Читать книгу Valerian Inglemoore - Bronwyn Scott - Страница 11

Chapter Three

Welcome home indeed, Valerian thought sourly, watching Philippa disappear inside. Through the glass panes of the French doors he could see her sit down at the polished cherry-wood pianoforte and arrange her skirts.

Lucien Canton slid on to the bench next to her, ready to turn pages, acting the devoted suitor to perfection. From the looks of him, the man did everything to perfection. He was immaculately turned out and not just his clothes, Valerian had noted. Canton’s nails were trimmed and buffed to a healthy sheen, his face freshly shaved. Valerian looked at his own nails, just as neatly kept. He too was fastidious in his personal habits. He had learned quickly in his time abroad that women responded to two things, cleanliness and sincerity, both of which were in short supply in many parts of the world. But from all appearances through the window pane, Canton possessed both qualities in abundance. Through the panes, Philippa smiled and laughed at something Canton had said.

Primal envy sparked in Valerian. He didn’t want Philippa laughing with Canton. He wanted her laughing with him. He hadn’t come home expecting to woo her. He hadn’t even known wooing her would be a possibility until Beldon had mentioned Cambourne’s death in the coach. But now that the chance to win her back was present, he could see no other course of action.

He’d meant what he’d said at dinner about taking a wife and starting a family—as long as that wife was Philippa. He still desired her and she still responded to him, if that ill-conceived interlude here on the balcony was any indication. He only had to convince her of that. She’d had nine years to nurse her grudge and she’d always been far too stubborn. The sting of her slap suggested the job in front of him would not be an easy one. The passion of her body’s response to his said the task would not be without its rewards. She might have struck him, but he was not convinced she’d slapped him out of anger about his advances. Given her response to him, she’d struck him out of anger over her own behaviour. He was merely a convenient target.

However, he was willing to acknowledge that it had been the height of foolhardiness to seek her out alone, knowing that his emotions were ruling his better judgement. The thrill of seeing her again, of feeling her presence next to him at dinner, of watching her deal with Danforth, combined with the surge of jealously that coursed through him at seeing Canton lay claim to her, was too potent a mixture to swallow without consequence.

He’d meant to confess his feelings to her, to declare his devotion and even to explain away the events of their last evening together as the poor decisions of youth. He’d got nowhere with his agenda. Instead, he’d no doubt affirmed all the sordid rumours that had trickled back to London about him. Within moments they’d been sparring and then, his blood hot, he’d taken her in his arms and silenced her the only way he knew how. But his reckless kiss had been more consistent with the behaviour he wanted to refute than the man he wanted to convince Philippa he was, and had always been, in spite of actions to the very persuasive contrary.

The only thing more senseless than kissing Philippa was standing out here in the cold, allowing Canton to hold Philippa’s attention uncontested. Valerian pushed open the door and went inside. The battle was joined.

Lucien spied his return to the company as Philippa finished playing a pretty country piece. The small group clapped politely. ‘Let us play our duet for them,’ Lucien suggested to Philippa, sorting through the sheets of music until he found the one he was looking for. He gave Valerian a challenging look that could not be mistaken for anything other than what it was—a silent dare. Valerian returned the stare with a short nod of acknowledgement.

They executed the duet flawlessly. Valerian had known Philippa was a dab hand at the pianoforte, but Lucien was the stronger of the two players. He wondered if Canton knew he played as well. The piece flowed seamlessly, the four hands following each other to Lucien’s trademark perfection.

Amid the brief applause at the end, Canton tossed him a smug look of satisfaction. Philippa caught him at it and gave Canton a hard look. Valerian was hard pressed to smother a laugh. Lucien didn’t know Philippa well if he thought such masculine antics would go unpunished. She would make Canton pay and, he noted ruefully when her quick stare censured him as well, he would pay too.

‘Anyone else care to play?’ Lucien asked, once more the congenial host. Valerian doubted any of the other guests were aware of the currents flowing between the little triangle. It was tempting to play, but it was also petty. Valerian opted to refrain, but Philippa had different ideas. She caught his eye. ‘Viscount St Just is quite accomplished if I remember correctly. Do you still play, St Just?’

‘Yes, I do. It would be an honour to perform on such a fine instrument.’ Valerian took the bench and flexed his hands experimentally.

‘I have some music…’ Canton began.

‘I won’t need any music,’ Valerian said shortly and launched into a complicated scherzo that left the audience mesmerised.

