Free The Defiant Lady Pencavel by Diane Scott Lewis Page B

Tivoli.
    “Hadrian, was it?” Aunt Hedra raised her quizzing glass. “Wasn’t he the man who built the wall to our north to keep out the barbarian Scots? For what good it did.”
    “I’m so proud of you, Auntie, you do listen to my talks on history.” Melwyn smiled, genuinely pleased.
    “Sciences, you ask? I haven’t delved into them personally. But many women have excelled at math. Sadly they’re mostly Italians and French, races far inferior to we English.” Mrs. Bookbinder stared down her slope of a nose at the Portland Vase. This urn was blue and white cameo and depicted seven figures, one believed to be Paris. “I could use this piece for flowers.”
    “You’re not very open-minded, when it comes to races or vases,” Melwyn whispered to herself, so as not to be rude to her aunt’s friend—and respect her elders. Another disappointing encounter. “What a beautiful objet d’art . I wish I could unearth something as momentous.” Melwyn sighed and studied the other artifacts: coins, medallions, jewelry, and bronze sculptures. “Much of this was discovered in Pompeii. I must go there. Sir William Hamilton, our illustrious ambassador in Naples, however, believed that vases and sculpture should be left unrestored.” She tapped her chin in contemplation. “I’d like to write my own treatise on why women should be included in this new field of archeology and welcomed at the Royal Society.”
    “I will admit that you’re right, Hedra.” Mrs. Bookbinder nudged her aunt with a sharp elbow. “She does go on and in my opinion tends to be a braggart. I see no literary merit in the child as she’s never been anywhere or accomplished anything.”
    “Yet you admitted to preaching about the disadvantages of marriage, and you have never ventured between the matrimonial sheets,” Aunt Hedra reminded her. “Don’t be so dismissive of her attributes. I’m afraid the gel is determined, and that’s what worries me.”
    Mrs. Bookbinder snorted. “Don’t work yourself into a tizzy. She’s too comely, so no one will ever take her seriously. Read my article in last week’s Bluestocking Bulletin , ‘Why a Pretty face often Hides a Flibbertigibbet.’”
    Melwyn fought down a stabbing retort. A footstep to the left alerted her. Someone slipped behind a huge statue of Zeus brandishing a lightning bolt. She quivered as visions of Lord Lambrick sprang to mind. Would he grab her here and carry her off like the heathen he was? Why did that excite her?
    She tried to peer around Zeus, to catch a glimpse. A figure hurried off, but he was much shorter than the viscount. Could Lambrick change his height at will?
    Melwyn slapped a hand on Zeus’s marble thigh, deciding it time to return to Cornwall and put an end to these machinations.
    ****
     
    Griffin entered the tavern, The Pig and Pickle , in Highbury in Islington, leaving the reek of cow pens behind as cattle were driven through here on their way to Smithfield.
    The dim, low-beamed place smelled of ale and smoke, and rarely scrubbed bodies.
    He scanned the faces in the common room, candlelight flickering over sneers and glares. A man wearing a green bandana around his throat, as previously arranged, gestured Griffin over to a corner table.
    Griffin stroked the handle of his pistol tucked in his breeches, approached and sat down across from him. “Mr. Shadedeal, I deduce?”
    The man lifted the brim of his round hat. He had a pock-marked face with deep lines around his bulging eyes. “Aye. Will you share an ale with me, with you payin’ o’course, since you has the higher income?”
    “As long as you don’t waste my time. I’m on my way home to Cornwall.” Griffin waved over a pot-boy and ordered two ales. The drinks arrived and they sipped, watching each other carefully. Griffin wasn’t impressed with the house ale as it tasted watered-down. “Now what do you think you might have for me?”
    “It’s worth its weight in gold, for a man wi’ your