by Sara Bennett
“Marissa?”
Lady Bethany was watching her with interest. “You are miles away, my dear. Whatever are you thinking of?”
Marissa shook her head, realizing that she was in danger of being as wildly imaginative as her grandmother had accused her of earlier. “Nothing of importance, Grandmamma.” She smiled. “Valentine is a very unlikely name for Lord Kent, is it not?”
Lady Bethany smiled back wickedly. “I think it very suitable, Marissa, but then I have a great deal more experience of life than you. Now, I believe I will go and take a nap. What will you do?”
“I’m not tired so I will probably read or—or walk in the garden. Go and have your nap, Grandmamma, so you can look your best for later.”
“And why would I want to look my best?” Lady Bethany asked cagily.
“You can’t pretend to me you aren’t enjoying Lord Jasper’s company,” Marissa said.
“Nonsense,” Lady Bethany retorted, her voice sharper than usual.
Marissa was surprised at her grandmother’s reaction. Her flirtatious manner seemed to have quite deserted her and there was a serious expression in her eyes. Marissa had never seen her worldly grandmother take any of her conquests seriously.
“Very well then, you loathe Lord Jasper.”
“Now you’re being ridiculous, Marissa. I am going to lie down.”
After Lady Bethany had gone Marissa knew exactly what she was going to do. She was going in search of Valentine and Jasper, and one way or another she was going to discover exactly what they were keeping from her.
Chapter 4
There are six names on the list,” Valentine said, holding the chewed and crumbling piece of parchment gingerly, as if he thought it might disintegrate at any moment.
“The five companions who went to the Crusades with Richard de Fevre, as well as de Fevre himself,” Jasper added thoughtfully.
“Exactly.” Valentine grimaced as a flake of parchment fluttered to the desk. “I think we should write them down, Jasper, before this thing turns to dust. There’s a pen and ink over there…that’s it.”
“Number one?” Jasper asked, pen poised.
“Sir Wilfred Montfitchet.”
“And two?”
“Henry Fortescue.”
They went through the list, Jasper questioning the spelling and Valentine peering intently at the faded writing on the old document. He had no doubt this was what Von Hautt had been after when he called on Seth Bonnie and asked to see Valentine’s father’s papers. The first real clue in decades and Von Hautt had to find it first.
The rose is mine! he wanted to shout. You have no right to it!
But unfortunately, legally, that wasn’t so, although morally he was positive no one had more right to make such a claim.
“So any one of these men could be the companion who saved de Fevre’s life? The one to whom he gave the second rose?”
“It appears that way.
“How on earth did your father get hold of this?”
Valentine frowned in thought. “There are family papers. I’ve been through them myself, searching, but couldn’t find anything. I see now why. My father must have found the parchment and it was in his possession and then after his death, Bonnie held on to it.” He thought again. “He must have taken it with him for safekeeping.”
“Good lord,” Jasper said drolly. “You call Waterloo safekeeping?”
“You didn’t know my father,” Valentine replied, studying the new list Jasper had made. “Some of our family papers had already gone missing—sold off—and he didn’t trust anyone when it came to the Crusader’s Rose. My grandfather was none too fond of the whole matter, and as you know another of my ancestors destroyed the rose in the first place because there were too many strangers coming to the house, interrupting his peace and quiet. His vandalism and the rose’s loss to the world inspired my father to take up the quest.”
“And now his son is following in his footsteps,” Jasper murmured. “He would be proud of you, I think.”
Valentine remembered his father as a man in military uniform with a severe moustache, but he’d had a warm smile. His mother had died shortly after George’s birth, but she’d seemed to be always sickly, reclining on sofas and wincing when her young son came rushing into the room to tell her of his latest adventure. He remembered making her shriek once when he opened his cupped hands to show her a large and slightly battered insect he’d found in the garden.
And later there was Valentine’s wife. He’d had high hopes for a happy marriage, he’d been deeply in love, but it was not to be. Their marriage was short and miserable, and not something he planned to repeat. All in all, he decided, he hadn’t had much luck. It was about time fate handed him a good card in the game of life.
“I wish—” he began.
There was a noise outside the room. Both men froze, listening. It had sounded very much like a sneeze.
Was one of the servants eavesdropping? thought Valentine. What the devil did it mean?
Rising from his chair and striding quickly across the room, he wrenched open the door.
Marissa Rotherhild had turned to run, but it was too late. He reached for her arm, halting her so suddenly that she stumbled and swung about, falling against him. The shock of her soft body against his, the scent and feel of her, rendered him momentarily unable to move or think. Breathing hard, he stared down into her pale face as her expression turned from surprise to wariness.
“What on earth do you think you’re doing spying on me?” Valentine roared.
Her eyes grew wide. He could see every lash surrounding them and the lush melted chocolate brown of her irises.
“I wasn’t spying on you.” But her voice sounded uncertain. She licked her lips and the sight of her pink tongue sliding over the soft flesh went straight to his groin. For some reason this infuriated him even more than finding her outside the door.
