Книга - No Role For A Gentleman

No Role For A Gentleman
Gail Whitiker


FROM RESERVED GENTLEMAN TO SOCIETY’S DARLINGLaurence Bretton has been the talk of the Ton since the shock announcement that he is the celebrated playwright Valentine Lawe. Keeping up the charade for his sisters’ sake isn’t a problem – that is until he lays eyes on Lady Joanna Northrup…Since her father inherited his title Joanna is no longer free to marry for love. Now she must choose a wealthy, titled husband – and soon! Regretfully, this doesn’t include the dashing Laurence – and certainly not his flamboyant alter ego. But the twinkle in his eyes tells her there’s so much more to this man. If only he can pen a happy ending for them both…












She went to pull free of Laurence’s grip but he held her firmly in place, his eyes burning into hers as he stared down at her.


Joanna met his gaze boldly, still viewing herself as Rosalind to his Duke Frederick. The tension between them was causing her breath to quicken and her chest to rise and fall in the drama of the moment.

And then, abruptly, everything changed. It wasn’t Duke Frederick’s face she saw a heartbeat away from hers but Laurence’s—one that had become dearer to her than any other. She could feel the warmth of his breath on her face, smell the fresh citrus scent of his soap as he drew closer. In that moment they were totally alone in that deserted theatre. No one else was there … only the two of them.

‘Joanna,’ he whispered.

His head bent towards hers, his lips drawing closer, and she closed her eyes and reality slipped away …




AUTHOR NOTE


Welcome back to the colourful world of Regency theatre and the complicated lives of the Bretton family, who made their first appearance in NO OCCUPATION FOR A LADY.

The second book in this series focuses on Laurence Bretton, Victoria’s older brother, a quiet, scholarly man who shocks everyone—including his family—by standing up and claiming to be Valentine Lawe, the celebrated playwright. While his family know that Valentine Lawe is actually Victoria’s pseudonym, and that Laurence only assumed the role in order to protect her reputation, he ends up bringing the character to full and glorious life when, overnight, he is thrust into the glittering spotlight that is London society.

But real life isn’t a scripted play and, once launched upon the deception, Laurence finds there’s no easy way of turning back—something he wishes he could do when he meets the beautiful Lady Joanna Northrup. Lady Joanna isn’t interested in the flamboyant playwright who takes centre stage at elegant soirées. She’s drawn to the amusing, scholarly man she met in a bookshop while browsing for books about ancient Egypt, a subject near and dear to her heart.

Unfortunately the truth comes at a cost, and as one lie follows another Laurence sees the woman he loves slipping away. His only chance is to take off the mask and step out of the role. But shedding a public face doesn’t come without painful repercussions …

Enjoy!




About the Author


GAIL WHITIKER was born on the west coast of Wales and moved to Canada at an early age. Though she grew up reading everything from John Wyndham to Victoria Holt, frequent trips back to Wales inspired a fascination with castles and history, so it wasn’t surprising that her first published book was set in Regency England. Now an award-winning author of both historical and contemporary novels, Gail lives on Vancouver Island, where she continues to indulge her fascination with the past as well as enjoying travel, music and spectacular scenery. Visit Gail at www.gailwhitiker.com

Previous novels by this author:



A MOST IMPROPER PROPOSAL* (#ulink_d6bfd97c-1f5e-546f-b186-5a062e968060)

THE GUARDIAN’S DILEMMA* (#ulink_d6bfd97c-1f5e-546f-b186-5a062e968060)

A SCANDALOUS COURTSHIP

A MOST UNSUITABLE BRIDE

A PROMISE TO RETURN

COURTING MISS VALLOIS

BRUSHED BY SCANDAL

IMPROPER MISS DARLING

NO OCCUPATION FOR A LADY


* (#litres_trial_promo)part of The Steepwood Scandal mini-series

NO ROLE FOR A GENTLEMAN

features characters you will have met in

NO OCCUPATION FOR A LADY

Did you know that some of these novels are also available as eBooks? Visit www.millsandboon.co.uk




No Role for a Gentleman


Gail Whitiker






www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


To my dear friends and fellow Pen Warriors Bonnie Edwards, Vanessa Grant, E.C. Sheedy and Laura Tobias, with whom I brainstormed the idea for this series during one of our memorable Red Door weekends. I am so grateful for their remarkable creativity and never-ending enthusiasm. And, of course, for the laughter that invariably results from five women being locked up in a house together for three days.




Chapter One


It was in the Temple of the Muses that Laurence Bretton first saw her—a slender, dark-haired young woman standing by the far side of the circular counter, her features partially hidden by the wide brim of a fashionable bonnet. She was engaged in conversation with a clerk whose eagerness to assist was all too evident, but whose frequent blushes and stammering replies seemed to indicate a greater interest in the lady than in whatever she was attempting to buy.

‘We do carry … an extensive selection of books dealing with the Ottoman Empire,’ Laurence heard the young man say. ‘Many of which I’ve read and can recommend myself. Reynier’s State of Egypt after the Battle of Heliopolis was most informative and I have … a very good copy of that in stock.’

‘As it happens, so do I,’ the lady replied in a brisk though not unkind manner. ‘And while I found Mr Reynier’s perspectives entertaining, they were not detailed enough for my liking. Have you a copy of Volney’s Travels through Syria and Egypt? The second volume?’

Volney? Laurence knew that name. Constantin François de Chassebœuf, Comte de Volney, was a French philosopher and historian who had spent several months in Egypt and Greater Syria, and who had written his Voyage en Egypte et en Syrie upon his return to France in 1785. Even to a scholar it was relatively dry reading and as such, hardly seemed the type of book a flower of English womanhood would be enquiring after.

Curious, he moved closer, in time to hear the clerk say, ‘Regrettably, we do not have a copy of that particular book in stock, but if I might suggest—’

‘Could you order it for me?’

The request was accompanied by a smile of such sweetness that the young man actually gulped. ‘Well, yes, of course, though I don’t know how much luck I will have in finding it. Perhaps Savary’s Letters on Egypt?’

‘Again, entertaining, but I have been told Volney’s book is far more detailed.’

‘It is,’ Laurence said, slowly stepping forwards. ‘And while it does not have as many sketches as I would like, his rendering of the Temple of the Sun at Balbec is quite exceptional.’

The lady turned her head, the quick movement setting the feathers on her bonnet swaying and treating Laurence to an unobstructed view of an exceptionally lovely face. Eyes, large and expressive framed by dark lashes that appeared even more so against the pale gold of her complexion, stared back at him, but with curiosity rather than alarm. ‘It is?’

‘Yes. I would be happy to lend you my copy as long as you promise to return it to me once you are done.’

A pair of sable-smooth eyebrows rose above a small nose lightly dusted with freckles. ‘You would lend such a valuable book to someone with whom you were not acquainted?’

‘No, I would lend it to someone I knew to be as interested in the subject as I,’ Laurence said with a smile, ‘after having taken the liberty of introducing myself so that we would no longer be unacquainted.’ He touched the brim of his beaver hat and bowed. ‘Laurence Bretton, student of history and reputable lender of slightly used books. And you are …?’

His enquiry was met by a startled pause and then by a flash of amusement in eyes the colour of Cleopatra’s emeralds. ‘Joanna Northrup. Dedicated researcher and devotee of all things Egyptian.’ She extended her hand. ‘It seems we are well met, Mr Bretton.’

The proffered hand was encased in a smooth calfskin glove, but it was not the directness of the reply or the firmness of her grip that took Laurence by surprise. ‘Northrup,’ he repeated thoughtfully. ‘Not, by any chance, related to Mr William Northrup, former Oxford lecturer and archaeologist involved in explorations in the upper Nile Valley in Egypt?’

Her look of startled surprise was followed by one of cautious interest. ‘He is my father. Did you have the good fortune to attend one of his lectures?’

‘Regrettably no, though, given his fondness for throwing chalk, it may have been to my advantage.’

‘He does have exceptionally good aim,’ she agreed.

‘I know of several gentlemen willing to attest to it. Nevertheless, I would have liked the opportunity. He is a legend to those who have an interest in the study of ancient Egypt.’

‘And have you such an interest, Mr Bretton?’

Recalled to the hours he had spent devouring anything he could find about the Rosetta Stone, a centuries-old block of igneous rock discovered in Egypt and said to be the key to translating ancient Egyptian hieroglyphs, Laurence nodded. ‘You could say that, yes.’

‘Then I wonder if you would be interested in attending a lecture my father is giving at the Apollo Club tomorrow evening? Attendance is by invitation only, but …’ Miss Northrup dug into her reticule and pulled out a card ‘… if you present this at the door, you will be admitted.’

Laurence glanced at the card, upon which the address of the club, and underneath, the initials, JFN, had been written. ‘Thank you, I will most certainly attend. I wasn’t sure if your father was still involved in Egyptian explorations, given that I haven’t heard much about him for quite some time.’

‘We have not been much in society of late,’ Miss Northrup said, her glance briefly dropping away. ‘We suffered a series of … unfortunate deaths in my family and are only recently emerged from mourning.’

‘I am sorry to hear that,’ Laurence said, aware from the expression on her face that the memories were still painful. ‘Such things are never easy.’

‘No, they are not, especially when one’s life is so drastically altered by the outcome.’ Miss Northrup paused, as though reflecting on some private memory. Then, she drew a bracing breath and said, ‘However, we bear it as best we can and move on.’

‘Yes, we do,’ Laurence said, seeing no point in telling her that while the dramatic changes in his own life had not been inspired by such grievous events, they had kept him fully occupied in areas that had nothing to do with archaeological exploration. ‘At what time does the lecture commence?’

‘Seven o’clock, but I suggest you come early if you wish to secure a good seat,’ Miss Northrup said. ‘Given that it is Papa’s first lecture in quite some time, we are expecting a large turnout.’

‘Then I shall make every effort to do so,’ Laurence said, tucking the card into his pocket. Then, because it was important that he know, said, ‘Will you be in attendance as well?’

‘Oh, yes. While my father is one of the most meticulous archaeologists I know, he tends to be considerably less so when it comes to the organisation of his lectures,’ Miss Northrup admitted with a smile. ‘He would no doubt leave half of his notes at home and end up wandering off into a lengthy dissertation about the pyramid of Djoser, which has nothing to do with his more recent work in the area around Thebes. I am there to make sure he adheres to the program.’

Observing the fashionable gown, the elegant bonnet and the cashmere shawl fastened at the throat by a fine pearl brooch, Laurence was hard-pressed to imagine the delicate creature before him taking an interest in what his youngest sister had once called the most boring subject on earth. ‘You don’t find the subject a little dry?’

‘Not at all. I have worked at my father’s side for a number of years, transcribing his notes, organising and labelling his finds, even helping him to map out his future expeditions. And last year, during a visit to the temple complex near Dendera, I was fortunate enough to find the most incredible piece of—’

‘You found at Dendera?’ Laurence repeated in astonishment. ‘Are you telling me you actually went to Egypt with your father?’

It was a mistake. The lady’s eyes narrowed and her lovely smile cooled every so slightly. ‘Yes, I did. My second trip, in fact, and, in many ways, even more remarkable than the first. Words cannot describe the size and scope of Tentyra, or the magnificence of the Temple of Hathor. Such things truly must be seen to be appreciated.’

