The Valentine's Day Ball

by Julia Parks

  The old man’s frustration grew during his nephew’s brief visit, for he had no power over Drew. The estate and title were entailed. Drew would succeed to both, no matter what. Worst of all, Drew had been wise in his investments during his ten years abroad. A thriving plantation and shipping business had given him financial independence.

  The cunning old man had discovered his one weapon—Drew’s feelings for his mother. Faith Peterson had served as an unpaid housekeeper for the earl’s sprawling home since Drew’s exile. Cheswick never mistreated his widowed sister-in-law. Instead, he had ignored her. Any pin money she had was carved from the meagre household expense account, which the earl picked over like a vulture once a month. Still, she never complained, and he didn’t ridicule her humble beginnings. Until, that is, the earl discovered how angry this made Drew. That was his weapon, and he had wielded it with malicious glee.

  After two weeks, Drew’s mother had begged him to leave, telling him the insults would stop once he had departed. He had reluctantly agreed. She urged him to visit London and face the society that had shunned him ten years before. He had been only one and twenty when the ton had laughed him out of London. He had to face them.

  And his mother had been right about everything. He was welcome everywhere now that he was heir to an earldom. He had tried not to be cynical when veritable strangers toadied him, but he was only human.

  This had been his reason for selecting Bath for his mother’s new home. Her lack of illustrious ancestors wouldn’t matter as much. And with the Dowager Duchess of Wentworth to bolster her, she was assured of acceptance. And not only because her son was a wealthy peer.

  So, after dallying in London, he had visited Bath and taken the house in Laura Place. And he had brought his mother, vowing to make up to her for the years of emptiness. Her gentle patience would finally be rewarded, and she would never be lonely again.

  He was surprised to see the lamps lit in his mother’s sitting room as he made his way down the corridor. He put his head in the door and said, “What is it? I warned you about the headache.”

  She laughed, put her embroidery on the table, and motioned for him to enter.

  “I do not have any aches, I assure you. The music was quite…passable.”

  “Then why are you still awake? Not waiting on me, I hope?” His voice held a note of reproach.

  “No, not in the way you think. I wanted to continue our conversation about Jane Lindsay.”

  “Mother, what I do or don’t do is for me to decide.”

  “I agree, but in order to make a decision, you must have all the facts.”

  “And I don’t?”

  “No, you’re under several misapprehensions, darling. First of all, please don’t use my marriage or my personality as a guideline for choosing a wife.”

  “You said something earlier to that tune, Mother. What do you mean?”

  “Drew, you think the past ten years of my life have been unbearable for me.” He nodded, and she continued, as if choosing her words carefully. “They weren’t. Yes, I was lonely, and I missed you and worried about you, but I wasn’t miserable. Your uncle lives like a hermit, but I didn’t. I attended church and made a number of friends.”

  “My uncle is a monster, Mother. Don’t try to defend him.”

  “I’m not, but he was never cruel to me. Why, he hardly even knew I was there.”

  The look he gave her was disbelieving, but he didn’t contradict her again. “What has all this to do with Jane?”

  “I’m coming to that. You remember when your father was killed in that race? Everyone said I was so brave that I never cried. Drew, it wasn’t bravery. One simply doesn’t cry for a stranger.”

  “He was your husband. My father.”

  “Yes, and he was a good man. A little weak, perhaps, because he let other people’s opinions influence him. It was that weakness that turned him away from me. And I was weak, too. I couldn’t abide scenes, and I would stay home, hidden away from society so I wouldn’t embarrass my husband. I was too afraid to stand up for myself. I was everything you think you want in a wife—docile, humble, retiring.”

  “Did you hate Father so very much?”

  “No, I could never have hated him. I only despised myself for my weakness.”

  “But, Mother, surely it isn’t weakness to be agreeable.”

  “When one is always agreeable, don’t you think it shows a lack of self-respect, self-confidence?”

  “I never looked at it quite like that.”

  “It is difficult to love someone who doesn’t love himself. Now your Jane, she has self-respect.”

