him ride whenever he could catch the stubborn thing. When his English father came into the earldom and insisted they return to claim his lands, Lucian was excited about traveling to the distant British isle.
But his mother had hated the chunky gray stone of Montford after the warm ocher marble of his grandfather’s graceful villa. She missed the golden quality of light in her homeland. And the damp English weather settled in her delicate Mediterranean chest. Within a short spate of months, Lucian and his father buried her under a leaden English sky.
About the same time his father lost his fortune.
Lucian sometimes liked to imagine that his Italian roots would save them yet. Not only was his grandfather’s miserly stipend keeping them afloat at present, but the ancient Roman relics Lucian had discovered were Montford’s future. The meandering stones poking through the turf at the far end of the meadow had proved to be the capitals of buried upright Doric columns. They were also proof the Italians were here long before his English forebears. His father traced his lineage back only to the Norman conquest. Lucian wondered if he might somehow be connected by a much longer bloodline on his mother’s side to the Romans who settled Londinium.
And he dreamed of resurrecting the glory of Montford, raising the standard higher than it had ever flown before.
Now, thanks to Blanche, he had access to the funds that would make it all happen.
And other things might happen as well. He’d uneartheda nearly intact statuette of Faunus, the goat-god known as Pan in Greek tradition, that morning. The tip of the figure’s erect penis had broken off, probably a millennium ago, but what remained of the organ was still amusingly outsized. Lucian thought Blanche would enjoy the naughtiness of it and perhaps be willing to exchange even more than kissing lessons for it.
Just the thought of the exotic Blanche set Lucian’s groin aching. For a moment, he wondered if he should take time to change his shirt, but he hated the idea of keeping such an exquisite creature waiting. Besides, she must have known he’d be hard at work and certainly wasn’t expecting to see her this morning. She was supposed to send an agent, after all. Surely she’d forgive a grubby collar and a bit of honest sweat.
The truth was, he could barely restrain himself from breaking into a run at the thought that she was near.
He hurried to the parlor and found her standing, facing away from the door, gazing out the tall Palladian windows at the overgrown garden. Light-wreathed and ethereal, the golden curls spilling down her back made her seem more angel than temptress. Last night he’d wondered about the color of her hair beneath her powdered wig, just as he’d puzzled over the color of her eyes
“She’s here? I thought she was sending an agent.” He shrugged on his discarded shirt before turning back to the boy who was digging with him. “Keep working with the broom, Percy. If you find something, don’t try to remove it. Just brush the dirt away and I’ll be back directly.”
Lucian climbed the ladder out of the excavation pit and strode toward his father’s manor house. From this distance, the shoddy roof and neglected gardens weren’t as readily apparent. Montford had suffered over the past years not from lack of care, but lack of funds. There simply wasn’t enough left after meeting their basic needs to put into new roof tiles or roses.
But that would change. Lucian would see to it. Montford would be his someday, and even though he wasn’t Englishborn,enough English blood flowed in his veins for him to feel pride of place.
He’d been born in Italy, his mother’s homeland. His first memories were of sun-drenched palazzos and the fecund smell of warm Tuscan earth. He loved the gentle hills and the round little donkey his grandfather let him ride whenever he could catch the stubborn thing. When his English father came into the earldom and insisted they return to claim his lands, Lucian was excited about traveling to the distant British isle.
But his mother had hated the chunky gray stone of Montford after the warm ocher marble of his grandfather’s graceful villa. She missed the golden quality of light in her homeland. And the damp English weather settled in her delicate Mediterranean chest. Within a short spate of months, Lucian and his father buried her under a leaden English sky.
About the same time his father lost his fortune.
Lucian sometimes liked to imagine that his Italian roots would save them yet. Not only was his grandfather’s miserly stipend keeping them afloat at present, but the ancient Roman relics Lucian had discovered were Montford’s future. The meandering stones poking through the turf at the far end of the meadow had proved to be the capitals of buried upright Doric columns. They were also proof the Italians were here long before his English forebears. His father traced his lineage back only to the Norman conquest. Lucian wondered if he might somehow be connected by a much longer bloodline on his mother’s side to the Romans who settled Londinium.
And he dreamed of resurrecting the glory of Montford, raising the standard higher than it had ever flown before.
Now, thanks to Blanche, he had access to the funds that would make it all happen.
And other things might happen as well. He’d uneartheda nearly intact statuette of Faunus, the goat-god known as Pan in Greek tradition, that morning. The tip of the figure’s erect penis had broken off, probably a millennium ago, but what remained of the organ was still amusingly outsized. Lucian thought Blanche would enjoy the naughtiness of it and perhaps be willing to exchange even more than kissing lessons for it.
Just the thought of the exotic Blanche set Lucian’s groin aching. For a moment, he wondered if he should take time to change his shirt, but he hated the idea of keeping such an exquisite creature waiting. Besides, she must have known he’d be hard at work and certainly wasn’t expecting to see her this morning. She was supposed to send an agent, after all. Surely she’d forgive a grubby collar and a bit of honest sweat.
The truth was, he could barely restrain himself from breaking into a run at the thought that she was near.
He hurried to the parlor and found her standing, facing away from the door, gazing out the tall Palladian windows at the overgrown garden. Light-wreathed and ethereal, the golden curls spilling down her back made her seem more angel than temptress. Last night he’d wondered about the color of her hair beneath her powdered wig, just as he’d puzzled over the color of her eyes
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