Valentine's Vow (Avenging Lords Book 3)

by Adele Clee

  “A gentleman cannot sell his worldly goods privately,” Jonathan retorted. He cupped her elbow and drew her farther away from the gravel path. “What would people think?”

  “That did not stop you selling Mother’s ring to Lady Durrant.”

  “Portia understands me. She understands my dilemma.”

  “Of course she does.”

  No doubt Jonathan’s troubles provided endless hours of entertainment.

  “I trust her.”

  Good Lord, he was a hopeless cause.

  “She is in love with Lord Valentine,” Ava said, and who could blame her? “Anyone can see that.”

  Jonathan shrugged. “And when she realises he has no intention of offering for her, she will turn her attention to me.”

  Talk of Lord Valentine sent Ava’s stomach pitching and rolling.

  “You cannot be certain of anything,” Ava said. “Lord Valentine is a private man who guards his emotions.” He behaved with dignity and decorum—except when teasing her about his after-dark activities. “There is no telling what he may be thinking.”

  “Valentine is bored in her company. Despite every attempt, Portia cannot make him jealous.”

  Ava frowned. So Jonathan was willing to enter into a relationship with a woman who loved another? Did he not have an ounce of self-respect?

  “And yet Lord Valentine escorted her back to the ballroom.” Indeed, while Ava was worried about Jonathan owing money to the worst kind of scoundrels—and her heart and head were abound with hopeless notions of romance—Lord Valentine was dancing. “No doubt they are waltzing about the floor without a care in the world.”

  “He left with Portia because you told him to go,” Jonathan reminded her. “When she realises Valentine doesn’t want her, I shall be waiting in the wings.”

  But Lord Valentine had to marry someone. A man of his integrity did not break a vow. Images of him courting a host of beauties played havoc with her mind. Oh, the least time spent thinking about Valentine the better.

  “Then if you did not sell our father’s jewellery privately,” she snapped, returning to the reason they stood shivering in the garden, “whom did you sell it to?”

  A sigh left her brother’s lips. It should have been the sound of shame, but it sang of frustration. “To various pawnbrokers.”

  “Pawnbrokers!” Hell’s bells, she had no hope of recovering the items now. “Which ones?”

  “I was in my cups and cannot remember.”

  “You cannot remember?” In an effort to remain calm, she imagined the moment Jonathan kicked open the door of Mr Fairfax’s room, punched the deceitful rogue in the stomach and gathered Ava into his arms. “Then I shall have to search each one.”

  A heavy silence loomed.

  In the distance, the orchestra played a Baroque tune, Vivaldi perhaps. Laughter drifted out into the garden. Gaiety permeated the air.

  “Take me home,” Ava said. An air of melancholy had settled in her chest. While she would traipse from one pawnbroker to the next searching for her family’s treasured possessions, she had no hope of persuading Lady Durrant to return her mother’s ring. “I trust you are staying with Lord Sterling for the time being.”

  “You gave me little choice in the matter.”

  “It is not my fault, Jonathan. You have given me every reason not to trust you.” Ava suddenly recalled the reason for visiting the Rockford ball. “You took the pink diamond ring from my box. No doubt you were too intoxicated to remember that, too. No doubt it graces another lady’s finger. A lucky find in some tatty old pawnbroker’s shop.”

  Jonathan’s jaw slackened as his brows drew downward. “Ava, I swear I have not touched your things. I know what that ring means to you. It is probably caught up in a string of pearls.”

  Oh, he was full of lies, brimming with excuses.

  But she wouldn’t rest until the ring was back in her possession.

  “So you did not enter my room this morning?”

  He hesitated. “I may have. I thought to reclaim my pistols.”

  “I suppose you know nothing about Mother’s vanity box or Rosewood writing slope. Both have miraculously vanished, too.”

  “Vanished?” All colour drained from Jonathan’s face. “Are you sure you have not misplaced them?” The anxious look marring his features sent her nerves scattering. “Perhaps Mrs Stagg moved them.”

  “Are you saying you did not take them to pay your debts?”

