Valor's Reward

by Jean R. Ewing

  He handed her into the carriage. The horses plunged forward. The earl wove his team carefully through the dense traffic, then drove straight out of town.

  “Where are we going, Lord Deyncourt?”

  “We are going to take your mind off your troubles, Miss Whinburn. Trust me.”

  The horses stretched out into a fast trot, then a canter. The stone streets and city buildings gave way to the turnpike, then to the dirt of a country lane. Jessica stared blindly at fields and leafy hedgerows. Villages, with their thatched roofs huddled around the central eye of a duck pond or a green common, passed every few miles. The rustics looked up at their approach and touched at their caps with gapped-toothed smiles.

  At last the earl swung the carriage between a pair of imposing stone portals, each topped with a carved lion. Sun dappled the gravel drive as the horses trotted up an alley of elms, until they reached a mellow sandstone house basking in the heat. The façade boasted a series of stone arches over a matched row of windows. A cluster of fantastic chimneys rose at each end of the roof. Lord Deyncourt brought his team to a halt.

  “Wherever is this?” Jessica asked.

  “Marchmont. It dates from the time of Good Queen Bess, witness the Tudor chimneys. It’s one of my properties and a favorite—other than Castle Deyncourt, of course. But the castle is halfway across England, and this, as you have just seen, is within easy reach of town. It’s my secret retreat when I’ve had enough of gossip and intrigue.”

  “And is that often?”

  He handed her down from the phaeton. “You have had the pleasure of enjoying the giddy pursuits of the beau monde. What do you think?”

  “I thought you liked all that.”

  “Did you? Absolutely nothing justifies what I saw in your eyes in Hunting Lane.”

  “So you brought me here?”

  “I had no idea what else to do,” he said simply.

  They walked together into the cool hallway. Everything was in perfect order. Footmen appeared to take their hats and gloves. Doors opened and closed silently behind them.

  The earl led her through a series of exquisite rooms, each dappled with sunlight from the lead-paned windows. There was no clutter. Yet every room held some object of real beauty, the accumulated treasure of a family that had traveled the world and brought back whatever distilled the most loveliness from each culture.

  Jessica lingered as tranquility sank into her soul.

  Deyncourt opened another door and she followed him into a stone-flagged gallery. Tall windows filled the walls, floor to ceiling. The old glass and the greenness of the world outside filtered the light, so it was almost as if they walked under water. The last shards of her sore feelings melted away, leaving her heart as light as air.

  “I believe my ancestor was inspired by Bess Hardwick,” the earl said. “They were related. Of course, this house is nowhere near as grand.”

  “‘Hardwick Hall, more glass than wall,’” she quoted softly.

  The dream house of that great Elizabethan was famous, but Marchmont was a place of absolute peace.

  “It was revolutionary architecture for its time, a house built for beauty instead of fortification.” He opened another door. “Here’s the library. It’s nothing to the collection at Castle Deyncourt, but I like to keep enough books here to amuse me.”

  Jessica laughed. She felt filled with courage and radiance, as if nothing could ever trouble her again.

  “Then you are hard to amuse. There are enough volumes here to fill a lifetime.” She wandered down past the shelves. “And this must be a great rarity, surely?”

  Lord Deyncourt pulled down the volume she indicated. It was a medieval treatise on herbs, written in a pidgin Latin.

  “Allow me to decode,” he said gravely, and he gave her a wink.

  Within minutes, he had her in hysterics as he deliberately mistranslated the language and worked absurd meanings out of the text. She joined in the fun, as they attempted to outdo each effort with one both more ridiculous and yet close enough to the original meaning to sustain the conceit of a translation.

  “Oh, God!” Deyncourt exclaimed, throwing back his head and laughing aloud. “I yield, Miss Whinburn. Mercy! No more Latin puns, I beg you.”

  Tears of mirth ran down her cheeks. “Ab uno disce omnes.”

  “I am outclassed. For heaven’s sake, let us retreat to the safety of the gardens.”

  Still laughing together, they stepped out of a door at the back of the house. A stone patio graced with more lions gave onto steps that led down to a formal garden, laid out with miniature box hedges and statuary.