‘Of that, there can be no doubt. And I meant no offence,’ Laurence said, aware that she had misinterpreted his reaction and clearly thought less of him as a result. ‘I am simply envious of your good fortune in being able to visit a country I have been reading about for so many years. To travel up the Nile and to see firsthand the wonders being discovered in the desert would be the culmination of a dream.’

She raised an eyebrow, but her voice was scblueeptical when she said, ‘It would?’

‘Good Lord, yes. Oh, I’ve read all the books, studied the drawings, even talked with gentlemen who’ve been there,’ Laurence said, ‘but nothing could possibly replicate the experience of actually standing in a crowed street in Cairo, being assaulted by the sounds and smells of the markets or deafened by the babble of a thousand voices. One must go there in order to experience such things.’

The lady tilted her head, as though in reconsideration of her first impression. ‘And is it your intention to go there one day, Mr Bretton?’

‘I sincerely hope to, yes,’ Laurence said, knowing that if the opportunity were presented to him, he would go in a heartbeat. The consequences—and there would be consequences—could be dealt with once he got back. Right now it was important that he convince Miss Northrup of his sincerity, since he had obviously damaged his credibility and commitment to the field by having had the audacity to question hers.

Thankfully, the earnestness of his reply must have convinced her of the true extent of his interest, for she nodded briefly and said, ‘Then I will offer you a few words of advice. If ever you do go, be sure to stay at Shepheard’s in Cairo. It is an exceedingly civilised hotel and the view from the terrace is quite splendid. Also, when dealing with the locals, take time to negotiate anything you are offered. You will be hideously overcharged if you do not.’

‘Thank you,’ Laurence said, relieved he had not done irreparable damage to a relationship he had every intention of pursuing. ‘If I am ever fortunate enough to find myself haggling over the price of a fellukah, I will be sure to remember your advice.’

‘A fellukah is fine if you are only looking for transportation across the Nile, but if your trip is to be of a longer duration, I would suggest a dahabeeyah,’ the lady said. ‘They are far more comfortable, some being quite luxurious, though the price will reflect that, of course.’

‘Of course.’ This time, Laurence knew better than to smile, though he was strongly tempted to do so. He’d never met a woman who knew what a dahabeeyah was, let alone one who was able to tell him it was the preferred method for travel along the ancient river. ‘Shall I bring Volney’s Travels with me to the lecture tomorrow evening?’

‘If you wouldn’t mind. Unless …’ Miss Northrup turned back to the clerk, who was still gazing at her with adoration and said, ‘Is there any chance of you being able to procure a copy of the book for me before then?’

The young man’s face fell. ‘I shall do my best, but I very much doubt it.’

‘Ah. Then I would be most grateful for the loan of Volney’s Travels, Mr Bretton,’ Miss Northrup said, turning back to him with a smile. ‘And I promise to return it as soon as I am able. As one who has experienced the difficulty in finding reliable source materials, I know how hard it is to let such an exceptional volume out of your hands.’

‘In this case, I have no concerns,’ Laurence assured her—knowing that as long as she had the book, he had an excuse for seeing her. ‘Volney and I will see you at the Apollo Club tomorrow evening. Good day, Miss Northrup.’

‘Good day.’ She started to turn away, and then stopped. ‘Oh, Mr Bretton, there is … one more thing.’

Laurence turned back. ‘Yes?’

She opened her mouth to speak, but then a tiny furrow appeared between her brows and she closed it again. Clearly, she wanted to say something, but for whatever reason was reluctant to do so. In the end, she merely shook her head and smiled. ‘Never mind. You will find us upstairs in the Oracle Room tomorrow evening. Please try not to be late. And don’t forget to bring the card.’

It was not what she had been going to say. Laurence was certain of that. But, hardly in a position to demand that she disclose what had so briefly tugged at her conscience, he simply assured her that he would not be late, offered her a bow then returned to his earlier browsing, all the while blessing the Fates for having sent him to this particular bookshop on this particular day.

To think he would actually be sitting in on a lecture given by the renowned archaeologist William Northrup! It was almost too good to be true, especially given the time he had devoted of late to activities that, while necessary to his family’s well-being, did absolutely nothing to quench his thirst for knowledge. He was first and foremost a student of history and tomorrow evening, he would have an opportunity to talk with like-minded gentlemen about the exciting discoveries taking place in the area of Egypt known as the Valley of the Kings.

It was a long time since he had found himself looking forward to anything as much … except to seeing the intriguing Miss Northrup again, Laurence admitted, casting another glance in her direction. A woman of rare beauty, she obviously shared her father’s love of ancient Egypt and, contrary to what society expected, had been allowed to travel with him to share in the excitement of his explorations. There had been no mistaking the enthusiasm in her voice when she had spoken of her impressions of the ruins at Dendera, and if she had worked at her father’s side for so many years, there could be no question that her interest in the subject was genuine.

Laurence could think of no other young lady—and he had met a great many over the last eight months—who would welcome such an adventure, which was all the more reason for getting to know the charming and decidedly intriguing Miss Joanna Northrup a great deal better.

Joanna did not speak to Laurence Bretton again. Though she was aware of him browsing through a selection of books on a table close to the window, she could think of no reasonable excuse for approaching him a second time—other than to correct his erroneous assumption that she was Miss Joanna Northrup—and so, tucking her purchases under her arm, left the shop and climbed into the waiting carriage.

Why she had allowed the error in address to stand was something she was not so easily able to explain. She’d had eight months to come to terms with the fact that she was now Lady Joanna Northrup. Eight months to accept that as a result of the untimely deaths of her uncle and his heir, her father was no longer a humble academic, but the Fourth Earl of Bonnington. Surely that was time enough to come to terms with such a drastic alteration in one’s circumstances.

‘Obviously not,’ Joanna murmured as the carriage clipped smartly towards her new home on Eaton Place. Otherwise she would not have allowed a handsome but completely unknown gentleman to come up to her in a shop, offer to lend her a book then use the offer as an excuse to introduce himself, all without informing him of her true position in society.

The Practice, as her father’s eldest sister was so fond of saying, was to wait for a person acquainted with both the lady and the gentleman to make the introduction, then for the lady to enter into the conversation to the degree to which she felt it appropriate, that degree being determined by the gentleman’s position in society and, to a much lesser degree, by the nicety of his manners and comeliness of his person.

From what little Joanna had been able to glean of Mr Bretton’s situation in life, the conversation was not one of which her aunt would have approved.

Of course, had he not introduced himself, she would not be in the enviable position now of having Mr Volney’s book to read over the weekend. She would still be scouring London’s many bookshops, quizzing inexperienced clerks in her search for the elusive volume and probably meeting with the same disappointing results as she had in all of her previous attempts. So, in fact, her meeting with Mr Bretton had been most fortuitous in that it had saved her from all those endless hours of tedium!

The fact he had initially been sceptical of her interest in Egypt was a failing Joanna was willing to overlook. She had encountered it countless times before, both from gentlemen who thought she hadn’t a brain in her head and from women who couldn’t understand her desire to be more than a wife or mother. But given that his interest in the subject was surely as keen as her own, she was willing to forgive him his boldness in approaching her, and to excuse herself for having encouraged the conversation. She was even looking forward to seeing him at her father’s lecture tomorrow evening.

It would be a pleasure talking to a London gentleman who really did know more about pharaohs than foxhunting and wasn’t ashamed to admit it!

Upon arriving home, Joanna turned her attention to the events of the upcoming days. Now that the family’s period of mourning was at an end, invitations had begun arriving again. While she wanted to believe that most were extended out of a genuine desire to welcome the new Lord Bonnington and his daughter to society, she suspected that just as many were prompted by morbid curiosity.

After all, in the blink of an eye, her father had gone from being the ignored younger son and brother of an earl, to being the Earl of Bonnington himself, while she had been elevated from a bluestocking nobody to the highly eligible Lady Joanna Northrup.

Astonishing, really, how far reaching the effects of a single gunshot could be.

‘Ah, there you are, Joanna,’ Lady Cynthia Klegston said as Joanna walked into the morning room. ‘All finished with your shopping?’

‘For now.’ Joanna bent to kiss her aunt on the cheek—a token of respect rather than affection. She had never been entirely comfortable in the company of her father’s eldest sister, a brusque, plain-speaking widow with two married daughters who had paid little or no attention to her youngest brother before his unexpected elevation to the peerage and who only did so now because she realised it was in her best interests to do so. ‘I left your necklace with the jeweller to be repaired, checked on the order for your stationery and advised Madame Clermont that you would be in to see her at two o’clock this afternoon. She said that would be convenient.’

‘Of course it will be convenient,’ Lady Cynthia snapped. ‘I bring her a great deal of business. It behoves her to find it convenient. And I think you had best come with me. I’ve decided you shall have a new gown for the dinner party. As a young lady who is not engaged or married, we cannot afford to have you appear anything less than your best, especially now that you are Lady Joanna Northrup and in need of a wealthy husband. Dash it all, where are my spectacles? I can never find the wretched things when I need them.’

Having noticed the spectacles on the small table next to the wing chair, Joanna silently went to retrieve them. As a rule, she tried to stay out of her aunt’s way. Lady Cynthia was a forceful presence, who, like her late older brother, hadn’t bothered to keep in touch with her younger brother’s family until death had forced her to do so.

Ironic, really, that her aunt, who had once been so openly disapproving of every aspect of William’s life, should now be heard to say that she was doing all she could to help her poor brother and niece cope with the unexpected changes thrust upon them.

‘Speaking of convenient,’ Lady Cynthia said, ‘did you find whatever it was you were looking for?’

‘It was a book and, no, I did not,’ Joanna said, surprised her aunt would even remember that her niece had gone out for reasons other than to see to her own errands. ‘But I happened upon a gentleman who offered to lend me his copy.’

‘How thoughtful.’ Lady Cynthia gazed up at Joanna over the rim of her spectacles. ‘I take it you were acquainted with the gentleman?’

‘No, but he knew Papa,’ Joanna said, stretching the truth a little. ‘He will be coming to the lecture tomorrow evening.’

Her aunt’s expression was blank. ‘Lecture?’

‘Yes. The one Papa is giving at the Apollo Club. I did tell you about it,’ Joanna said. ‘Just as I told you that I would be in attendance as well, given that many of my drawings will be on display.’

Her aunt’s reaction was exactly what Joanna had been expecting. She took off her glasses and said with a sigh of frustration, ‘Joanna, I really cannot understand why you and your father persist in this ridiculous occupation. He is the Earl of Bonnington now and with that comes an obligation to his name and his position in society. Both of which are far more important than sitting around with a bunch of stodgy old men talking about Egypt.’

‘I understand your concern, Aunt,’ Joanna said as patiently as she could. ‘But you must understand that up until now, archaeology and the study of ancient Egypt have been the focus of my father’s life.’

‘Of course, because his position in the family made it necessary that he find something to do with his time,’ Lady Cynthia said, ‘though why he could not have gone into the church or purchased a commission is beyond me. Either of those occupations would have been far more suitable. However, with both Hubert and Trevor gone, your father is now the earl and he must accept the responsibilities inherent with the title. That includes seeing to your welfare and he must know that your chances of making a good match will not be improved by his conduct,’ Lady Cynthia said, the expression on her face leaving Joanna in no doubt as to her displeasure. ‘Circumstances demand that you marry well, and your bluestocking tendencies and your father’s willingness to encourage them will not improve your chances.’

