by Sara Bennett
A rose.
It was said that this rose was far more beautiful than any other ever seen in England. It shone with all the colors of the sunset. De Fevre grew it in his garden and there it remained, regenerating through the ages, until last century when it was destroyed by one of Valentine’s ancestors. But legend had it that de Fevre didn’t bring just one rose back from the Crusades, he brought two, and he made a gift of the second plant to one of his companions as a reward for saving his life. It was possible—probable, Valentine liked to think, because of the rose’s ability to self-seed—that this second rose still existed in the garden of that unknown companion’s descendants.
Valentine had made it his life’s mission to find the Crusader’s Rose and restore it to his family.
And now Baron Von Hautt was on the same quest, but for far less altruistic reasons.
“Where could he have found such a list?” he said with quiet anger.
Jasper shook his head. “I don’t know, Kent. I thought you might. You have received nothing recently?”
“No. Only…” Valentine paused, remembering. “Wait a moment. I received two parcels this morning but I have only opened one.” Quickly he moved toward his desk, finding the object—a square brown paper package with his address written in a shaky hand on the front. The name on the back was unfamiliar to him.
Without hesitation he tore the package open. A bundle of moth-eaten looking papers spilled out and, fastened to the top, a single sheet covered in the same shaky writing as the address.
“Ah, now that is interesting.” Valentine scanned the sheet. “This is from a Seth Bonnie, who says he was my father’s orderly during his time with the regiment.” Valentine looked up at Jasper, as though suddenly struck. “I believe I do remember the name now I see it in its proper context.”
“Why is he writing to you after all this time? Your father died at Waterloo, didn’t he, Kent?”
“Yes, he did.” He continued to read. “Bonnie says he was in possession of some of my father’s papers and always meant to send them on, but he was badly wounded at Waterloo and by the time he’d recovered the papers were long forgotten. He only found them again very recently. He has been sorting through his belongings in preparation for ‘the final bugle call,’ as he calls it.” He read on. “Bonnie says that a man, a stranger, came to see him. A Prussian.” His voice grew sharp.
“Good God, Von Hautt!” Jasper cried.
“Yes. He asked Bonnie if he could see my father’s papers—that was when Bonnie remembered he had them. The Prussian examined them, but Bonnie made certain he did not leave the room. He says he didn’t trust the fellow. But Von Hautt made notes. Bonnie has been thinking it over and now he’s concerned he did the wrong thing in allowing a stranger to look at my father’s papers. So he’s sending them on to me.”
Jasper joined him by the desk. “Is there a list, Kent?”
Valentine began to flip through the bundle, pausing once or twice, and then drew out a crumbling piece of parchment. His handsome, austere face broke into a smile. “I do believe there is, Jasper.”
At that moment the luncheon gong sounded.
Startled, Valentine looked up, and found himself strangely torn between the newly discovered list and the memory of Marissa’s dark eyes.
“Kent?” Jasper was frowning. “The list, man!”
“I have guests,” Valentine said, and set the paper down carefully on his desk.
“Guests? What guests? Who cares about guests when we are in pursuit of the rose?”
Valentine shrugged uncomfortably, knowing Jasper would not understand his sudden loss of the single-mindedness that had always accompanied his quest. “They are George’s guests, actually.”
“Then let George deal with them! You might be holding the key to the Crusader’s Rose in your hands and you’re worrying about some uninvited guests?”
But Valentine felt anticipation stirring within his heart, anticipation that had nothing to do with roses or plants of any kind. It was so long since he’d felt like this he didn’t know how to explain it to himself, let alone Jasper, so he didn’t try.
“I owe them a duty as their host. We will eat luncheon, Jasper, and then we will be free to take up the quest.”
Jasper shook his head in frustration, but nevertheless he reluctantly followed Valentine to the door. Once outside Valentine turned the key in the lock and tucked it into his pocket. “Von Hautt doesn’t know the English countryside like we do,” he soothed his friend. “It will take him longer to find out where de Fevre’s companions lived all those centuries ago.”
