“Tell me, Father,” he said a moment later, hauling up the full bucket to dump water into the watering can, “is it some sort of sin not to tell someone you’re protecting them when that someone is under the impression that you are participating in their adventures without reserve?”
“A sin? Not one of the deadly ones. It is a lie, I would say.”
“Yes, for her own good.”
“That would depend.”
“Oh, really? On what, pray tell?”
“Who decided that the lie was for her own good? And did it prevent this lady from accomplishing what she intended?”
“What if what she intended was sin?”
The priest looked at him. “You didn’t ask me to debate morality—only actions.”
Valentine lifted the full watering can and lugged it over to the nearest of the rose bushes. “Actions. Yes, I suppose then that my concealing my true reason for being there might have prevented her from realizing the true…spirit of her actions.”
“Then you were wrong.”
“Just like that?” he returned, lifting an eyebrow.
“I thought you might appreciate a direct answer. I could give you a parable, if you’d rather.”
“Thank you, no.” For a moment Valentine concentrated on doing enough watering to lighten the weight of the watering can. “Then I should take steps to make it right.”
“I certainly can’t advise you to act in a manner which would encourage sin.” With a slight grin, the priest took the half-empty can to continue with watering. “But putting things right does seem a more worthy task than putting them wrong.”
“A more difficult one, anyway. Thank you. This has certainly been an unexpected conversation, Father…”
“Michael. Father Michael. And I’ve found it rather interesting myself, Lord Deverill. Feel free to stop by for a chat on any Monday or Thursday.”
“Why Monday or Thursday?”
“Those are the days I water the roses.”
Valentine chuckled. Doffing his hat, he headed back for the front gate. Halfway through, though, another question occurred to him. It horrified him, but for Lucifer’s—or rather God’s, considering the location—sake, it was just a question. It didn’t mean anything—and he certainly had no one else to ask. “Father Michael?”
“Yes, my son?”
“If I were to bring someone by, would you…” His mouth went dry, and he swallowed. Just a question, he reminded himself, not believing that for an instant. “Would you marry us?”
“Not without the banns being read, or a special license procured from Canterbury. If you’re that desperate to keep from sinning, I might suggest Gretna Green.” Father Michael frowned. “Though we don’t encourage that sort of thing. Too scandalous.”
Nodding, Valentine closed the gate behind him and turned back down the street toward Corbett House. It shook him that he’d even been able to say the word “marry,” much less that he continued to contemplate it. One thing he knew for certain, though; he didn’t want Eleanor marrying Lord John Tracey.
And even the priest had said he had an obligation to make things right. Eleanor wanted an adventure, something wild and uncontrolled and completely out of anyone’s safety and protection. Well, he would just give her one—if he didn’t give himself an apoplexy thinking about it first.
Eleanor stormed straight up the stairs from the front drive, all three brothers on her heels, and barricaded herself in her bedchamber. While Zachary pounded at the door, she even dragged her dressing table to block the entrance, and shoved one of her overstuffed sitting chairs against that.
“Go away!” she yelled, moving to the remaining chair beneath the window and dropping into it.
“This isn’t finished with, Nell,” Sebastian’s voice came, though he seemed to be farther away—probably leaning against the wall while he let Zachary attempt the actual breaking and entering.
“I’m not listening. I may have some things to answer for, but so do you. And you will not bully me into doing anything. When I’ve considered everything, then I will come out and we’ll have a calm, adult discussion. One to one. No overwhelming force of numbers allowed.”
“But in the meantime you’ll be up here hiding?” the deep voice returned, sarcasm finally seeping into his tone.
“I wouldn’t have to hide if you’d stop pursuing me! Go away and let me think in peace.” Recalling just what she’d overheard of Melbourne’s bellowed conversation with Deverill, she lurched out of her chair and strode to the door again. “And you’re a cheat, Melbourne. Don’t think you’ve won!” she yelled.