  The sun beat down. The earl shrugged out of his jacket and flung it over his shoulder. His white shirtsleeves shimmered in the light.

  “This garden has looked like this for two hundred years. It’s a relic of more graceful times. Marchmont escaped my father’s passion for things modern, so it has not been naturalized. Aunt Sophy lived here until she died, so that may account for it.”

  Jessica had never thought of his having a family. How very absurd! Everybody did. In fact he had told her at Tresham that he’d had a brother who died, and he’d mentioned this very Aunt Sophy before. But he seemed so entirely self-contained and self-sufficient. Was he, like her, the last of his line?

  “Apart from your brother, there were no other siblings?”

  “My mother bore ten children, seven before me and two after. Only my brother and myself survived infancy.”

  “How terrible for her! I’m sorry,” Jessica said.

  “Don’t be! It was the nurses who wept. You are an only child, I take it? There were no brothers or sisters to share the Whinburn inheritance?”

  “To share in the debts, in my case. No, Mama died when I was little. Thus all the obligation was mine alone.”

  He did not reply, but led her down a neat gravel path and through an arched opening.

  A cornucopia of roses lay in front of them. In a riot of color, English summer had reached its climax. The scent swept over her in a wave.

  “It’s beautiful!” she exclaimed.

  “Aunt Sophy’s pride and joy. She had all this planted. I was occasionally allowed to be her solemn advisor when I was little.”

  “But you were never a child, were you, Lord Deyncourt?”

  He gave her an astonished look. “Whatever do you mean?”

  “I rather imagined that you had sprung already adult and fully armed from the brow of Zeus.”

  The earl laughed. “Like Athene, goddess of wisdom?”

  “And also of warfare. What an odd combination of attributes! Only men could have invented such a creature. Women don’t usually think war an act of sagacity.”

  “But what other goddess can have wisdom? ‘Juno, which is queen of marriage’? Hardly! Wisdom is never shared with love, so it cannot be an attribute of Aphrodite, either. Thus Athene gains wisdom by default. Yet men sacrifice in vain at her altar to get it.”

  “You think ladies wiser than gentlemen?” Jessica asked, surprised.

  They had reached the banks of an ornamental lake. A grove of birch trees hung over the dappled water to cast a welcome shade. The earl picked up a stone and skimmed it across the lake, then he dropped onto the grass and stretched out under a tree, arms folded behind his head. He gazed up at her through slitted lids.

  “Yes, for you will not allow me to charm you, will you, Miss Whinburn?”

  She stood looking down at him. If he only guessed how fast her heart was beating, he would never have said that. The fine fabric of his shirt stretched over the curve of his arm. The lithe tilt of his body sent tremors down her spine.

  “And why should you wish to do so?” she asked.

  “Because it is my profession, of course.”

  Jessica bent and picked up a flat rock. She wasn’t sure what he meant, but it seemed dangerous to reply. She tried to send the pebble skimming after his, but the tight sleeves of her habit preventing her properly swinging her arm, and the rock plopp
ed into the water.

  “Damnation,” she said and laughed. “Even my clothes are fit for Bedlam.”

  “Then take off your jacket. I wager you cannot throw more ducks and drakes than I.”

  He sprang to his feet and began to collect pebbles.

  Jessica shrugged out of her tailored jacket. In a few moments they were laughing together like children. For this one moment out of time, why not?

  “That one was five!”

  “Yes, but I have already done seven.”

  “I ought to have a handicap.”

  “You concede that I can throw farther?” He looked at her in mock surprise.

  “Yes, but not more skillfully. Watch this!”

  She had saved her best pebble for last. With just the right flick of the wrist, she watched in glee as it skipped exactly seven times over the surface.

  He bowed. “A draw!” A light of warmth and humor shone in his eyes. “Now, we have lost all sense of propriety, and I have you just where I want you.”

  Jessica looked down at herself. Her blouse had pulled out of her waist, and without thinking she had rolled up her sleeves revealing her bare arms. No doubt her hair was slipping from its pins, as usual.