“But he has a head start.”
“Nevertheless, we will triumph, Jasper. Suddenly I am sure of it.” And he gave an uncharacteristically reckless laugh. He would be thirty-four next birthday but right now he felt like a youth, the blood pumping through his veins, his body powerful and strong, his mind clear.
Was that because he finally had a strong clue to the whereabouts of the second Crusader’s Rose? Or was it because he was about to take luncheon with the beautiful Marissa Rotherhild?
Chapter 3
Marissa nibbled delicately on a piece of chilled salmon and looked across the luncheon table at Lady Bethany. Her grandmamma rolled her eyes. Neither of them spoke. A hush had fallen over the four persons gathered and no one seemed willing to break it. Lord Kent, still looking as if he was dressed to dig ditches, had introduced them to his friend, Lord Jasper.
If it was possible to have an exact opposite, then Lord Jasper was his. Nearly twenty years older than Lord Kent, neatly clothed, every stitch in place, and with a precise way of speaking, Jasper inquired politely as to their journey. But it was obvious his heart wasn’t in it.
Then Lord Kent inquired as to whether they were happy with their rooms. Twice. And neither time did he seem to listen to their answers.
It was all very strange.
“You haven’t heard any distressing news, my lord?” Marissa asked tentatively.
Lord Kent and his friend turned to her with such sharp, intent expressions that she was startled into dropping her fork.
“What do you mean?” Lord Kent demanded.
“I mean…I thought you might have heard from George,” she said, unsettled and attempting to compose herself. “If that is the case I wish you would tell us to go, my lord. We would not dream of intruding upon you if—”
“Oh.” Lord Kent turned to Lord Jasper and exchanged a look that Marissa found extremely suspicious. There was something!
“Kent, do put my granddaughter’s mind at rest,” Lady Bethany said, setting down her own knife and fork. “She has a somewhat vivid imagination.”
“Grandmamma, you know that is not true. If anything I have a very limited imagination.”
But Lord Kent had already taken the words to heart and set out to ease her fears. “No, Miss Rotherhild, I haven’t heard from George. I can’t imagine where he’s got to.”
Marissa glanced from him to Jasper, and found she didn’t believe it. They were lying to her. The question was, why?
“Does your brother often go off without telling anyone?” Lady Bethany asked mildly, but her gaze was watchful.
“He is a grown man and considers himself past what he calls ‘fussing.’ He was named for my great-uncle, who was an amateur explorer, and George likes to think himself of a similar fearless character, although as far as I can make out, most of his exploring is done in Covent Garden.”
Jasper gave a snort, hastily turning it into a cough.
Marissa was not such an innocent that she didn’t know what Covent Garden was famous for, besides opera and ballet—the strumpets who stood about looking for gentlemen to buy them for an hour or a night. She felt defensive on George’s behalf; she wanted to tell Lord Kent that George would never do such a thing. But even as the urge rose in her, doubt joined it. George was a flirt, the sort of man who always noticed a pretty face and a neat ankle, and it was quite possible—in fact more than likely—that
George did spend time in Covent Garden. She would sound naïve if she declared him innocent of the charge, but there was one point she could argue on his behalf.
“Indeed?” she said at last, with a distinct chill in her voice, fixing Lord Kent with her dark gaze. “I think you are wrong. George would make a very good explorer.”
He gave her a limpid look from his blue eyes. “Do you, Miss Rotherhild?”
“Yes, I do.”
“I find this an interesting study, Kent,” Jasper said in his precise way. “Does this mean any man, or woman,” with a nod to Marissa and her grandmother, “named for another will take on some aspect of their namesake’s personality? For instance, my first name is Charles and I was named by my mother for a crusty uncle with a great deal of money. Does that mean I will become as irascible as my uncle Charles?”
Kent gave a deep chuckle. “Definitely, Jasper.”