‘Magnificent! You’ve been training,’ Beldon enthused afterwards. ‘I’d forgotten how good you were.’

‘Thank you,’ Valerian said, rising from the bench. He tossed a covert glance towards Canton, making sure the man understood he’d picked up the gauntlet.

The tea tray arrived, but no one lingered overlong. There would be much to do on the morrow to be ready for the evening’s festivities. As everyone retired, Valerian stopped off at the library to select a book to read. A few minutes later there were muffled footsteps on the Axminster carpet. He didn’t need to turn around to know the newcomer was Lucien Canton. He’d expected as much. The problem with perfection was that it was often predictable.

‘I thought you and I should talk, St Just. Have a seat.’ Canton sat down and motioned to the chair across from him.

‘You have an extensive collection of books,’ Valerian said glibly.

Canton waved away the attempt at small talk. ‘I am not here to trade banalities with you. I came to make sure you understood how things stand between myself and Lady Cambourne.’ His eyes glittered like hard gems.

Valerian steepled his hands. ‘I understand from Pendennys that she is acting as hostess in your sister’s stead,’ he said, deliberately misinterpreting the implications of Canton’s message. If the man wanted to stake his claim, he’d have to do it directly. He would not get away with subtlety.

‘She is more than my hostess. We have discussed the possibility of a more permanent arrangement between us. I mean to propose marriage to her and I have every reason to believe that my suit would be met favourably.’

‘Why are you telling me, a mere stranger, this?’

‘You know very well why—you didn’t take her into dinner for the sake of old friendships renewed and all that. I did not know the depth of your former relationship was quite so, ah, developed. It is clearly much more than a friendship. No one looks at an old friend the way you looked at her tonight.’

‘And how is that?’ He’d been more transparent than he thought, or perhaps Canton was simply more astute.

‘Like a starving man looks at a feast,’ Canton said acidly.

Valerian raised his eyebrows, ready to strike. ‘Is that cliché the best you can do?’ He liked Canton less and less by the moment and not all of it had to do with envy. All his instincts said Canton had ulterior motives regarding Philippa. A man in love and certain of his affections being returned would not feel a need to stake such a blatant claim. Canton’s next statement confirmed Valerian’s suspicions.

‘I know you didn’t go to the drawing room to study the Gainsborough when you left the dining room,’ Canton said, referring to the facile lie Valerian had used to excuse himself and to follow Philippa. ‘My footman reported the two of you were out on the balcony, intimately engaged.’

‘Spying on your guests? That’s quite an admirable trait,’ Valerian said drily. ‘I wonder how the Duchess would feel if she knew you had her followed. Do you do it regularly?’ He rose, book in hand. ‘I’ve had enough of this gentlemanly conversation. Goodnight, Canton.’

Lucien rose with him. ‘I mean to have her, St Just. She’s mine. I’m the one who has been here through the years when she was in mourning. You can’t waltz into my home after a nine-year absence and undo in the span of a few short hours what I’ve worked years to accomplish.’

Valerian stopped at the door, his hand forcefully gripping the knob as he reined in his temper. He’d faced down Mehemet Ali, the renowned Egyptian naval commander. By God, he would not suffer the threats of a viscount’s top-lofty heir whose only pretension to greatness was his father’s title. ‘You’re wrong, Canton. If a stolen kiss and a dinner among others are all it takes to “undo” your hard work, it was never “done” in the first place.’

He strode purposefully up the stairs to his chambers, fitting pieces together in his mind. He knew now what he didn’t like about Lucien Canton beyond the simple fact that he coveted Philippa: Lucien Canton was dangerous.

Behind his polished perfection was a lethal streak. He’d seen men like Canton during his years abroad in the highest levels of covert intelligence and diplomacy, catapulted into such positions because of their cunning and arch-shrewdness. To these men, attainment of their goal was everything. Nothing was too sacred to escape sacrifice. There was something Lucien Canton wanted and Philippa was a vital link in his ability to get it. He speculated that Lucien Canton would be willing to do more than marry to secure it as well.

The man had portrayed no signs of lover-like affections, but had instead acted like a man in possession of a great treasure around which he must place guards and fences. It didn’t take a large amount of speculation, even knowing as little as he did about the state of Philippa’s inheritance from Cambourne, to surmise Canton had his eye on some aspect of her estate.