  “Of course not. My debts are my own affair.” He bowed his head, tapped his lips for a moment while deep in thought. “Have your neighbours reported any suspicious activity? What of your friend Lady Valentine? She does live opposite.”

  This inquisitive line of questioning suggested Jonathan was innocent of the thefts from her house. But good liars knew how to avoid suspicion. Ava was wasting time trying to get any sense from her brother. As always, she would deal with the matter herself, carry out her own investigation.

  “Well?” he pressed. “Has Lady Valentine mentioned anything untoward?”

  “No. Honora would have told me had she seen unsavoury characters loitering about the place.” Perhaps the Maguires had stolen into Ava’s house merely to frighten her brother. Perhaps she had been a little hasty in packing Jonathan’s belongings.

  Jonathan glanced back over his shoulder as if expecting to find a hideous figure lurking in the shrubbery. “Then I shall escort you home. And I insist on remaining with you in Park Street this evening.”

  Ava snorted inwardly. So that was his game.

  “You may escort me home. You may even check the house if you must. But I would rather be alone tonight.”

  That was a lie. Who wanted to lie in a cold bed with nothing to do but replay the night’s events?

  Jonathan nodded. He escorted her along the gravel path, back to the house. Ava was so absorbed in plotting where she might begin her search for her father’s treasured possessions, she failed to notice Lord Valentine standing on the terrace until she reached the top step.

  Ava’s heart pounded as their eyes met. Lord Valentine stood alone, his back pressed against the wall as he smoked a cheroot. From his elevated position, he had a perfect view of the garden.

  Had he been watching her?

  Had the gallant gentleman been waiting for an opportunity to come to her aid?

  Lord Valentine blew a stream of smoke into the cold night air. There was something masterful about him, something wickedly dangerous lingering just beneath his smooth countenance.

  “Good night, Miss Kendall,” he said as she moved to walk past.

  “Good night, my lord,” Ava replied, though she knew her night would be a restless one. One fraught with fantasies. One fraught with dreams of a dashing lord being anything but chivalrous.

  Chapter Seven

  For two days, Valentine stalked Miss Kendall along the streets of London while she visited every pawnbroker between Mayfair and Covent Garden. There had been no time to slip inside shops and enquire as to the nature of her visit.

  What misfortune had driven her to seek temporary relief?

  Was she desperate to raise funds to cover her brother’s mounting debts? From what Valentine had heard, there were more than a few.

  Regardless of the reason, the task caused the lady distress. She wore her sadness like an oversized coat. It swallowed her vivacious charm. The weight drowned the elegance of her bearing, leaving her shoulders slumped, her clumsy gait lacking the grace that conveyed confidence and good breeding.

  Twice, she stepped out into the road as if oblivious to the oncoming traffic.

  Twice, Valentine had come crashing to a halt, only to clasp his hand to his heart in relief to find her unhurt.

  Just when he decided to stop hiding in the shadows and offer assistance, he noticed he was not the only gentleman interested in monitoring the lady’s movements. Dressed in a fine demi-surtout with a fitted waist, and gripping a silver-topped walking cane as if ready to bat away beggars, the fellow was no
t a pickpocket from the rookeries. Still, he was eager to hide his identity for he had raised the collar of his coat to obscure the line of his jaw, and had pulled the brim of his top hat down over his brow.

  Miss Kendall stopped abruptly in the middle of the footpath. She withdrew a note from her reticule and read it before glancing up at the Grafton Street sign as if she had lost her way. Her pursuer stopped, too, feigned interest in a ream of fabric in the draper’s window though he continually looked over his shoulder, waiting for Miss Kendall to move.

  Valentine considered grabbing the man by his fancy lapels and throttling him until he explained precisely what business he had with the lady. Instead, he merely studied the scene, knowing he would learn more from his observations than he would from a lying scoundrel’s mouth.

  Thrusting the paper back into her reticule, Miss Kendall continued her journey along Grafton Street—and the gentleman continued his pursuit. Soon, the lady would arrive at the Seven Dials, and then all manner of criminals would mark her as prey.

  Panic flared.

