The Viscount and the Vicar's Daughter: A Victorian Romance

by Mimi Matthews

  He ushered them through a grand hall and into a small salon. It was simply furnished with sofas, chairs, and several inlaid tables. Heavy oil paintings decorated the brocade-covered walls, and the floor was covered with a thick Oriental carpet. A fire was blazing in the hearth. Lady Hermione went to stand in front of it, her hands extended toward the flames.

  Valentine didn’t know what to do with herself. Upon entering, she’d given her cloak, bonnet, and gloves to a footman. Rather nonsensically, she wished she could have them back again. She felt vulnerable and exposed without them.

  “Courage,” Lord Lynden murmured.

  She gave him a weak smile.

  They were not obliged to wait long. In less than a quarter of an hour, the door to the salon opened and a gentleman entered the room.

  He was of medium height and build with hair the color of golden wheat and eyes a cool shade of slate gray. He had sculpted features with a decisive chin and a straight, uncompromising nose. His posture, too, was straight and unbending—inflexible and decidedly unfriendly. He was dressed for the country in tweed trousers and a loose-fitting coat.

  “Hermione,” he said. “Lord Lynden. This is an unexpected surprise.”

  “Stokedale.” Lady Hermione moved from the fireplace and beckoned for Valentine to come stand beside her. “Allow me to present Miss Valentine March, formerly of Surrey.”

  Lord Stokedale’s gray eyes came to rest on her face. He regarded her for a long while, his brows drawn and his lips pressed into a thin, disapproving line.

  Valentine’s palms grew damp and her mouth went dry. She felt the weight of Lady Hermione’s hand upon her back. She couldn’t tell if it was to lend her support or to prevent her from running away.

  “You’re Sara’s daughter,” he said finally.

  “Yes, my lord.”

  “You want money, I suppose.”

  She stiffened. “Indeed I do not, sir.”

  “Didn’t you write to me? Requesting assistance of some sort? My secretary, I assume, has disposed of the letters, but if memory serves—”

  “I wrote to you because my father had died. I had no family left. No one to whom I could turn for help.”

  “And you thought to come here, did you?” Lord Stokedale sighed. “Hermione, this is beyond the pale, even for you.”

  “Won’t you recognize her?” Lady Hermione demanded. “Won’t you try to make amends for what happened to Sara?”

  “I’m not the one who ordered Sara out of the house,” Lord Stokedale said. “I was at Oxford. There’s nothing I could have done.” He cast another narrow glance at Valentine. Distaste registered in his face. “We don’t even know who her father is.”

  “My father,” Valentine said, “was Peregrine March, the late Vicar of Hartwood Green in Surrey. He married my mother in November of 1834, three months before I was born. He came to her aid when her family wouldn’t. She might have died otherwise, and I along with her.”

  “Yet she did die,” Lord Stokedale said.

  “Yes, she…” Valentine faltered. “She died bringing me into this world. I never knew her, but I would have liked to have known her family. My family.”

  Lord Stokedale strolled to the opposite end of the room. He stopped in front of a portrait of an eighteenth century gentleman in a powdered wig posed with his hunting dogs. “I find this discussion to be in extraordinarily bad taste. My sister’s behavior is not the sort of family history one discusses with strangers. However, since you have broached the subject, I will speak plainly. It’s not common practice in polite society to recognize children born on the wrong side of the blanket.”

  “She’s Sara’s daughter,” Lady Hermione said. “Your sister’s only child, Stokedale. Don’t let your pride—”

  “You travelled here by train?” he asked. “You should have telegraphed. I might have saved you the journey.”

  “You’re being damned uncivil,” Lord Lynden said.

  Lord Stokedale turned to face them. “I am being exceedingly civil. We’re an old and honored family, Lynden. A sizeable family. Were we to begin welcoming every bastard and by-blow with a claim on one of our members, we may as well establish an orphanage.”

  Lady Hermione inhaled a sharp breath. “You go too far, sir.”