Beldon had asked him in the coach if he believed in serendipity. Absolutely not. He had not survived the dark side of diplomacy by luck. He’d survived because he believed a man made his own chances. From the looks of things, Lucien Canton believed that too. That made the man more dangerous than he might have been otherwise.

He wondered if Philippa knew Canton didn’t love her, but what she owned. If not, he’d be sure to call it to her attention by showing her the depths of his own passion for her. It looked like he wouldn’t make Roseland Hall by New Year after all.

31 December

The dancers whirled about Valerian in a dervish of luxurious winter velvets and satins to a rowdy country dance played by the five-piece orchestra seated above the crowd in the small balcony at the top of the ballroom, designed for just such a purpose. The guests were in high spirits as midnight approached. Philippa had done a splendid job playing hostess, making sure everyone had partners for dancing. No one went unnoticed, from the plainest of girls to the quietest of matrons.

He and Beldon had done their parts to ensure her success in that pursuit. They’d danced with the matrons and charmed the local wallflowers until they blossomed.

But for the most part, Valerian had spent the evening listening to the rhythm of Cornwall. What did people think about these days? What was the lifeblood of the Cornish economy? Where did people think their future lay? The answer repeatedly came back to mining.

It was not surprising. Mining had been an ongoing consideration in the region for literally centuries. Valerian’s own family had mining interests upon which the family fortunes were built. He knew the Duke of Cambourne had invested heavily in tin and copper mines as well as the ancillary businesses that accompanied the industry of mining: smelting, furnace parts and mining equipment.

What did surprise him was the growing competition. Mining had not yet reached its apex, but the foundations for managing those future interests were being laid now. Mining had become a full blown industry and much more highly politicised than it had been before.

Valerian had caught snatches of conversations regarding mining-related legislation. House of Commons members, home from the Michaelmas session of Parliament, and members of the House of Lords, debated the need for safety laws that ensured a quality of life for the miners and their families.

More intriguing to Valerian were the conversations he overheard regarding the merits of importing metal ores from British settlements in Chile and Argentina. The capitalists of the group argued importing would certainly help meet growing industrial need, while other, cooler, heads argued for caution; glutting the market with copper and tin would drive the price down, which in turn would affect the domestic market’s ability to turn a profit.

Canton sided with the capitalists, avidly arguing for aggressive expansion in South American mining. Valerian’s earlier suspicions about Canton coveting the assets brought to him through marriage to Philippa were finding substantiation in Canton’s avaricious stance on the economics of mining. Valerian made a mental note to ask Beldon about the extent of Philippa’s mining assets.

‘Fifteen minutes until midnight!’ The cry went up from the orchestra conductor, who urged everyone to find a partner for the ‘last waltz of the year’. There was an excited flurry on the dance floor as people laughingly paired up.

Valerian strode purposefully towards the group Philippa stood with. Other than acting as a willing dance partner for her wallflowers, Valerian had stayed apart from her. He preferred to study her movements and behaviour from afar—a certain kind of exquisite torture he’d imposed on himself as punishment for the prior evening. In hindsight, he acknowledged that he had not handled himself well on the balcony. He’d rushed his fences without knowing his quarry.

Tonight, she sparkled among an already glittering crowd. The deep gold of her gown was an elegant foil for the mass of burnished hair piled on her head and coiffed in strands of gold, woven through the coils like other women wove pearls. Her long neck was shown to advantage with the upsweep of her hair and Valerian was seized with the urge to kiss her nape as he came up behind her. He settled for putting his hands on her shoulders as if he were settling an imaginary cloak about her. He bent close to her ear, saying, ‘I believe this dance is mine.’

It was a proprietary overture on his part and he knew it well. Most women thrilled to such a seductive, possessive claim. Odds were that Philippa wouldn’t. But neither would she be able to politely refuse without looking like a shrew in front of the others.

Whatever scold she had in store for him would be worth the feel of her in his arms. Waltzing was something they’d done often and well in the old days.

‘Viscount,’ Philippa said, recovering from having been caught unaware by his gambit, ‘I thought you’d forgotten. You’ve left it until the last minute.’ She gave a smile, forced to cover for his presumptions.

‘My apologies.’ Valerian swept her a gallant bow and escorted her to the dance floor, knowing he wouldn’t get off that easily. He had no sooner fitted his hand against her back when she showed her displeasure.

‘Don’t ever handle me like that again,’ she began.

‘I am afraid it would be rather difficult to dance without touching you,’ Valerian said obtusely.

