Читать книгу No Role For A Gentleman - Gail Whitiker, Gail Whitiker - Страница 8

As Lady Cynthia had predicted, Mrs Blough-Upton’s soirée was a breath-stealing crush that Joanna was ready to leave well before the clock chimed the midnight hour. She had forgotten how stifling these affairs could be and how pompous was much of English society. Several well-dressed couples cast curious glances in her direction, and though she was paid flattering compliments by many of the gentlemen to whom she was introduced, a few of the young ladies were not as kind.

‘I suppose it is only to be expected that you would come back with imperfections of the skin,’ Miss Blenkinsop said, peering with disdain at the offending freckles sprinkled across the bridge of Joanna’s nose. ‘After all, the sun is so very harsh in India.’

‘Egypt.’

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘My father and I were in Egypt,’ Joanna said as patiently as she could. ‘Not India.’

‘Ah. But the two countries are quite close, are they not?’

‘Do you not wear a hat when you are out during the day, Lady Joanna?’ Miss Farkington enquired.

‘Of course, but with the sun being so strong, it is sometimes difficult to—’

‘I would die if I were ever to discover a blemish on my skin,’ Miss Blenkinsop interrupted dramatically. ‘It is the reason I spent most of last summer in the drawing room.’

‘Indeed, Mama insists on rubbing my skin with lemon juice whenever I have been outside,’ Miss Farkington informed them. ‘She said an ounce of prevention is worth a pound of cure and that if I wish to go about in the sun, I should wait until after I am married to do so. And preferably until after I have presented my husband with his first heir.’

Having no idea how to respond to such a silly remark, Joanna said nothing, convinced it was the wisest course of action. She had long since come to the conclusion that she had absolutely nothing in common with the Misses Blenkinsop and Farkington, who subscribed to the popular belief that young women should do nothing that might detract from their eligibility as wives. They were like hothouse flowers: best viewed from a distance and preferably in the rarefied atmosphere of a drawing room.

Then, a collective sigh echoed around the room as Lydia Blough-Upton walked in on the arm of a gentleman who looked to be considerably younger than her and not in the least concerned about it. He was dressed formally in black-and-white evening attire, though the cut of the jacket and the heavy use of embroidery were clearly reminiscent of a bygone age. His waistcoat, blindingly white and intricately embroidered with silver thread, had been cut by a master’s hand. The smoothness of his satin pantaloons and silk stockings outlined muscular calves and thighs that, given the rest of his build, owed nothing to the effects of padding.

That he looked like an aristocrat was evident to every person in the room. His rich brown hair was styled in a classic crop and his eyes, blue as lapis lazuli, gazed out from a face more handsome than any gentleman’s in the room. But Joanna had seen those eyes before. Though they had been partially hidden behind wire-rimmed spectacles, the intensity of the colour had struck her forcibly at the time, as had the sincerity of his smile and the earnest nature of his conversation.

A conversation that had given her absolutely no reason to believe that Mr Laurence Bretton was anything but the humble student of history he had so convincingly purported to be.

‘Isn’t he divine?’ gushed Miss Farkington. ‘I wish he would write something for me.’

‘Write?’ Joanna’s head snapped around as an unhappy memory of a youthful infatuation came back to haunt her. ‘Never tell me he’s a poet?’

‘Dear me, no, he’s a playwright. Surely you’ve heard of Valentine Lawe?’

‘Actually, no.’

‘How strange.’ Miss Farkington blinked. ‘His latest play is all the rage. But then you have been in mourning for quite some time.’

‘Mama and I have been to see it twice,’ Miss Blenkinsop said with a condescending air. ‘You really should go now that you are moving in society again, Lady Joanna. It is all anyone can talk about, as is Mr Bretton himself. Is he not the most dashing of gentleman?’