  “It’s you who have gone too far, madam,” Lord Stokedale said. “Sara has been dead more than a quarter of a century and there are still those who speak of her disgrace. What you’ve done will only serve to fan the flames of a scandal that’s never fully died. You should never have brought her here. Even a woman as reckless as you can’t fail to appreciate the consequences of such a rash act.”

  “And how do you propose to behave when you encounter her out in society?” Lord Lynden asked.

  “A remote prospect,” Lord Stokedale said. “We’re unlikely to move in the same circles.”

  “It won’t be unlikely,” Lord Lynden retorted. “It will be inevitable. Miss March is betrothed to my heir. She will soon be the Viscountess St. Ashton.”

  “Betrothed to your heir?” Lord Stokedale managed to look both intrigued and appalled. “You can’t be serious.”

  A flicker of guilt pinged at Valentine’s conscience. She knew full well that she should object. She should explain that, as of yesterday, she and Tristan were no longer engaged. She’d meant to confess it to Lady Hermione directly it happened, but the timing hadn’t seemed right. Not with their impending journey to Caddington Park weighing so heavily on all of their minds. And now…

  The timing was even less auspicious than yesterday.

  No, there would be no confessions in the presence of Lord Stokedale. She would have to bite her tongue and hope that later, in the carriage, when she finally admitted the truth, Lord Lynden and Lady Hermione wouldn’t be too angry with her.

  “I’m deadly serious,” Lord Lynden said. “If you treat my future daughter-in-law with disrespect, the rest of society will think they’ve been given carte blanche to do the same. And that’s something my son will not tolerate. It’s something I will not tolerate.” He gave Lord Stokedale a hard look. “You speak of great families and noble bloodlines. The first Earl of Lynden fought at the side of King Richard the Lionheart. We count ourselves one of the oldest and most distinguished families in England. A fact which you as good as acknowledged when, some years past, you suggested a match between my heir and one of your own daughters.”

  Lord Stokedale’s cold expression betrayed a flash of heat. “I’ll thank you not to discuss my daughters,” he said tightly. “And you’re correct, sir. The conversation you allude to was some years past. When our children were still in the nursery. Well before St. Ashton had acquired his current reputation, I might add.”

  Lord Stokedale walked to another of his paintings. He gave every sign that he was contemplating the handsome piece of artwork. But his creased brow and rigid posture told another story. He was furious.

  “What is it exactly that you would have me do?” He enquired at last. “Acknowledge her on the street? Nod to her in passing? Or do you require something more? A notice in the papers, perhaps.”

  “Must you be so snide about the matter, Stokedale?” Lady Hermione said.

  “If you expect me to rejoice at the connection, madam—”

  “I expect no such thing.”

  “Her father might have been a footman,” Lord Stokedale railed. “A groom in my father’s stable. One of the groundskeeper’s boys.”

  At that moment, the door opened and Lord Stokedale’s butler entered. He cleared his throat. “I beg your pardon, my lord.”

  Lord Stokedale frowned. “What is it, Frith?”

  “His lordship the Viscount St. Ashton has arrived. Shall I—”

  He was interrupted by a deep and all too familiar voice. “There’s no need to announce me, Frith. We are all of us well acquainted.”

  Valentine’s eyes widened as Tristan walked into the room. He was clad in travelling clothes. A handsome wool overcoat worn over a black frock coat
and trousers. He looked as if he’d just climbed down from a carriage or disembarked from the train. Slightly dusty and a little rumpled. She watched, speechless, as he stripped off his gloves and his tall hat and handed them to the butler.

  “St. Ashton,” Lady Hermione breathed. “Of all the—”

  “Madam,” Tristan said. “My lords.” His eyes found hers. “Miss March.”

  “What are you doing here?” she asked.

  “I have come for you,” he said.

  “To lend your support?” Lord Lynden frowned deeply. “You’re a little late, sir.”

  Tristan glanced at his father. “It couldn’t be helped. I’ve been in Westminster this morning. I was briefly detained at the home of a charming widow.”

  Lady Hermione stifled a groan. “Really, my lord.”

  Tristan continued, unperturbed. “She was telling me about her late son. A young man who perished during the burning of parliament in 1834.”

  Lord Lynden gave his son an arrested look.

