Valentine's Vow (Avenging Lords Book 3)

by Adele Clee

  “Good God!” He blinked rapidly. “You’ve applied to attend one of those institutes for scientific studies. Let me tell you there are some feminine assets a lady cannot hide.”

  “Certainly not. I refuse to study in an establishment where they believe women have an inferior mind.”

  Jonathan frowned. “Is it that your friendship with Miss Faversham goes beyond the conventional? The lady’s admiration of you is highly inappropriate.”

  “Good heavens, no!” Miss Faversham loved anyone who showed her the remotest kindness. Ava inhaled deeply. “It concerns the duel. When Lord Sterling arrived this morning, I told him the matter had already been resolved. I told him there was no need to speak to Lord Valentine’s second and that he was to go home to bed. He didn’t believe me, of course, and insisted on trying to rouse you.”

  Jonathan stared in stupefied silence.

  It took a little time for him to process the information.

  “You did what?” He cursed again beneath his breath. “Why the hell did you say that?” Jonathan flung back the coverlet and sprang to his feet but misjudged the distance and tumbled to the floor.

  Ava rushed to assist him. She grabbed his elbow. “Because I took your place this morning. I attended the duel with Lord Valentine. Honour is restored. Satisfaction achieved.”

  Jonathan’s eyes turned a dark gunmetal-grey. His hard gaze focused on her face. “What the blazes? Tell me I misheard you.” Anger infused his tone. “Tell me that a woman of your intelligence wouldn’t be so stupid.”

  “I—I cannot.” Ava stood and looked down at the pathetic creature who was supposed to care for her in their parents’ absence. “I fought the duel with Lord Valentine, and the matter is resolved.”

  “Like hell it is.” Jonathan scrambled to his feet. “Did the devil fire at you?”

  “Of course not. He is a gentleman in every regard.”

  Except in the bedchamber. Had he not alluded to his prowess, hinted he was a man of great passion? An odd pulse in her core sent an image of the handsome lord crashing into her mind. Oh, now was not the time for moments of fancy.

  “A gentleman? Unlike me, I suppose.” Jonathan threw open the armoire and almost pulled the door off its hinges. “I’m just the fool betrayed by his own family.”

  “I was trying to help.”

  “What? By giving the ton a reason to mock me? By ruining any chance I have with Lady Durrant?”

  Doubt crept into her mind. Perhaps she was overprotective. Perhaps she had no right to interfere. But it was too late now.

  “Where are you going?” she said as she watched him drag on a pair of breeches as if the garment had wronged him in some way. “The matter is settled. Lord Valentine would suffer embarrassment, too, should anyone discover the truth.”

  Just as he was about to draw his nightshirt over his head, Jonathan stopped. “Yes,” he said. A wicked grin stretched across the width of his face. “Duelling with a woman is more shameful than failing to wake up on time. I shall use the information to my advantage.”

  Ava groaned inwardly. Why could he not put the matter to bed? What was this powerful hold Lady Durrant had over him? Ava did not have the heart to tell him, but Jonathan was no match for a man like Lucius Valentine. And yet a part of her wished her brother every success in pursuing the widow.

  “Lady Durrant must be an exceptional woman,” she said, surprised at the faint hint of jealousy in her tone. “She seems to be the focus of everything you do.” Was she not the one encouraging his gambling?

  “When a man is in love what hope is there?”

  “Forgive me if I sound cynical, but she hardly has your interests at heart else she would have stopped you challenging the best shot in England to a duel.”

  Jonathan poured water from the jug into the porcelain bowl on the stand. He washed his face and dried it on the towel before saying, “Love makes us reckless. Not that you would know. With you, a man is doomed before he’s had a chance to prove himself worthy.”

  Ava watched the ungrateful wretch shrug into his shirt. Disappointment hung heavy in her chest. She had helped Jonathan more times than she could count, suspected he was the one guilty of pilfering items from her home. And he had the audacity to criticise.

