Rake in the Regency Ballroom: The Viscount Claims His Bride / The Earl's Forbidden Ward

However, until he could manage to tarnish St Just’s sterling image a bit, he’d follow the old adage of keeping one’s friends close and one’s enemies closer. It was time to pay a visit to the garden.

Chapter Five

Philippa didn’t see Lucien approach, but was instead alerted to his arrival by the sudden tenseness in Valerian’s pose and the feral light that lit his green eyes. She tried to slide her gloved hand discreetly from Valerian’s grasp, but the effort was nothing more than an afterthought. The stormy visage Lucien wore made it clear that he had already seen her hand in Valerian’s.

She resented the intrusion. For a short while, she and St Just had been companionable, simply Philippa and Valerian again, like they had been on the dance floor. She’d liked the soft, intimate tones between them as they discussed her marriage to the duke. She’d liked the absence of witty repartee designed to spear the other, the social politics of claiming and possession. With Lucien’s interruption, all that was back, and back in force. The moment Valerian had spied Lucien, he’d become all St Just again—the rakish diplomat who would not be cornered or made to feel guilty for his actions by any man.

‘Philippa, it’s freezing out here,’Lucien said, rubbing his hands together for good effect and trying to minimise Valerian’s presence by ignoring him. ‘What could possibly bring you outside?’

‘We’re reminiscing, catching up,’ Philippa offered smoothly. It was true. They’d been talking of the past, nothing more.

‘My dear, that is why we have a dozen sitting rooms, expressly for the purpose of talking.’ Lucien forced a laugh.

‘Is that true or is it merely an example of hyperbole?’ Valerian put in, shielding his eyes against the wind and making a great show of surveying the manor as if he could count all the sitting rooms and doubted the manor was large enough to uphold Lucien’s boast.

Philippa couldn’t decide what she wanted to do first: laugh at Lucien’s bluff being called—the manor was large by Truro standards, but there weren’t twelve sitting rooms unless one counted the small salons attached to a few of the larger bedchambers—or strangle Valerian for poking at Lucien’s pride so deliberately and with no greater purpose than to antagonise the man.

‘St Just has an interest in gardens. I thought he’d enjoy seeing yours,’ Philippa interjected quickly.

Valerian smiled beside her. ‘Yes, the family seat has extensive gardens over on the Roseland Peninsula. I am eager to get back to them.’

Lucien smiled back. ‘I hope you aren’t in such a large hurry to get back that you won’t stay on with us for a while? Perhaps I could entice you with a visit to some excellent gardens nearby?’ Lucien offered magnanimously. ‘I’ve heard rumour that the new vicar in Veryan, just a few miles from here, has been rebuilding the vicarage and has plans to expand the gardens. I could arrange for you to ride over tomorrow and talk about plants and whatever else you gardening types enjoy talking about.’

Philippa turned to Valerian. ‘Please say you’ll stay. I know the vicarage. It’s lovely and you would enjoy meeting Samuel Trist, the vicar. He’s an avid landscaper. The two of you would have much in common.’ The thought of Valerian leaving, after having only discovered he’d returned was suddenly unpalatable. But he wouldn’t stay if he thought he was beholden to Lucien in any way.

‘Who knows what other pleasant surprises might crop up if you stay long enough?’ Lucien put in, playing the expansive host to the hilt. ‘With luck, you could be one of the first to congratulate me on my good fortune. I have proposed to our dear Duchess this very morning. I thought it was best to start the year off on the right footing, beginning as I mean to go on and all that.’

Philippa felt the colour go out of her cheeks. How dare Lucien call his angry, jealous retort a proposal. She was keenly aware of Valerian’s probing stare.

‘Has our “dear Duchess” accepted?’ Valerian asked of Lucien, although his eyes didn’t leave her.

‘She has—’ Lucien began glibly.

‘She has not accepted the proposal,’ Philippa broke in angrily. Who knew what kind of fiction Lucien would fabricate? If he was willing to risk portraying their quarrel as a proposal, he might be willing to go so far as to say her storming out of the library was akin to ‘thinking it over’.

