Fortune's Flower (Passport to Romance Book 1)

by Anthea Lawson

  “I appreciate your need to defend Caroline’s honor, but you have placed us in a difficult situation. The Duke of Hereford will not take your public humiliation of his son well. James, your aim was most unfortunate. Young Hereford’s entrance to every social event will be commented upon—at least until he can sit down again. Frankly, I need you out of Town until this blows over.”

  James studied his uncle, noting how weary and stern Lord Denby looked in his formal black mourning clothes. His usually neat desktop was crowded with account books and piles of correspondence. It couldn’t be easy trying to restore order to an earldom. Grandfather’s recent death had left Lord Denby with the title—and an estate in disarray. The last thing he needed right now was a scandal.

  James ran a hand through his already tousled brown hair. “I can see leaving London. But why Tunisia? I could simply make a quiet disappearance to one of your country properties.”

  “You could. But I need you to go to Tunisia.” Lord Denby lifted his spectacles and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “This is as much about your grandfather’s will as it is your regrettable duel. He chose to tie up a rather large number of loose ends by passing them along to his descendants. One of the most troublesome concerns his residence, Somergate.”

  “Somergate?” It had been his grandfather’s primary residence, the property the old man had lavished his attention and money upon—often to the detriment of the family’s other holdings. James remembered the moist warmth of the grand conservatory there, the sharp, earthy smells of the tropical plants. He had been a boy, his father still alive, holding James by the hand and carrying Caroline on his shoulders. James’s grandfather had led them through the maze of greenery and bright blooms, speaking the names of the plants as if he were greeting old friends.

  James swallowed, banishing the old ache the memory evoked.

  His uncle shuffled through a pile of paper on his desk. “We can’t wind up the estate until the will’s provisions have been carried out—or proven impossible. Your grandfather always claimed he had made an important botanical discovery during his adventures in Tunisia, but had been unable to bring back the specimen that would prove it. His traveling companion, Mercer, died there, and the journals that documented the expedition were lost. Under his will, whichever descendant manages to recover and publish those journals receives the Somergate estate and his blasted horticultural collection.”

  James leaned forward. “That’s absurd.”

  “No, that’s your grandfather. My solicitor tells me the old schemer left no loopholes.”

  “What if no one is willing to go chasing across Africa looking for lost journals?”

  “Then Somergate goes to Kew Gardens. Such a bequest would no doubt cement your grandfather’s reputation among his scientific peers, but it would be disastrous for the family to lose such a valuable property.”

  Somergate gone. It was unthinkable.

  “What does my cousin think of all this?” It was a question that had to be asked—not that James personally gave a damn what Reggie thought.

  Lord Denby shifted in his chair. “I have not discussed this matter with him. I realize the odds are long, but this is a chance to have something for yourself. Reginald already holds the title of Viscount Rowland. Your father left you little enough when he died, and I would like to see you independent and not beholden to Reginald when he succeeds me. I know how it stands between the two of you.”

  He didn’t, not really. But this was not the time to set him straight. Ever since James and Caroline had been taken in as orphans by their uncle, Reggie had been an enemy—using every opportunity to let them know how unwelcome they were, always reminding them of his own superiority, that they were not the true son and daughter of Lord Denby and did not belong there. It had not been an easy childhood. But it was also not easy for Lord Denby to have a son like Reggie for his heir. James firmed his mouth. Some things were better left unspoken.

  His uncle continued, “I would like to see you settled—for my brother’s sake, and for your own. Your prospects in London have dimmed considerably in the last twenty-four hours.”

  Not that they had been particularly bright to begin with.

  James stretched his legs out and absently noted a scuffed patch on his boots. Being back in Society was not what he had hoped. It was too bloody passive, for one thing. He was beginning to wonder if cashing in his officer’s commission and returning home had been a mistake. He lacked both the temperament and the funds to enjoy a life of empty leisure.

