‘Nor will there ever be a better one. It was bad enough your uncle and sister saw me with you on stage that day, behaving in a way no well-bred young lady would ever consider behaving,’ Joanna said, blushing furiously. ‘But to have them find me here today, knowing I came because I did not believe you, is too much to be borne. It is best we say our goodbyes now and let that be an end of it.’
‘Joanna, for God’s sake—’
‘Good afternoon, Mr Bretton. Drive on, James!’
The reins jangled and the carriage pulled away, forcing Laurence to jump back to avoid being run over by the wheels. Muttering a string of expletives, he shoved his hands into his pockets and stood staring after it.
What was he supposed to do now? Rather than having assured Joanna that her doubts about his being Valentine Lawe were justified, she was more convinced than ever that she was the one in the wrong. He had been spared yet again; the deception played out to the benefit of himself and his family.
Yet nothing his uncle or Sir Michael had said this afternoon was a lie. The Silver Chalice was his own work. He had written it without help from anyone else and if it did turn out to be the success both men predicted, it would only be because the story and the writing were strong enough to stand on their own merit.
He no longer had to pretend to be Valentine Lawe. He could truthfully claim the role as his own. Then why did he still feel so utterly wretched? Why, at the very moment he had achieved all that he needed to turn the lie into a fact, did he feel it was more of a lie than ever before?
* * *
Joanna scarcely remembered the drive home. She was weighted down with guilt, unable to think about anything beyond the conversation that had just taken place and about how horribly wrong she had been about everything.
Laurence Bretton was indeed Valentine Lawe! His uncle and Sir Michael Loftus had confirmed it. The latter had held up Laurence’s latest play—a play Laurence had credited her with having inspired—and said it was a brilliant piece of writing, while Mr Templeton had said it promised to be as big a success as any of Laurence’s other plays.
Clearly she had been mistaken as to the nature of the conversation she had overheard between Mrs Bretton and her sister-in-law the night of Winifred’s engagement party. Or, as Mr Templeton had pointed out, she had missed some of the more salient parts.
Clearly, the most salient ones, Joanna reflected, and she deserved to lose Laurence’s good opinion as a result.
But, the awareness that she had made one terrible mistake only strengthened her resolve not to make another. Until a few minutes ago, she’d had every intention of accepting Captain Sterne’s proposal and of moving on with her life. But now, in light of her astonishing discovery, Joanna knew that was impossible. She would not marry a man she did not love and turn her own life into a lie as a result.
‘James,’ she called to the driver. ‘Do you know where Captain Sterne lives?’
‘I do, my lady.’
‘Then take me there now,’ she said, staring blindly at the row of fine houses lining either side of the street. There had to be some other way of raising the money necessary to pay off the estate’s debts, some way that did not necessitate her sacrificing her pride and, more importantly, her heart in the securing of that goal. She was just going to have to find it—and pray her father and the rest of her family would understand and forgive her for it.
* * *
‘I’m sorry, Lady Joanna, but Captain Sterne is presently engaged,’ the gentleman’s butler informed Joanna when she handed him her card. ‘If you would care to wait in the drawing room—’
‘Thank you, but I would rather wait here,’ she said, and promptly sat down in the chair by the large palm.
The butler inclined his head and turned to carry her card upstairs to his master.
In the minutes that followed, Joanna tried to calm the frantic beating of her heart. There was no point in putting off what she had to do. She was not going to marry Captain Sterne. It was only fair that she tell him sooner rather than later.
She looked up at the sound of footsteps on the stairs. It was not the Captain she saw coming down, but a young man carrying a collection of drawings under his arm. He was not dressed like a gentleman of means. His jacket showed signs of wear, his boots were in need of a polish and, when he drew closer, Joanna noticed a stain on the collar of his shirt. But he smiled gamely as he passed and Joanna—upon noticing that the uppermost sketch under his arm was a very good rendering of an Egyptian temple—put out her hand and said, ‘I beg your pardon, but is that the Temple of Luxor?’
