A Midsummer Night's Romp Page 3

  “We have?” I glanced at my watch. “Hell’s bells, I haven’t even unpacked. Well, anything but this.” I nodded at the camera I was holding, one of the two I had borrowed from a friend, after having promised him I would guard them with my life. “Did they move up the schedule? No one told me, if they did. I had to take a train from London, and it took a lot longer than I imagined.”

  “No, no, they didn’t move the schedule—we don’t start actually digging until this afternoon. I meant we’ve officially started because Sue’s just done her first monologue to the camera.” Daria gestured a small triangular trowel toward the small clutch of people. Then, with a smile, she used it to tap lightly against my camera in a faux toast. “Here’s to a successful dig.”

  “Ah, gotcha.” I smiled wanly, my confusion fading. “So, do you work for the Claud-Marie company, or are you one of the independent diggers?”

  I had an idea of how a dig site actually worked after having listened to Sandy’s tales of the summers she spent grubbing around in the sands of the Middle East and eastern Europe as a volunteer, and wanted to identify anyone who might be able to help me in my quest. Volunteers probably weren’t going to help my cause much, but an employee . . . that was another matter.

  “Yes, I work for CMA. It’s quite exciting, really. Last year we excavated in Tunisia, which was a blast, although my husband complained about my leaving him home with our twin ten-year-olds while I gallivanted around in the sun, and had steamy affairs with various and sundry handsome sheikhs.”

  I didn’t quite know how to take that, so I simply said, “Did your husband come with you this time?”

  “Not him! He runs a testing facility—you know, the people who process blood tests and urine samples, and that sort of thing. He’d die if he had to spend his day in what he calls unsanitary dirt.” She giggled. “I’ve made him sound like a jealous clean freak, but he’s not. He’s actually quite understanding, although he does like to pretend that I’m surrounded by countless diggers who lust after me, which couldn’t be further from the truth. Just look around—by tonight we’ll be knee-high in dirt and mud, and the only thing we’ll lust after is a hot bath. Are you going to be here for long? Oh, dear, that sounded rude. What I meant to ask is how long you expect it will take to get your book done.”

  “Oh, you know,” I said, trying to look sage. “These things are hard to pin down. It could take a few days, or a few weeks.”

  “I’ve never met a photojournalist before,” she said with obvious interest. “It must be thrilling for you to be able to take a few pictures and then voilà! You have a book.”

  “It’s a bit more complicated than that,” I said with what I hoped looked like learned professionalism. I tried to dredge up every morsel of information I had ever seen about journalists and photography. “There’s fact-checking and things, naturally. And the photos have to be processed. That takes a lot of time.”

  She nodded, and I breathed a sigh of relief that she obviously had no clue I was bluffing like crazy. “I’m sure there’s a lot of work involved. I take it you’re a fan of Roman history? Or are you just covering the dig because . . . well, because?”

  “I’m interested, but afraid I know squat about it.” I’d already decided that it would be dangerous to try to pass myself off as someone interested in history around a group of people who fairly dripped expertise on the subject. “And a friend’s friend is married to the owner, so she was happy to let me putter around taking pictures.”

  “You’re a friend of the baroness?” Daria looked impressed.

  “I’ve met her a couple of times, but that was years ago. She’s a friend of my roommate’s, actually.”

  “What made you choose us for your book if you’re not overly keen on Roman history?”

  Guilt dug deep in my gut. “Well, I’ve always wanted to come to England, and when I read about the dig and the TV program that would be filming it, I suddenly had an idea for a behind-the-scenes book. I know those have been popular for other reality shows, and thought that maybe people would like one about an archaeology dig.”

  She blinked at me, but said nothing.

  My palms started to sweat. “Have you seen the producer’s other reality shows? They all had books done about them, and they were really popular, so he—Roger d’Aspry—was totally on board when I suggested doing a book for this project. It may be a bit unorthodox to record the filming of an archaeological dig, but Roger thinks it will do well.”

