For the next three weeks, Valentine lived in Lady Hermione’s townhouse as a veritable prisoner. She was given a comfortable set of rooms. She had access to a well-stocked library. And she ate the finest meals on the finest porcelain plates, seated across from Lady Hermione at a carved mahogany dining table that had been polished by the servants until it shown like mirrored glass.
“You’re not ready,” Lady Hermione said whenever Valentine broached the subject of venturing out of doors. “And I’m still debating with Penelope and Euphemia about how best to manage your introduction into society.”
Valentine met Lady Penelope and Lady Euphemia during her first week in residence. They were two elderly spinster cousins of the late Marquess of Stokedale. Like Lady Hermione, they had flaxen hair and doe-like gray eyes—features Valentine discovered were shared by many a Caddington female. And, like Lady Hermione, they were considered to be rather eccentric in opinions, manners, and dress.
They stared at her, inspected her, and interrogated her in turns. They marveled at her resemblance to her mother. They wondered about the identity of her father. And they made plans.
Her Caddington relations were always making plans.
The trouble was, the three of them never agreed on anything. Lady Hermione wanted to put Valentine up at her clubs and introduce her to her radical friends. The ones who debated dress reform and equal rights for women.
“She’ll need to learn to make her own way in the world,” Lady Hermione said. “And what better allies in the battle for feminine independence?”
Lady Penelope thought it best to take Valentine on a discreet visit to see her uncle, the present Marquess of Stokedale, and—as she said—let the chips fall where they may.
“There’s no point in delaying it,” she declared. “If he accepts her, we may have done with the matter. And, if he rejects her, as he most certainly will, then we’ll all know how to proceed.”
Most alarming of all was the course of action suggested by Lady Euphemia. She envisioned a grand ball to introduce the long-lost daughter of Lady Sara Caddington to society.
“A Christmas ball,” she said. “With all the family in attendance.”
Initially, these sorts of dramatic ideas sent Valentine into an agony of emotion. However, by the end of the second week, she began to take them in her stride. Not only that, she fell into some semblance of a household routine. A lonely routine, but a routine nonetheless.
Through it all, she never once heard from the Viscount St. Ashton.
Which wasn’t a surprise, all things considered. She didn’t believe he’d forgotten her. Indeed, she still had a great deal of faith in him. Never mind that that faith was chipped away at each day by her well-meaning relations.
Lord Lynden, as well, seemed to have disappeared into the ether. As the days passed with no word from him, she began to suspect that—having successfully deposited her with Lady Hermione—his lordship had washed his hands of her.
Sometimes, when she was alone and idle, she felt a creeping melancholy eating away at the edges of her existence. She fell prey to fears and doubts about her future. She suffered embarrassment and regret over her past behavior. And she worried herself silly about whether or not Tristan cared for her.
The rest of the time, however, the solitude wasn’t so terribly difficult. In truth, it was quite welcome. She wrote to Mrs. Pilcher in Hartwood Green, informing her that she’d left Lady Brightwell’s employ and was now staying with one of her late mother’s relations in London. And she had plenty of opportunity to work on her book of Bible verses. She even began to try her hand at illustration, though, admittedly, she didn’t have a fraction of her late mother’s talent.
Her mother had begun the book while she awaited Valentine’s birth, or so Papa had always said. She’d copied out the verses and illustrated them with sketches of flowers and foliage, stags and lions, and eagles and unicorns. Most of the illustrations had been done in ink or pencil and then filled in with watercolors. They were complemented by her mother’s swirling script, quoting passages of her favorite Bible verses.
It had been an unfinished labor of love. A project that Valentine had hoped to one day complete herself. But now…
Felicity Brightwell had destroyed all but the one page. And even that was splotched with ink. The illustration was still visible, thank goodness. And Valentine knew the psalm her mother had quoted backwards and forwards. All that was left was to begin at the beginning. To attempt to reconstruct her mother’s legacy to her from memory, one Bible verse and one rudimentary sketch at a time.
She was thus engaged on a Tuesday, during her third week in residence, when Lady Hermione entered the morning room with a newspaper in hand.
“The Brightwells have arrived in London,” she said.
Valentine looked up from her work. She’d just finished copying out a verse she remembered as having been at the front of her mother’s book. Let the morning bring me word of your unfailing love, for I have put my trust in you. It had been illustrated with a stag and a lion with an eagle flying overhead.