  Perhaps Lord Denby was right. Maybe the eccentric provision in his grandfather’s will was his best hope—and even if it were no hope at all, his uncle still needed someone to go, if only to prove that the journals had long ago moldered into dust.

  But still, Tunisia?

  “Assuming I went, what would it involve? I can’t see interviewing every tribal sheik along the North African coast. There must be a map—isn’t that how these things go?”

  “We have this.” Lord Denby pushed an inlaid wooden box toward him. “The solicitors released it to me after your grandfather’s death.”

  James took the box. “It must be a very small map.” He lifted the lid to find a packet resting on the red silk lining. “Letters?”

  “They were penned by your grandfather from all around the Mediterranean. Love letters to your grandmother before they married.” There was an uncharacteristic huskiness in Lord Denby’s voice. “I find them difficult to read under the circumstances. The top one is most pertinent.”

  James removed the letter from its envelope and leaned forward to catch the light filtering through the tall Palladian windows. The writing was faded, the letter dated 23 July, 1792.

  “There is a description of your grandfather’s capture by Berbers and subsequent escape,” Lord Denby said. “Look at the top of the second page.”

  We had made our way west along the Medjerda River, and though only three days’ travel from the capital, we came upon one of those untouched places every explorer longs to find. This narrow valley in the mountains, a wild, rocky place, was filled with a profusion of Orchis boryi. They were in high bloom, rank upon rank ascending the valley until they broke in a wave of splendid purple upon an upthrusting of huge boulders. We camped at the foot of these rock giants where a small spring pooled.

  “What are Orchis boryi?” James asked.

  Lord Denby shrugged. “Your grandfather was the botanist, not I. Continue. He describes hiding the journals just before they were attacked.”

  I squeezed into a cleft in the ravine and scrambled up to a rock shelf, concealing the box that held our journals. It was then I noticed the most delicate flower clinging to the walls. It had small yellow petals and it rooted itself tenaciously in the fissures. I had never seen a flower quite like this. If only I could have examined it more closely— I’m sure it was hereto undiscovered. Then Mercer cried out and I went to him.

  James was silent. He remembered the story. If he closed his eyes, he could see the old man in his library, a fierce light in his face as he recounted his adventures. The room had been crammed with artifacts from far-off lands. Bizarre carvings of animals, colorful rocks—rough-hewn turquoise and carnelian, even a nugget of gold. And a stuffed owl with glass eyes that always seemed to be watching him.

  His grandfather had given him a huge, speckled egg from a collection in a glass case. Whatever happened to it? Mysteriously broken, no doubt, when James returned with it to his uncle’s home. Nothing important to him had been safe from Reggie’s jealousy.

  “Well?” Lord Denby asked.

  James tapped the letter against his palm. “Why didn’t Grandfather return and fetch the journals himself?”

  “He loved your grandmother deeply. It was for her sake that he never mounted an expedition to recover his papers. Only after she died did he think of going back. By then ill health and the obligations of his position prevented such a journey.”

  James flipped the letter over. “What’s this
?” There was a rough sketch on the back depicting a narrow vale with a huge rocky escarpment standing sentinel.

  “The map—or the closest thing we have to it,” Lord Denby said. “I assume it is the rock formation where he hid the journals.”

  “A sketch? What good is a picture of a valley when you have no idea where the valley is? This is a bit flimsy to justify haring off to Tunisia. Besides, my sister will never forgive me for leaving again so soon.”

  “Caroline will understand. Especially as it was her tart tongue that began the trouble with young Hereford in the first place.”

  James couldn’t suppress his grin. Caroline was never one to mince her words, and he and his uncle both loved her for it. Lord Denby had truly been as a father to her. For that alone James owed him a debt of gratitude.

  He would go to Tunisia.

  And if he were successful? He could hardly bring himself to imagine it. But to be master of Somergate—gods, how his prospects would be changed.

  “I will need to consult a botanist,” he said, drumming his fingers on the arm of the chair. “Someone who can tell me about that purple flower, Orchis, and where one might find a whole valley of them. One of grandfather’s associates, perhaps?”