  To my relief, she smiled. “Well, I think it’s impressive that you’re going to publish a book about us—about the dig. I’ll be sure to make everyone in my family buy a copy.”

  The guilt in my gut dug deeper. How many more lies would I have to dish out before I could go home with the proof I needed? “That would be awesome.”

  “What’s the name of the book?”

  “Er . . . I haven’t picked one yet.”

  “How long will it be? Will it be one of those coffee table books, or something smaller?”

  I was in hell, liar’s hell. This was what came to people who wantonly told untruths, my conscience told me with smug satisfaction. I squirmed slightly, trying to think of something to end the conversation. “I’m afraid I can’t talk about it yet.”

  “Top secret, eh?” Daria said, nodding knowingly. “I heard authors are like that.”

  I tried to summon up a confident smile, but failed. “More like inspiration hasn’t yet struck.”

  “Let’s just hope that we have a productive month to justify a book about us.” Daria watched as Sue argued with Roger d’Aspry, noted producer of various British reality TV shows. “There they go, at it again. You’ve met both of them, yes?”

  “I met Sue when I got here, although I actually met Roger two days ago in London. I was a bit of a fangirl, I’m afraid. I loved the show he produced with an American woman who played a duchess during a monthlong Victorian reenactment.”

  Daria squinted in thought. “Oh, I think I remember that. There was some controversy around it, wasn’t there? Sabotage or something?”

  “I don’t know anything about that. I just thought it was cool, and of course, it was interesting that the lead couple hooked up in real life. I mean, that’s kind of a fairy tale, isn’t it?”

  “Absolutely.”

  As I watched Sue and Roger, my thoughts turned to just how wonderful it would be to meet a man I could trust, one who wouldn’t use his power against me, one who would be there beside me, supportive and loving and sexy as sin. “There’s nothing like that in my future, for sure,” I said on a sigh.

  “Nothing like what? Arguments with a bossy producer? Don’t fool yourself—I worked with Roger on the Anglopalooza show he did two years ago—we tried to locate an Anglo-Saxon castle, but it was a miserable failure—and I can tell you in all honesty that he’s the pushiest man in TV.”

  “Pushy, how?” I asked, looking worriedly at the red-haired, balding man who was still arguing with the pretty blonde Sue. “When I met him, he was quite nice. Although that might be in part because I was telling him how much I liked the Victorian show he did.”

  “For one, he worries more about getting what he calls ‘good TV’ than us doing proper archaeology. And he’s a stickler for everyone keeping to the schedule, no matter how much we tell him that we have to go where the archaeology is. But worst of all is that he loves having everyone doing reenactments of anything even remotely related to the subject at hand.”

  “What sort of reenactments?” I tried to look like I was interested from a purely journalistic viewpoint, but the truth was that I had a secret love for such things, and couldn’t wait to watch them in progress.

  “Everything from spending twenty-four hours as a medieval nun or monk to making pottery, weapons, clothing, food . . . you name it, Roger will have us doing it. You better watch out, because when he’s in the throes of one of his
big ideas, he ropes in everyone he can find. And I do mean everyone. In Anglopalooza, he had not only the whole crew but also all the bystanders dressed up as Saxons reenacting what a siege was like.”

  “That can’t be too bad,” I said, considering the subject. “You guys are looking for Roman remains, aren’t you? It wouldn’t be horrible to dress up like Romans. I mean, they had nice hair arrangements, and lovely jewelry, and their dresses weren’t bad, either. Flattering to those of us who are more substantial than others.”

  “Just you wait,” Daria warned, nodding toward the group, which at that moment broke up and scattered. “And pray you don’t end up being picked to play the part of the servant.”

  “Ew.” I remembered a television show I watched a few weeks back in preparation for the trip. “It would be just my luck that I’d be the servant who has to mop up the vomitorium.”

  “Pfft,” Daria said, making a dismissive gesture. “Vomitoria were passageways into large places, not rooms where people went to barf up their feast so they could go indulge in more. That’s nothing but a fallacy.”