  “Yes, she has that.” He laughed, not thinking to correct his mother calling Jane his.

  “I’ll say no more. But think on it, Drew. Think very carefully.”

  Drew realized he didn’t need to think about it. He loved Jane Lindsay—every delectable, hard-headed inch. He wondered why he hadn’t seen it before. From that first kiss…no, from the moment he had first laid eyes on her at the ball, when she had raised her chin and defied him to look her over like a horse at Tattersall’s. He smiled at the remembrance.

  “Mother, I don’t know if she’ll have me.”

  “She’s not indifferent to you, Drew. Anyone can see that.”

  “I know, but she may think I’m only after her estate. I did try to buy it once. And she detests fortune hunters.”

  “The future Earl of Cheswick a fortune hunter?” she asked, incredulous. “A discreet inquiry or two would reveal your own rather impressive prospects. And once that is established, you need only woo her, my dear.”

  “You make it all sound so simple, Mother. I must win her trust first, and that may be the most difficult part.”

  b

  “Mr. Havelock to see you, my lord,” said the wooden-faced butler.

  “Tell him I’m not in. No, wait. I’ll see him in the library.” Drew finished his morning coffee and strolled out of the breakfast room.

  “Havelock, what brings you here?”

  “A slight problem, Lord Devlin,” said the other man, wiping his brow nervously.

  “Yes?”

  “You know I lost over two thousand pounds last night, Devlin.”

  “I remember, but I’m surprised you do. Do you always drink so heavily?”

  Havelock flushed an ugly purple, but he swallowed his anger. “I haven’t the money to redeem my vouchers right now.”

  “It seems we’ve had this conversation before. But I fail to understand why you’re here. You should be telling Farley and Stanton. I don’t hold your IOUs. I lost, too, last night.”

  “True, but I thought you might see your way clear…”

  “Not a guinea.”

  “I have a bit of information…”

  “Nothing you say could interest me, Havelock.”

  “Not even a bit of advice about those notes you sent to my cousin?”

  “I have no idea what notes she may received,” lied Drew.

  “Of course you do, Lord Devlin.” Havelock smiled, his thick lips curving like two fat slugs.

  “If that is all, Havelock, I have better ways to occupy my time.”

  Havelock wiped his brow again. He was getting nowhere. “Then I’m afraid, Lord Devlin, I must tell my cousin about that little prank—”

  Drew grabbed him by his cravat and threw him into the nearest chair, twisting the starched fabric until Havelock’s beady eyes began to bulge. Sneering with distaste, he released the man.

  “Get out, Havelock. You can tell Jane, but your blackmail won’t work. She already knows, and she has forgiven me. As a matter of fact, you may soon be wishing us happy. And then all those points we discussed about who will inherit Heartland will be moot. I’ll see to it Heartland is overflowing with heirs!”

  “You’ll pay for this,” said Havelock when he had reached the relative safety of the door. “You’re not married to my cousin yet, Devlin. And remember, it will take time to produce an heir, a female heir, to continu
e the tradition. A lot can happen…”

  “Get out.”

  Havelock hurried away. Drew tried to regain the calm he had felt upon rising. It was impossible to remain in the confines of the house, and he strode out the door, walking briskly toward Sidney Gardens. After half an hour, he was able to reflect on Havelock’s visit without anger clouding his mind.

  But he couldn’t get Havelock’s obscure threat out of his thoughts. He had hoped to pursue Jane unhurriedly, giving her time to trust him. Still, from what he had seen of Roland Havelock, the man was all talk. He couldn’t possibly act on his threat. The very thought was laughable.

  b

  “Miss Lindsay, you shouldn’t be doing all that climbing and stretching,” scolded Heartland’s scandalized cook. “That good-for-nothing footman ought to be doing that! Sims! Where is he?”

  “I’ll fetch ’im, ma’am,” offered Tom the potboy, scrambling to his feet and fleeing before Mrs. Brown could turn her frustration on him.

  “Now, Miss Lindsay, let me help you down.” With the cook’s help, Jane descended the stepladder, a jar of strawberry preserves in each hand.