She put down her pen and flexed her hand. Her fingers were cramped and stained with ink. “Have they?”
“Just yesterday. It’s here in the papers.” Lady Hermione came to the desk and peered over her shoulder. “Is that a sketch of Primrose?” she asked. “No. It can’t be. The proportions are wrong.”
“It’s meant to be a lion.”
“With a corkscrew tail?”
“That’s not the tail. It’s part of the vine that grows around the illustration. See here? These are the flowers. And this is the tuft of grass beneath.”
“Hmm. I daresay it will look more like a lion when you have painted it in.”
Valentine doubted it. She wasn’t an artist. Not by any measure. She rose from her chair to join Lady Hermione on the settee. A glance at the newspaper confirmed her distant cousin’s report. Lady Brightwell and her daughter had returned to London for the Christmas season. They had taken up residence with friends in Park Lane.
“May we count on their discretion?” Lady Hermione asked.
Valentine shook her head. “Felicity as good as promised that she would tell everyone about what happened in Yorkshire. She’s determined to ruin me.”
Lady Hermione gave an unladylike snort. “Stuff and nonsense. How can she tell anyone anything without admitting to having been at the Fairfords’ orgy herself?”
Valentine winced. She wished Lady Hermione would cease referring to that wretched house party as an orgy. She felt bad enough about having been there already. “Felicity never cares about the consequences of her behavior when she is in a temper. She’ll say and do whatever she pleases. Whatever is most cruel.”
“She sounds positively charming.”
“Yes, well…she wanted to marry Lord St. Ashton quite desperately.”
“Clearly. I expect she thought to lure him into an indiscretion at Fairford House and then trap him into marriage. A ridiculous plan. A man like St. Ashton can’t be caught. A gentleman must have a sense of decency in order to do the right thing.”
Valentine held her tongue. This wasn’t the first time someone had alluded to Tristan’s lack of honor—at least insofar as women were concerned—and she doubted it would be the last.
“How very tiresome.” Lady Hermione sighed as she rose from the settee. “I had planned to wait until after the holiday, but if this Brightwell chit interferes…” She walked to the window and back again, brow creased in contemplation. “There is nothing for it,” she said at length. “We shall have to pay a call on Stokedale.”
Valentine’s eyes widened in alarm. “Now?”
“No, not now. We’ll go tomorrow morning. Stokedale mustn’t hear about you from other quarters. It would be fatal to our cause.” She cast a distracted look at the door. “It’s early hours, but I must call on Penelope and Euphemia. They will wish to know all.” She glanced back at Valentine. “I’ll return by luncheon,” she said as she moved to depart. “In the meanwhile, have Maisy prepare a solution for those ink stains on your fingers. A good soak should do the trick. We can’t have you meeting your uncle looking like a renegade copy clerk.”
When Lady Hermione had gone, Valentine returned to the little walnut desk in the corner and resumed her work. She was determined to finish her illustration before she subjected herself to one of the housekeeper’s lemon juice soaks. But, upon lifting her pen, she realized that the news that tomorrow she would finally be coming face to face with the Marquess of Stokedale made any further drawing impossible. Her hands were too unsteady.
Andrew Albert Caddington, Marquess of Stokedale was her mother’s only living sibling. He was a widower of one and fifty. The father of three boys and three girls, all of whom had now reached adulthood. He was a proud man, as the late marquess had been before him, and, according to Lady Hermione, set great store in the excellence of the Caddington bloodline.
When his younger sister, Lady Sara, had found herself with child, he’d taken his father’s side in the matter, refusing to lift a finger when Lady Sara was cast out into the streets.
Valentine had never felt hatred for anyone. Everything within her rebelled against such an emotion. It was wicked and unchristian. But when she thought of the Marquess of Stokedale, something roiled inside her that must be very much akin to hatred.
The man had stood by and done nothing when his only sister had—as Lady Hermione so often put it—been thrown to the wolves. He’d done nothing when Valentine had written to him for help. It seemed that, as far as he was concerned, Lady Sara’s memory and her bloodline could die out. Could be eradicated root and branch. He simply didn’t care. She was a bastard, after all. A March, not a Caddington.
“And happy to be so,” she muttered to herself as she set down her pen.