  “I’m happy to hear it,” I said, relieved despite the fact that I hadn’t been called on to do anything more than stroll around and take pictures. “Let’s just hope Roger knows that, too.”

  “That is extremely unlikely. He’d love nothing more than to have people vomiting everywhere. He doesn’t really care much for accuracy so long as it’s dramatic.”

  I let my gaze wander over to where the big television studio trucks had parked alongside an old barn. The members of the dig team had set up a tent camp in an unused pasture well out of sight of Ainslie Castle, per an agreement with Alice and her baron husband. Roger had told me they were worried that tourism would drop if archaeologists were cluttering up the place. Apparently, the castle was partially supported by the tourists who visited it a couple of days a week, so it was important to keep them happy.

  In addition to the two dozen or so tents that had been set up as the dig and TV crews’ home away from home for the next month, five RVs had been parked along the fringes, where the producer, the director, and the other VIPs would live. One RV had been converted into a miniature processing studio, complete with satellite uplink, editing computers, and a huge whiteboard where the producer mapped out each day’s shooting schedule. Although Alice had offered me accommodations at the castle, I didn’t want to take advantage of our tenuous acquaintance, and instead had taken up Roger’s offer to stay in one of the staff tents. But it was one of the RVs that held my attention.

  I decided the time was right to do a little probing. “I’m surprised that Paul would allow things to be presented that weren’t true. He’s such a stickler for accuracy.”

  “Paul Thompson?” Daria gave me an odd look. “Do you know him?”

  “A little,” I said, adopting a coy expression that I hoped would lead to further confidences.

  She continued, but not along the lines I had hoped for. “Have you ever seen him dig? Most of his finds come from the spoil pile.”

  “Um . . . that’s what?”

  “Sorry, technical lingo. Spoil pile is the dirt and debris that is excavated. We go through it to check for small items like bits of pottery or glass or even bone that’s missed while we dig.”

  “Ah, gotcha.”

  “Anyway, a more incompetent choice for head of the company than Paul I can’t imagine. Yes, I’m biased—I was up for the job, and the board gave it to him, instead—but seriously, if you want to photograph proper archaeology, stay away from Paul.”

  I pursed my lips. Daria’s comment about the spoil pile was an insult, pure and simple—it implied that Paul wasn’t paying enough attention to what he was digging. “It’s never easy when someone else gets a job instead of you, but surely the board must have felt he was qualified for it.”

  “There’s qualified, and then there’s qualified,” Daria said opaquely, nodding over toward the line of trailers. “He may swank around and think he’s a god of the archaeological world, but the truth is that it’s us diggers who really know what’s going on. Take Dennis Smythe-Lowe, for instance. He’s had his hands in the dirt since he was a kid, and worked for CMA almost as long as I have, and yet the powers that be passed us both by when they hired Paul to head up the company. It’s politics, nothing but politics.”

  Now, that was interesting. There was obviously no love lost between Daria and Paul. . . . I tucked that fact away, and looked interested. “Is Dennis the man who looks like Indiana Jones had a love child with a hippie?”

  Daria laughed. “That’s him. He’s the salt of the earth, and a damned good archaeologist. Just don’t get him going about the Stone Age, or he’ll spend all day teaching you how to map flints.”

  “Map? Like draw?”

  “No, in this case it means to chip away at a flint until you have a pointed end that can be used as a tool or weapon.”

  “Gotcha.” I dredged up a morsel of information I’d seen during my planning phase for this trip. “One thing I’m confused about—you called yourself a digger, but I thought diggers were the grad students and unpaid volunteers who did the grunt work, not the proper archaeologists.”

  “Well, it’s a bit of both, really,” she said with a bob of her head. “The term digger does generally refer to the nonprofessionals, but sometimes we archaeologists also refer to ourselves as diggers.”

  “As a way of being one of the common folk?” I asked lightly.

  “That and because it’s what we all do,” she said, her eyes back on the group of TV folk.