  “Do you not think I might like to be reckless?” She was tired of playing mother to a spoilt brat, tired of being the sensible one who had to correct his mistakes. “Perhaps I might like to ignore my troubles and wallow in a pleasure pit.”

  “You?” Jonathan turned up his nose and stared into the looking glass to tie his cravat. “You’ve not smiled since the accident. Our parents are dead. When are you going to stop mourning and start living? When are you going to stop interfering in my life and concentrate on your own?”

  A hard lump formed in Ava’s throat. Water welled in her eyes and she blinked it away.

  Eighteen months ago, her perfect life had shattered into pieces. Try as she might, she could not patch the broken fragments together, not when there were missing pieces, not without cutting her finger and drawing blood.

  “I ought to change out of these silly clothes,” she said, though her voice sounded distant to her own ears. She backed away from him, shuffled towards the door. She thought to ask where he was going at this early hour. Instead, she said, “Will you be home for dinner this evening?”

  “Dinner? Lord, no. I am attending the Rockford ball. Don’t wait up. I might spend the night elsewhere.” Elsewhere with Lady Durrant, gambling? Or in the house he had been forced to lease to his friend Lord Sterling due to mounting debts? “Have Twitchett send my evening clothes over to Newman Street.” After tugging on his boots, he retrieved his black coat, breeches, shoes and stockings from the armoire and laid them on the bed.

  She could have argued, made the point that Twitchett had enough to deal with in his role as butler, footman and gardener, but she was tired of being the constant voice of reason.

  “Then I shall bid you a good evening.” With a heavy heart, Ava left the room.

  Heaven knows what Jonathan would do in the interim, but she felt it necessary to write to Lord Valentine and warn him that her brother was not a man who counted his blessings but one who sought to manipulate others in the hope of gathering more.

  An hour passed.

  The house fell silent, so silent it proved deafening.

  Having paid a boy to deliver the letter to Lord Valentine in Hanover Square, she stood at the drawing room window and stared out across the street. Were it not for Honora’s weekly meetings and Jonathan’s endless problems life held little meaning.

  One accident had destroyed Ava’s hopes and dreams, her plans for the future. While her father had mined for crystals and gems, her mother crafted unique, breathtaking jewellery. Ava loved the bohemian lifestyle, the freedom, the independence, the stunning scenery along the Aegean coast.

  Now, she was suffocating in the smog-filled city.

  In London, a woman of means did not work. She did not mine alone in dark caves or discuss the healing benefits of crystals. A woman did not barter and trade with importers or charter ships to foreign lands.

  Thoughts of her parents filled Ava’s head—people so loving, so happy, so carefree. The memories were so powerful that tears choked her throat. When grief wrapped its hands around her heart and squeezed there was but one thing to do.

  She hurried up to her bedchamber.

  As soon as she opened the door to her room, she knew something was wrong. The clawing scent of Jonathan’s spicy cologne irritated her nostrils.

  No! He wouldn’t have. He couldn’t have known of her hiding place.

  Ava raced around the bed, stared at the pretty red and gold Turkish rug. The tasselled border no longer ran parallel with the edges of the boards. She dropped to her knees, moved the carpet and lifted the wooden plank.

  Relief flooded through her when she saw the two jewel-encrusted boxes. She opened the first, gazed upon the rainbow of stones, their unusual shapes, vibrant colo
urs. They were worthless—chipped, faulty, too small to be of any use—yet her father mined them with his own hands, and that made them priceless.

  When she opened the second box, the sudden pang in her chest told her something was amiss. The box contained her mother’s jewellery—sapphire earrings, an unusual ruby pendant. Ava searched the box looking for the rare pink diamond her mother had crafted into a ring for her twenty-first birthday—the last gift, the last token of her love.

  It wasn’t there.

  Ava’s heart thumped so hard she thought it might burst from her chest. Tears trickled down her cheeks, and she struggled to catch her breath. Three times she emptied the box onto the bed and checked the contents. But in her heart, she knew Jonathan had stolen into her room, knew he was the light-fingered culprit.

  Ava packed away the jewellery and rang for Twitchett. She should find a different place to hide her treasures.