“You were eavesdropping, Miss Rotherhild!” He pulled her harder against him, looming over her. “All this talk of George was just a blind, wasn’t it? I knew you were too good to be true. You’re spying for Von Hautt. Admit it, damn you!”
Her eyelashes fluttered and she sagged in his hands, almost as if she was about to faint. He didn’t need Jasper’s murmured admonishment to bring him to his senses. Shocked by his own uncharacteristic behavior, Valentine wrapped his arm about her waist, supporting her. Had it really been so long since he’d been in the company of an attractive woman that he’d lost the ability to function as a gentleman should?
“Miss Rotherhild. Marissa. Please…I beg you…”
Just for a moment she rested her head against his chest, while he cradled her in his arms, and he felt the strangest feeling. As if the world had ceased to exist beyond the two of them. And then she placed her palms against him and gave him a determined shove. He stumbled back a step, releasing her, and the spell was broken.
She was watching him warily, her hands clasped together now, her fingers white at the knuckles. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I came to this house at George’s invitation, just as I told you. I have not been spying on you, Lord Kent. I have never spied on anyone in my life.”
“I apologize,” he muttered. He hadn’t meant to grab her like that, but seeing her there, thinking she might be on the side of his enemy, had sparked an anger in him he hadn’t known he was capable of. It was the disappointment, he decided, of discovering her perfection might be so badly flawed.
“Where is George?” she said, looking into the room as though expecting him to appear from between the books on the bookshelves.
He stared at her in complete bewilderment. “George? I’ve already told you that George isn’t here.”
The color had returned to her cheeks and her eyes sparkled with emotion. Whatever weakness she’d felt in his arms a moment ago had been banished. There was courage in the tilt of her chin and the set of her shoulders. Courage and beauty in equal measure.
“I don’t believe
you. You’re lying to me. You were so secretive over luncheon, it was obvious there was something you were both keeping from me.”
“Miss Rotherhild, I promise you I am not keeping anything from you. George comes and goes as he wishes. Despite the old adage, I am not his keeper.”
“But there is something,” she said stubbornly. “I know there is something.”
Valentine shook his head. “It seems we have both been laboring under a misapprehension. Jasper and I do have a secret, but it has nothing to do with George.”
Her look was skeptical, as if she was unprepared to think anything but the worst of him.
Valentine hesitated. He knew his quest for the Crusader’s Rose was none of Marissa Rotherhild’s business, but it wasn’t as if it was a secret. The botanical community knew of his obsession—they probably had a good laugh at his expense. He remembered what Marissa had said at dinner, about her lack of interest in botany. George and I are as one on that. But surely the daughter of the famous Professor Rotherhild must have inherited something of her father’s extraordinary zest? It was childish perhaps, but he wanted to find out.
“Come,” he said, “and I will explain.”
He held out his hand to her, but she would not take it. He accepted the snub—he deserved it after all—and stepped aside to let her by. After a brief hesitation curiosity got the better of her and she walked past him, her nose in the air, the hem of her skirts brushing the toes of his shoes. He followed her to the desk, where his father’s papers lay spread about.
“Sit down, Miss Rotherhild,” he said, coming up behind her.
She cast him a suspicious glance and he had the urge to brush his thumb over the protrusion of her bottom lip. Just before he kissed her. But of course he did neither.
“I promise not to manhandle you again,” he said quietly. “Please sit down and I will confess all to you.”
She ignored the tease in his voice and took her time arranging her skirts to her satisfaction, before folding her hands in her lap and striking a waiting pose. Her perfume drifted toward him and he was once more confounded by the reaction of his body. This was George’s young lady and he should not be thinking of her in such a way, but he couldn’t seem to help it.
“Kent?” Jasper was watching him with a trace of impatience, probably wondering what on earth was going on in his friend’s head.
Valentine cleared his throat and regained control. He pointed to the parchment. “Before you, Miss Rotherhild, is a document that has been in my family for centuries. My father took it with him into the army, and when he died his batman took it into his keeping. It has only recently come to light—in fact, I received it in the post this very morning.”
Marissa looked down at the grubby parchment with some distaste.
“Read it,” he instructed her.
Dutifully she leaned forward to peer at the faded writing. Jasper promptly presented her with his own list and with a grateful smile she examined the names he’d copied in his neat hand. When she’d finished she looked up, gaze traveling to Jasper and staying there.
“Who are they?” she said, ignoring Valentine.
But Valentine wasn’t having that. “Have you heard of the Crusader’s Rose?”
Reluctantly she turned to where he still stood, tilting her head to look up at him. “No. Should I have?”
“Not necessarily. Suffice it to say that the Crusader’s Rose is one of those mysteries that has become legend in botanical circles. Think of the Holy Grail, and then transfer it to the world of the rose collector. Everyone who wants to make a name for himself wants to find the Crusader’s Rose.”
“And you are one of those people?”
