“Those I consider my friends are disreputable in the best ways.” He surveyed her with a long, slow perusal that lingered boldly on the exposed flesh of her arms, her shoulders. It was a look like a caress, and her skin responded in kind. No gentleman looked at a woman in such a fashion. But this Mr. Drayton, she was beginning to understand, only spoke and dressed like a gentleman. Underneath the polish he was all rogue. “Sweet and wild, indeed,” he murmured. He eyed her formal dinner gown. “A little too much splendor, though.”
“Not so splendid that I can’t cause a bit of trouble in Monastiraki,” she answered with an impish smile. “See what a scoundrel you have turned me into. I still have that piece of pottery.” She poked into the small evening reticule that dangled from her wrist, until she produced the shard and held it out to him. “My ill-gotten gains.” When he bent closer to peer at the fragment, she said, “Take it. I’ve had enough of Darius the Third.”
He plucked it from her hand, his fingers brushing hers as their eyes held. She felt a hunger low in her belly stir to life.
He held the shard up to read it better in the soft light. “Darius the Third,” he repeated. “Really?”
She wondered whether he would dismiss her linguistic skills or condemn them. “I hope you don’t question me, too,” London said with a lightness she did not quite feel. “That’s what got me into trouble at the marketplace. I dated it based on the inscription. But,” she added quickly, “if someone claims that an antiquity comes from the era of Darius the Great, they oughtn’t sell something from Darius the Third’s reign.”
He lowered the piece of pottery and looked at her, speculative. “You know the difference.”
London debated whether or not to prevaricate. She could pretend she knew less than she did, or make light of what was her greatest passion and accomplishment. But the encounter with Drayton in the market square had convinced her that she could free herself, that she had the strength to own herself with pride. And if he did laugh at her or find her unnatural, then she could weather that, too.
“I do,” she answered, direct and clear. “I’ve studied languages my whole life. The more ancient, the better, but I know dozens of modern ones, as well.”
“The vendor in Monastiraki insulted you in Greek.”
“I understood every word he said, and what you said to him. Do not doubt me, handsome rogue,” she added in accentless modern Greek. Then, in an ancient dialect he would never know, she said, “I want to kiss you and see your skin in the moonlight.”
He stared at her, narrowing his eyes. Not contemptuous or patronizing, but something else, as if she were the missing piece to a puzzle he assembled in his mind.
She felt a new kind of unease under that keen scrutiny. “What is it, Mr. Drayton?”
He narrowed his eyes. “Tell me why you’re in Greece.”
“I shall not, sir,” she answered at once. Father had been explicit in his instructions to her. She could not speak to anyone of their purpose. No matter what attraction drew her to Ben Drayton, he wasn’t to be let in to her confidence, not about this.
The teasing rogue was gone, and a new hardness entered his voice, his posture. “No husband with you here. A relative, then. Father. Brother.”
London stiffened, growing more alarmed. “This conversation is over, Mr. Drayton.” She tried to brush past him, but his large hand clamped onto her arm, holding her fast. London’s temper and fear spiked. “Release me, immediately.”
“What do you know about the Heirs?” he demanded.
“The airs?”
“Heirs,” he repeated, positively menacing.
“Whatever you are talking about, it is lost on me. If you do not release me at once, I shall scream.” She wished she could do more than scream, but London knew nothing about how to physically protect herself. Now that she faced real danger, she fervently wished she knew how to throw a punch. She very much doubted her feeble efforts would have any effect on the exceptionally strong Drayton.
“London?”
“Mrs. Harcourt?”
The voices of her father and Fraser cut through the heavy garden air, coming toward her. Before London could utter a single word, Ben Drayton was gone, vanishing into darkness noiselessly. She gulped and shivered, feeling the hot imprint of his hand on her arm.
“Here,” she called, walking out of the darkness and toward Father with hurried steps. “Did you see him?”
“Who?”
“He said his name was Ben Drayton….” She looked from her father to Fraser.
“A Blade?” Fraser murmured to her father, but Father shook his head slightly.
“Investigate, Fraser,” her father barked. Fraser trotted off into the darkness. London could have sworn she saw him take a revolver from his jacket.
Now truly frightened, she turned to her father, hoping to find a measure of comfort in his familiar face. All she saw there was a cold glitter in his eyes, the same look he had given her when he’d discovered her in his study a month ago, rearranging a series of rubbings taken from stone. Her father’s jaw clenched. Even though he was a man nearing sixty, regular exercise kept him as hale as a man half his age. Riding, fencing, hunting. Gentlemanly sport. But there was nothing genteel about his sudden and intimidating anger.
“What is it, Father? Do you know Drayton?”
“Not that name. But who knows, maybe he’s new,” he muttered to himself. Then he directed his attention back to his daughter. “Did he say anything to you?”
“He demanded to know why I was in Greece, who I was traveling with. And he said something about heirs, if I knew about them. What does that mean?”
“Damn and hell,” Father growled, shocking London. She’d only heard her father swear in front of her once before. “I knew those bastards would come tailing us.”
She gripped the sleeve of his dark evening jacket. “Please, Father, who are you talking about? What is going on?”
“Gone,” Fraser said, returning. “Not a sign of him anywhere. Must have jumped the wall.”
Her father snarled, “He spoke to her, the bloody rogue. Asked about us.”
Now Fraser looked at her with icy eyes. “And what did you tell him?”
“Nothing. Nothing.” Fear was burning away in the wake of growing anger. No one was giving her any real answers, even though it was clear something was afoot, something that her father and his associate knew about. It had to be about his governmental work. “Please, Father, I’m not a child. You must tell me what is happening. Tell me who that man was.”
After sending Fraser a warning glare, her father captured her hand with his and began to lead her toward the hotel. “Some fortune-hunter,” he said quickly. “Seeking an heiress to ransom. Do not trouble yourself over it.” He patted her hand. “Fraser and I will protect you.”
“You must think me a tremendous idiot,” London said, halting in her steps. “I want the truth.”
Father started, clearly unused to having anyone, especially his dutiful daughter, make demands of him. But she was older now, not as willing to be led where her father wanted her to go. Seeing that she would not be dissuaded, he said, “The work that I do, that Fraser does—it generates its share of enemies.”
“What kind of enemies?”
“Enemies against England.”
“But Drayton is English.”
Her father smiled, but it wasn’t at all comforting. “London, I’ll not have you upset or overwrought. Go inside now. And believe me when