‘That’s not what I meant and you know it. You put me in a position where I could not refuse you without looking rag-mannered. Moreover, you insinuated claims on my attentions that you do not have.’

‘Haven’t I?’ He couldn’t resist the temptation to flirt with her.

The music started up before she could fire another insult at his head. Valerian swept her out into the centre of the floor, effortlessly creating space for them in the crowd. He was confident her pique wouldn’t last long. Philippa could not resist the lure of the waltz. It had always been her favourite dance.

He had waltzed women across dance floors from the Black Sea to St Mark’s Square in Venice, but no partner could rival the beauty of Philippa in his arms. Her long legs matched his stride with ease; her body answered the subtle guidance of his hand. She was all fluid grace as they moved through the turn at the top of the ballroom, her anger at him erased in the exhilaration of the dance.

They turned swiftly and tightly, giving him a reason to bring her up close to him instead of holding her at arm’s length. She gasped at the change in contact, then threw back her head and gave an honest laugh. ‘You waltz scandalously, St Just. Is this how they do it in Vienna?’

‘It’s how I do it.’ He wondered how long he could keep her like this. The sight of her smile was breathtaking. In that moment, the smile was all for him. It was not her hostess smile, or her duchess smile, just her smile. A smile he’d known for years. It was the smile she’d given him when they raced neck or nothing, the smile she’d given him when they’d danced at her début, the smile she’d given him the first time he’d kissed her, deeply, thoroughly, and she’d recognised him as a man of powerful urges.

He laughed back and whirled them about at a faster pace, heedless of convention. The dancing halted promptly at midnight in order for the ballroom to cheer in the New Year. Both of them were laughing and breathless. Valerian had his arm about her waist, keeping her close at his side, enjoying her unhampered good humour.

All her masks were off and she was Philippa Stratten beside him once more. His masks were off too. He was simply a young man again, in the throes of a first and true love, untouched by the rougher edges of life. A giddy elation fired his blood at the final stroke of midnight. As the raucous cheers went up, he recklessly pulled her to him and kissed her full on the mouth. Her arms wound around his neck and her head tipped back to take his kiss completely. There was an unequalled sweetness in knowing she felt the fire, too, and had given herself over to it. In that moment Valerian swore a silent resolution to himself in the fashion of old English tradition. By this time next year, he would have her. He’d already lived too long without her.

The orchestra struck up a tune for another waltz before the guests headed in for the New Year’s supper. Valerian swung her into the dance without asking. She protested with a laugh, ‘We’ve already danced once tonight.’

‘That was last year,’ Valerian parried easily, his elation only partially dampened by the stare of an infuriated Lucien Canton, who watched them from the sidelines, rage emanating from every pore of his impeccably groomed form.

Lucien viewed the pair waltzing with abandon and a disgusting amount of apparent ease in each other’s arms. They were beautiful to watch as long as one wasn’t also watching one’s opportunity to marry one of them decreasing exponentially. Valerian Inglemoore was most definitely an unlooked-for complication in the progress of his plans. He had meant to propose to Philippa in the spring when he could do it in high style in London among the haut monde. Watching her with the newly returned viscount, Lucien knew without doubt he couldn’t wait that long.

He had to strike before the iron was hot, as it were. Most people who knew him believed him to be a keen judge of human nature. Lucien knew his accuracy in guessing people’s motivations and desires was partly his own intuition, but also partly because he spied on everyone in his milieu. The duchess was not exempt.

His spies indicated that the viscount was besotted with her, stealing away from the dinner table last night to steal kisses on the veranda. It was no balm to Lucien’s concern that his spy also reported Philippa had slapped the bastard across the face. At the moment she might be conflicted over her response to the return of her curious friend, but hate ran a close parallel to love. From what Lucien had seen, if he waited until spring, the lovely and pivotal duchess would no longer be interested or available.

Without the Cambourne mines, his hopes to corner the tin market and establish an elite, profitable tin cartel, with holdings in Britain and South America, would become an idle dream. And without access to the Cambourne finances, he’d be hard pressed to cover some of his investments. It didn’t take any amount of genius to know that if St Just claimed Philippa’s affections, Lucien’s own friendship with her would come to a quick end. St Just was not the type of man who’d allow his wife to keep a close male friend.

Lucien’s hard gaze followed St Just into the last turn of the waltz. He’d ordered murder done before to get what he wanted. He wouldn’t hesitate to see it done again.