Gail Whitiker Read online

  ‘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 booksho
p 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 las
ted 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.’