The young man stopped, a surprised blush darkening his already ruddy cheeks. ‘Yes, it is. How did you know?’
Joanna managed a tight smile. ‘I have an interest in the subject.’
‘It’s not a very good replica,’ the man acknowledged self-consciously, ‘but it was the best I could do from Mr de Forbin’s painting. Are you here for the interview?’
Joanna pulled her eyes from the drawing. ‘The interview?’
‘Yes. For the illustrator’s position. Apparently Lord Bonnington is planning an expedition to Abu Simbel next spring and is looking for an artist.’
‘Lord Bonnington’s expedition?’ Joanna said, a hard knot forming in the pit of her stomach. ‘Are you sure you have the right gentleman?’
‘I believe so. Captain Sterne told me about it last week,’ the gentleman said. ‘He came to pay a call on my father and happened to see a sketch I had done of St. Paul’s Cathedral. When he asked me if I was able to draw something Egyptian, I told him I probably could and he said if it was good enough, I should come and talk to him about the possibility of my going on the expedition with him.’
‘Really.’ Joanna stared at the drawing as the dreadful awakening sunk in.
Captain Sterne had lied to her. He had spoken to this young man after he had proposed to her and had interviewed him about taking her place on the expedition before she had given him her answer. Obviously, he had never intended that she should go with him to Egypt at all!
‘Lady Joanna! What a delightful surprise,’ Sterne said, appearing at the top of the stairs. ‘I wasn’t expecting you to call.’
‘No, I’m sure you weren’t,’ Joanna said, still trying to come to terms with what she had just learned. ‘But in the interim, I have been speaking with this gentleman, who told me he came to apply for the position of artist on Lord Bonnington’s expedition to Abu Simbel.’ She forced herself to smile. ‘I wasn’t aware there was a vacancy. Have you spoken to my...to his lordship about this yet?’
Please say no, Joanna thought, praying her father had no knowledge of this underhanded endeavour.
Thankfully, the rush of colour into Sterne’s face betrayed him. ‘On your way, Mr Stocks,’ he barked at the young man.
Not surprisingly, the young man went.
Joanna took a few moments to gather her thoughts, afraid of what she might say if she did not. ‘Would you care to explain what’s going on, Captain Sterne? Or shall I just assume that Mr Stocks was to be my replacement on the expedition?’
‘Not at all. I simply thought it would be a good idea to have a back-up plan in case you decided, once we were married, that you did not wish to accompany us to Egypt,’ he said smoothly.
‘So it was already a foregone conclusion in your mind that I was going to accept your proposal.’
‘I saw no reason why you would not. Your father is in desperate need of financial assistance and I am in a position to give him that. I also expected that because you and I would be married by the time the expedition set off, you might have a change of heart and prefer to stay in London. That would have left the expedition in the lurch and you know as well as I do how difficult it is to find competent artists, never mind one of your calibre.’
‘Thank you,’ Joanna said coldly, ‘but if we were married and I changed my mind about going on the expedition, I would have told my father in enough time that he could have found someone else. He
is not without connections. But that was never the case, was it, Captain Sterne? You had no intention of letting me go regardless of what I wanted.’
‘Does it really matter?’ His smile was suddenly hard. ‘Lady Cynthia told me you were not to be allowed to go unless you were married, so if you don’t agree to marry me, there is absolutely no chance of your going to Egypt. Either way, we both know it is in everyone’s best interests for you to accept my proposal.’
Joanna nodded, an equally cold smile forming on her lips. ‘I did feel that way. Briefly. But your conduct today has more than convinced me that I would have been making a bigger mistake by agreeing to do so than by refusing. I have no intention of marrying you, Captain Sterne, and there is nothing you can say that will make me change my mind.’
He didn’t look surprised...or particularly troubled by her answer. ‘I wouldn’t be so sure. I suspect your father will have something to say about all this.’