“I don’t think anyone’s won,” his quieter voice said. “We’ll be downstairs, Nell. No one’s leaving this house until we settle matters. And I do mean settle.”
Eleanor grabbed a down pillow from her bed and held it up over her face so she could scream into the soft material. It helped relieve a little of the sharp fury, so she did it again.
As her striding-about, wanting-to-hit-something anger faded, though, the deep hurt beneath it began creeping heavily into her chest. Instead of yelling into the pillow, she clutched it to her. A sob wrenched her throat, followed by another and another, until she was shaking with tears.
It wasn’t that Stephen Cobb-Harding had appeared and threatened her family. They would deal with that. However angry Melbourne might be, he wouldn’t allow the Griffin reputation or standing to be damaged. For him, that meant everything.
No, she knew quite well why she was crying. And the fact that she was weeping and heartbroken because of him made it even worse. Why had she trusted him? Why had she just assumed that the uncaring Marquis of Deverill would suddenly take an interest in a friendship with her? Because she’d wanted to. That was why.
“Stupid,” she muttered brokenly, blotting her wet face with the pillow. Valentine broke hearts with alarming regularity, and she’d just assumed that she was immune. But he’d only become her companion because Melbourne had forced him to. And his bits of advice and the example he’d set—those things she’d begun to admire about him—they’d all been given with his obligation to Melbourne in mind.
Her adventure, being with him—true, she’d asked for both, but…Oh, she didn’t know what to think. And to her surprise, she wanted to talk to Valentine. Not to yell at him again, but to discover what he’d really been thinking, and more importantly, feeling, while they’d been involved in her so-called rebellion.
After what she’d said to him, however, it was entirely likely that he would never speak to her again. He’d never kiss her, or touch her, or chat with her, and tomorrow he’d probably have some pretty, empty-headed chit on his arm so he could pretend he’d never had any interest in Eleanor at all. If he ever had.
She buried her face in her hands, rocking back and forth in her comfortable chair. Whatever conversation she and Melbourne had when she’d supposedly thought everything through logically, she already knew what the end result would be. Her brother would hand her a list of two or three names, give her the choice among them as though that meant she had freedom, and then he would arrange the marriage. If she was lucky, she’d get an actual proposal, though of course her presence would be the least significant part of the deal.
Eleanor didn’t think she’d ever felt so alone, and in the back of her thoughts the person whom she most wanted to talk to, whom she considered a companion and a friend, continued to be Deverill. It was as if her heart refused to accept what her logical mind now knew perfectly well—that he’d cast her aside as too much trouble, and she needed to let him go and concentrate on making her future as tolerable as possible.
“Damnation.”
The worst part of it was, she’d done it to herself. She’d wanted new experiences, a new way of looking at life, and evidently as Melbourne had told her, nothing was truly free. She only wished that fact had been demonstrated with less force and volume.
“Aunt Nell?” A quiet knock came at the door.
So they’d sent Peep to negotiate. C
owards. “What is it, my dear?”
“Are you going to come downstairs for dinner?”
Eleanor blinked, turning to look out the window. Blackness greeted her outside, lit by the occasional gas lamp along the quiet street. For heaven’s sake, she’d been moping all day. But if she went downstairs, she would have to be ready for another fight, and she simply wasn’t up to it. Not yet.
She rose, going to lean against her dressing table, which still rested in front of the door. “No. If you would please have Helen bring me some soup and bread, I would be very grateful.”
“Eleanor, you can’t stay locked in there forever.”
She’d had a suspicion that Sebastian lurked nearby. “I know. Just until tomorrow.”
He was silent for a long moment. “Very well. You’re not a prisoner. I only want you in the house until we assess the damage from Cobb-Harding.”
“I’m not going anywhere,” she returned, putting the flat of her hand on the door. “Thank you for giving me a little time.”
“We’ll see you in the morning.”
“Good night, Aunt Nell. Don’t be sad. If you want me to help you yell at anyone tomorrow, let me know.”