  Daylight was failing. Fog descended. Both brought unease. Shopkeepers lit their window lamps, the soft yellow lights like a scattering of stars in a cloudy sky. The grey mist crept through the street, rising, thickening, swallowing everything in its wake. All movements proved dangerous. Soon it would be impossible to tell where the pavement ended and the road began.

  Fear gripped him.

  The gentleman had crossed the busy street, perhaps to avoid detection, perhaps because he thought to corner the lady once she reached the crossroads. Valentine was so desperate to keep his gaze trained on the suspicious scoundrel, he lost sight of Miss Kendall. He squinted, searching for the burgundy silk that decorated the lady’s bonnet.

  He entered the bookshop, scanned the numerous patrons struggling to peruse the books beneath the dim candlelight, ignored the offer of assistance. There was little point entering the tobacconist. He raced to the next shop, peered through the dirty glass panes in the bow window and spotted the lady standing before the wooden counter.

  Valentine had no choice but to enter.

  The overhead bell tinkled as he pushed at the swollen door. The shop was dark and dingy, made more welcoming by the array of silver items sparkling in a display case behind the counter. The place smelt musty, damp, of old leather, polish and the clawing scent of desperation.

  The pawnbroker raised his chin by way of a greeting, but Miss Kendall did not turn around.

  “As I’ve explained, miss, I’ve nothing of that description. Can’t say there’s much call for seal rings,” the lean man with crooked spectacles said, practically ignoring the lady to focus his attention on Valentine. “Good day to you, miss. I’ve other people to serve.”

  “But you have not even looked at the design.” Miss Kendall pushed a piece of paper across the battered counter and stabbed her finger at a pencil sketch. “The ring is unique. Hexagonal in shape. The inscription around the head is in Greek.”

  “Greek, you say? Then the answer is no.” He shook his head. “The fancies prefer Latin.”

  “Will you not at least do me the respect of examining your books?”

  With his grubby hand—the middle finger sporting an expensive gold sovereign ring—the man grabbed the cover of the old tome situated on the counter and slammed it shut. Dust particles flew from the board. The broker coughed. “There’s nothing I can do without the receipts. Come back with the papers.”

  Miss Kendall huffed. “I have already told you. I don’t have the papers.”

  “And I can’t return an item without them.”

  Miss Kendall sighed. “Trust me. I doubt my brother even remembers where they are.”

  “Then it will be nigh on impossible for him to claim an item without proof of ownership.”

  In a sudden and uncharacteristic fit of temper, Miss Kendall thumped her fist on the counter. “Why won’t you help me?”

  Feeling her obvious distress, Valentine cleared his throat and stepped forward. “Perhaps I may be of some assistance, Miss Kendall.”

  She swung around at the sound of his voice. Her watery eyes widened with shock. “Lord Valentine! What are you doing here? You seem to make a habit of creeping up on me when I least expect it.”

  “Fate often delivers the unexpected,” he replied, reciting his friend Dariell’s words. Valentine cast the broker a hard stare. “And it seems I have arrived just in time.”

  Miss Kendall inhaled deeply. “Even a gentleman with your grace and charm will have no luck persuading this man of my cause. Apparently, there is nothing he can do without the original chitty.”

  The urge to offer her physical comfort took hold, but all he could do was place a gentle hand on her back. Even the smallest contact sent heat shooting up his arm. Miss Kendall shuddered beneath his touch.

  “Allow me to try.” Valentine’s hand slipped from her back before his whole body went up in a blazing inferno. He turned to the fellow who looked like he’d not felt a splash of water on his face for weeks. “The journey across town can be treacherous for a lady alone.” Valentine removed his calling card from the inside pocket of his coat and placed it on top of the tome. “Do me the respect of checking your ledger. I would not wish her to have another wasted journey.”

  Valentine raised an arrogant brow and glared at the pawnbroker while he waited for a reply.

  The man peered at the card over the rim of his lopsided spectacles. “Give me a moment, milord.”

  Miss Kendall’s eyes widened. “So, just like that, you decide to be helpful. What part of his lordship’s argument did you find most persuasive? The fact he is a gentleman or the fact he is a member of the aristocracy?”