‘I doubt it will be my conduct or my father’s that will have a negative impact on my eligibility, Aunt,’ Joanna was stung into replying. ‘I suspect much of society knows that Papa is heavily in debt as a result of his brother’s and nephew’s recklessness and if you would find fault with anyone, it seems to me it should be with those who are truly to blame for the predicament in which we now find ourselves!’

It was a sad but true commentary on the state of their affairs. Joanna’s late uncle had gambled away a large part of the family’s fortune, and his son had squandered the rest on women and horses. Both had met with dramatic ends: her uncle from a fall off a cliff in a drunken stupor, and her cousin from a gunshot wound sustained during a duel with the angry husband of the woman with whom he had been having an affair.

The sad result was that, while Joanna’s father had inherited a lofty title, there was precious little to go along with it. Bonnington Manor, a once-beautiful Elizabethan house, had been left to moulder in the English countryside, its stone walls overgrown with vegetation, its lush gardens choked with weeds. Even the town house in London was in desperate need of refurbishment. While both residences had come with a handful of loyal retainers, the list of unpaid bills that accompanied them was enough to make a king blush.

Little wonder her father had not embraced his elevation to the peerage, Joanna reflected wryly. By necessity, one of his first duties was to find a way of raising enough money to carry out the extensive repairs required—and she was not so naïve as to believe that she did not play a role in that solution.

‘Well, no matter what the state of your father’s affairs, I do not intend to let you sit like a wallflower in a garden of roses,’ Lady Cynthia said. ‘You are a fine-looking girl. With luck, we will be able to attract a gentleman of means and to secure an offer of marriage, which we both know is your father’s only hope of salvaging the estate given his own stubborn refusal to marry again. Speaking of which, I hope you have not forgotten that we are going out this evening?’

Joanna had, but given her aunt’s decidedly prickly mood, decided it would be wiser not to let on. ‘No, of course not.’

‘Good, because while I do not particularly care for Mrs Blough-Upton, it is important that you be seen as often as possible now that you are out of mourning. You will be one and twenty on your next birthday and I do not intend to allow this obsession with Egypt to ruin your chances for making a good marriage.’

Sensing there was nothing to be gained by continuing the conversation, Joanna bid her aunt a polite good morning and then went upstairs to her room. She was well aware that her aunt’s only concern was to find her niece a rich husband. And that she could not understand why anyone would be so passionate about a country that was dirty, poverty stricken and populated by the most inhospitable people imaginable.

Joanna thought the opinion a trifle unfair given that her aunt had never set foot in the country, but neither could she entirely find fault with the assessment. Egypt was dirty and poverty stricken and populated by some very questionable types—but there was so much to see and discover that the one negated the other. Tremendous finds had been made in the last few decades. Travellers were flocking to the banks of the Nile to see the wonders being discovered there, while explorers following in the footsteps of James Bruce and Giovanni Belzoni were setting out to uncover the tombs of long-dead kings, hoping to find in those burial chambers a cache of precious metals and jewels. And, more importantly, clues to deciphering the mysteries of the past.

Joanna sincerely hoped her father would find such a tomb one day and that she would be at his side when he did. Together, they would see sights no English man or woman ever had and perhaps be able to write another chapter in the history of the world.

It was hard to believe anyone wouldn’t view such a marvellous trip as the opportunity of a lifetime.

Mr Laurence Bretton certainly had. His candid statements and earnest manner had left Joanna in no doubt as to his desire to visit Egypt and, despite the impropriety of his conduct, she was not sorry he had come up to her in the shop. Though he reminded her of one of her father’s students with his wire-rimmed spectacles, rumpled jacket and studious air, he was clearly an educated man. Intelligent, well spoken and dedicated to uncovering the mysteries of a bygone age, he was a far cry from the dandies and fops who were more concerned with the cut of their coats than with the secrets of the past. She was looking forward to seeing him again for that reason alone.

The fact he had the most astonishing blue eyes and one of the most attractive smiles she had ever seen really had nothing at all to do with it.

At half past nine that evening, Laurence stood in his dressing room as his valet ran a brush over the back and shoulders of his perfectly fitted black velvet coat. Though the cut of the habit à la française was at least a decade out of date, it was perfectly in keeping with the role he would be playing tonight. That of Valentine Lawe, the wildly successful playwright, whose most recent work, A Lady’s Choice, was once again playing to packed houses at the elegant Gryphon Theatre.

‘Laurence, are you almost ready to go?’ his sister enquired from the doorway. ‘If we do not leave soon we are going to be late and that would be shockingly bad mannered given that you are the guest of honour.’

‘I am not the guest of honour, Tory,’ Laurence said, surveying the froth of lace at his throat with a critical eye. It was a touch more flamboyant than usual, but, given the nature of the event, he doubted it would go amiss. Lydia and her friends did so love a touch of the dramatic. ‘I am but one of the many guests Lydia will have invited and, in such a crowd, I doubt she will even notice what time we arrive.’

‘Oh, she’ll notice,’ Victoria said with a feline smile. ‘The widow is over the moon at being able to tell her friends that the famous playwright, Valentine Lawe, will be at her gathering this evening. She is but another of your many conquests, my dear, and I do believe she is hoping for an opportunity to further the acquaintance, if you know what I mean.’

Laurence frowned, all too aware of what his sister meant and none too pleased by the implication. ‘Thank you, but I have absolutely no intention of becoming the latest in a long line of Lydia’s discarded lovers, nor a potential candidate for her third husband. She may be one of the wealthiest widows in town, but having spent more time in her company than I like, I understand why people say what they do about her.’ He cast a last look at his appearance and then nodded his satisfaction. ‘Thank you, Edwards. As usual, you have done an excellent job of turning me out in a manner suitable to the occasion.’

‘My pleasure, Mr Bretton.’

As the valet bowed and withdrew, Victoria picked up the boutonnière resting on the dressing table and drew out the pin. ‘Are you sure you want me to come with you tonight, dearest? You really don’t need me at your side any more. Lord knows, you’ve attended enough gatherings in the guise of Valentine Lawe to be able to carry it off without any assistance from me.’

‘Be that as it may, I like having you there,’ Laurence said, watching his sister pin the velvety-red rose close to his collar. ‘You are a refreshing breath of reality in the midst of all this madness.’

‘Madness you invited upon yourself,’ Victoria murmured, stepping back to survey her handiwork. ‘You were the one who volunteered to step into the role of Valentine Lawe. Before that, he existed only in my mind, the nom de plume behind which I wrote my plays.’

‘Exactly. Valentine Lawe is your creation so it is only right that you be there to hear the compliments being showered upon his … or rather, your plays,’ Laurence said. ‘Besides, what else have you to do this evening? I happen to know that your husband is otherwise engaged.’

‘Yes, but don’t forget that I am helping his cousin Isabelle plan her wedding, as well as picking out furnishings for the orphanage, and all while endeavouring to write a new play. I have more than enough to do and not nearly enough time in which to do it.’

‘Nonsense. Your mother-in-law is overseeing most of the arrangements for Isabelle’s wedding,’ Laurence said, ‘and your husband has more than enough servants to attend to the requirements of his new orphanage. As for the play, I have every confidence in you penning yet another masterpiece that will garner the same high level of praise as your last four. Besides, you know you will have a much better time if you come with me.’

‘I’m not so sure about that,’ Victoria said. ‘Lydia Blough-Upton has never been one of my favourite people. She is an outrageous flirt, an insatiable gossip and she continues to make her feelings for you embarrassingly obvious. Still, I suppose I do owe you a few more favours. Your stepping forwards to assume the role of Valentine Lawe has certainly allowed my life to return to normal, though given what it’s done to yours, I do wonder if it wouldn’t have been easier just to admit that I wrote the plays and see how it all turned out.’

‘In some ways, I suspect it would,’ Laurence said, removing his spectacles and placing them on the dressing table. He only needed them for reading and, given that they did nothing for the image he was trying to convey, he felt no grief at leaving them behind. ‘No doubt you and Winifred would have been shunned by good society for a time and our family would have been ignored by those who felt it wasn’t the thing for the daughter of a gentleman to write plays that mocked society and the church.’

‘I do not mock the church,’ Victoria said defensively. ‘Only those who draw their livings from it and you cannot deny there is more than enough room for ridicule in that. As to society, I suspect the furore would have eventually died down, replaced by an even more scandalous bit of gossip about someone placed far higher up the social ladder than me. But when I see how much happier Mama and Winifred are with you in the role of Valentine Lawe than me, I have to believe you did the right thing, Laurie. Even if you did fail to give it the consideration it deserved.’

‘I gave it no consideration whatsoever.’

‘Exactly, and taking that into account, I think it has all turned out very well. Besides, only think how disappointed the young ladies would be if they were to find out that you are not the dashing and very eligible playwright they have all come to know and admire.’

‘I doubt it would trouble them overly much,’ Laurence said, thinking not for the first time of the lovely and erudite Miss Joanna Northrup, a lady he tended to believe would be far more impressed with his intellectual abilities than his literary ones. ‘They are infatuated with the image, not with the man.’

‘I’m not so sure,’ Victoria said. ‘Even I have seen the changes in you since you assumed the role of Valentine Lawe. You are far more confident than you were in the past and, while you have always been charming, there is an added refinement to your manner now that is highly engaging. No doubt Lydia Blough-Upton would like to have you all to herself tonight so she can flirt with you unobserved by your staid and newly married sister.’

‘My darling girl,’ Laurence said, tucking Victoria’s arm in his, ‘you will never be staid and it is quite impossible for me to do anything unobserved now that the world believes me to be Valentine Lawe. Anonymity is a thing of the past. I am now and for ever will be the public face of your creative genius.’

‘Then let us go forth and face the world together,’ Victoria said, sweeping her fan off the bed. ‘All of London awaits your entrance and none more so than the ever-growing and increasingly ardent fans of the illustrious Valentine Lawe!’




Chapter Two


As Lady Cynthia had predicted, Mrs Blough-Upton’s soirée was a breath-stealing crush that Joanna was ready to leave well before the clock chimed the midnight hour. She had forgotten how stifling these affairs could be and how pompous was much of English society. Several well-dressed couples cast curious glances in her direction, and though she was paid flattering compliments by many of the gentlemen to whom she was introduced, a few of the young ladies were not as kind.

‘I suppose it is only to be expected that you would come back with imperfections of the skin,’ Miss Blenkinsop said, peering with disdain at the offending freckles sprinkled across the bridge of Joanna’s nose. ‘After all, the sun is so very harsh in India.’

‘Egypt.’

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘My father and I were in Egypt,’ Joanna said as patiently as she could. ‘Not India.’

‘Ah. But the two countries are quite close, are they not?’

‘Do you not wear a hat when you are out during the day, Lady Joanna?’ Miss Farkington enquired.

‘Of course, but with the sun being so strong, it is sometimes difficult to—’

‘I would die if I were ever to discover a blemish on my skin,’ Miss Blenkinsop interrupted dramatically. ‘It is the reason I spent most of last summer in the drawing room.’

‘Indeed, Mama insists on rubbing my skin with lemon juice whenever I have been outside,’ Miss Farkington informed them. ‘She said an ounce of prevention is worth a pound of cure and that if I wish to go about in the sun, I should wait until after I am married to do so. And preferably until after I have presented my husband with his first heir.’

Having no idea how to respond to such a silly remark, Joanna said nothing, convinced it was the wisest course of action. She had long since come to the conclusion that she had absolutely nothing in common with the Misses Blenkinsop and Farkington, who subscribed to the popular belief that young women should do nothing that might detract from their eligibility as wives. They were like hothouse flowers: best viewed from a distance and preferably in the rarefied atmosphere of a drawing room.