‘I suspect he will, but I doubt it will be what you think,’ Joanna said quietly. ‘He will not be pleased that you have taken the liberty of interviewing someone for a position on his expedition without his knowledge or permission beforehand, and he would never expect me to enter into an engagement with a man who had lied to me without compunction. We will manage just fine without your help, Captain Sterne,’ she said, starting for the door. ‘Of that, you can be very sure!’
Chapter Thirteen
Laurence was glad The Silver Chalice was finished. Had it not been, it would have languished in a drawer for months before he rounded up the energy or the inclination to finish it. His brief spurt of creativity had exhausted itself and he had no desire to write another word until this matter with Joanna was settled once and for all. He had written to her, several times, but each note had been returned unopened. He had even called at Eaton Place, only to be told that she was not receiving visitors.
And so he resorted to his last option. One he would never have considered had the circumstances been different.
‘My dear Mr Bretton,’ Mrs Gavin greeted him as he walked into her drawing room. ‘I cannot tell you how pleased I was to receive your note asking if you might call.’
‘I hope you will be as pleased when I tell you why I have come,’ Laurence said.
‘I see no reason why I should not. I suspect you wish to speak to me about Jane.’
‘Actually, no.’ His smile was strained. ‘As delightful as your daughter is, it is your niece I have come to talk about.’
‘Joanna?’ Mrs Gavin repeated in surprise. ‘Is there some reason you cannot apply to the lady yourself?’
‘I fear that on the occasion of our last meeting, we had a slight...misunderstanding,’ Laurence said, careful with his words. Joanna’s aunt was no fool. She would see through him in an instant if he told her too much. ‘As a result, she is reluctant to see me.’
‘I see.’ Mrs Gavin’s eyes narrowed. ‘So you have come to plead your case to me?’
‘I hoped you might be willing to help me, yes.’
‘I hardly think it my business, Mr Bretton. If my niece has no wish to see you, you can hardly expect me to intervene on your behalf.’
‘I understand that. But the reasons behind the misunderstanding are what I wish to explain to her and she is reluctant to hear them.’
‘Why don’t you send her a note?’
‘I have written several, all of which have been returned unopened.’
‘Hmm.’ Mrs Gavin’s observant eyes focused in on him like a hunter on its prey. Then, finally, ‘Very well, Mr Bretton, I will give you the opportunity you seek, though it goes against the grain to do so. I will make arrangements for my niece to be here and will advise you in advance of the day and time. I will then give you five minutes alone with her, but five minutes only. Do I make myself clear?’
Laurence assured her that she had, and when he left her house, it was in a mood of cautious optimism. If he could sit Joanna down and make her listen to what he had to say, hopefully five minutes would be all he needed. But first, he had to get through his next meeting. One that was going to be a great deal harder than the one he had just left.
One that no matter how it turned out was going to affect the rest of his life and that might make his five minutes with Joanna a complete waste of time.
* * *
‘Mr Laurence Bretton,’ the butler informed the gentleman seated behind the huge mahogany desk.
As the doors closed behind him, Laurence walked into Sir Michael Loftus’s exquisitely appointed library and waited for the man to look up.
‘Mr Bretton,’ Sir Michael said, finally doing so. ‘This is a surprise.’
‘I hope I haven’t called at an inconvenient time.’
‘Not at all. I was just finishing up some correspondence. Sit down,’ Sir Michael said, indicating the deeply padded armchairs in front of the fireplace. ‘I’d not thought to see you so soon after our encounter at your uncle’s house.’
‘It is partially because of that encounter I’m here,’ Laurence said. ‘You left before I was able to tell you something that I have decided you need to hear.’
‘Oh? Has it to do with your new play?’
‘Not exactly,’ Laurence said, sitting down in one of the two high-back leather chairs. ‘It has to do with the last four Valentine Lawe plays, all of which I know you’re familiar with.’
‘I am indeed, Mr Bretton,’ Sir Michael said, settling into the vacant chair beside Laurence’s and stretching out his legs. ‘So, what is it you wish to tell me?’