  “You look a little wanton, Miss Whinburn. There is something so very enticing about the inner curve of a lady’s elbow.”

  She flushed and tugged down her sleeves. “Are you flirting with me, Lord Deyncourt?”

  “Why not? That’s what rakes do. And Marchmont cries out for it, don’t you think? The very house enthralls the senses.”

  “Then I’m not sure that I ought to be here.”

  “Alas, you are quite safe because of your formidable great-aunt. So what harm is a little innocent flirtation? Since I know you intend never to marry, I can be sure you won’t misunderstand.”

  “No, Lord Deyncourt,” she said, swallowing hard. “I shan’t misunderstand.”

  He ran his fingertips gently over her cheek, then slipped one hand behind her back to pull her to him. His lips touched the corner of her mouth.

  “Release me from my promise, Miss Whinburn?” he said softly against her lips. “Kiss me? Come, I won’t bite.” His voice smiled in her ear. “Or at least, not yet.”

  As he bent her against his arm, she opened her mouth and kissed him, in rage, in desperation. The most exquisite feelings flamed in the pit of her stomach. If he demanded it, she would respond with a torrent of passion. The kiss deepened and flared into intensity—

  They must not!

  She wrenched away from him. He was breathless, his eyes dilated.

  “No wonder you think Aphrodite cannot have wisdom!” she said, her voice shaking.

  “Oh, dear Lord, kisses are never wise.” He seemed to have regained his cool manner, as if he could never—even for an instant—really lose control. “It was only a moment of madness, caused by the day and the roses. Perhaps I cannot always remain as remote as Gabriel, with his damned great wings of swansdown. Never fear! Other appetites may yet save us. Luncheon should be ready. Meanwhile, I beg you to forget that I so disgraced myself. I suppose if you like, you’re entitled to slap my face.”

  “Good heavens,” Jessica said. “A cuff in trade for a kiss? So warfare is an attribute of Aphrodite, after all.”

  She allowed him to escort her to the house. A maid appeared from nowhere and expertly repaired her hair. Why would he have such a person on his staff? The answer was obvious. Marchmont was where he entertained mistresses, and they came without their personal maids. Cleopatra had no doubt spent many afternoons here being charmed by Mark Anthony.

  There was nothing about this day that was any different for him except that he had not bedded her and would not. Although, if it were not for Lady Emilia that would be his answer. Then she would become just another mistress, for a while at least.

  And she had almost succumbed, heart, body and soul. Oh, dear Lord, that despicable, easy charm!

  Yet she rejoined him quietly in the dining room. The footmen served them in silence, then disappeared, while the earl distracted, then enthralled her, with stories about the history of the house.

  With an outward calm that was far from her emotions, Jessica filled her plate with fresh berries, obviously grown in Marchmont’s kitchen gardens. The food was delectable, the wine exquisite. The very house itself seemed seductive.

  It made it extremely difficult to think of spending the rest of one’s life eating turnips in an attic.

  “How many properties do you have?” Jessica asked at last.

  “Besides Deyncourt and here? Well, there’s a neat little manor at Kingston where I pursue the creation of a new line of Red Poll cattle, and a place in Norfolk that raises excellent turnips. Enough to keep me busy.”

  “But you occupy yourself with more than just estates and Red Poll cows, don’t you?” she asked. “I have been led to understand that you’ve also embroiled yourself in heroics.”

  He glanced down as he peeled a piece of fruit with a silver knife.

  “I did my bit against Napoleon, but there was a great deal more of dirt and squalor in it than anything glamorous.”

  “But you were an officer in the cavalry—my aunt told me.”

  The earl looked up. His face showed no emotion. “I was one of Wellington’s scouts, spending my days riding about after the French. When I came into my title, I turned gratefully enough to subtler ways to serve my country. Diplomacy is far more interesting.”

  “Yes, it comes naturally to you to manipulate people and their emotions,” Jessica said a little desperately, “and that is what diplomats must actually do. I have been the object of your professional attentions today, haven’t I?”