Joanna stared at the man who was making such an impact on the ladies in the room and wondered why he had made no mention to her of his literary accomplishments when they had met earlier in the day. All he’d said then was that he was a devoted student of ancient Egypt—which was obviously not true since his appearance on Mrs Blough-Upton’s arm now in clothes that would have put a dandy to shame proclaimed him for the Pink of Fashion he so evidently was.

‘Ah, there you are, Joanna,’ Lady Cynthia said, pushing her way through the crowd to appear at her niece’s side. ‘Mr Albert Rowe, eldest son of Lord Rowe and heir to a considerable fortune, is interested in making your acquaintance. I told him I would bring you to him at once.’

‘Aunt, that gentleman on Mrs Blough-Upton’s arm,’ Joanna said, ignoring her aunt’s petition, ‘do you know him?’

Lady Cynthia turned her head in the direction of their hostess and her eyes widened. ‘Well, well, so he did come. I’d heard that he had been invited, but no one knew whether or not he would attend. Lydia is so very forward and she has made no secret of her affection for him.’

‘Then you do know him?’

‘Of course I know him, Joanna. Everyone knows Laurence Bretton, or rather, Valentine Lawe as he is better known to theatre-going audiences. His latest play opened at the Gryphon Theatre last season and has been brought back for this one. I know you’re not all that fond of theatre, but you really should go. Everyone is talking about the play and Mr Bretton is himself garnering a great deal of attention. I understand he has been invited to dine with one of the royal dukes.’

Joanna turned back to watch the gentleman who had somehow managed to disengage himself from Mrs Blough-Upton’s talons and now stood chatting to three young ladies who giggled a great deal and seemed to hang on every word he said. So, he was not the erudite student of archaeology he had led her to believe. He was a successful playwright who, judging by the reactions of the Misses Farkington and Blenkinsop, wrote the kind of romantic drivel so popular with society today—weakly plotted stories about star-crossed lovers, most often portrayed by simpering young women who could cry on cue and impossibly handsome men who could not act.

It was a sobering discovery.

Still, at least now she knew the truth about him. Whatever his true purpose in coming up to her in the bookshop this afternoon, it obviously hadn’t had anything to do with his professed love of ancient Egypt. No doubt he’d known exactly who she was, even though he had pretended not to, and his offer to lend her a book had been nothing more than a calculated attempt to engage her in conversation without going to the trouble of securing a proper introduction; something she would never have countenanced had she known beforehand exactly who and what he was.

And then, the unexpected. Mr Bretton, breaking off his conversation with the prettiest of the three ladies, looked up and met Joanna’s eyes across the room.

The contact was startling, the intensity of that brilliant blue gaze unnerving.

Joanna felt hot colour bloom in her cheeks and hastily looked away, but not before seeing him make his excuses to the ladies and then start in her direction.

‘Oh, good Lord, he’s coming this way,’ Lady Cynthia said.

Joanna glanced at her aunt, astonished to hear the same kind of fatuous adulation in her voice as she had in Miss Blenkinsop’s earlier. Gracious, was she the only woman in the room who was not over the moon at the prospect of talking to the man? ‘Really, Aunt, he is only a—’

‘Miss Northrup,’ Mr Bretton said, coming to a halt in front of her. ‘We meet again. And sooner than expected.’

His smile was as devastating as it had been earlier in the day, but Joanna no longer found it quite so endearing. ‘Indeed, Mr Bretton,’ she said, lifting her chin. ‘Or should I say, Mr Lawe.’

To her annoyance, he actually smiled. ‘I would prefer Mr Bretton since Valentine Lawe really doesn’t exist.’

Yet, he did tonight, Joanna reflected cynically. Standing before her in clothes more suited to the stage than a drawing room, he exuded confidence and seemed blissfully unaware of the furore he was causing in the hearts of the young—and not so young—ladies around him. Taller than she remembered, his features were more finely chiselled, likely due to the fact he had left his spectacles at home. His mouth was generous and his lips, which had no doubt whispered many a charming endearment in Mrs Blough-Upton’s ear, were firm and quite disturbingly sensual.