  “Only one man perished in that blaze,” Stokedale interjected in irritation. “That young secretary of Lord Worthington’s. Rutherford somebody or other.”

  “Val Rutherford,” Lord Lynden murmured.

  Lady Hermione’s eyes shot to his. “Val, did you say?”

  But Tristan didn’t seem to notice his father. Or anyone else in the room. He held Valentine’s gaze. “Your father wasn’t a vicar, I’m afraid,” he said. “Nor was he a footman or a groom or a groundskeeper’s assistant. He was a gentleman. Some might even call him a hero.”

  The color drained from Valentine’s face, turning her porcelain skin to alabaster. “I don’t understand.”

  Tristan was at her side in an instant. He rested a hand on the small of her back and guided her to a nearby settee. “Sit down and I shall explain.”

  Once he had her established on the settee, he sank down beside her. Her skirts bunched around his legs in a profusion of brown wool and starched petticoats. He was aware he was too close, but he made no effort to set himself at a distance. How could he think of propriety when she was looking so lost and vulnerable and utterly dear? When the faintest scent of her perfume sent his senses reeling?

  Orange blossoms. A sweet, feminine fragrance that turned his brain to mush and caused his heart to thud heavily in his chest.

  He wished to God his father, Stokedale, and Lady Hermione would see fit to leave. But they showed no interest in going. They were each watching with avid attention. Each waiting for him to tell them what the devil it was he was talking about.

  “The illustrations in your book of Bible verses,” he said. “In Yorkshire they were covered with ink. I never saw them properly until yesterday. When I did, I recognized them. At least, I recognized the drawing you recreated on the frontispiece.”

  “The stag and the lion,” Valentine said.

  Tristan nodded. “It’s from a coat of arms. Initially I didn’t know which, but a visit to my club soon answered the question. It belongs to the Baronage of Rutherford.” He paused, worried he was overwhelming her. But there was nothing for it. She needed to know. And, if the scraps of conversation he’d overheard before entering the room were any indication, so, too, did Lord Stokedale. “The late Baron Rutherford had three sons,” he said. “The youngest was secretary to George Fortescue, Earl of Worthington.”

  “Rutherford’s youngest son,” Lord Stokedale repeated. “By God, now I remember. He accompanied Worthington here in the spring of ’34. And then again that summer. Worthington and my father were consulting over some political matter. Something to do with the poor laws.”

  “Val Rutherford,” Lady Hermione said. “Astonishing.”

  “Valentine Rutherford,” Tristan corrected. He gave Valentine a fleeting, private smile. “I told you I had never before met a woman named Valentine.”

  “I thought I was named after a saint,” she said. “It’s what Papa always told me.”

  “You were named after your father,” Tristan said. “Your natural father. The man who Lady Sara Caddington went to meet at that inn in Surrey. The man in whose memory she sketched all those stags and lions and wrote all those mournful, romantic Bible verses.”

  “He never came.”

  “He couldn’t. He died when the fire broke out. His mother tells me he was attempting to rescue two servants who were trapped in an interior room. He managed to save them in the end.”

  “At the cost of his own life,” Lord Lynden said. “I remember the incident. It was in all the papers.”

  Tristan couldn’t remember it himself. He’d been too young. Just a child, really. And all he had learned in the years that followed was that the Palace of Westminster had been largely destroyed in the conflagration. He’d had no knowledge of the people affected by the blaze—and certainly not of the twenty-year-old man who’d perished.

  “Do you suppose she read it in the papers?” Valentine asked him softly. “And that was why she was sitting in the church and weeping?”

  He took one of her hands in his. It was small and slim and cold as ice. He held it gently in his much larger grasp. “I suspect so.”

  “You said she was too proud to go home.”

  “I believe her heart was broken,” he said. “And that whatever her father said to her was unforgiveable.”

  “It was,” Lord Stokedale said abruptly. For a weighted moment it seemed as if he would say no more. And then he spoke again, his tone brusque. “He told her he wouldn’t accept her child. That she must consent to send it away. She refused. At the time I thought…” One fist clenched at his side. “I thought it was merely her damned pride. But if she loved Rutherford, and if he’d died in such a way…”

  “She would never have given up her child,” Lady Hermione said. “Not for worlds. Not our Sara.”