  “If you say so,” he replied with a smile. “Don’t tell me you have been entirely immune, or I shall be forced to abandon intrigue and take up the sword again.”

  “Well, your roses and your fruit have done their work. I forgive Mr. Finch his narrow-mindedness. No doubt I should have made a dreadful botch of all his staid manuscripts. I shall return humbly to my aunt, happily resigned to my lot.”

  “Then I have succeeded in my goal.” He raised her hand to his lips. “Yet I kissed you and you dismiss it. I wish it was the charm of my company that had soothed your troubled soul, rather than my fruit and flowers.”

  Yet as they returned to town, Jessica was forced to admit that in spite of her distrust of his motives, the eighth Earl of Deyncourt had succeeded only too well. He had made mincemeat of all her defenses, and she had been thoroughly charmed. Of course, she was damned if she would let him know it!

  Meanwhile, he was as good as engaged to the Incomparable Melton. And her own future, since Bromley and Finch had refused to rescue her, now offered nothing but the hanging judge.

  Nevertheless, Jessica was far from resigned to her lot.

  * * *

  Chapter 12

  Jessica entered the great portals of Mapleton House and looked around. Her aunt knew nothing of her disastrous venture to Bromley and Finch—or to the gaming party, of course—and was taking her to her first real London ball. Lady Emilia still had hopes of a match.

  The entry was a blaze of light. As her aunt ushered Jessica past the obsequious footmen, they faced a wave of heat and noise. Strains of music were almost drowned in a cacophony of laughter and chatter.

  Handing her cloak to the servant, Jessica realized that she would be glad of the lightweight silver-gauze ball gown that Aunt Emilia—or, in truth, Deyncourt—had chosen for her, as she would no doubt be glad of her dancing lessons. Her arms and shoulders were bare, and the neckline swept embarrassingly low, but Aunt Emilia had assured her that she must look just so if she was not to be dismissed as a country nobody.

  A single strand of pearls, borrowed from her great-aunt, encircled her throat, and more were woven into her hair. The heat from the dreadful crush of guests, added to that from the myriad candles, made her wonder how on earth the gentlemen in their formal jackets and high collars would survive the ev
ening without passing out.

  Lady Emilia swept her along toward an imposing group of dowagers at the side of the room. Jessica had a confused impression of enormous sweeps of greenery and fresh flowers garlanded about the marble columns. Huge crystal chandeliers shimmered in the haze of heat that hung over the room.

  After making her curtsies to a seemingly endless string of matrons in a dazzling array of jewels, she was free at last to surrender herself to the flock of young men who were securing introductions. Her dance card began to fill with their names, and she was soon whisked away. Partner followed partner, until Jessica felt she would collapse under the strain of trying to remember so many strangers.

  Thus there was some relief mixed with her apprehension when she saw Caroline and Peter, wending their way toward her through the crush.

  Caroline’s face was animated with pleasure. If only she didn’t have quite so many frills and bows on her dress, and if she wore her hair in a softer style as Lady Honoria and the maid Cicely had recommended—

  “I’m so glad to find you at last, Miss Whinburn,” Caroline said with a smile. “This is always one of the grandest balls of the Season. You shall have a dance with Lord Steal, because I declare I am fainting on my feet and must sit this one out.”

  Peter bowed low over Jessica’s hand and professed himself eager for the pleasure. As he led her onto the floor he nobly tried to avoid her eyes, but the measure of the dance brought them constantly face to face.

  “Can’t we make simple conversation?” Jessica asked at last. “I thought we were to be friends.”

  “Oh, Lord, Miss Whinburn, don’t you think I’m trying? A fellow was never in such a predicament. Do you still say you could never love me?”

  She groaned in exasperation. “Lord Steal, you are to be married in a month to one of the sweetest girls in London. How can you?”

  “Oh, I like Miss Brandon, really I do, but she’s not like you. She’s actually quite steady and strong, not in the least as delicate as a lady ought to be. She would never faint away like you did at Tresham. It was like something out of a poem when Deyncourt had to carry you into the house. I’ve been desperately in love with you ever since. It was so romantic.”