“You need to fight against it,” Lady Bethany said, amused. “Be contrary. Ask yourself what your namesake would do and then do the opposite. I was named for a rather prim great-grandmother who never did anything without earnestly seeking the advice of her chaplain. I like to think I am her complete opposite, but it has taken a great deal of hard work.”
“Grandmamma,” Marissa said with a sigh, but wasn’t surprised when she was ignored.
“Then I think I am safe where my uncle Charles is concerned,” Jasper replied, his eyes sparkling. “Unless I suddenly develop a liking for small, smelly dogs and black stout.”
They smiled at each other with growing interest, and Marissa knew her grandmamma was about to make another conquest. How did she do it? Marissa had often wondered how her grandmother managed to ensnare gentlemen—what was her secret?—but until George and the Husband Hunters Club came along she hadn’t considered asking for advice. Perhaps now she would…if George ever came home.
Looking up she noticed that Lord Kent was observing the older couple with the same bemusement as herself. In an effort to distract him, and herself, she said, “Tell me, my lord, who were you named for?”
His expression changed abruptly, his eyes narrowing and his mouth tightening. He was actually frowning at her, Marissa thought in surprise, not sure whether to frown back or give a nervous giggle. Obviously she had touched a raw spot.
It was Jasper who came to Marissa’s rescue. “Forgive my rude friend, Miss Rotherhild. His forename is a matter of great embarrassment to him.”
“Jasper,” Kent growled a warning.
Marissa thought it served him right if he was embarrassed. He shouldn’t have said those things about George. “Come, my lord, I’m sure your secret can’t be so awful…can it?”
Jasper gave a helpless lift of the shoulders. “Tell them, Kent. I don’t know why you make such a fuss. It only draws attention to it.”
Lord Kent took a gulp of his wine and set the glass down heavily on the table. “At the time I was born my mother was going through a romantic phase,” he said, sounding extremely reluctant.
“Oh dear, you’re not called Cupid, are you?” Marissa pulled a mock sympathetic face, enjoying herself immensely. “Or Pan, perhaps? Although he was half goat, wasn’t he, and I’m sure you’re not—”
“No, Miss Rotherhild, I’m not.”
Marissa bit her lip and waited.
He took a breath. “I am named for a saint. My birthday falls on the fourteenth of February.”
Lady Bethany clapped her hands together in glee. “St. Valentine’s Day! Valentine Kent. It is, isn’t it?”
Marissa could not think of a more inappropriate name for George’s brother. Valentine? The saint of lovers, of kisses and flowers and happy endings. It was quite ludicrous. He should be called something prosaic like Jack or Henry or—
His deep voice interrupted her thoughts. “As a boy I longed for a simple manly name like Jack or Henry. You can imagine the bullying I endured at school.” He spoke matter-of-factly, but Marissa was sure she heard an undercurrent in his voice that spoke of painful memories. Did George’s brother have a sensitive side? And was his unhappy childhood the reason he’d channeled his intellect into the study of roses? Perhaps it had been wrong of her to force him into revealing his name like that, although she couldn’t regret it after what he’d said about George.
Jasper launched into conversation, regaling Lady Bethany with the tale of a man named Admonition. But Marissa was only half listening. She was watching Valentine Kent.
He was smoothing his cuffs, although they were so creased she didn’t know why he bothered. Didn’t he have a valet? Her gaze lifted to the tilt of his head and the dark sweep of his lashes, so long they were almost feminine, if one discounted the masculine cheek they brushed against. His nose was similar to George’s, but not nearly as straight. There was a bump in it, as if he’d broken it at some time. Fighting the bullies who teased him about his name? By the breadth of his shoulders she thought he was probably handy with his fists.
Marissa’s gaze traveled down the length of his strong arms, coming to rest on his hands. They were large, like the rest of him, but with long fingers rather than the blunt and broad digits one might have expected. One might even call them artistic—surely that was the sign of a sensitive soul? The idea disturbed her. She felt unsettled, confused, and—more disturbingly—aroused.
What would it feel like to have those fingers on her?