  “These are from two years ago, Mrs. Brown. They must have been overlooked when we sorted through the larder last year.”

  “Not overlooked, Miss Jane. We decided you would take them to old Mr. Jenkins. Then he passed on, and we forgot about them.”

  “You’re quite right! I don’t know how you remember everything, Mrs. Brown.”

  A ghost of a smile was the only evidence that the stern cook was pleased by her observation. The title of Mrs. was strictly a courtesy; the cook had never married, having dedicated her life to Heartland at an early age. No one dared to cross swords with Heartland’s Mrs. Brown, from the potboy to the wily old butcher in the village.

  “There you are, Sims,” she snapped as the footman hurried into the cool larder. “We’ve got to make room for this year’s canned goods. Mr. Pipkin says you can read.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Good, get up on the ladder and read the labels on those jars to me.”

  He did as he was bid, handing down some jars as directed. Jane worked on the lowest shelf, collecting jars in her sturdy work apron.

  “The raspberry jam, Mrs. Brown, should we save them? We ran out year before last, remember?”

  “True, we’d best save them.”

  Mrs. Brown carried the jars in her apron into the kitchen and arranged them on the table.

  “That’s all, Mrs. Brown,” said the footman.

  “Good, Sims. You may go back to your other duties.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” The footman climbed down and left.

  Jane asked, “Wasn’t that the man my cousin sent?”

  “Yes, Miss Lindsay.”

  “Is he working out?”

  “Mostly, but Mr. Pipkin doesn’t trust him.”

  “You know Mr. Pipkin,” said Jane, not unkindly, but they all knew Pipkin’s puritanical judgement.

  “No, it’s not that.” Mrs. Brown looked around guiltily. It was unlike her to gossip. “Mr. Pipkin has twice found Sims upstairs, but he never has a reason for being there.”

  Jane smiled. “I appreciate your telling me, Mrs. Brown. He is probably sweet on the upstairs maid.”

  Mrs. Brown sniffed and returned to her tally. With her filled apron gathered in one hand, Jane grabbed the top shelf to pull herself up. As she did, it gave way, glass jars and wood collapsing on top of her.

  “Miss Jane!” screamed the cook, rushing into the larder.

  “I’m all right, Mrs. Brown,” said Jane, her voice a bit shaky. “Most of it landed in front of me and then toppled over on top. Ouch!” Jane lifted a bloody hand, and Mrs. Brown pulled her out from under the wreckage.

  “It should have been me down there! Oh, Miss Jane, I’ll never forgive myself! You, Tom, run and get the surgeon. Ann, fetch Mrs. Tucker! The rest of you—out!”

  “Really, Mrs. Brown, I’m fine. Just a small cut and a few bruises, I’m sure,” protested Jane as the anxious cook hovered over her. She sat at the kitchen table, looking into the demolished larder. “All that food and work gone to waste. I wonder what made it fall? It didn’t even feel loose when I was working up there.”

  “It’s old. I’ve been telling Mr. Pipkin he needed to see to it.”

  Tucker bustled in with Jane’s case of medicinal supplies. In no time, the cuts on Jane’s palm had been cleaned and dusted with basilicum powder.

  “I think you should let me wrap it up, Miss Jane, so you won’t use it.”

  “It hardly calls for that, Tucker,” said Jane, looking into her maid’s concerned face. “Oh, very well. Do what you will.”

  An hour later, Jane was seated in the cheery morning room, her feet propped up on a stool. Within easy reach of her uninjured left hand was a cup of tea, a plate of Cook’s buttery biscuits, her embroidery, and the latest novel. Many ladies of the ton would have been in heaven; Jane, however, found such enforced inactivity little short of unbearable. But when she had tried to help sort out the mess in the larder, Mrs. Brown had exclaimed in horror, her protests backed up by the village doctor who had arrived expecting nothing less than a corpse.

  So Jane had retreated to the morning room. One compensation was the solitude. She didn’t have to listen to someone’s mournful sigh each time she lifted her hand.