Then, a collective sigh echoed around the room as Lydia Blough-Upton walked in on the arm of a gentleman who looked to be considerably younger than her and not in the least concerned about it. He was dressed formally in black-and-white evening attire, though the cut of the jacket and the heavy use of embroidery were clearly reminiscent of a bygone age. His waistcoat, blindingly white and intricately embroidered with silver thread, had been cut by a master’s hand. The smoothness of his satin pantaloons and silk stockings outlined muscular calves and thighs that, given the rest of his build, owed nothing to the effects of padding.

That he looked like an aristocrat was evident to every person in the room. His rich brown hair was styled in a classic crop and his eyes, blue as lapis lazuli, gazed out from a face more handsome than any gentleman’s in the room. But Joanna had seen those eyes before. Though they had been partially hidden behind wire-rimmed spectacles, the intensity of the colour had struck her forcibly at the time, as had the sincerity of his smile and the earnest nature of his conversation.

A conversation that had given her absolutely no reason to believe that Mr Laurence Bretton was anything but the humble student of history he had so convincingly purported to be.

‘Isn’t he divine?’ gushed Miss Farkington. ‘I wish he would write something for me.’

‘Write?’ Joanna’s head snapped around as an unhappy memory of a youthful infatuation came back to haunt her. ‘Never tell me he’s a poet?’

‘Dear me, no, he’s a playwright. Surely you’ve heard of Valentine Lawe?’

‘Actually, no.’

‘How strange.’ Miss Farkington blinked. ‘His latest play is all the rage. But then you have been in mourning for quite some time.’

‘Mama and I have been to see it twice,’ Miss Blenkinsop said with a condescending air. ‘You really should go now that you are moving in society again, Lady Joanna. It is all anyone can talk about, as is Mr Bretton himself. Is he not the most dashing of gentleman?’

Joanna stared at the man who was making such an impact on the ladies in the room and wondered why he had made no mention to her of his literary accomplishments when they had met earlier in the day. All he’d said then was that he was a devoted student of ancient Egypt—which was obviously not true since his appearance on Mrs Blough-Upton’s arm now in clothes that would have put a dandy to shame proclaimed him for the Pink of Fashion he so evidently was.

‘Ah, there you are, Joanna,’ Lady Cynthia said, pushing her way through the crowd to appear at her niece’s side. ‘Mr Albert Rowe, eldest son of Lord Rowe and heir to a considerable fortune, is interested in making your acquaintance. I told him I would bring you to him at once.’

‘Aunt, that gentleman on Mrs Blough-Upton’s arm,’ Joanna said, ignoring her aunt’s petition, ‘do you know him?’

Lady Cynthia turned her head in the direction of their hostess and her eyes widened. ‘Well, well, so he did come. I’d heard that he had been invited, but no one knew whether or not he would attend. Lydia is so very forward and she has made no secret of her affection for him.’

‘Then you do know him?’

‘Of course I know him, Joanna. Everyone knows Laurence Bretton, or rather, Valentine Lawe as he is better known to theatre-going audiences. His latest play opened at the Gryphon Theatre last season and has been brought back for this one. I know you’re not all that fond of theatre, but you really should go. Everyone is talking about the play and Mr Bretton is himself garnering a great deal of attention. I understand he has been invited to dine with one of the royal dukes.’

Joanna turned back to watch the gentleman who had somehow managed to disengage himself from Mrs Blough-Upton’s talons and now stood chatting to three young ladies who giggled a great deal and seemed to hang on every word he said. So, he was not the erudite student of archaeology he had led her to believe. He was a successful playwright who, judging by the reactions of the Misses Farkington and Blenkinsop, wrote the kind of romantic drivel so popular with society today—weakly plotted stories about star-crossed lovers, most often portrayed by simpering young women who could cry on cue and impossibly handsome men who could not act.

It was a sobering discovery.

Still, at least now she knew the truth about him. Whatever his true purpose in coming up to her in the bookshop this afternoon, it obviously hadn’t had anything to do with his professed love of ancient Egypt. No doubt he’d known exactly who she was, even though he had pretended not to, and his offer to lend her a book had been nothing more than a calculated attempt to engage her in conversation without going to the trouble of securing a proper introduction; something she would never have countenanced had she known beforehand exactly who and what he was.

And then, the unexpected. Mr Bretton, breaking off his conversation with the prettiest of the three ladies, looked up and met Joanna’s eyes across the room.

The contact was startling, the intensity of that brilliant blue gaze unnerving.

Joanna felt hot colour bloom in her cheeks and hastily looked away, but not before seeing him make his excuses to the ladies and then start in her direction.

‘Oh, good Lord, he’s coming this way,’ Lady Cynthia said.

Joanna glanced at her aunt, astonished to hear the same kind of fatuous adulation in her voice as she had in Miss Blenkinsop’s earlier. Gracious, was she the only woman in the room who was not over the moon at the prospect of talking to the man? ‘Really, Aunt, he is only a—’

‘Miss Northrup,’ Mr Bretton said, coming to a halt in front of her. ‘We meet again. And sooner than expected.’

His smile was as devastating as it had been earlier in the day, but Joanna no longer found it quite so endearing. ‘Indeed, Mr Bretton,’ she said, lifting her chin. ‘Or should I say, Mr Lawe.’

To her annoyance, he actually smiled. ‘I would prefer Mr Bretton since Valentine Lawe really doesn’t exist.’

Yet, he did tonight, Joanna reflected cynically. Standing before her in clothes more suited to the stage than a drawing room, he exuded confidence and seemed blissfully unaware of the furore he was causing in the hearts of the young—and not so young—ladies around him. Taller than she remembered, his features were more finely chiselled, likely due to the fact he had left his spectacles at home. His mouth was generous and his lips, which had no doubt whispered many a charming endearment in Mrs Blough-Upton’s ear, were firm and quite disturbingly sensual.

And he wore a single red rose pinned close to the collar of his jacket.

Joanna hardly knew what to make of him.

Neither, it seemed, did her aunt, who was staring at both of them with unconcealed delight. ‘My dear Mr Bretton, can it be that you and Lady Joanna are already acquainted?’

At that, finally, he did falter. ‘Lady Joanna?’ His dark brows drew together. ‘Forgive me. I was not aware of the distinction.’

‘Perhaps my niece did not think to mention it.’

‘No, I did not,’ Joanna said, smiling sweetly. ‘But then, it was hardly relevant to the topic of our conversation. Any more than was Mr Bretton being a famous playwright.’ She might be new to the role of earl’s daughter, but she too could play the part when called upon to do so.

‘Well, it is a great honour to meet you in person, Mr Bretton,’ Lady Cynthia said, either unaware of the sparks flying back and forth between Joanna and the playwright or choosing to ignore them. ‘I have enjoyed each and every one of your plays, though I must say I particularly enjoyed A Lady’s Choice. When Miss Turcott walked away from Elliot Black in the second to last scene, I was quite overcome with emotion. I feared for an unhappy outcome, but you ended it splendidly.’

‘Thank you, Lady Cynthia,’ Bretton said, making her a low bow. ‘I am glad to hear it met with your approval and that you enjoyed it.’

‘I most certainly did. In fact, I was just saying to my niece that she really must see it now that she is out of mourning. I’ve always thought it a great pity she didn’t have a chance to see Penelope’s Swain, but I believe it opened while Lady Joanna was in—that is, while she and her father were travelling,’ Lady Cynthia said with a smile. ‘On the Continent.’

On the Continent? Joanna was hard pressed not to roll her eyes. Why could her aunt not just say Egypt? Everyone knew what her father did and where he’d spent his time prior to his elevation, so it went without saying that if she was with him, they certainly weren’t in the glittering capitals of Europe.

Of course, Lady Cynthia would never wish to openly acknowledge Joanna’s fondness for Egypt for fear it might result in a gentleman thinking the less of her. In that regard, her aunt was no less concerned with the proprieties than any mother in the room and if presenting her niece in the best light possible meant omitting a few pertinent details, she was more than happy to do so. Especially now, when the securing of a rich husband was of such vital importance.

What a pity, Joanna reflected drily, that her aunt was not aware that Laurence Bretton, alias Valentine Lawe, was already well acquainted with her niece’s lamentable fondness for that country.

‘I wonder, Lady Cynthia, since Lady Joanna has not yet seen the play, if you would be agreeable to seeing it as my guests?’ Mr Bretton offered unexpectedly. ‘I would be happy to make available the use of my uncle’s box.’

Joanna’s eyes widened in dismay. Spend an entire evening in his company? Oh, no, that would never do. Whatever good impression he might have made in the bookshop had been completed negated by his unexpected appearance here tonight. And she was quite prepared to tell him so when her aunt, obviously viewing his offer as some kind of gift from the gods, said, ‘How very kind, Mr Bretton. I can only imagine that seeing the play in the company of the gentleman who wrote it would add immeasurably to the experience. Do you not think so, Joanna?’

‘I really don’t see that it would make any diff—’

‘Thank you, Mr Bretton, we would be most happy to attend,’ Lady Cynthia cut in smoothly. ‘But you must allow me to return the favour by inviting you to a soiréee my brother is hosting a week from Friday. As you may or may not know, the family is only recently emerged from mourning after the tragic deaths of our eldest brother and his son and we thought a small gathering of friends would be a pleasant way of reintroducing Lady Joanna to society, as well as to celebrating my youngest brother’s elevation to the peerage.’

For the second time that night, Mr Bretton looked nonplussed. ‘Mr Northrup’s elevation?’

‘Yes, he is the new Lord Bonnington. He inherited the title on the death of his nephew,’ Lady Cynthia said.

Joanna said nothing, happy not to have been the one to break the news to Mr Bretton. He would have found out at the lecture tomorrow evening anyway, and while she had been feeling somewhat guilty for not having acquainted him with the truth of her situation in the bookshop, she no longer did. If he could keep secrets, so could she.

‘Please accept my apologies,’ Mr Bretton said quietly. ‘I was not aware of your brother’s elevation, my ignorance no doubt due to having been too caught up in the writing of a new play. During such times I tend not to study the society pages. As to the passing of both your brother and nephew, Lady Cynthia, allow me to offer my most sincere condolences. Lady Joanna did inform me, in very general terms, of the family’s bereavement, but not of the specifics.’

‘Likely because the brothers were not close,’ Lady Cynthia admitted. ‘One cannot always claim a close kinship with one’s own family, can one, Mr Bretton? As to the soirée, it will be a celebration of good news rather than bad and we would be most pleased if you would attend. I know that many of the young ladies present will be thrilled to hear that such a famous and very handsome playwright will be found in their midst.’

‘You are kind to say so and, if I am not otherwise engaged, I would be happy to attend,’ Mr Bretton said, his brilliant gaze catching and holding Joanna’s. ‘It will give me an opportunity to apologise more eloquently to your niece for not having acquainted her with the truth about my other occupation the first time we met.’

‘Pray do not give it another thought, Mr Bretton,’ Joanna said, refusing to be charmed. ‘As you say, our conversation was as far removed from the world of the theatre as it is possible to imagine and I dare say if you had bothered to acquaint me with the facts, it would not have lasted as long as it did.’

The expression in Mr Bretton’s eyes left Joanna in no doubt that he knew exactly what she intended by the remark and that he was not in the least discouraged by it, neither of which served to endear him to her. Obviously he found her disapproval amusing and her attempts at putting him in his place a waste of time, especially in light of her aunt’s all-too-embarrassing display of devotion.