Papa hadn’t been perfect. He’d been judgmental, often hypocritical, and always impossible to please. Indeed, the more she worked on the book of the verses, the more Valentine grew to believe that it was a task her father had set for her mother. A sort of penance for her sins, as it were. He’d always said she was guilty of wantonness. And yet…
When he’d found Lady Sara, nearly six months gone with child, weeping in the vestibule of his church, he had, ultimately, done the right thing.
Perhaps it was merely charity. Or merely infatuation. Whatever his reasons, he hadn’t turned her away. He would never have let her and her unborn child starve in the streets. And he would never have allowed Valentine to be born without a name.
She looked down at her latest attempt at recreating her mother’s book of verses with a critical eye. The lion did look a little like a pug dog, but the script was rather pretty. She’d managed to copy her mother’s writing exactly, down to the last loop and swirl.
Let the morning bring me word of your unfailing love, for I have put my trust in you.
Now, if only she could remember the verses and illustrations for all the rest of the pages that Felicity had destroyed.
“Ma’am?”
Valentine turned in her seat at the sound of the butler’s voice. He stood at the door to the morning room, his face as expressionless as it had been on the day of her arrival. “Yes, Ledsen? What is it?”
“You have a caller. A young gentleman. Most insistent. I’ve put him in the drawing room.”
Valentine’s pulse leapt into her throat. Tristan. He’d finally come for her. She stood. “Oh! Thank you, Ledsen!”
“Ma’am—” he began as she rushed past him out the door, “her ladyship wouldn’t approve—”
“It’s perfectly all right.” Valentine lifted her skirts as she darted down the hall. The drawing room was on the second floor. After ascending the stairs, she slowed her stride and gave herself a chance to catch her breath. She mustn’t appear overeager, despite the fact she’d been longing to see him for more than three weeks straight. She must appear calm and composed. Indifferent, even.
She smoothed her hands over her woolen day dress. And then she opened the door and entered.
A slender man of medium height was standing by the bank of windows, hat and gloves in hand. The morning sunlight turned his fair hair to gold. “Val,” he said, smiling.
Her mouth fell open in horror. “Phil?”
At precisely eleven o’clock on Tuesday morning, Tristan arrived at Lady Hermione’s residence in Belgrave Square in a hired hansom. He’d taken the train down from Northumberland the previous day. A bloody miserable journey. But it had been worth it. He’d spoken to Lords Wroxham and Clithering, two of his old comrades in debauchery. They were always up for a gamble, whether it be gaming, racing, or women. Earlier that morning, ensconced in a private, smoke-filled room at his club, he’d attempted to persuade them to apply their adventurous spirits to the realm of business. Or, more precisely, to apply their money.
The meeting had been more successful than he ever could have hoped. He suspected this was owing, in part, to the fact that he’d approached both men after a night of heavy drinking and ribaldry. Indeed, he didn’t believe either had even been to bed yet. Why else would they be awake at half nine in the morning?
Frankly, it was a miracle he was awake himself. But he’d become accustomed to rising early at Blackburn Priory. It wasn’t only that a blasted cock crowed outside his window every morning at dawn, but that, with so many things to see to on the estate, it was necessary to make the most of the daylight hours.
Now back in London, he knew that morning calls didn’t really take place until afternoon. But after all he’d gone through during the past weeks, he had to speak with Valentine. It would all be worth it if he could see her. If he could hear just one of her prim little sermons. It had been nearly a month since they had parted in Yorkshire. And he’d been pining for her like a dratted schoolboy ever since. It was ridiculous. Pathetic.
It was utterly intolerable.
He’d thought that, with time and distance, his attraction to her would fade. His father had believed it would. It was the sole reason he’d insisted on a long engagement. But, instead of fading, Tristan’s feelings for her seemed to have grown stronger. To have solidified into something lasting and real.
Of course, there was every chance that, in her absence, he’d idealized her. Set her on a pedestal. And there was an equal chance that, in his absence, she’d come to her senses. That she’d realized that he wasn’t a man worthy of her affections. That she’d discovered she no longer cared for him.
Tristan didn’t like to think of that possibility. It made his heart ache in a completely unacceptable manner.
His heart.
And that was the hell of it.
He disembarked from the hansom cab and, after flipping a few coins to the jarvey, he bounded up the front steps of Lady Hermione’s townhouse. A nervous excitement quickened his pulse. Perhaps he should have sent word that he was coming? Something to tell her when she might expect him? For all he knew, she might not even be at home.