Valentine smiled without humor. “The rose belongs to us. It was brought back from the Crusades by my ancestor, Richard de Fevre, but unfortunately it was destroyed in 1735. However, we know de Fevre gave a second rose to one of his companions, one of the men who traveled to the Crusades with him. De Fevre stated that this man had saved his life in the Holy Land, and the legend says that the man then grew the rose in his own garden. Presumably it grows there still.”
“Rather a large presumption, Lord Kent. The Crusades were in the twelfth century?”
“Yes, the Third Crusade, and probably the most famous one, was in the twelfth century. It was led by Richard the Lionheart.”
“And you expect a rose to live for all those years?” Her voice was disbelieving.
“Of course not. But the Crusader’s Rose was known for its self-seeding capabilities. There was always a vigorous young bush to take over when the older one began to wane. And if it survived here at Abbey Thorne Manor then why not elsewhere, too?”
“And these are the names of the other men who were de Fevre’s companions?”
“Exactly. I believe this list to be part of a collection of documents that were once held here in my library. Most of the collection was broken up and scattered, sold.”
She was silent, taking it in, and he watched her curiously. If she and George were really as one then she would stand now and excuse herself and leave them to it. The quest would hold no interest for her whatsoever.
Her dark eyes lifted to his and they were full of brilliant intelligence; Valentine had to remind himself very sternly that he had promised not to touch her.
“But…what makes this particular rose special? Why is it so sought after?”
She was interested. She wanted to understand. There was nothing more exciting to Valentine than a woman with an inquiring mind, especially when she was inquiring about his favorite subject.
“Let me explain, Miss Rotherhild. Until very recently all the roses we grew in England were summer or spring flowering—that is, they only flowered once a year. The Crusader’s Rose flowered several times throughout the spring, summer and autumn, a truly remarkable feat in Medieval times. And its color was very different from the white and pink colorings we were used to. The Crusader’s Rose was golden orange—in fact, de Fevre claimed the hue reminded him of the sun setting over Jerusalem.”
There was a glow in her eyes. “Oh,” she murmured, her lips curving up at the corners, clearly enthralled with the picture he’d painted. Then, as if suddenly realizing she was showing interest in something she’d claimed bored her, her face went blank. When she spoke again her voice was carefully devoid of enthusiasm.
“But this is supposition on your part, is it not? You never actually saw the rose yourself? Not if it was destroyed in 1735?”
“No. But there are plenty of statements to back up the story. People came from far and wide to admire the rose. That was the reason my ancestor destroyed it. He claimed he was tired of strangers trespassing in his garden, and after a party of gentlemen from France appeared outside his library window and began exclaiming over the beauty of the rose, he decided enough was enough. He ordered the rose be dug out and burned, and any seedlings similarly destroyed. No one dared disobey him—he wasn’t a very pleasant man—and when it was done everyone believed that was the end of the Crusader’s Rose.”
“Except it wasn’t.” Jasper was leaning forward as if he was hearing the story for the first time.
“When my father was a boy a manuscript turned up at an antiquarian bookseller’s in London. It was incomplete and my father was certain it had once belonged to the de Fevre collection in our library. Historians concluded the manuscript was part of a larger document which told the story of de Fevre and his companions, but the important thing is, it mentioned the fact that there were two roses. Unfortunately, although it spoke about de Fevre handing one of his companions the other rose as a thank-you for saving his life, the name of that companion was completely illegible.
“That find inspired my father to begin his search for the rose, a search I have since carried on. When my father died I made a promise that I would do everything in my power to find it.”
The spark of interest was back in Marissa’s face.
“Kent is on a mission to restore the Crusader’s Ros
e to its rightful place at Abbey Thorne Manor,” Jasper said.
Marissa blinked. “You sound like my father when he’s on the hunt for some rare specimen,” she said with a grimace. “I’m afraid botanical missions are of no interest to me.”
And yet even as she spoke she was leaning forward to inspect the list of names, a crease between her brows.
“What do you intend to do now that you have found the names? Visit each house and search their gardens?”
“That is my plan, yes,” he said stiffly.
“Then I’m sorry to lack enthusiasm for your plan, Lord Kent, but what if the house is gone, fallen down, pulled down? What if the family moved far away and took the rose with them? What if—”
He interrupted her impatiently. “My family still lives in the same place, if not quite in the same house, and if my ancestor hadn’t destroyed the rose in a fit of pique, it would still be here. You forget, these were not men who moved in the highest circles in the land. They did not play with kings and queens; they were not powerful except in their own little patch of country. There was no reason to take their land or homes from them for being on the wrong side in a political struggle. After the Crusades they stayed put and quietly farmed their land and raised their children. There is every possibility that the rose is still to be found, flowering away unnoticed, in some quiet corner of the county.”
Jasper gave a grunt of agreement and Marissa turned back to the list, as if she might find more arguments in the arrangement of the letters.
Despite feeling a degree of irritation with her, Valentine found himself examining the delicate nape of her neck, noting the way wisps of her dark hair curled against her pale skin. There was the glint of ebony combs amongst the thick tresses, and his fingers twitched as he imagined removing those combs and allowing the heavy mass to fall into his hands. Burying his face in her hair, in her scent.