Before he had a chance to reply, however, Mrs Blough-Upton swept down on them like an avenging eagle anxious to reclaim its prey.

‘There you are, my dear Mr Bretton. I have been looking for you this past five minutes. Really, Lady Joanna,’ Mrs Blough-Upton said, linking her arm through Mr Bretton’s in an unmistakably proprietary gesture, ‘it is quite naughty of you to keep the most popular playwright in London to yourself all evening. There are any number of other eligible young ladies here anxious to make his acquaintance and I must do my duty as hostess.’ She flashed Joanna an insincere smile. ‘I’m sure you understand.’

‘Of course,’ Joanna said, smiling every bit as insincerely. Really, did the woman think her a fool? Lydia Blough-Upton had no more intention of introducing Laurence Bretton to single young women than she did of flying to the moon! It was simply an excuse to pry him away from his present company and to keep him to herself for as long as possible. A ruse that worked to perfection given that Mr Bretton bowed and allowed himself to be led away, much to Joanna’s relief and her aunt’s obvious disapproval.

‘Well, really! The woman is just too forward!’ Lady Cynthia stated emphatically. ‘Has she no shame?’

‘It would appear not, Aunt.’

‘And poor Mr Bretton, what a gentleman! He could have refused to go with her, but he obviously knew how humiliating it would have been.’

‘I doubt altruism had anything to do with it, Aunt,’ Joanna said, surprised that her aunt had been so thoroughly taken in by his act. ‘He clearly enjoys being the centre of attention. Look at the way he is dressed. What is that if not a blatant attempt at drawing all eyes to himself?’

‘Nonsense, Joanna, it isn’t at all like that. You were not here, of course, so you cannot be expected to know, but the first time Mr Bretton appeared in public as Valentine Lawe, that was how he was dressed.’

‘I cannot think why, unless his first appearance was made at a masquerade ball.’

‘As a matter of fact, it was. Lady Drake’s masquerade, to be exact,’ Lady Cynthia said. ‘No one had any idea who Valentine Lawe was before that. Some thought him a half-mad recluse while others believed it was the nom de plume of someone highly placed in society. For a time, it was even whispered that his sister, Victoria, now Mrs Devlin, was the famous playwright and that caused quite a stir, I can tell you. But it wasn’t long after those rumours began to surface that Mr Bretton stepped forwards and claimed the role as his own.’

‘An interesting story, Aunt, but this is not a costume ball and the gentleman’s appearance is years out of date.’

‘Of course it is, but you cannot deny how dashing he looks in the part,’ Lady Cynthia said. ‘The ladies all adore it, of course.’

‘I still think it speaks to an outrageous sense of vanity,’ Joanna muttered, refusing to admit, even to herself, that the elegant clothes and raffish manner did suit him uncommonly well.

‘Nonsense, Mr Bretton is the most humble of men! You heard him just now. There was no arrogance to his speech. No condescension to his manner. He is exactly what he seems. A charming man gifted with the ability to write excellent plays. And to think you already knew him,’ her aunt said in a tone of exasperation. ‘I cannot imagine why you did not bother to tell me.’

‘I did not bother to tell you because I did not know he was anyone of consequence,’ Joanna said. ‘He introduced himself as Mr Laurence Bretton, plain and simple.’

‘Well, he is neither plain nor simple and I suspect if he was better placed in society, Lydia would have already snapped him up.’

‘His lack of a title doesn’t seem to be an impediment as far as she is concerned,’ Joanna drawled. ‘But I am astonished you invited him to Papa’s gathering. Will that not throw off your seating arrangements at dinner?’

‘Yes, but I shall send a note to Mrs Gavin and insist that she bring Jane,’ Lady Cynthia said, referring to Joanna’s other aunt and her eldest daughter. ‘It will be a pleasant change for the two of them to mingle in such elevated society and it will be a feather in my cap to have Valentine Lawe at my table.’

‘I think you overestimate his worth. A number of Papa’s colleagues will be there, not all of whom attend the theatre,’ Joanna reminded her. ‘Mr Bretton may find himself without an audience to impress.’

‘I am sure he will manage just fine.’

‘What if he is already engaged for the evening?’

‘If he is, I suspect he will do whatever is necessary to disengage himself,’ her aunt said with a complacent smile. ‘I saw the way he looked at you. If I don’t miss my guess, he is already quite taken with you.’

‘Taken with me?’ Joanna said, blushing furiously. ‘What a ridiculous thing to say! I barely know the man and, I can assure you, I have no interest in furthering the acquaintance.’

‘Not in any serious way, no,’ Lady Cynthia agreed. ‘Mr Bretton would have to be as rich as Croesus to even hope to justify such a mésalliance. Nevertheless, it will not hurt your reputation to be seen as someone he admires and it may draw the attention of other more suitable gentlemen, like Mr Rowe, your way.’

Joanna, having caught sight of Mr Rowe through a break in the crowd, said, ‘I am not at all sure I wish to draw his attention my way, Aunt. He is corpulent, balding and well into his fifties.’

‘Nevertheless, he is the sole heir to his father’s fortune and, given the state of your father’s finances, we cannot afford to dismiss him out of hand,’ Lady Cynthia said, smiling in the portly gentleman’s direction. ‘When the roof over one’s head is in danger of collapsing, one cannot be too picky about the manner of the man who brings hammer and nails to repair it!’

Laurence was not in the best of moods as the carriage made its way from Cavendish Square to Green Street in the early hours of the morning. He knew he had no reason to feel that way. Compliments about the play had rained down upon his head and he had been sought after and celebrated from the moment he had walked into the house. But it was a house in which he had not expected to see Joanna Northrup—or rather, Lady Joanna Northrup—and that, Laurence admitted, was most certainly the source of his consternation. Had he known beforehand that she was going to be there, he would have left off the velvet and lace and worn more conservative attire. But because he’d known that Valentine Lawe was expected, he had dressed for the part and the exquisite Lady Joanna Northrup had seen him in the role.

What must she think of him now?

‘You’re very quiet tonight, dearest,’ Victoria observed from the seat opposite. ‘Did something happen at the reception to upset you?’

‘Hmm? Oh, no, not at all.’ Laurence drew his gaze from the window and rallied a smile. ‘The evening was a great success. You must have heard all the praise being lavished upon your plays.’

‘I did and it was flattering in the extreme, though even after all these months, it still seems strange to hear people talk about my plays as though they were yours,’ Victoria said. ‘Do you know, one elderly lady called me Miss Lawe the entire evening? I was happy to play along, of course, but it did make me smile, given that she was far more correct than she knew.’

‘Of course, because you are the famous playwright and the one deserving of all the praise,’ Laurence said. ‘God knows I’ve done nothing to warrant the attention.’

‘Don’t be silly. You stepped forwards and said you were Valentine Lawe at a time when it was most important that you did and I will always think you a hero for that,’ Victoria said. ‘Goodness knows what would have happened to our family’s reputation if you had said nothing. Still, hearing you talk about my plays as though you wrote them does take some getting used to.’

‘Sometimes, I almost forget I didn’t write them,’ Laurence mused. ‘But if I don’t talk about them that way, people won’t find me convincing.’

‘Exactly, and I am perfectly content to let my plays be thought the work of my brother so that I can still appear to be the very correct wife of Mr Alistair Devlin,’ Victoria said with a twinkle in her eye. ‘But are you sure there’s nothing bothering you, dearest? You seemed in a much better frame of mind upon arrival at Mrs Blough-Upton’s house than you do upon leaving it.’

‘It’s nothing,’ Laurence said, shaking his head. ‘I’m fine.’

‘Good, then you can tell me about the young lady I saw you with not long after we arrived,’ Victoria said eagerly. ‘The very pretty one with dark hair and rather astonishing green eyes. I noticed you talking to her just before Mrs Blough-Upton swooped down and carried you off again. Who was she?’

Laurence briefly debated the wisdom of pretending he didn’t know who Victoria was talking about, but, suspecting that his all-too-observant sister was unlikely to believe it, said, ‘Her name is Lady Joanna Northrup. We met in a bookshop earlier in the day.’

‘Lady Joanna.’ Victoria’s eyes widened. ‘Good Lord, isn’t her father the new earl? The one who assumed the title after his eldest brother fell off a cliff and his nephew was shot in a duel?’

Remembering fragments of the conversation he’d had with Lady Cynthia, Laurence nodded. ‘Yes, I believe so.’ He paused, frowning. ‘I thought duels weren’t fought any more?’

‘They’re not, but gossip has it that the husband of the lady with whom Lord Foster was involved was so incensed that he punched Lord Foster in the face—’

‘A crime punishable by death,’ Laurence observed.

‘Yes, and believing himself the superior marksman, Foster offered him a challenge, only to find out he was not superior in any way. But never mind that, tell me about Lady Joanna. Wasn’t her father an archaeologist of sorts before he inherited the title?’

‘Yes. He lectured at the university and is a recognised authority on Egyptian history.’

‘How delightful! You have finally met a woman who shares your fascination with the past.’

‘She may share my fascination with the past, but she was not at all impressed with my being Valentine Lawe,’ Laurence said in a rueful tone.

‘Ah, I see. And you’re afraid,’ Victoria said slowly, ‘that having first seen you in the guise of an academic, the young lady will doubt your credibility after having seen you tonight in a far more glamorous and, therefore, less admirable role.’

‘Something like that,’ Laurence murmured. ‘My being a famous playwright didn’t impress Lady Joanna nearly as much as it did her aunt.’

‘And do you wish to impress Lady Joanna?’

Yes, he did, Laurence admitted. He had been looking forward to attending her father’s lecture tomorrow night, not only because he was interested in hearing what her father had to say, but because he wanted to see more of her. He wanted to get to know her better, to find out what she thought about matters of interest to both of them and to ask her about the time she had spent in Egypt.

But how seriously was she going to take him after having seen him tonight in the guise of Valentine Lawe? There had been no mistaking the chilliness of her greeting, nor had her manner improved as the evening wore on, Laurence acknowledged grimly. Did she already believe him a fraud? Think the only reason he had come up to her in the bookshop was to initiate a flirtation? A woman that beautiful must have numerous suitors for her hand, not to mention the fact she was the daughter of an earl and well beyond the reach of a man like him.

‘Let’s just say, I would rather not have her doubting my reasons for attending a lecture her father is giving at the Apollo Club tomorrow evening,’ Laurence said, neatly sidestepping the question. ‘She may not believe a playwright would have a genuine interest in ancient Egypt.’

‘I cannot think why. We are all entitled to more than one interest in our lives,’ Victoria said. ‘Why should someone who writes plays be any different?’

‘I don’t know, but Lady Joanna was noticeably more distant when I spoke to her this evening than she was when we met in the bookshop this afternoon,’ Laurence said. ‘Which is why I intend to do everything I can to convince her that I am an avid student of history and that my appreciation of all things Egyptian is genuine. And you can be sure I plan on doing it sooner rather than later!’

Acting on his convictions, Laurence did not wait until the lecture to settle matters between Lady Joanna and himself. He suspected he wouldn’t have much time to talk to her after the lecture, and that even if he did, it would not be with any degree of privacy, so he decided to pay a call on her at home the following afternoon and to use Volney’s book as an excuse for stopping by.