  I watched them with her for a moment before commenting, “I’ve seen a TV show about some people who salt sites in order to fool people. You don’t think that Roger . . . ?”

  “No, I can’t accuse Roger of doing that.” Daria gave a little shrug. “Not that I think he wouldn’t if it had occurred to him, but luckily, his mind doesn’t usually run to deviousness like that. Hey, isn’t that the baron’s brother? I heard he broke his leg falling off a cliff in Turkey. If that’s him, then I shall certainly volunteer to push his wheelchair around the dig site. Mmrowr.”

  “I thought you were married,” I said with a smile before turning to look where she had nodded.

  “Married, but not dead. Damn, but he’s a fine, fine sight.”

  The producer, Roger d’Aspry, stood with a man who sat on a bright blue motorized scooter. I couldn’t see much of the man until I moved to the side a couple of steps, and then it took me a moment to be able to speak. “Wow.”

  “Glad I’m not the only one to have that reaction. I wonder if he needs help bathing.”

  With an effort, I managed to drag my eyes from the man on the scooter to look askance at Daria.

  She giggled, and nudged me with her elbow. “Don’t tell me you wouldn’t offer to help him bathe if he asked you.”

  Unbidden, my eyes returned to the man who was at that moment swinging a leg in a bright pink cast with Velcro straps around it so he could get to his feet. He towered over Roger, which meant he must have been well over six feet, with impressively broad shoulders, the tops of which were brushed by straight dark brown hair. His skin was the color of milky coffee, and although he was in profile to me, I could see he had a softly squared chin. All that, combined with a natural grace evident despite his having to clunk around in a walking cast, meant he really was worth looking at.

  But I was not in the market for a romantic entanglement, I reminded myself. I had a job to do, an important job, and nothing could distract me from that.

  “I don’t know that I’d offer to give him a bath,” I said slowly, trying hard to pretend that I wasn’t, at that moment, thinking a number of lascivious thoughts, “but I certainly wouldn’t kick him out of bed for eating crackers.”

  It was Daria’s turn to stare at me.

  “Sorry. Idiom. Might be too American to be known here.”
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  She made a face. “Hardly. Our version is ‘I wouldn’t kick him out of bed for farting.’ Yours is nicer.”

  “What’s he doing here?” I asked, unable to quell my curiosity. “Just making sure no one harms the castle grounds?”

  “Far from it—he has a degree in archaeology, although evidently he didn’t pursue it. He’s here to lend a hand, so far as he can, or so I gather from what Sue said about him. Frankly, I don’t care why he’s interested in helping. I’m just happy he is.”

  There was a note of sly cunning in her voice that I chose to ignore, telling myself that what Daria did in private was her own business.

  Besides, this man was way out of my league, and that was good as far as I was concerned. Men who looked like him not only had giant egos; they also had to beat women away with a stick. Big, gawky women like me probably didn’t even enter his sphere of notice, not that I’d want to be noticed by a handsome egomaniac. “I suppose I should go see to unpacking the rest of my stuff. I dashed out before I finished because I was so excited. Oh, speaking of excited—I was told that I should be at a staff meeting this afternoon. Do you know exactly when it is?”

  “After lunch.” Daria hadn’t taken her eyes off Roger and the baron’s brother, who were slowly meandering toward the line of RVs. “I think I’ll just go over to Roger and say hello, and remind him that I’ve worked with him before.”

  “Subtle,” I called after her, smiling at her thumbs-up gesture in response.

  Chapter 4

  The smile stayed with me until I reached the tent that had been assigned to me. The archaeology folk’s temporary housing consisted of standard camping fare—orange and white domelike tents with little screened windows, and a large matching screened opening with an inner flap for privacy—while the film team were arrayed in fancy RVs bearing the name of the network.

  I was in the middle of unpacking the borrowed photography equipment, trying hard to remember which lens went with which camera, when noises of an altercation seeped through from my next-door neighbor.