  This time, Valentine placed his hand on her arm. “I suggest we give the fellow a chance to observe the entries before he changes his mind.”

  Miss Kendall looked at his hand, then at the broker who had opened his tome. She nodded, turned away and walked over to the window. Wrapping her arms tightly across her chest, she stared out at the fog-drenched street. With her slender fingers encased in blue kid-gloves, she rubbed her upper arms in comforting strokes while she waited.

  The cold chill of loneliness filled the room.

  It breezed over the random curiosities strewn about the floor—portraits of people long since departed, a viola with a broken string, a leather valise embossed with someone’s faded initials.

  The fresh crispness in the air came to settle around Valentine’s shoulders, a reminder that a part of him was numb inside, was just as cold and lonely. Disappointment cut deep when delivered by the hands of a loved one.

  Needing to draw comfort, too, Valentine imagined coming up behind her, pulling her close to his chest, letting his mouth come to rest on the perfect skin at her throat. She would turn to him, twine her arms around his neck, kiss him so deeply the ice around his heart would melt and trickle away.

  That was the way with fantasies. They were perfect. Devoid of pain and problems.

  “Here it is.” The broker’s voice disturbed Valentine’s reverie. “I took the ring, along with two silk waistcoats, a silver letter opener and snuff box.”

  Miss Kendall gasped as she hurried to the counter. She gripped the edge of the wooden surface. “Did my brother deposit anything else? A watch? A diamond and onyx signet ring?” She paused and gulped. “A rare pink diamond ring?”

  The broker shook his head. “That’s the lot. Come back with the papers and—”

  “Can I see the ring?” Hope swam in Miss Kendall’s bewitching brown eyes.

  Valentine would have offered her the world rather than see the look of longing fade.

  “Wait a moment.” The broker scurried off through the door to the left of the counter. Keys rattled. Another door opened, the loud clunk upon closing indicating a heavier metal door.

  A tense silence hung in the air while they awaited the broker’s return.

  “You’re certain it is the ring I mentioned?” Miss Kendall’s hungry
eyes observed the broker keenly as he returned to the room. She stared at the red velvet pouch in his hand. “I shall know the moment I see the markings.”

  “Don’t ask me what it says.” The broker handed Miss Kendall the pouch.

  Trembling fingers made it impossible for her to remove her gloves.

  “Permit me.” Valentine took the pouch, tugged at the strings and removed the shiny gold ring with Greek engraving around the hexagonal head.

  Miss Kendall froze for a few seconds. “That is my father’s ring,” she said, gazing in awe. “I wish to repay any money advanced to my brother and reclaim this item.”

  The broker offered a weak smile. “I paid the gent twenty-three pounds and four shillings for all items deposited, but without the receipt, you’ll need to pay the purchase price.”

  Miss Kendall frowned. “I have no need for silk waistcoats. How much do you require for the ring?”

  “Forty pounds for all items deposited,” the broker said in a monotone voice.

  “Forty pounds!” Muttering to herself, she reached into her reticule while Valentine placed the ring back inside the velvet pouch. “I have thirty.” Miss Kendall slapped the folded notes onto the counter. “And you may keep the apparel and silverware.”

  The broker flashed his crooked teeth. “I’ll need forty for the trouble.”

  Valentine reached into his pocket, withdrew a note and placed it on top of Miss Kendall’s pile. “That makes fifty. I think you’ll agree it is more than ample for a gold ring engraved in Greek as opposed to Latin.”

  With an eager hand, the broker snatched the notes across the counter and checked their value. “A pleasure doing business,” he said, clutching his bounty and scurrying off to his back room.

  Left alone in the musty old shop, Valentine offered Miss Kendall the ring. “Allow me to escort you back to Park Street, Miss Kendall.” His thoughts flew to the scoundrel waiting out on the street. “As a man preoccupied with chivalry, I must insist.”

  Miss Kendall smiled. “You may escort me home, my lord, as I must repay your twenty pounds as a matter of urgency. Hold on to the ring until I am back on familiar territory.”