As such, he dressed carefully for the interview, choosing a well-cut jacket of dark-green kerseymere over a linen shirt and breeches. With it, he wore a pristine white cravat, a very pale-gold waistcoat and boots that, though polished to a high sheen, bore no fancy tassels or spurs. He was determined that when he saw Lady Joanna again, his appearance would in no way remind her of the man she had seen last night.

Unfortunately, when he was shown into the elegant drawing room of the house on Eaton Place, it was to find her in the company of an older woman; one whose wide-eyed expression upon hearing his name confirmed Laurence’s fears that the anonymity he had hoped for would not be forthcoming.

He advanced, somewhat hesitantly, into the room. ‘Good afternoon, Lady Joanna.’

‘Mr Bretton.’ She looked like a vision of spring in a white-muslin gown encircled by a band of pale-green silk, with a darker paisley shawl draped over her shoulders. Her hair, reflecting shades of copper and gold in a bright shaft of sunlight, was arranged in a loose cluster of curls around her face and she looked, in every way, the picture of feminine grace and refinement. But her brow was furrowed and her expression left Laurence in no doubt as to where he stood in her estimation. ‘I had not thought to see you until the lecture this evening.’

‘That was my intention,’ Laurence said, ‘but I had errands that brought me in this direction and I decided to take the opportunity to drop off Volney’s Travels on the way.’ He set the book on the table beside her chair. ‘I thought you might like to start reading it before the weekend.’

‘How thoughtful.’ Her eyes fell hungrily to the book, but Laurence knew good manners would prevent her from opening it. Instead, she looked up at him and said, ‘Are you acquainted with my aunt, Mrs Gavin?’

‘I have not had the pleasure, no.’

‘Ah, but I know you, Mr Bretton,’ said that lady with a smile. ‘Or rather, I know of you and I am very pleased to make your acquaintance. Unlike my niece, I have seen all of your plays and enjoyed them very much.’

‘Thank you, Mrs Gavin,’ Laurence said, liking the rosy-cheeked lady and grateful for her recommendation. ‘It is always a pleasure to hear that my work is being appreciated.’

‘Of that there can be no doubt. I hear there are even rumours that your next play will be produced at Drury Lane.’

‘We are only in the opening stages of negotiation,’ Laurence said, not entirely surprised that word of his uncle’s discussions with the manager of the Theatre Royal should have reached the streets. In London, only the wind travelled faster than gossip. ‘The play is not yet finished and there is still much to be discussed.’

‘Ah, but I am sure satisfactory terms will be reached by all parties. Not that I see anything wrong with your work continuing to be shown at the Gryphon,’ Mrs Gavin said. ‘It is a superb theatre and the cast is exceptional. Your uncle is to be commended for his efforts at making the Gryphon the success it is, as are you for contributing so greatly to it.’

Guiltily aware that he had contributed nothing to his uncle’s success, that it was his sister’s plays that had taken London by storm, Laurence gruffly cleared his throat. ‘Thank you. I will be sure to pass your compliments along to my uncle. But now, I must be on my way. I look forward to seeing you at the lecture this evening, Lady Joanna, and hopefully, to speaking with you afterwards.’

‘I doubt there will be time.’ The lady’s words were clipped, her tone discouraging. ‘I expect to be fully occupied assisting my father, both before and after the lecture.’

The remark confirmed Laurence’s suspicions that the chances of his changing her mind were slim. Clearly, she had not appreciated his being less than honest with her upon the occasion of their first meeting and, having seen him as something of a performer last night, was not interested in furthering the acquaintance. It seemed that while the lady could keep secrets from him, he was not allowed to keep secrets from her.

‘I understand. Nevertheless, I look forward to the occasion.’ He turned to offer the other lady a smile. ‘It was a pleasure meeting you, Mrs Gavin.’

‘And you, Mr Bretton. I look forward to seeing many more of your plays and wish you continued success with all of them.’

Grateful for having received at least one positive endorsement in Lady Joanna’s hearing, Laurence took his leave, keenly aware of two sets of eyes following him out of the room.

He had hoped to be able to explain to Lady Joanna why he hadn’t told her about his other life as Valentine Lawe, but clearly he was not to be given the opportunity. Whatever positive impression he might have made by offering to lend her Volney’s book had been overturned by his appearance at Lydia Blough-Upton’s soirée as Valentine Lawe. Lady Joanna was clearly not a fan of the theatre and had not been to see any of the plays. She was an academic and historian like her father and, despite Mrs Gavin’s glowing words of praise, Laurence knew her opinion of him was already formed.

It was going to take a lot more than an apology, however heartfelt, to change it.




Chapter Three


‘Well, it seems you have been keeping secrets from me, Joanna,’ Mrs Gavin said, breaking the silence that followed Mr Bretton’s departure. ‘You neglected to tell me you were such good friends with one of London’s most illustrious playwrights.’

‘We are not good friends, Aunt Florence,’ Joanna said, not quite sure how she was feeling in the wake of the gentleman’s unexpected appearance. ‘I had no idea he even was a playwright until I was informed of it at Mrs Blough-Upton’s reception last night. Mr Bretton and I simply met in a bookshop where he offered to lend me his copy of a book I happened to be looking for.’

Her aunt leaned over and peered at the title. ‘Travels through Syria and Egypt. Isn’t that more along your father’s line?’

‘It is.’

‘But Mr Bretton is a playwright.’

‘Yes, who professes an interest in ancient Egypt. He is coming to Papa’s lecture tonight.’

‘Is he indeed?’ Her aunt’s eyes twinkled. ‘Are you sure he isn’t using the book and the lecture as an excuse to further an acquaintance with you?’

‘I had no reason to think so at the time, but now I’m not so sure.’ Joanna nibbled on her bottom lip. ‘It does seem a little hard to believe after what I saw of him last night.’

‘Well, I have to believe all this attention is a problem of a most pleasurable sort,’ Mrs Gavin said, reaching for her cup and saucer. ‘I understand Captain Sterne has been paying marked attention to you of late and that Mr Osborne is in the habit of sending you posies.’

‘Yes, which I have asked him to stop,’ Joanna said. ‘I know he is related in some way to Lady Cynthia, but I cannot bring myself to like him. As for Captain Sterne, he had no time for me when I was plain Joanna Northrup, so naturally I am suspect of his affections now.’

‘But at least you have something in common with Captain Sterne,’ Mrs Gavin pointed out. ‘If memory serves, he accompanied your father on one of his early expeditions to Egypt, so his interest in the subject must be genuine.’

‘I believe it to be,’ Joanna allowed, ‘but I have always found him to be a rather arrogant man. Perhaps that is what comes of inheriting such great wealth at such a young age.’

Mrs Gavin smiled sympathetically. ‘I suspect it does change one’s circumstances. As does becoming the daughter of an earl. What about Mr Rowe? I hear you made his acquaintance last night.’

‘Yes, and I did not care for him in the least,’ Joanna said, remembering with distaste the objectionable way the man had leered at her. ‘He may be wealthy and heir to a viscountcy, but not even a king’s fortune would persuade me to marry him.’

‘Unfortunately, your aunt is using wealth as the criteria by which she determines your future husband’s suitability and, given the deplorable state of your father’s affairs, I suppose it must be a valid concern,’ Mrs Gavin said regretfully. ‘But I would not wish to see it be the only consideration when choosing the man you will marry.’

‘Neither would I, Aunt,’ Joanna acknowledged with a sigh. ‘I was far happier at the thought of marrying Mr Penscott,’ she said, referring to the young man who had worked as her father’s assistant for the past three years. ‘At least he liked me for who I was and we certainly shared an interest in Papa’s work. We could have travelled to Egypt together after we were married.’

‘I wouldn’t be so sure,’ her aunt said. ‘Mr Penscott hales from Yorkshire and northern men are very old fashioned in their notions. But it matters not since he is no longer a suitable companion for you. And I am sorry. I know you cared for him.’

‘Yes, I did. However, I suppose it is better to use one’s head than one’s heart when it comes to choosing the man with whom one will spend the rest of one’s life,’ Joanna said in a pragmatic tone. ‘The heart is notoriously unreliable.’

‘You’re thinking about Mr Patterson again, aren’t you?’

Joanna blushed, the unwelcome heat giving her away. ‘I wasn’t aware you knew about him.’

‘Of course I knew about him, child,’ her aunt said gently. ‘You were madly in love with the man, or believed yourself to be. And why would you not feel that way? He was as handsome as a young god and equally blessed when it came to the gift of oratory. I once heard him recite a poem at Lady Saxton’s summer fête and by the time he’d finished, I all but fancied myself in love with him,’ Mrs Gavin said in a wry tone. ‘But, I feared he would break your heart. He was very good at flirting with the young ladies, but not so good at following through on his promises to them.’

Joanna glanced down at her hands. ‘It all seems so silly now. But it was very painful at the time.’

‘First love always is. And you didn’t have my sister around to give you the guidance and support you so desperately needed.’

Joanna nodded, remembering how much she had longed for her mother’s advice at the time. ‘He wrote such romantic poetry. I thought … I truly believed that he had written the words just for me.’

‘No doubt he told you he had,’ her aunt said with an understanding smile. ‘But I am not sorry nothing came of it, Joanna. Mr Patterson would not have made you a good husband. Men like that never do. Most likely he’ll end up some rich woman’s cher ami, or wind up in debtor’s prison. Creativity is all very well, but sometimes the more brilliant the mind, the more unstable the person.’

Joanna smoothed her hand over her skirt, wondering why Laurence Bretton’s face suddenly came to mind. He hadn’t struck her as being in the least unstable, though there was no denying that he was two very different people—and extremely convincing in both roles.

‘So Mr Bretton is planning to attend your father’s lecture,’ her aunt said, unwittingly tapping into Joanna’s thoughts. ‘Interesting. I suspect you will see him in a very different light this evening.’

‘Of course, but in which light does he shine the truest? Writing plays must take a great deal of dedication, especially plays as successful as his,’ Joanna said, getting to her feet. ‘How can he divide his time between that and the study of ancient Egypt?’

‘Obviously, he makes time for both. It is not a bad thing to have such diverse interests.’

Joanna managed a grudging smile. ‘You like him.’

‘Yes, I do. I sense he is a good man and I like his manners and humility very much,’ her aunt said. ‘You were not kind to him today yet he did not speak harshly to you.’

Joanna flushed at the criticism. ‘He was not honest with me when we first met. He should have told me who he was and what he did, rather than leave me to find out at Mrs Blough-Upton’s reception.’

‘I suspect he had his reasons for keeping silent. Nor am I saying that you should think of Mr Bretton as someone you might wish to marry because quite clearly he is not. He is far from being your social equal and that is something you must now constantly bear in mind.’

It was a truism Joanna had not yet come to terms with, even though it was one of the principles that guided society. ‘I fail to see why. Dukes marry actresses and are not thought any the less of for it.’

‘Unfortunately, dukes can do whatever they wish,’ Mrs Gavin said, chuckling. ‘With rank comes privilege and I know a number of ladies and gentlemen who have made excellent use of both. But I am confident you will make the right choice when the time comes,’ she said, getting to her feet. ‘Just remember that a promise once given is difficult to retract and a vow once spoken is spoken for life.’

Joanna glanced at the book Mr Bretton had left for her, beginning to wish she had never encouraged the conversation with him in the bookshop. He confused her … and Joanna didn’t like being confused. Indeed, life in general seemed to have become a great deal more complicated since her father had become Lord Bonnington. ‘Thank you, Aunt Florence,’ Joanna said, slipping an arm around her aunt’s waist. ‘You know how much I value your opinion.’