  The butler arrived moments later. He drew in a sharp breath when he noted the obvious evidence of her distress.

  “My brother is no longer permitted in this house. He is not to set a foot over the threshold.” Every word carved out a piece of her heart. Never had she felt so betrayed. Never had she felt so lost, so alone. But while she would not abandon him completely, neither would she permit him to take liberties with her precious possessions. “I want his clothes packed and sent to his house on Newman Street.”

  Family is everything.

  Guilt twisted the blade a little deeper as she recalled her mother’s words.

  “Packed, madam?” Twitchett paused. “Are you certain you want me to deal with the matter today?”

  No doubt he thought the decision rash, the result of a heated argument, the need to prove she had the upper hand.

  “I’m certain. And have my mother’s trunk brought down from the attic.”

  Twitchett frowned. “You wish me to send it to Newman Street?”

  “Of course not.” She did not mean to be so sharp, but her steely resolve had returned. “I need to find a suitable gown. Tonight, I am going to the Rockford ball.”

  Tonight, she would hold her weasel of a brother to account. Tonight, she would drag the truth from his lips even if she had to shame him in front of that vixen, Lady Durrant.

  Chapter Four

  “Have you come to offer your mother assistance or to stare at the house across the street? Lucius? Is there something wrong with your hearing?”

  “Forgive me.” Valentine tore his gaze away from the window, from the house he presumed belonged to Miss Kendall. Something strange was afoot. “I am curious. Are your neighbours adjourning to the country for the winter?”

  The question gave him the opportunity to take another furtive glance at the odd comings and goings. He caught sight of the butler loading the last valise into the hackney cab before climbing inside the vehicle.

  The thought that Miss Kendall might be going on a trip played havoc with Valentine’s mind. The woman held him in a spell. An odd sense of excitement had flitted about in his chest upon receiving her note this morning. The alluring aroma of her perfume clung to the paper, so much so, he could not resist bringing the letter to his nose and inhaling deeply. He had not crumpled the missive into a ball or thrown it into the grate but had placed it with care inside the top drawer of his desk. Twice in the space of five minutes he’d opened the drawer to catch a whiff of Miss Kendall’s potent scent.

  Was that not a sign of sorcery at work?

  His mother raised her chin and cast a suspicious eye at the house across the street. “Ah, you speak of Miss Kendall. She has not mentioned a trip, but when one has an adventurous spirit, anything is possible.”

  Adventurous? The lady was as daring as she was dangerous.

  “You know her well?” Valentine hoped his mother would tell him something unsavoury to help shake this peculiar craving. It went beyond lust, was more a desire for interesting conversation, a need to rise to the challenge and prove he was more than a match when it came to progressive attitudes.

  “Yes. I knew her mother. Bright girl. The youngest daughter of Lord Moseley.” His mother reached into the side table drawer and removed a slip of paper. “We came out the same year.”

  A host of questions bombarded Valentine’s mind. The need to discover more about the woman who had bested him on the duelling field held him in a vice-like grip. But his mother was as sharp as a hatpin, and so he had to be subtle.

  “Will you attend the Rockford ball this evening?” Valentine said, quick to change the subject. At fifty, Honora Valentine still held her good looks. With golden hair, a trim figure and a mischievous glint in her sapphire-blue eyes, there were many gentlemen eager to fill his father’s long-abandoned shoes.

  “A ball? I cannot think of that now, not when there is treachery afoot.”

  “Treachery?” That got Valentine’s undivided attention. His mother was not prone to exaggeration or flights of fancy.

  “I explained everything in my note.” A deep frown lined her brow. “Is that not why you’re here?”

  “No.” Valentine paused. He could hardly say he had come merely to spy on Miss Kendall. “I had business in Brooke Street and decided to call here on my way home. Your letter must be with the unopened correspondence on my desk.”

  “Oh, then I have distressing news to depart.”

  Valentine sat forward. After twenty years spent in a volatile marriage, it took something monumental to unsettle his mother’s calm composure.