But it was too late for second-guessing. He raised his hand and gave an impatient rap on the door with the brass knocker. The door was opened almost immediately by an elderly man in a dusty black suit. Lady Hermione’s butler, presumably.
“Yes, sir?”
Tristan didn’t wait for an invitation. He strode past the butler into the marble-tiled entryway. “Tell Miss March that St. Ashton is here to see her,” he said as he divested himself of his hat and gloves
“Yes, my lord.” The butler took his things and ushered him toward a modest room off the hall. “If you would be so kind as to wait in the morning room? Miss March is…” He trailed off, his eyes darting toward the second floor landing.
“Really, Val.” A man’s voice floated down the stairs. “That’s not the way I remember it at all.”
Tristan’s followed the butler’s gaze to the staircase in time to see a pale, fair-haired fellow descending. He had the face and figure of a romantic poet. The sort of anemic, prosing individual that village girls enjoyed swooning over. And beside him, clad in a handsome blue day dress, was Valentine.
His Valentine.
“Then your memory of the events in September is as addled as all the rest of you,” she said. “We are not going to marry. We never were.”
“Come now, my dear,” he said. “Engagements are not so easily broken. One must honor one’s promises.”
Tristan’s body tensed with outrage. He stepped forward. “On that I quite agree.”
Valentine’s gaze jerked to his with a start. Her lips parted on an indrawn breath. “Tristan.”
“Miss March,” he said, bowing. “Do introduce me to your friend.”
Two spots of color appeared high on her cheeks, tinting her porcelain skin to rose. “My lord, may I present Mr. Phillip Edgecombe. Mr. Edgecombe, this is the Viscount St. Ashton.”
“Miss March’s fiancé,” Tristan added. “Or hasn’t she told you?”
Edgecombe descended the final step. Tristan was pleased to see that he was taller than the little parasite by over a head and outweighed him by at least two stone. “I fear that’s not possible, my lord. You see, Miss March is promised to me.”
“Is that so?”
“Yes, indeed. We grew up together in Hartwood Green. We have had an understanding of long duration.”
Tristan lifted his brows. “What do you say to this, Miss March?”
Valentine’s eyes went to the butler. He was standing near the door, looking damnably uncomfortable. She made a soft sound of exasperation. “If we must discuss this, let’s not do so in the hall, gentlemen. Come into the morning room, both of you.”
Tristan didn’t budge. “Ah, but Mr. Edgecombe was leaving, wasn’t he? I have no wish to detain him.”
“I’m happy to explain the circumstances of my engagement to Miss March,” Edgecombe said. “In the morning room or anywhere.”
Valentine’s expression tightened. “For the last time,” she said, “there is no engagement. There never was one. When I left Hartwood Green, you made it very plain—”
“A misunderstanding,” Edgecombe interrupted. “Which I’ve repeatedly explained.”
“There is no misunderstanding.” She looked at Tristan. “I wrote to Mrs. Pilcher to reassure her that I was all right. I told her I was staying with Lady Hermione. She relayed the information to Mr. Edgecombe and, believing me to be in line for some of the Caddington fortune, he’s travelled here today to insist that we marry!”
“Has he, indeed.”
“Yes,” Valentine said. “And he’s insinuated that, if I don’t marry him, he’ll sue me for breach of promise and have my name dragged through the courts! Have you ever heard of anything so dastardly?”
Edgecombe held up a hand in protest. “Now, Val. You know that’s not what I said.”
“It’s what you meant!”
“But you must consider my sacrifice. A trip to London is not inexpensive. I came here relying on our agreement. When you say that you won’t marry me, you’re in breach of that agreement. It’s a classic case, my dear. I consulted a solicitor on the subject and—”
Tristan drew himself up to his full height. “Did you, by God.”
“Well, I must say that I did. For I had an inkling that Val would be difficult on the subject now that she is more comfortably off. And had I known she was in danger of losing her head to a man who is known far and wide as a—”
“Oh, don’t say it, Phil,” Valentine warned under her breath.
“By all means do, Phil,” Tristan urged.
“I won’t disparage you, my lord. I didn’t come to town to make enemies. I came to settle things with Val and, once I have done, I shall return to Hartwood Green.”
“Are things settled, Miss March?” Tristan asked her.
“To my mind.”
“That’s good enough for me,” Tristan said. And with that, he grabbed hold of Phillip Edgecombe by his knotted cravat, hauled him up nearly off of his feet, and—forcibly—escorted him out the door.