Philippa stared hard at each of them. ‘I will not stand here and be talked about as if I am invisible. That goes for both of you. However, since my presence is not intrinsic to this conversation, please feel free to stay out here and continue. I’m going in.’

She must have been momentarily mad to think she wasn’t ready for Valerian to leave. Valerian. That was another thing. Some time between his arrival two nights ago and this afternoon, she’d started thinking of him as Valerian again instead of St Just. Out in the garden, he’d been her friend, so reminiscent of the old days, and then he’d become St Just. On an instant’s notice, the mask had slid into place as assuredly as the one he’d worn to the ball last night.

Was that what it was? A mask? Why she was so certain the mask of cold, sharp wit was the facade? It could just as well be that the friend was the front instead.

Up in her room, Philippa threw her cloak onto the bed and paced in front of the window, her thoughts in turmoil. For a woman who’d thought herself well armed against the dubious charms of Viscount St Just, her defences had proven to be woefully inadequate. Already, she was willing to cast off what she empirically knew to be the truth for the old fantasy he’d spun once before in her girlhood.

Why was it so easy to fall back into believing those old myths? Especially when she knew they were myths. Inspiration struck. She would prove to herself that Valerian Inglemoore was not to be trusted with her affections. Yes, if she could visually see the proof with her own eyes, it would be harder to stray from the truth the next time he held her hand or led her in a waltz.

Philippa drew out a sheet of her personal stationery from the escritoire and sat down. Purposefully, she drew a line down the centre of the paper, dividing it into two columns: one for myths, the other for realities.

When she was done filling in the columns, she had three myths and five truths. Myth number one: he had loved her in their youth. Myth number two: he’d meant to marry her. Myth number three: he’d returned and hoped to woo her, to atone for bad behaviour in the past. Yes, those were the things she wanted most to believe about Valerian.

Then there were the dismal truths. Truth number one: he’d blatantly acknowledged their little affaire was nothing but a young man’s fleeting fancy.

Truth number two: he’d never meant to marry her. He’d known that very night he was leaving for his uncle’s diplomatic residence. What else could explain such a rapid departure? He must have been planning it for months, perhaps for even longer than their short-lived infatuation.

Truth number three: he’d never asked her father for permission to court her and certainly not permission to ask for her hand. If he had, her father would have told her, she was sure of it.

Truth number four: he had made no effort to contact her or Beldon in his absence.

Truth number five: he’d come home with a reputation to match the behaviour he’d shown her that long ago night in the Rutherfords’ garden.

The bottom line of her analysis convicted him. With the exception of a few fleeting moments, nothing corroborated the behaviour she wanted to see in him. Nothing supported the items listed in the myth column. Everything supported the facts both past and present. The stark truth was that Valerian Inglemoore was a seducer of women—a very good one at that. So why was it so hard to resist him, even with the truth staring her in the face? And why was it so hard to accept that truth?

Was it possible there was another side to Valerian that he deliberately kept hidden? Perhaps there was a side that he couldn’t afford to expose. There might be reasons for his tightly tied mask, reasons that had to do with his work for his uncle. Philippa drew out another sheet of paper. She had friends in political circles who could find out. All wishful thinking aside, it suddenly seemed of paramount importance she knew the truth about Valerian Inglemoore.

Philippa sanded the letter and set it aside, nagged by a growing sense of guilt. She didn’t feel right about the inquiry. It felt too much like spying, going behind Valerian’s back. No, she wouldn’t send it, at least not right away. Now that her initial anger was waning, she was beginning to recognize she had done little to get to know the man Valerian had become.

Before she sent off a letter of inquiry prying into the man’s background, she should try to exhaust more direct routes available to her. After all, she sat at the same dinner table with him and there was the outing to Vicar Trist’s in Veryan tomorrow if Lucien’s request was accepted. Those were prime opportunities to reacquaint herself with Valerian and determine the truth on her own.