  “Most are old men. Of those still left…” His uncle pursed his lips. “I do recall one. Sir Edward Strathmore. He and your grandfather corresponded regularly. He seemed an amiable fellow when we met. I could write a letter of introduction.”

  “Good. Send it today.”

  “You’ll go, then?”

  James rose, feeling more himself than he had in months. “I will.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  Lily had painted every day since her parents had left, as much as the light would allow, trying to forget the future and lose herself in the swirl of color and shade that had always been her solace. Time seemed so precious now, and she had paid so dearly for what little was left. But today was such a fine day for a ride, Lily had let her cousins coax her away from her easel.

  “You’re going to grow roots if you stay in the conservatory a minute longer,” Isabelle had said.

  “We’ll have to pot you up,” Richard added. “Do come.”

  It had been fine day for a ride—until now.

  Lily clutched at the saddle, but there was no stopping it. It was slipping. Frightened by the sudden motion, her horse shied, tumbling her with a splash into a shallow ditch. Cold mud softened her fall and her favorite green velvet riding habit soaked up water like the rag it had just become. Blast. She should have just stayed in and painted.

  “Lily!” Isabelle turned her horse and raced back. “Are you all right? Is anything broken?”

  Lily struggled to her feet. “Do I look all right? No. I rather resemble a mop.” She set her hands on her hips—her very damp hips—and tried to ignore the clammy fabric clinging to her. “Go ahead. Laugh. I don’t find the situation particularly funny.”

  “Of course not.” Richard dismounted and offered his handkerchief. “You may want to—mop up.”

  Her cousins burst into a fit of laughter. “Sorry, Lily, but you are a sight. We’re glad to find you in one piece, though.” Richard bent and fished her saddle out of the ditch.

  He examined it carefully. “You won’t be riding back on this,” he said, pointing. “The girth’s given way.”

  Lily gathered her sodden skirts and waded forward. “How do you propose we get home?”

  “We could double up.” Richard looked at her muddy dress and took a step back. “But maybe I should just trade horses with you—once I catch yours, that is.”

  She climbed out of the ditch and took the reins of Richard’s horse—his very tall, very spirited horse. She glanced up at the beast, then over to Isabelle. “Would you care to ride Hercules home?”

  “Moi? Oh, no thank you. I’m quite comfortable where I am. You’ll have to ride astride, you know.”

  Astride! If she were observed riding in such a very unladylike fashion it would be the talk of the shire. Lily turned to protest, but a cold east wind gusted up and her teeth began to chatter. Visions of steam rising out of a hot bath tantalized her. Riding astride might be risky, but she certainly couldn’t remain dripping here in a cold field.

  It took some doing, but with her skirts kilted and a boost from Richard—who, like a gentleman, kept his head turned away—she managed to throw a leg over Hercules’s back. She hauled herself into the saddle, wet velvet bunched up around her thighs and showing an indecent amount of skin. How wicked it felt to sit with her legs exposed and splayed across the huge animal’s back.

  She laughed nervously. “If Mother could see me now she would either disown me or die of mortification. Probably both! Why, just last month Miss Clara Abernathy caused a minor scandal in London when she lifted her dress to mid-calf while descending the steps of the family carriage.” Lily looked at the water dripping from her bunched skirts and down her naked thigh. It was outrageous. “Let’s take the back way and cut through the fields. We can’t chance being seen.”

  “True,” Richard said, still keeping his eyes conspicuously averted. “But Farmer Cottle has his bull out to pasture. It’s the meanest-tempered animal you’ll ever see.”

  Isabelle nodded. “Would you rather risk certain goring? Let’s ride around to the front gates—it will be faster and we can stay behind hedgerows most of the way. And don’t worry. There wasn’t anyone on the ride out, after all.”