‘Poppycock. You likely think my notions as old fashioned as I am, but are too kind to say so. Well, never mind. All I want is to see you happy. Money is not the only reason to wed, just as having your heart broken once is no reason to shy away from love. But I’m sure you already know that.’

Joanna nodded and kissed her aunt’s cheek before bidding her a fond farewell. Only then did she turn her attention to the book Mr Bretton had left for her. She was glad the brusqueness of her words at Mrs Blough-Upton’s reception had not affected his decision to lend it to her, but she was sorry his arrival today had coincided with her aunt’s—who seemed as enamoured of the man as everyone else.

Was she the only one who thought his not telling her the truth was a problem?

Joanna picked up the book and held it reverently in her hands. It was a lovely copy: leather bound, beautifully engraved and in excellent condition. Mr Bretton certainly took good care of his books, but then, who would have more respect for the written word than a man who made his living by them? A playwright would be as respectful of books as her father and Mr Penscott were of the ancient scrolls they found buried in the tombs.

But could the dashing Laurence Bretton, more famously known as Valentine Lawe, really be as interested in those artefacts as he was in his wildly successful plays? Did his reasons for wanting to attend the lecture tonight stem from a genuine desire to learn more about the distant past? Or were they, as Joanna was beginning to fear, little more than an excuse for spending time with her, as her aunt was all too inclined to think?

The Apollo Club was a favoured haunt of gentlemen who gathered to share ideas and exchange views on a variety of interesting and diverse topics. It was also where Ben Jonson had written The Devil is an Asse, thereby serving to unite Laurence’s literary leanings with his more historical ones. No doubt that was why he felt so at home as he strolled into the room known as the Oracle of Apollo a full fifteen minutes before the clock struck seven.

For once, he was in his element, surrounded by fellow students of history all caught up in the excitement of hearing about William Northrup’s—correction, Lord Bonnington’s—latest expedition to Egypt and of the wondrous things he had seen there. Valentine Lawe didn’t belong here any more than an orchid belonged in the desert and Laurence was heartily relieved when no one seemed to recognise him. No doubt the conservative clothes and spectacles helped.

He glanced towards the front of the room where Lady Joanna and her father were busy getting ready for the lecture and allowed himself the pleasure of watching her unobserved for a few minutes. She was dressed in a dark-blue pelisse over a pale-blue gown, the fitted lines of the garment making her look even more slender than she had in the bookshop. She had set her bonnet aside, allowing the candlelight to catch the highlights in her hair, and her cheeks were slightly flushed as a result of her efforts at getting everything ready.

‘Joanna, where are my samples of pottery from the fourth week’s dig?’ her father asked abruptly. ‘Don’t tell me I forgot to bring them!’

‘You did, Papa, but I did not,’ Lady Joanna said, calmly lifting a wooden box on to the table. ‘All ten pieces are here, labelled as to their place of origin and date of discovery.’

‘And the papyrus scrolls?’

‘In the glass cases. I wasn’t willing to risk curious onlookers being overly enthusiastic in their handling of them.’

‘Excellent,’ Lord Bonnington said, regarding the neat arrangement of glass display cases with approval. ‘Now, if we can just get these last few pieces of statuary in place—ah, there you are, Mr Penscott,’ he said as a lanky young man wearing a dark-brown jacket over fawn-coloured breeches walked up to the table. ‘Give me a hand with this stone head, will you?’

‘Of course, my lord,’ Penscott said, bending to pick it up. His sandy-coloured hair was swept back from a wide forehead bronzed by the sun and he had a pleasant, amiable countenance. ‘It’s my job to do the heavy lifting. Isn’t that right, Lady Joanna?’

The tone was affectionate and the remark, judging from the colour that blossomed in Lady Joanna’s cheeks, was not entirely unwelcome, making Laurence wonder as to the nature of the relationship. ‘It is indeed, Mr Penscott.’ She looked up from her notes and smiled. ‘That, and making tea over a campfire, which you do exceptionally well.’ Then she saw Laurence and the smile froze on her lips. ‘Mr Bretton. You’re … early.’

‘Am I?’ Laurence pulled out his pocket watch and flicked open the lid. ‘A few minutes, perhaps, but you did tell me I should come early if I wished to secure a good seat. A sound piece of advice given how crowded the room is already.’

She appeared flustered, as though she hadn’t really expected him to come. ‘Yes, well, as I said, this is the … first opportunity my father has had to speak about his trip to Dendera since we emerged from mourning. It is only to be expected that there would be … a great deal of curiosity about what he found.’

Laurence closed the watch and slipped it back into his pocket, finding her distress curious. Was she embarrassed that he had witnessed her light-hearted exchange with the other man?

Mr Penscott didn’t seem to care. After a cursory glance in Laurence’s direction, he went back to unpacking boxes and even her father didn’t raise his head. Clearly, the reasons for the lady’s discomfort were her own. Deciding not to make an issue of it, Laurence said, ‘I would not have expected otherwise. Your father’s reputation is well known in London.’ He set his satchel on one of the vacant seats. ‘For that reason, I hope there will be an opportunity to speak to him after the lecture concludes.’

‘That will depend on how many questions he is asked,’ Lady Joanna said. ‘Upon occasion, he has been known to run very late.’

‘Except when you are on hand to keep him to his schedule,’ Laurence said, gently reminding her of the comment she had made upon the occasion of their first meeting. ‘I’m sure he is grateful for your help in that regard, as well as in the organising of matters beforehand.’

‘It is … a necessary part of planning the evening,’ Lady Joanna agreed. She glanced back down at her notes, her brow furrowing. ‘Now if you will excuse me, I must get back to work. There is still much to be done before the lecture gets underway.’

Laurence inclined his head. ‘Of course. I would hate to be the cause of any delay.’

Joanna glanced at him briefly, then turned and walked away. She wasn’t sure why she felt so flustered all of a sudden. She had done enough of these presentations that standing in front of a room full of men didn’t bother her any more. What, then? Embarrassment that he witnessed her comfortable exchange with Mr Penscott?

Surely not. There was nothing wrong with colleagues enjoying a laugh together. Certainly no one else seemed to think so. After a brief glance at the newcomer, Mr Penscott had gone back to unpacking boxes and her father seemed not to have heard the exchange at all. Even Mr Bretton did not seem unduly concerned. Following his last comment, he had sat down and taken a small leather-bound notebook from his satchel, which he had proceeded to open and lay flat upon his lap. Joanna had seen lines of writing, along with what looked like hieroglyphic symbols covering the page from top to bottom. A moment later, he’d taken out a pencil and began making notes and hadn’t looked at her again.

Unreasonably miffed, Joanna had carried on with her preparations. So, the great Valentine Lawe had deigned to make an appearance. How gracious of him. He had even dressed for the part, looking every inch the academic in a dark jacket over breeches and boots, his appearance smart but decidedly understated. He had abandoned his fancy lace jabot for a conservatively striped neckcloth and the signature rose was nowhere in sight. He was even wearing his wire-rimmed spectacles again.

Did he really need them, Joanna wondered, or were they little more than a contrivance?

Not that it mattered, she reminded herself. Laurence Bretton was only one of the many gentlemen who had come to hear her father speak and though she had given him an invitation, it did not entitle him to any special consideration. She had extended the invitation for the same reason he had offered to lend her the book—because they shared a common interest in Egypt.

That was all. Joanna had no intention of getting to know the gentleman better because despite Lady Cynthia’s beliefs that Mr Bretton was interested in her, Joanna knew all too well the fickleness of the writer’s heart. She had experienced it firsthand. Her infatuation with Aldwyn Patterson had scarred her to a far greater degree than anyone knew because only Joanna knew what he had whispered to her in the folly when they were alone. Only she knew the sweet promises he had made and the lyrical poetry he had written extolling her glorious emerald eyes and the sweetness of her face.

Only she knew how madly and stupidly she had fallen in love—only to discover his true nature when she had found out she was not the only young lady to be on the receiving end of his flattery.

Such was her disappointment in having discovered Laurence Bretton’s true calling. Though he was a different kind of writer, Joanna had no reason to suspect he was any different at heart. He lived in a world of fictional characters and implausible scenarios.

Witness his appearance as Valentine Lawe. What was that if not just another role in his world of make believe?

But her world wasn’t like that any more. Joanna was no longer in control of her own destiny. She was the daughter of an impoverished earl, fated to marry a man of means; one who possessed either wealth or a title, or better yet, wealth and a title, and who was willing to spend a large part of that wealth on the restoration of Joanna’s home.

That was the only hope her family had. Personal feelings didn’t enter into it. She was to be married off to the highest bidder—and she was deceiving herself if she thought to call it anything else.

For Laurence, the next two hours flew by. Lord Bonnington offered a highly informative talk concerning his explorations of the ruins at Dendera and of the many unexpected finds he and his team had made along the way. Numerous samples were documented and described, some that were passed around during the course of the discussion, while the more delicate articles were kept at the front of the room for viewing. Mr Penscott, who turned out to be a former student of Bonnington’s as well as his assistant, was often called upon to elaborate a point, though his explanations, being more straightforward than the earl’s, were better suited to the laymen in the audience.

Then there were the engravings, incredibly lifelike drawings of hieroglyphs and friezes, drawn in greatly reduced scale, but in such exquisite detail that Laurence could almost picture himself sitting on the artist’s stool, gazing at the magnificent scenes before him. And she had drawn them. Lady Joanna Northrup. To his surprise, the lovely and refined young woman who was destined to become mistress of a grand house in London was also one of the finest illustrators he had ever seen.

His admiration and respect for her only grew.

Unfortunately, as the evening went on so did his awareness of the differences between them. She was the daughter of an earl; a woman who lived in a world vastly removed from his and whose privileged life included servants, magnificent houses and all the conveniences money could buy.

He was the son of a gentleman and a minister’s daughter. Though better educated than most and with opportunities greater than some, Laurence knew he would never achieve the lofty heights necessary to be considered someone with whom Lady Joanna might associate.

She was a goddess and he a mere mortal bound to earth. Not surprisingly, the discovery left him with a decidedly hollow feeling.

‘Smashing good lecture, eh what?’ said the gentleman seated next to him. ‘I’d have given my eye-teeth to be on that expedition. But, I’m the first to admit my travelling days are over.’

Laurence regarded the gentleman, who didn’t appear to be much over fifty, with amusement. ‘You look as though you still have a good few trips left in you.’

‘Appreciate you saying so, m’boy, but traipsing through the desert is work for younger men than me.’ He turned his head and levelled a surprisingly keen look at Laurence. ‘Ever been to Egypt, Mr …?’

‘Bretton. And, no, I haven’t. Everything I know about the subject has been learned from books and from following the exploits of men like Lord Bonnington.’

‘Pity. Reading about the pyramids is nothing like standing at the top of one of those magnificent structures, knowing as you gaze out over the desert that it holds a thousand secrets you’re never going to be able to uncover. You can’t get any of that from a book.’

Laurence smiled, recognising in the man beside him the spirit of a true adventurer. ‘You’ve been there.’

‘Oh, yes,’ his companion said, ‘and I was younger than you when I made my first trip. Not many young bucks were making the journey back then. Most of them went to Florence and Rome on their grand tours. But Egypt is becoming popular now and I hear there are even ladies making the trip, though I don’t hold with all that nonsense. The desert’s no place for a woman.’