The evening was a relaxed contrast compared to the prior two nights. Many of the guests who had stayed over after the New Year’s ball had departed late in the afternoon for short journeys home. In addition to Beldon and Valerian, only two couples remained, a Lord Trewithen and his wife, and the ageing Baron Pentlow and his wife from the Penwith area, who were friends of Lucien’s father and had come to the ball en route from London on their way home.

With the exception of the queer Mr Danforth, Philippa knew the other guests as regular acquaintances from the Cornwall community during her marriage. It was a simple task to make conversation over dinner and have a congenial time with the two ladies after the meal in the music room while the men took their port.

Afterwards, the men joined them for a short night of cards. She and Beldon offered to play whist with the Trewithens. At the far end of the music room, Lucien already sat at the cluster of chairs and sofa, talking avidly with Danforth and Pentlow, to the exclusion of all else, leaving Philippa to consider what to do with the elderly Lady Pentlow.

Unlooked for, Valerian rescued her admirably. ‘Duchess, would you mind if I played the pianoforte this evening? I haven’t a desire for cards at the moment or for business.’Valerian gave a quick nod to Lucien’s group deep in discussion, his tone indicating how inappropriate he felt such a topic of discussion was in this setting.

‘It would be delightful to hear you play again, my lord,’ Philippa said, inwardly laughing at the formality of their exchange, so bland and perfect compared to the heated, more imperfect exchanges they’d exchanged in private.

Valerian inclined his dark head in a gracious nod. ‘Lady Pentlow, if I might impose on you to turn the pages for me? I recall at dinner you said you enjoyed the country pieces. Canton has a decent collection of music, perhaps you could sort through it and select a few.’ Valerian offered Lady Pentlow his arm and escorted her to the pianoforte, bending his head low to catch the woman’s excited chatter.

Philippa watched them go with gratitude. How deftly Valerian had managed the situation. Lady Pentlow was a dear, sweet lady and Philippa hadn’t wanted her to feel left out or in the way. Valerian had sensed the need and adroitly stepped in. Unlike Lucien. For a man she’d considered eminently eligible marriage material, she’d certainly had a lot of uncharitable thoughts about him recently.

Philippa shot a glance at Lucien’s coterie, wondering what they could be talking about that would raise such an interest that Lucien would forgo his guests? Typically, Lucien was an excellent host with an eye for details, showing every guest the utmost courtesy due them in polite society. Tonight, he’d left that task entirely to her. She didn’t mind. She was there to play hostess, after all. Still, such behaviour wasn’t like him and it seemed odd that he would commit such a faux pas in order to talk to Mr Danforth, a man whom Lucien had claimed not to know two days past.

‘Are you coming? We’re ready to play,’ Beldon called from the card table.

Philippa smiled and took her seat. ‘I hope my brother has warned you how competitive he is.’

Their game was lively and they rotated partners at the end of each rubber. The Trewithens proved to be capable players, demanding all of Philippa’s attention. Usually she was quite good at cards, whist and piquet being two of her favourite games. But tonight, too many distractions competed for her attention, not the least being Valerian’s quiet ballads coming from the pianoforte. On occasion, she caught snatches of Lady Pentlow’s trebly voice singing a few lines.

At last the tea cart arrived, signalling the end of the evening. Philippa poured out and then went to stand with Beldon as the group congenially sipped their tea. ‘What do you suppose has Lucien so interested?’ she asked quietly.

Beldon gave a soft laugh, part-teasing, partcynicism. ‘I see the privileges of being a male prevails here. If you’d been allowed to stay at the table, you would have been treated to Mr Danforth’s announcement that he was opening a bank here in Truro, the Provincial Bank of Truro or some such nonsense.’

‘Nonsense?’ Philippa queried. ‘Why would you say that?’

‘You know what these country banks are really like, Phil. They’re investment firms.’

Philippa nodded in agreement. Cambourne had done business with Praed and Co., a bank in Truro that invested in high-risk ventures such as inventions and new technologies. If one was clever, these investments paid off. Cambourne had had good luck with them, but it was no surprise that these country banks went bankrupt far more often than the style of bank one would do with business with in London.