“Thank you, Peep. Good night.”
Helen brought up her soup and bread, and helped her move her furniture back into place. “Shall I make down the bed, my lady?”
“No. I’ll do it myself. In fact, you can go. I’ll put the dishes outside the door.”
“Very good, my lady. What time shall I wake you in the morning?”
Eleanor managed a smile. Some things never changed, no matter the chaos in her life. “Half past seven, if you please. Good night, Helen.”
The maid curtsied. “Good night, my lady.”
Sitting at her dressing table, Eleanor ate her soup. It was barley and chicken, usually her favorite, but after the first bite she barely tasted it. Her mind refused to let go of scenarios and conversations where she confronted Valentine and he went down on his knees to admit that he cared for her and to beg her forgiveness for his deceit. She sighed. It sounded nice, but she couldn’t imagine anything more unlikely.
After she finished eating she put out her dishes and then spent an hour wandering around aimlessly, sitting down four times to try to read and another three to do some of her correspondence, and failing miserably at all of it. “Blast,” she muttered. “Just go to bed, Eleanor. Things will look better in the morning.”
She didn’t believe it, but as long as she was attempting to fool herself, it might as well be with something pleasant. It was just unfortunate that both the most pleasant and the most unpleasant thing she could think of was Valentine Corbett.
Chapter 20
Valentine managed to find John Tracey at the third club he searched that morning. The war hero looked calm and confident, and probably had no idea that today might very well be his chance to join one of England’s most powerful families. At least it hadn’t happened last night when Valentine had been formulating and discarding plans in the midst of drinking a bottle of whiskey. If it had happened already, Tracey would no doubt have been breaking his fast with his family-to-be.
Valentine took a seat at a table across the room, far enough away that he wouldn’t be noticed, and close enough so he could see anything that might transpire. Tracey ordered a plate of ham and two boiled eggs, while Valentine settled for toast and coffee. It didn’t make sense. Tracey should be the one with no appetite, worried over whether the Griffins—and Eleanor in particular—would find him worthy of joining the clan.
Aside from the drinking and plotting, he’d spent the night doing a distressing amount of that damned self-reflection, focused mainly on why he’d abruptly become so determined that he wouldn’t lose Eleanor to anyone else, why the idea of making things right for her had crept into his soul and refused to loose its grip.
For God’s sake, if he’d decided to wed he could have any woman he wanted. Even a married one could probably be persuaded to leave her husband with the proper inducement. The problem was, he didn’t want any other woman. And he couldn’t have Eleanor. True, he could talk to priests and plot elopements, but he was the damned Marquis of Deverill. And Deverill didn’t embarrass himself, compromise his principles, lose his mind, over a chit.
The worst moment had come just before dawn. He’d tried out words like “possession,” “obsession,” “spite,” “jealousy,” and “ownership” to describe why he felt as he did toward Eleanor—and then the right word, the perfect word, had struck him squarely between the eyes.
The word. It didn’t make any sense. How could he be in love with Eleanor when he didn’t even believe in the emotion?
Once his mind had found the word, though, every bit of him refused to relinquish it. So whether he’d ever be able to do anything about it or not, whether he’d be able to even say it aloud, he loved Eleanor Griffin. And now he was about to lose her.
Tracey finished breakfast and then headed out to Tattersall’s horse auctions, with Valentine still trailing him. If he wanted to know firsthand what Melbourne might be plotting, he could probably apologize and be let back into the fold. Then he would have to sit and listen to it—listen to the brothers plan a life for Eleanor and know they had no real concept of what she wanted or needed or deserved.
Twenty minutes after Tracey settled in to view the auctions, a servant in Griffin livery approached him with a note. Damnation. They were doing it. Of course, Nell might end up liking Tracey, even being happy with him. Well, that wasn’t acceptable. Not when he would have to watch from a distance and know he might have had her for himself if he’d only taken action.