And he wore a single red rose pinned close to the collar of his jacket.

Joanna hardly knew what to make of him.

Neither, it seemed, did her aunt, who was staring at both of them with unconcealed delight. ‘My dear Mr Bretton, can it be that you and Lady Joanna are already acquainted?’

At that, finally, he did falter. ‘Lady Joanna?’ His dark brows drew together. ‘Forgive me. I was not aware of the distinction.’

‘Perhaps my niece did not think to mention it.’

‘No, I did not,’ Joanna said, smiling sweetly. ‘But then, it was hardly relevant to the topic of our conversation. Any more than was Mr Bretton being a famous playwright.’ She might be new to the role of earl’s daughter, but she too could play the part when called upon to do so.

‘Well, it is a great honour to meet you in person, Mr Bretton,’ Lady Cynthia said, either unaware of the sparks flying back and forth between Joanna and the playwright or choosing to ignore them. ‘I have enjoyed each and every one of your plays, though I must say I particularly enjoyed A Lady’s Choice. When Miss Turcott walked away from Elliot Black in the second to last scene, I was quite overcome with emotion. I feared for an unhappy outcome, but you ended it splendidly.’

‘Thank you, Lady Cynthia,’ Bretton said, making her a low bow. ‘I am glad to hear it met with your approval and that you enjoyed it.’

‘I most certainly did. In fact, I was just saying to my niece that she really must see it now that she is out of mourning. I’ve always thought it a great pity she didn’t have a chance to see Penelope’s Swain, but I believe it opened while Lady Joanna was in—that is, while she and her father were travelling,’ Lady Cynthia said with a smile. ‘On the Continent.’

On the Continent? Joanna was hard pressed not to roll her eyes. Why could her aunt not just say Egypt? Everyone knew what her father did and where he’d spent his time prior to his elevation, so it went without saying that if she was with him, they certainly weren’t in the glittering capitals of Europe.

Of course, Lady Cynthia would never wish to openly acknowledge Joanna’s fondness for Egypt for fear it might result in a gentleman thinking the less of her. In that regard, her aunt was no less concerned with the proprieties than any mother in the room and if presenting her niece in the best light possible meant omitting a few pertinent details, she was more than happy to do so. Especially now, when the securing of a rich husband was of such vital importance.

What a pity, Joanna reflected drily, that her aunt was not aware that Laurence Bretton, alias Valentine Lawe, was already well acquainted with her niece’s lamentable fondness for that country.

‘I wonder, Lady Cynthia, since Lady Joanna has not yet seen the play, if you would be agreeable to seeing it as my guests?’ Mr Bretton offered unexpectedly. ‘I would be happy to make available the use of my uncle’s box.’

Joanna’s eyes widened in dismay. Spend an entire evening in his company? Oh, no, that would never do. Whatever good impression he might have made in the bookshop had been completed negated by his unexpected appearance here tonight. And she was quite prepared to tell him so when her aunt, obviously viewing his offer as some kind of gift from the gods, said, ‘How very kind, Mr Bretton. I can only imagine that seeing the play in the company of the gentleman who wrote it would add immeasurably to the experience. Do you not think so, Joanna?’

‘I really don’t see that it would make any diff—’

‘Thank you, Mr Bretton, we would be most happy to attend,’ Lady Cynthia cut in smoothly. ‘But you must allow me to return the favour by inviting you to a soiréee my brother is hosting a week from Friday. As you may or may not know, the family is only recently emerged from mourning after the tragic deaths of our eldest brother and his son and we thought a small gathering of friends would be a pleasant way of reintroducing Lady Joanna to society, as well as to celebrating my youngest brother’s elevation to the peerage.’

For the second time that night, Mr Bretton looked nonplussed. ‘Mr Northrup’s elevation?’

‘Yes, he is the new Lord Bonnington. He inherited the title on the death of his nephew,’ Lady Cynthia said.