  “They are all listed here.” Honora flapped the paper she had removed from the drawer. “The names of the suspects.”

  “Suspects?” Intrigued, Valentine stood. He crossed the room and took the list before returning to his seat. He scanned it briefly. It took every ounce of willpower he possessed to stop his eyes bulging when he noted Miss Kendall’s name. “Of what are they accused?”

  If it was wielding a pistol with intent to injure a man’s pride, he knew who to blame.

  “One of the ladies listed is a thief.”

  Valentine’s gaze fell once again to the name of the lady who had stolen into his mind, who had slipped like a shadow beyond his well-constructed defences.

  His mother came to her feet and strolled over to the gilt display cabinet. The lock clicked as she turned the red-tasselled key. Carefully prising open the glass door, she reached up to the top shelf, captured the gold lidded goblet in her cupped hands and brought it over to rest on the side table.

  “Hamilton Kendall sold me this when he purchased the property opposite almost two years ago.” Gently, she raised the ornate lid to reveal a large oval ruby. The largest ruby Valentine had ever seen. “Pigeon blood.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “It’s referred to as a pigeon blood ruby. Don’t ask me why. Perhaps because it has the most vivid, most precious hue of all such stones.”

  Valentine stared at the vibrant gem. “Perhaps I am being obtuse,” he said, wondering what this had to do with treachery, “but I fail to see the problem. Has there been a theft or are you anticipating one?”

  Honora gripped the stone between her thumb and forefinger and held it up to the light. “Do you not see it lacks clarity for such a rare object? Can you not see the absence of natural flaws? This is not the blood ruby I purchased, but a paste imitation.”

  An imitation?

  Valentine held out his hand, and his mother dropped the ruby into his palm. Unless one was an expert in facets, knew how to measure and assess the refraction of light, knew how to spot inclusions, then it was almost impossible to tell a real gem from paste.

  “I trust you have taken it to an expert,” he said, running his fingertip over the smooth surface.

  “Would I stand ready to discredit a lady without first checking my facts?”

  “No, you would not.” Valentine sighed. “And you think a lady on the list had a copy made and switched it for the real ruby.” It sounded implausible. One would need to have access to the cabinet, be able to move abo
ut the house unnoticed. Of course, there was another explanation. “And you are certain Mr Kendall sold you the genuine article?”

  Honora Valentine arched an elegant brow in response. “Without a doubt. Hamilton Kendall would never risk his reputation as one of the most sought-after jewellers by selling fake gems.”

  Miss Kendall’s father was a jeweller?

  “Hamilton Kendall worked for a living? Surely Lord Moseley disapproved of such an unconventional match for his daughter.”

  Had Moseley forced his daughter to elope?

  Is that where Miss Kendall gained her romantic notions of love?

  “Some men can rise above prejudice.” Honora’s blue eyes turned a little dreamy. “Hamilton Kendall was the most charismatic man I have ever met. His lineage boasts of an earl, a hero of the Seven Years’ War, one of the greatest poets ever to grace King Charles’ court. Lord Moseley would have found it impossible to say no.”

  Having met Miss Kendall for all of an hour, Valentine recognised certain family traits. The lady carried herself with the grace of an aristocrat. It took the courage of a war hero to meet the best shot in England on the duelling field. And something about the way words left her mouth affected him more than anyone skilled in rhythmic meter.

  “While your respect for Mr Kendall is evident,” Valentine said, handing the fake gem back to his mother, “that did not stop you adding his daughter to the list of suspects.”

  Honora placed the ruby into the goblet and returned the object to the display cabinet before removing to her seat.

  “Every drop of blood in my body tells me Miss Kendall is innocent. But I believe she was here when the thief made the switch.” Disappointment marred his mother’s countenance. “I am convinced it was during one of our weekly sessions.”

  “Weekly sessions?” Was she referring to a meeting of The Association of Enlightened Ladies?

  “I have a gathering every Friday. A small group of ladies who share similar interests. We discuss politics, literature and otherworldly subjects.”