As the shocking thought took hold, he looked up at her. Hastily she glanced away, but not before being startled once more by the amazing color of his eyes. Indeed, looking into them had made her feel quite giddy.
This was George’s brother, she reminded herself. He was nothing more to her than that. George was the one she was interested in. George was the one she intended to marry.
“Who were you named for, Miss Rotherhild?” Valentine’s voice was soft, for her alone, and the husky quality of it sent an involuntary shiver down her spine.
Marissa took her courage in both hands and forced herself to look up. He was closer than she’d expected, leaning toward her. There was a hint of a smile on his mouth, and suddenly she found it difficult to draw air into her lungs.
“I’ve told you my secret; it is only fair you tell me yours,” he added, dropping his voice even further. That shiver rippled across her skin.
The effect he was having on her was beyond anything she’d ever experienced. George made her laugh, but when she was with him she never felt like this. Intellectually, she didn’t know quite what to make of it.
“I have no secrets,” she said sharply.
He is George’s brother, she told herself firmly, and unimportant except for the connection he has to George. But that wasn’t true any longer. Something had changed. Suddenly she was conscious of him as a man in his own right, and a most attractive one.
“No secrets at all?” he said, with that half smile that seemed to tease and admire her at the same time. “I find that difficult to believe, Miss Rotherhild. All women have secrets.”
“Then I am a sad disappointment to my sex, my lord.”
His astonishing eyes narrowed as his gaze slid over her. “You are far from a disappointment to me, Miss Rotherhild.”
Was he flirting with her? Marissa thought. And why didn’t she put a stop to it immediately? Why was her heart beginning to beat faster with excitement, like a bolting horse, running?
“You are only making me more curious, Miss Rotherhild,” he purred. “I will find out.”
Yes, she thought, I believe you will.
“Were you named after a rare botanical specimen?”
“Thank goodness, no.”
“Ah, you don’t have your father’s interest in botany then?” He quirked an eyebrow at her.
“Definitely not. George and I are at one on the subject of botany, Lord Kent.”
“I see.” Did he appear a little disappointed? But before she could decide he was speaking again. “Then who are you named for, Miss Rotherhild? Please, keep me in suspense no longer.”
“I am named for no one but myself,” Marissa said, feeling her cheeks growing pink. “My parents don’t believe in reusing family names. We are all different and unique and we should be given a name to celebrate that fact.” She lifted her chin. “Marissa. My name is Marissa.”
A spark lit his eyes. “Marissa. It suits you.”
“I expect you think of people as roses,” she said quickly, to stop him from embarrassing her further. “George told me that…” She bit her lip, suddenly conscious that once again what George had said was probably not something he’d expected her to repeat to his brother.
Valentine smiled his fascinating smile. “Go on, Marissa,” he invited her. “I am always interested to hear what George says about me when I’m not there.”
“I assure you it was nothing you could take offence to,” she said, her color higher than ever. “George said he believed you thought of him as a climbing rose that needed constant pruning in case it escaped the trellis.”
He considered her words. “I rather think George is right.”
And as she found herself once more caught in the brilliance of his eyes, Marissa could not help but wonder what sort of rose he saw in her. Something irritating and thorny, or one of the more dull, domestic varieties? A pity she didn’t quite dare to ask because suddenly she desperately wanted to know.
After luncheon the two men removed themselves to discuss “business.” Remembering the nuances of their conversation, the strangeness of their manner, Marissa could not help but think there was something wrong despite their assurances that there wasn’t. Her fears regarding George raised their head again, and the more she considered, the more convinced she was that she was right. Why else would George abandon her like this after inviting her for the weekend? Could Lord Kent—she must remember to think of him as Valentine—have been instrumental in whisking George away? But why would he do that? Was he playing the overly protective brother, as George seemed to suggest, shielding him from a woman he didn’t consider good enough for him? But that didn’t fit. Marissa had been positive that when Valentine came face-to-face with his guests in the parlor he was utterly taken aback by their unexpected arrival.