Of course, even as he charged forward, he could see the odious Scofield—how was that for one of Beth’s villain names?—settled into one of those deadly crouches of his that the boxing club had certainly never taught him how to counter.
He didn’t mean to get close enough to taste his adversary’s boot again. Though he would, if it was the only way to distract everyone from the Peppers’ sloop that he saw was finally drawing near to the beach.
For now, he stopped just out of kicking range, and he didn’t even spare Mr. Odious a glare. No, he directed it past the cad he’d never even met until he came here and to the two fellows hiking up the hill whom he’d come to expect better of. “Lord Scofield, I am absolutely appalled at the behavior of your son. How can you countenance such devious and even violent tactics as he has employed here? You’re fortunate he hasn’t been arrested—and think what a blemish it will be on the family name when he is, which he will be if you don’t rein him in. And you, Vandermeer—you’ve always kept better company than this.”
Young Scofield hissed a breath from between his teeth.
Lord Scofield scowled at him.
Vandermeer looked highly amused. “Sheridan,” he said in that flat Yankee accent of his that always twisted the vowels of his name into something strange. “Ought to’ve known you’d be involved. But you can’t mean to insinuate I’m making a mistake in trusting the British Museum, can you?”
He waved a hand behind him, which was when Sheridan bothered to look at the swarm of people crowding the shore around the two yachts, some of them starting up the hill. Blast and bother—a good dozen of them weren’t in the khaki-colored garb typical of the field. They were in morning suits and bowler hats, and unquestioningly from the board of trustees of the museum.
He would know. He’d made it a point to ingratiate himself with each and every one, hoping someday he might be honored with a place among them. It was how he’d come to know Lord Scofield to begin with, and he’d thought—actually thought—he liked the family. But that was when the heir apparent to the Scofield holdings was off in Asia or wherever, probably leaving a trail of destruction that Sheridan hadn’t realized the earl would simply help cover up.
Well, Sheridan may not yet be a trustee—but he was still a marquess, and that ought to earn him a bit of respect. “Gentlemen, I’m afraid I’m going to have to beg you to check your enthusiasm and reevaluate your alliance with Mr. Scofield. You wouldn’t want to tarnish the good name of the museum, would you?”
It got their attention, anyway, though that meant all those feet were now aimed at him. And all those scowls too.
Young Scofield looked as though he might bring that violent foot of his to bear on him yet. “Ignore him, gentlemen,” he called over his shoulder. “He’s just sore that we beat him to a discovery.”
“Again,” Vandermeer added with a wink and a grin.
He’d deal with the American later. For now, he kept his gaze on Lord Scofield. “He didn’t, actually. All the compromises your son is willing to make to morality, all the harm he has willfully done, despite the death of a local lad that can be laid at his feet—”
Nigel surged toward him now, though his father was near enough, praise the Lord, to catch him by the arm and halt him. “You are the one who hired Lorne!”
A technicality that was hardly to the point right now, given that that henchman of vile intent, as Beth called him, had taken up with him. “Your son’s shameful and dare I say illegal ways have amounted to nothing, my lord. All your coddling and covering for him have still netted nothing but empty ground and a Druid cairn he hadn’t even the sense to dig out properly.”
Lord Scofield’s face was turning decidedly red.
Vandermeer lifted his ebony walking stick and pointed behind them, toward where they’d been digging all night by lantern light. “That doesn’t look like nothing. Looks a bit like a treasure chest.”
Sheridan tried his best to smirk. “And that isn’t at his dig site—it’s at mine.”
The Scofields both smirked right back, and he had a feeling they pulled it off far better than he did. But then, they had a lot more practice. And seeing the matching expression on their faces, he knew in his gut that father and son had more in common than he had wanted to believe. The earl didn’t just cover up his son’s bad behavior because of family pride. He approved it. And had just honed the skill of hiding his own depravity behind a layer of polish.
“That’s where you’re obviously laboring under misinformation, Lord Sheridan.” The earl gave his son a little jerk backward, a silent stay out of this that clearly rankled. “We have written permission from Dorrien-Smith granting us excavation rights of all of Gugh. So whatever your friends are wrapping up in that blanket, the find is ours.”
No. Sheridan sucked in a long breath, cursing himself for not thinking of those blasted permissions before. How could he have overlooked something so crucial?
A gentle hand landed on his arm, bringing an immediate measure of peace. He didn’t want it to go down this way—for her more than anything. Beth had invested too much, lost too much in the search for this treasure. And now to have these reprobates swoop in and steal it from her? It wasn’t right. Wasn’t fair.
Wasn’t going to happen. He knew that with certainty, not just hope, when he saw his sisters striding up the hillside, Abbie with a piece of yellow paper held high in the air. “Not so fast, Lord Scofield!”
It was their clothing that told him they’d won the battle he hadn’t remembered to fight. No silly, frilly hats were on their heads today. No striped muslin or finest lawn artistically draping their figures. They were in what Millicent called their “safari chic” outfits—khaki cloth, lightweight, but still in a style befitting a lady.
The gentlemen all turned at their arrival, more than one grumble making its way up the heath to Sheridan’s ears and giving him cause to grin.
His sisters did have a bit of a reputation for taking over everything. Absolutely everything. And they were so very good at it.
“Oh, heaven help us.” Vandermeer planted his walking stick in the ground and let out a mighty sigh. “You’re too late, Lady Millie—Lady Abigail. Dorrien-Smith—”
“Oh, Donald.” Millicent sent Vandermeer a too-sweet smile and was probably planning how to deliver a ladylike kick to his shin for deliberately confusing which of them used a nickname and which didn’t. “Who gives a fig about Dorrien-Smith and his permissions? This is the duchy of Cornwall. It’s the duke who holds all salvage rights in and around the isles. Which means every single thing brought from the ground or the water here is his.”
Sheridan blinked at his sister—was this supposed to be good news?—and then angled a look down and back at Beth.
She was wincing. “Right. I forgot about that. We tend to operate on the ‘what they don’t know’ rule. . . .”
Abbie must have heard her. She chuckled and presented her telegram to Lord Scofield. “Well, he knows now, dearest. They both do. And I’m afraid my Duke of Cornwall trumps your Lord Proprietor, my lord.”
Vandermeer pursed his lips. “The Duke of Cornwall.”