  Tristan looked at Valentine’s pale face. “Does it help to know the truth?”

  Her brows knit. “Yes, but…”

  “But?”

  “This lady you saw in Westminster…”

  “Your grandmother.”

  “Does she know about me?”

  “I didn’t tell her,” he said. “That must be your decision. But if you decide you’d like to meet her, I don’t think she’d turn you away.”

  Valentine’s fingers curled around his. “You visited her this morning. And you discovered all of this…” She searched his face. “I still don’t understand why you did it. After what I said to you yesterday—”

  “I’ll tell you why,” he interrupted. “But not here. We will talk in the carriage.”

  She blinked. “What carriage?”

  “The one I have waiting in the drive.” He heard Lady Hermione make a sound of dismay, but he ignored her. He hadn’t come this far to be thwarted by an overprotective Caddington relation. “Shall we take our leave?”

  Valentine cast an anxious glance to Lord Lynden and Lady Hermione.

  “Never mind them,” Tristan told her. “Come. The horses will be getting restless. I didn’t plan to linger.” He stood and, much to his relief, she allowed him to pull her to her feet.

  “St. Ashton,” Lady Hermione said. “This is beyond anything.”

  “Let them go, ma’am,” Lord Lynden said. “Miss March has had enough for today.”

  Tristan met his father’s eyes. For the first time in his life, he saw no judgment or condemnation in his sire’s gaze. Instead, much to his amazement, he saw understanding. Perhaps even a little pride.

  He inclined his head. “Sir.”

  “St. Ashton,” Lord Lynden said. “Miss March. Mind how you go.”

  Tristan led Valentine to the door. It opened ahead of them, as if by magic. How many servants had been huddled outside listening? But it was only Frith who stood on the other side of the door. The old butler looked at Valentine, his eyes suspiciously bright.

  “Ma’am,” he said as he handed her her bonnet, gloves, and cloak. “If I may be so bold…you look very like your mother.”

  “That w
ill be all, Frith,” Lord Stokedale said sharply. And then, “St. Ashton? Miss March? I would have a word, if you please.”

  Tristan’s jaw tightened at Stokedale’s approach. Had circumstances been different, he would have given the fellow the same treatment he’d meted out to Phillip Edgecombe. But one could hardly throw a marquess out of his own ancestral home and into the gutter, no matter how much he might deserve it.

  “I’ll do as Hermione asks,” Lord Stokedale said. “In memory of my sister, I’ll acknowledge you in public, Miss March. I’ll instruct my family to treat you with all civility. I trust that will be sufficient.”

  Tristan felt Valentine tuck her hand more firmly in his arm. She was trembling, fine shivers that coursed through her small frame like electric shocks.

  And, in that moment, he could have happily murdered the Marquess of Stokedale.

  Civility? What in blazes! She’d come all this way, looking for the smallest scrap of familial affection, and Stokedale offered her civility? It was all he could do to keep himself from throttling the pompous ass.

  Valentine, by contrast, remained outwardly composed. Despite her tremors, her voice was steady. “I thank you for your condescension, sir. But I don’t think we’ll have cause to meet again.”

  Tristan fancied he could see a flicker of relief in Stokedale’s eyes. He didn’t remain long enough to be certain. After taking his leave of his father and Lady Hermione, he led Valentine out the door. The butler escorted them through the hall and down the front steps to the carriage Tristan had hired in the nearby village of Bolton Heath. It was a newer vehicle, well sprung and comfortably fitted out. He handed Valentine up into it and then climbed in to sit beside her. The coachman shut the door behind them. Seconds later, the horses had been given the office to start and the carriage lumbered into motion.

  “Are we going to the station?” Valentine asked.

  Tristan’s pulse thrummed. He was nervous and damnably uncertain. It was a bloody uncomfortable feeling. “No,” he said at last. “We are not.”

  “Then where…?”

  “I don’t know, Miss March,” he answered. “And that’s the problem. Where we go next is not up to me. It’s entirely up to you.”