So it was time, then, to take action, and damn the consequences. With a deep breath, Valentine approached the war hero. “Tracey, I see you’ve been favored with Melbourne’s correspondence,” he commented, gesturing at the note.
“Deverill. Yes, apparently I’m to appear there this afternoon for an audience.”
“Any idea why?”
John looked at him. “I have an idea, yes. But if you don’t, then I don’t believe I should be discussing it with you.”
“Of course I know why you’ve been summoned,” Valentine returned, managing his usual uncaring drawl. “Are you interested in the match?”
“Who wouldn’t be? Lady Eleanor’s beautiful woman.”
“And the dowry won’t be anything to laugh at, either.”
Tracey frowned. “If I might ask, what, precisely, is your interest here?”
“I’m a family friend. I just want to be certain that Eleanor will be happy.”
“Then ask her.” The auctioneer called off another horse, and Tracey turned his head. “If you’ll excuse me, I have a team to bid on.”
Valentine inclined his head and moved away. He knew enough, now. Melbourne, and perhaps even Eleanor, had settled on a candidate, and the potential husband had no objection to the match, either.
Well, he had an objection. No one had asked him who he thought might be the best match for Eleanor, and no one would consider him for it. No, not the blackhearted Marquis of Deverill. Not even if he managed to convince them how…important Eleanor had become to his life, or how he couldn’t imagine going through his days without having her to chat with, to kiss, just to look at.
According to the Church, in the person of Father Michael, he needed to make amends to Eleanor. It was simply the right thing to do. And with the amount of time he’d spent on the slopes of Hades, he’d best listen. Valentine chuckled grimly. He was about to do the one thing he’d sworn to avoid at all costs: Lead with his heart. He hoped the shriveled thing was up to the adventure.
Eleanor awoke abruptly. She felt thick and disoriented, as though she’d slept too hard and awakened too fast. The clock on the mantel sat cloaked in inky blackness, but from the silence in the house and on the street, it must have been sometime after two and before five o’clock in the morning.
Sighing, she turned onto her side and resolutely closed her eyes again. Don�
�t think about anything, she ordered herself when her mind threatened images of the charming John Tracey and how happy he’d been to meet with her brother. Count farm animals.
A hand clamped over her mouth, and another pinned her crossed arms to the bed.
Her heart slammed against her rib cage. She yelped, the sound muffled beneath the hard grip. Kicking out beneath the heavy blankets, she tried to wrench her hands free.
“Surprise,” a harsh male whisper came in her ear.
In her mind she was shrieking. She had three formidable brothers lying only yards away. A breaking vase, a cry, anything would wake them. And then the sound of his voice began to sink through her panic.
He yanked her upright, face-to-face with him. She could dimly make out a black panther’s half mask—and a pair of glittering green eyes—set beneath a battered-looking black hat. “Valentine?”
“Shh.”
“Get—get out of here!” she rasped.
“I can’t do that.” Before she could flinch away, he tied a kerchief around her face, covering and muffling her mouth. “Hold still,” he whispered, pulling her hands forward and binding them in the same way.
Plunking her back flat on the bed, Valentine went to her wardrobe and pulled out a large portmanteau. He began opening drawers and flinging clothing into the bag, hesitating and changing his mind about articles several times.
Even knowing who it was rifling through her things, Eleanor couldn’t quite believe it. And as hard as her heart was pounding, it only took a few seconds for her stark terror to twist into anger. Whatever he had in mind, and however mad at her he might be, she was through with being manhandled.
The hem of one of her gowns caught in the edge of the wardrobe, and with a curse he glanced down to free it. Seizing her chance, Eleanor lurched to her feet and ran barefoot to the door. With her hands bound together it took her a moment to rattle the latch open. She was a second too slow.
One strong arm curled her into his hard chest, while with his free hand he gently shut the door again. “Stop that,” he murmured into her hair, half dragging her back to the bed again.
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