  “Very well,” Lily said at last, all too aware of the muddy trickles snaking down her legs. “I need a bath now!” She wiped her cheek with the damp sleeve of her riding habit and urged Hercules forward.

  The wind was blowing colder when they traded the shelter of the hedgerows for Brookdale Manor’s elm-flanked drive.

  “Almost home,” Lily said, then halted abruptly. Oh no. Why hadn’t they risked the bull?

  A gentleman was sitting his grey horse before the wrought-iron gates. There was something military in his bearing, a controlled energy that left the impression he could move from repose to full charge in a blink. His lean, handsome face was turned to her, and she watched in horror as his gaze lowered to take in her exposed legs. Hot embarrassment washed over her and she was suddenly, unbearably, conscious of her indecent state.

  “Who is that?” Isabelle stopped beside her.

  “Someone I’m sure I do not want to meet.” Lily yanked the reins sideways and kicked her heels hard.

  The great horse reared, its powerful muscles tensing and releasing as it bolted forward. Lily clung to the saddle, concentrating on staying on as Hercules leapt the ditch that ran beside the drive and made for the open fields. Behind her she could hear her cousin’s alarmed shouts, but she hardly cared. Her only concern was to remain mounted and disappear from view as quickly as possible.

  “Hold on!” The man’s voice sounded impossibly close.

  She risked a glance over her shoulder. Truly, it must be a nightmare. The stranger was pursuing her, leaning low in the saddle—and he was obviously a far better rider than she would ever be. Despite her best efforts, he was closing the gap between them. He drew his mount alongside, matching hers stride for stride.

  “Kick your feet from the stirrups,” he commanded.

  Before she could protest, he leaned in and wrapped one arm tightly around her waist. He pulled her to him, and Hercules, who wanted nothing of the maneuver, put on a final burst of speed and ran out from beneath her. She was suspended, clamped against the stranger, his arm coiled just below her breasts.

  She must have been held in that most humiliating way for a very short time, although it did not seem so. The stranger brought his mount to a halt, then leaned over and lowered her to the ground.

  Lily might have admired his riding skill, if she had not been so angry. But his “rescue” had made the situation a hundred—no, a thousand—times worse. She tugged at the disarray of her skirts as he dismounted and came to stand beside her.

  “That was a near thing, miss. Are you—”r />
  She looked up him. His amber-flecked brown eyes were unnervingly close. “I am perfectly fine. Except for being chased down and plucked from my horse.”

  He regarded her steadily for a moment, and she had the impression he was trying not to smile. “Then I must beg your pardon. I assumed your mount had run away with you.”

  Cheeks flaming, Lily lifted her chin. “It was not at all the case. I was only…” But how could she explain? Wasn’t it obvious that someone who had behaved as indecently as she had would flee the eyes of a stranger?

  “Lily!” Isabelle rushed up with Richard close behind. “Oh dear, what a dreadful morning you have had.”

  “That was quite a bit of horsemanship, sir,” Richard said, giving the stranger an admiring look.

  “Like someone out of the circus!” Isabelle added. “The way you swooped her from the saddle.”

  “Indeed,” the man said. “Perhaps I should seek out that profession, since I have been informed I have little prospect as gallant rescuer. My apologies to you all for the manner of my introduction. I’m James Huntington, down from London and looking for Sir Edward Strathmore of Brookdale Manor. Is this his residence?”

  “You have found it, sir.” Richard offered his hand. “I’m Richard Strathmore. Sir Edward is my father. This is my sister Isabelle, and my cousin Lily.”

  “Lily’s girth broke,” Isabelle explained. “The saddle slipped and took her with it. That’s why she was—”

  “Isabelle, please!” Lily felt her blush deepen.

  “I was only going to say that it was lucky your fall was softened—by a nice, muddy ditch.”

  Lily wanted to cover her face with her hands. Did this man have to hear every humiliating detail?

  “I have heard that some people pay dearly to lie in a bath of mud,” Mr. Huntington said. “Good for the complexion.”

  The tension burst.