  Pipkin looked in occasionally, but he was different. He had sniffed at Mrs. Brown and the surgeon and said, “‘The soul of the sluggard desireth, and hath nothing: but the soul of the diligent shall be made fat.’ Proverbs 13:4.”

  Jane opened a letter from Cherry that had arrived in the morning mail. It contained the usual exclamations and nonsense, until the last paragraph:

  I have asked Mama if we may go to Paris in June. Everyone is going now that we are at peace again. It would be dreadful to miss such an opportunity. You could come, too, Jane dearest. Perhaps if you write to Mama, together we can persuade her.

  Jane reread the passage again and smiled. Surely, Cherry knew better than to try and cozen her. The prospect of a trip to Paris was tempting, but not in June. In June, she would begin planning Open Day at Heartland. It was always held on the fifteenth of July. Perhaps afterwards, in August.

  Pipkin entered and handed her a calling card, the corner turned down to show that the caller was actually present.

  “Lord Devlin? Show him in.”

  Jane straightened up. Just as she was pushing the footstool out of the way, Drew entered.

  “Here, let me help,” he said, pushing it back in place. Jane grinned.

  “Actually, I was removing it.”

  “You shouldn’t be! Are you all right?”

  “I’m fine, but how did you find out?”

  “I met Dr. Harrington as I was entering the drive, and he told me about your accident. I must confess, I had expected to see you lying senseless on the couch. I was surprised when Pipkin let me in here.”

  “I must remember to thank Pipkin,” Jane said, smiling up at him until she began to feel self-conscious. She took refuge in the social banalities. “Won’t you be seated? Isn’t this beautiful weather we are having lately?”

  “Indeed,” he said, turning to find a chair and placing it beside hers. Pipkin entered with more refreshments.

  Jane picked up the teapot awkwardly in her left hand. Drew sat forward and took it from her.

  “Let me do that. What happened, precisely? I see your right hand is bandaged.”

  “It’s nothing, really. And as for the bandage, I merely let my maid bandage it to ease her worry. You know how these old family retainers are.”

  “No, I don’t. My childhood didn’t include a warm home. But I’ll take your word for it, providing you promise me you’ll be able to dance by tomorrow evening.”

  “Tomorrow evening? But I—”

  “You are going to the Assembly in Bath with my mother and me. At least, I hope you will come.”

  “But you’re to come to tea tomo
rrow.”

  “Yes, but we would like for you to dine with us instead and then go to the Assembly. It will be the first one for Mother, and she was so hoping you’d join us to bolster her courage.”

  This last was said in such sincere, pleading tones that Jane doubted he was being completely honest. But it did sound like a delightful outing, and she longed to wear her new scarlet gown.

  “Very well,” she agreed slowly.

  “Good! I’ll come out here to escort you.”

  “There’s no need for that. I shall be perfectly safe with our coachman and Mickey along. It’s not as though we’re at opposite ends of the world.”

  “No, we’re not, are we?” His dark eyes held hers.

  The morning is growing uncomfortably warm. “Would…would you care to take a walk in the garden, Lord Devlin?”

  “Drew.”

  “Drew,” she echoed, taking his hand and standing up.

  He was so close to her their bodies almost touched. And still he stared, his hand holding hers. Jane’s breath came faster—there didn’t seem to be enough air and her breast rose and fell rapidly.

  “Drew?” she said tentatively.

  He stepped back, tucking her hand in the crook of his arm. The morning room, like the library on the opposite side of the house, boasted French doors. He opened one, allowing her to pass through it.

  “Is your mother enjoying Bath?” asked Jane, after searching for a safe topic.

  “Yes, she loves it. She goes to the Pump Room every morning, and she already has a small circle of friends.”

  “Is she taking the waters?”

  “She tried them once, but she enjoys the very best health so she has no need of them. A fortunate circumstance, since she told me in no uncertain terms she would never drink them again. To be precise, she told me she thought the hot mineral springs must arise out of the very depths of Hell—an extreme observation for the daughter of a curate.”

  Jane laughed. “So she attends the Pump Room to socialize, like most of its patrons.”