‘I heard that, Mr Dustin,’ Lady Joanna said in a tone of mild amusement as she came up behind them. ‘And I take leave to disagree with you.’

‘Of course you do, my dear, because you are your father’s daughter and every bit as stubborn, though I won’t hold that against you,’ he said, winking. ‘However, if you’ll excuse me, I want a word with Bonnington before he leaves. I’ve a slight difference of opinion when it comes to his theory about Seti the First, though he’ll likely tell me I’m talking through my hat.’ Abruptly, Mr Dustin turned and extended his hand to Laurence. ‘Don’t forget what I said, young man. If you ever get the chance to go, take it! You won’t regret it.’

‘I’ll be sure to remember your advice,’ Laurence said, shaking Mr Dustin’s hand. It was only as he did that he noticed the ebony-topped cane gripped in the gentleman’s other hand and realised why Mr Dustin’s travelling days were over.

‘Well, Mr Bretton, did you enjoy the lecture?’ Lady Joanna enquired when they were alone.

Her tone was no warmer than it had been earlier, but aware that she had, at least, come to speak to him, Laurence decided to make the most of it. ‘Very much. I am more envious than ever of what you saw and experienced while you were there.’

Her brow furrowed, but in confusion rather than disagreement. ‘Why would you say that? You are a famous playwright. A man much admired in society. What reason can you have for being envious of anyone?’

‘I am envious because I haven’t seen everything I want to see, or travelled to all the places I wish to travel,’ Laurence said. ‘Just because I write plays doesn’t mean I can’t have other interests.’

‘But the study of ancient Egypt must be one’s passion,’ Lady Joanna said. ‘A person could spend a lifetime engaged in such work and never know all there is to know. I’m sure the same could be said about writing plays.’

‘Yet, did Shakespeare not write a play about Caesar and Cleopatra?’ Laurence countered. ‘One that would have necessitated his having a thorough understanding of the history of the time in order to be able to write about two of its most colourful characters?’

‘Of course, but Shakespeare was first and foremost a playwright. Any research he did would have been undertaken to validate the dialogue and the lifestyles of the characters about which he wrote. You claim an interest in a field that is as strongly felt as what you must feel for writing.’

Laurence couldn’t argue with that because he couldn’t tell her that his first love really was history and that he wasn’t a famous playwright at all, that the mask he wore as Valentine Lawe was precisely that. But neither could he deny that her persistent doubts were beginning to bother him. ‘Lady Joanna. You do not know me well. Indeed, you do not know me at all, but I trust you will believe me when I say that I am capable of having interests in areas beyond those for which I have gained renown. Yes, I am a student of the classics and have read and enjoyed the works of Socrates and Shakespeare,’ he said quietly. ‘However, I also enjoy music, art, sport and history. Egyptian history, in particular. I have followed the exploits of Mr Burckhardt and Monsieur Champollion, having been fascinated by the latter’s précis du système hiéroglyphique, and I am here tonight because I admire your father’s work and want to learn more.’

‘But what I saw of you last night—’

‘Has nothing to do with who or what I am now,’ Laurence said in frustration. ‘Had you not seen me at Mrs Blough-Upton’s house last night, we would not even be having this conversation. But you did and we are and this difference in opinion is the result. But believe me when I say that I am not here under false pretences. I’ve come to sit at the foot of a man I have long admired and to learn from his experiences. Now, are you going to grant me the promised introduction, or shall I ask Mr Dustin to do it for you?’

Laurence knew his words had made an impression. Lady Joanna obviously hadn’t expected him to take exception to her remark, nor to contest it as vigorously as he had. But he wasn’t about to stand here and be questioned about a subject he was genuinely interested in, simply because Lady Joanna Northrup believed him more interested in something else!

The seconds ticked by as she stared at him. Then, obviously coming to a decision, she nodded her head. ‘That will not be necessary. If you will follow me, I will introduce you to my father.’

It was not an apology and Laurence knew better than to mistake it for one. He might have come away the victor in this small battle of wills, but he was a long way from emerging triumphant in the war. Lady Joanna had more respect for her father’s assistant than she did for him. When she looked at Penscott, she saw a man whose interest in Egypt was as keen as her own and whose credibility in the field had been established as a result of the years of work he had done at her father’s side.

All she saw when she looked at him, Laurence reminded himself, was a man who made up stories about people who existed in make-believe worlds. One who wore fancy clothes and was admired for the extent of his imagination rather than the sharpness of his intellect.

Well, that was going to change, Laurence decided as he followed her towards the front of the room. He might not succeed in winning her heart, but he was damned if he was going to walk away without at least having gained her respect!




Chapter Four


At the front of the room, Lord Bonnington stood in the company of several other gentlemen, most of whom Laurence knew either by name or reputation. Lord Kingston, a prominent peer whose collection of Egyptian artefacts was said to be one of the most impressive in England, was engaged in conversation with Mr Geoffrey Toberston, a well known historian, while beside them, Sir Guthry Mortimer, the noted cartographer, chatted with Mr Dustin and Lord Amberley, who according to the papers had funded several of Bonnington’s expeditions.

Also present were Mr David Sheppard, an ambitious young man who was currently in the throes of planning his first expedition to Egypt, and Captain James Sterne, son and heir of Lord Rinstrom and a man who had accompanied Lord Bonnington on one of his early expeditions to Egypt.

‘Papa, allow me to introduce Mr Laurence Bretton,’ Lady Joanna said, drawing Laurence into the centre of the group. ‘We met in a bookshop where he kindly offered to lend me his copy of Volney’s Travels. In return, I invited him to your lecture.’

‘Did you indeed?’ Bonnington’s sharp gaze fell on Laurence. ‘I don’t believe I’ve seen you at any of my lectures, Mr Bretton.’

‘You haven’t, my lord, but I am very familiar with your work. I’ve been following your exploits for years and have read all of your reports with great enjoyment.’

‘Have you now. And what did you think of tonight’s presentation?’

‘Fascinating. I only wish I could have been at Dendera with you.’

‘As do I,’ Mr Dustin spoke up. ‘Might have been too, if it wasn’t for this blasted leg.’

‘Which I told you to have reset after you broke it the last time,’ Bonnington said drily. ‘But would you listen to me? Oh, no! Told me what I could do with my advice, as I recall.’

‘Well, what did you expect?’ Dustin muttered. ‘You’re an archaeologist. Not a bloody surgeon.’

Laurence smiled, recognising the friendly bickering for what it was. No doubt Mr Dustin, having either been a rival of Bonnington’s or a one-time member of his team, had been rendered incapable of travelling by a series of unfortunate accidents; something he no doubt lamented every day of his life, especially on evenings such as these.

‘The desert does get into one’s blood,’ the older man murmured now.

‘Volney’s Travels, eh?’ the earl said, turning back to Laurence. ‘Not an easy volume to find.’

‘No, but I have an excellent source for such books and have been able to amass a fairly substantial library.’

‘Which is more than I can say for some of the shops I visited,’ Lady Joanna said. ‘The clerk at the last one was quite relieved when Mr Bretton offered to lend me his copy.’

‘On the contrary, he would have been more than happy to help,’ Laurence said, remembering the look of infatuation on the young man’s face and aware of feeling much the same way at the time. ‘But given that I had the book at home, I saw no point in making him go to the trouble.’

‘Bretton,’ Captain Sterne said slowly. ‘That name’s familiar. Why do I know it?’ He tapped one finger against his lip and then smiled, a little too innocently. ‘But of course, you’re that writer chap. The one all the ladies chatter about. Lang, isn’t it?’

‘Lawe,’ Laurence said, aware of the patronising tone. ‘Valentine Lawe.’

‘That’s right, Valentine Lawe. What a coincidence. I went to see your play last Season,’ Sterne said. ‘Quite good for what it was.’

Laurence smiled, amused by Sterne’s condescension in light of the play’s runaway success. ‘Thank you. The response has been gratifying.’

‘Still, I wonder, sir, what brings you here tonight? I cannot suppose you to have become lost on your way to the theatre, but neither can I think of any reason why a playwright would be attending a lecture such as this.’

Laurence heard a few snickers from the gentlemen standing close by, but ignored them. He’d run into Sterne’s type before. ‘As Lady Joanna said, we discovered a mutual interest in Egypt whilst browsing in a shop and she extended the invitation at that time.’

‘Really. And I suppose a man like you would think a mutual interest in a subject like that reason enough for approaching a lady with whom one is not acquainted,’ Sterne drawled. ‘And whose social consequence is so vastly superior to one’s own.’

‘Actually, no,’ Laurence said, recognising an adversary and wondering if Sterne tried to intimidate anyone who attempted to speak to Lady Joanna in such a way. ‘But in hearing Lady Joanna’s conversation and recognising an interest as keen as my own, I decided the circumstances warranted the offer being made. It was only after I did so that I became aware of the lady’s identity.’

‘Indeed, the first thing he asked after I told him my name was if I was related to you, Papa,’ Lady Joanna said quickly.

‘Did he indeed? Well, I’m not about to find fault with a gentleman whose intentions are so obviously good. If you’ve a mind to talk about Egypt, Mr Bretton, feel free to come by the house,’ Bonnington said. ‘My door is always open to young men who share a passion for the field. Captain Sterne, perhaps you would care to join Lord Amberley and myself for dinner tomorrow evening? I’ve begun making plans for a trip to Abu Simbel and I remember you saying you would be interested in going.’

‘I would indeed,’ Sterne said. ‘I regretted having to miss Dendera, but it was necessary that I be in America at the time. There were business concerns that needed attending to.’ His glance shifted, coming to rest on Lady Joanna. ‘I hope we will have the pleasure of your company once again, Lady Joanna? I have yet to meet an expedition artist more talented … or more beautiful.’

Laurence saw two bright spots of colour appear in the lady’s cheeks. ‘You are too kind, Captain Sterne. Yes, I hope to be included, but it is Papa’s decision to make.’

‘Actually, I suspect your aunt will have a say in it too,’ her father said. ‘She doesn’t hold with the idea of you travelling abroad. And given that this trip is to be of a longer duration than the last, it may not be appropriate. There are matters here at home that need attending to.’

The remark hung in the air, pregnant with meaning. Laurence saw the expressions on the faces of the men around him and knew what they were thinking. Lady Joanna needed a husband and she wasn’t going to find one on an expedition to Egypt. Unless Sterne intended putting himself forwards as a candidate, and judging by the way he was looking at her, that wasn’t unlikely.

‘Well, I must be off,’ Lord Amberley said. ‘Excellent presentation on Dendera, Bonnington. I look forward to talking to you and Sterne about Abu Simbel tomorrow evening. Shall we say seven o’clock at my club?’

‘Fine by me,’ Bonnington said.

‘And me,’ Sterne replied. ‘I’ve business earlier in the day, but it should be concluded by then. Good evening, Lady Joanna.’

‘Captain Sterne,’ Joanna said.

Laurence thought her expression looked a little strained as she smiled back at the man, but Sterne seemed not to notice and left the room in the company of several other gentlemen, their laughter and backwards glances in Laurence’s direction leaving him in no doubt that he was the source of their amusement.

Finally, only Mr Dustin, Mr Penscott, Lady Joanna and her father remained.

‘Well, come along, Mr Penscott, let’s get packed up,’ the earl said. ‘I’ve no wish to be here until midnight. You may as well go home, Joanna. There’s no point in you waiting around.’





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