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control of his thoughts. Even Jon was silent, and furrows creased Miss Vale’s forehead.
    But Miss Merideth was the dangerous one. He had to divert her attention. She was remarkably sharp for a female. And he had better brush up on his Bible as soon as he escaped this room. Surely there was an appropriate passage that would keep Jon in line.
    “Even the devil cites Scripture for his purpose,” he muttered, searching desperately for inspiration. His eyes probed the shadows.
    “My God!” he exclaimed, lunging toward the corner. Reverently, he lifted the bronze statue sitting on an open escritoire. “Minerva. And a remarkable rendition of her. Where did Sir Winton get it?”
    Miss Merideth had followed him. “It is mine.”
    “Then where did you get it? This is Roman work. And ancient Roman, at that. Third century. Possibly fourth.”
    “I know. I fo—“ Her eyes widened. “My God! You are Anthony Torwell.”
    “Yes, but—” His voice froze. His card said only A. Torwell. How could she know the full name, unless—
    “I’ve read several of your papers. Your description of the Roman fortifications near York is fascinating.”
    “You read antiquarian articles?”
    “You needn’t sound so shocked,” she snapped. “I am perfectly capable of understanding them.”
    He took a deep breath. It wasn’t her words that shocked him, but the awe in her face. Worship was not a reaction he inspired in others. But he had vowed to tell the truth about everything but his name, and it was too late to deny his identity, anyway. Reconciling his two lives would happen sooner than he’d planned.
    Panic danced along his nerves, leaving him vulnerable. His reputation rarely bothered him because he knew it was false. But the respect he received from other antiquarians was always tinged with questions about whether it would continue once they knew the truth. Now that he must reveal that truth, it felt like a reckless violation of his soul. No more security. Never again could Tony Linden deflect criticism with the mental shield of if he only knew the real me…
    “Forgive me, Miss Merideth. I have no doubt that you are an intelligent woman. I was surprised, not incredulous, for I know few gentlemen who are interested in the past. Never have I encountered a lady knowledgeable about the subject. So where did you find Minerva?”
    She bit her lip, closely scanning his face before replying. “In the Roman temple I am excavating.”
     

Chapter Four
     
    Alex watched, fascinated, as emotions flew across Torwell’s face. Excitement. Shock. Fear – that couldn’t be right. Suspicion. And finally back to interest and suppressed excitement.
    Why hadn’t she been born a man? A gentleman could have approached Torwell in a straightforward manner, explained his interest, and requested information and guidance.
    But she was hampered by society’s ingrained belief that ladies were incompetent widgeons who could not even stroll about the grounds without assistance, let alone excavate a Roman temple and correctly evaluate what they found.
    Stupid! How could you let a moment of euphoria override all sense? He is a man, with a man’s arrogance.
    She shivered. Revealing her activities was reckless. Would he scoff at her? Worse, would he spread tales about the silly woman who thought she was an antiquarian? One hint would bring her father home to investigate.
    She gripped the back of a chair to hide her tremors.
    “How did you clean Minerva?” he asked.
    A most unusual man. Rather than jump to conclusions, he had decided to test her skill. “Vinegar baths and scrubbing with mallow-root brushes. I feared that using anything stronger might harm her. Fortunately, she wasn’t badly encrusted.”
    Her pounding heart was making her lightheaded, though at least the tremors had passed. She stroked a finger along the patina coating one slender arm as hope battled fear. Would the celebrated Anthony Torwell share his expertise with a mere female? Would