Laurence took a moment to gather his thoughts. He was well aware that what he said next was going to change everything, but he had thought long and hard about this and he knew it was what he had to do. Joanna was right. As long as the truth remained hidden, there could never be honesty between them. And without honesty, there could never be respect. A man might lie for what he perceived to be a good and valid reason, but in the end, it was still a lie.
‘I came here to tell you,’ Laurence began quietly, ‘that I am not now, nor have I ever been, Valentine Lawe. I assumed the role for reasons I intend to make clear, but it is my sister Victoria who is the author of those four plays and it is she who deserves to be acknowledged as such.’
Laurence waited for the news to sink in. He wasn’t surprised to see the expression on Sir Michael’s face change, but he was surprised when all the other man said was, ‘Go on.’
And so, Laurence did, explaining in detail how Victoria had started out writing and how it had been necessary to conceal that fact from their mother, who viewed the theatrical world with abhorrence. He explained how his uncle, Theodore Templeton, had been instrumental in encouraging Victoria’s skills, and how, when she had written something worthy of production, Theo had suggested that she do so under an assumed name so that their mother would not learn of her occupation and be disgraced by it.
Finally, Laurence admitted that he had assumed the role of Valentine Lawe in the hopes of protecting his sisters’ reputations after they both fell in love with men whose families would not have approved of their association with the theatre. He admitted to having done so without the prior consent or knowledge of his family, and that he had then done everything he could to make sure society believed he truly was Valentine Lawe.
In the end, there was nothing left to say. The truth was out and as Laurence waited for Sir Michael to respond, he knew the man had every right to call him a liar and a cheat. To demand that he leave his house and be prepared to face whatever consequences might result.
To his surprise, however, none of that happened. Sir Michael stood up and locked his hands behind his back. He began to pace, his head down, his brows pulled together in a dark line. Finally, he stopped and fired an abrupt question at Laurence. ‘Are you the author of The Silver Chalice?’
Surprised, Laurence nodded. ‘I am.’
‘And did you write it entirely on your own, unaided by your sister, your uncle or anyone else?’
‘I did.�
�
‘And is anyone, other than myself and your family, aware of what you’ve just told me?’
‘Yes. Lady Joanna Northrup by virtue of having overheard a conversation between my mother and my aunt a few weeks ago,’ Laurence said. ‘Validating that conversation was the reason she was at my uncle’s house the day you also happened to be there.’
‘Then you did not tell her of the charade yourself.’
‘No.’ The comment shamed him, though Laurence suspected that wasn’t Sir Michael’s intent. ‘I wanted to, but out of a concern for my family, I said nothing. I went to my uncle’s house that day for another reason entirely and found her there. Then you arrived and, by praising my work, inadvertently confirmed my role as Valentine Lawe.’
‘Ah. So the lady still believes you to be the playwright?’
‘Yes, though I have every intention of setting her straight,’ Laurence said. ‘Coming here and telling you the truth was the first step in being honest with her.’
‘Because you love her.’
‘Very much.’
‘Fine. Then tell her what you must and let that be an end of it,’ Sir Michael said, abruptly sitting down again.
Laurence stared at him in confusion. ‘I don’t understand. I’ve just told you it was all a lie. That I’m not Valentine Lawe.’
‘Of course you’re not Valentine Lawe. I knew that as soon as I read your play.’
It was a stunning revelation and one Laurence wasn’t sure whether to believe or not. ‘How?’
‘Your voice. Every writer has his own unique voice, Mr Bretton. A tone, if you will, that sets his apart from every other writer’s,’ Sir Michael said. ‘Valentine Lawe’s is quite distinctive and was consistent throughout all of the first four plays. The moment I read yours, I knew it was not the same voice and, therefore, could not be the same author.’
‘Then why didn’t you say something that day at my uncle’s house?’ Laurence asked. ‘From what I understand, you and my uncle have not always seen eye to eye. It would have been an excellent opportunity for you to even the score.’
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