Joanna said nothing, happy not to have been the one to break the news to Mr Bretton. He would have found out at the lecture tomorrow evening anyway, and while she had been feeling somewhat guilty for not having acquainted him with the truth of her situation in the bookshop, she no longer did. If he could keep secrets, so could she.

‘Please accept my apologies,’ Mr Bretton said quietly. ‘I was not aware of your brother’s elevation, my ignorance no doubt due to having been too caught up in the writing of a new play. During such times I tend not to study the society pages. As to the passing of both your brother and nephew, Lady Cynthia, allow me to offer my most sincere condolences. Lady Joanna did inform me, in very general terms, of the family’s bereavement, but not of the specifics.’

‘Likely because the brothers were not close,’ Lady Cynthia admitted. ‘One cannot always claim a close kinship with one’s own family, can one, Mr Bretton? As to the soirée, it will be a celebration of good news rather than bad and we would be most pleased if you would attend. I know that many of the young ladies present will be thrilled to hear that such a famous and very handsome playwright will be found in their midst.’

‘You are kind to say so and, if I am not otherwise engaged, I would be happy to attend,’ Mr Bretton said, his brilliant gaze catching and holding Joanna’s. ‘It will give me an opportunity to apologise more eloquently to your niece for not having acquainted her with the truth about my other occupation the first time we met.’

‘Pray do not give it another thought, Mr Bretton,’ Joanna said, refusing to be charmed. ‘As you say, our conversation was as far removed from the world of the theatre as it is possible to imagine and I dare say if you had bothered to acquaint me with the facts, it would not have lasted as long as it did.’

The expression in Mr Bretton’s eyes left Joanna in no doubt that he knew exactly what she intended by the remark and that he was not in the least discouraged by it, neither of which served to endear him to her. Obviously he found her disapproval amusing and her attempts at putting him in his place a waste of time, especially in light of her aunt’s all-too-embarrassing display of devotion.

Before he had a chance to reply, however, Mrs Blough-Upton swept down on them like an avenging eagle anxious to reclaim its prey.

‘There you are, my dear Mr Bretton. I have been looking for you this past five minutes. Really, Lady Joanna,’ Mrs Blough-Upton said, linking her arm through Mr Bretton’s in an unmistakably proprietary gesture, ‘it is quite naughty of you to keep the most popular playwright in London to yourself all evening. There are any number of other eligible young ladies here anxious to make his acquaintance and I must do my duty as hostess.’ She flashed Joanna an insincere smile. ‘I’m sure you understand.’

‘Of course,’ Joanna said, smiling every bit as insincerely. Really, did the woman think her a fool? Lydia Blough-Upton had no more intention of introducing Laurence Bretton to single young women than she did of flying to the moon! It was simply an excuse to pry him away from his present company and to keep him to herself for as long as possible. A ruse that worked to perfection given that Mr Bretton bowed and allowed himself to be led away, much to Joanna’s relief and her aunt’s obvious disapproval.

‘Well, really! The woman is just too forward!’ Lady Cynthia stated emphatically. ‘Has she no shame?’

‘It would appear not, Aunt.’

‘And poor Mr Bretton, what a gentleman! He could have refused to go with her, but he obviously knew how humiliating it would have been.’

‘I doubt altruism had anything to do with it, Aunt,’ Joanna said, surprised that her aunt had been so thoroughly taken in by his act. ‘He clearly enjoys being the centre of attention. Look at the way he is dressed. What is that if not a blatant attempt at drawing all eyes to himself?’

‘Nonsense, Joanna, it isn’t at all like that. You were not here, of course, so you cannot be expected to know, but the first time Mr Bretton appeared in public as Valentine Lawe, that was how he was dressed.’

‘I cannot think why, unless his first appearance was made at a masquerade ball.’

‘As a matter of fact, it was. Lady Drake’s masquerade, to be exact,’ Lady Cynthia said. ‘No one had any idea who Valentine Lawe was before that. Some thought him a half-mad recluse while others believed it was the nom de plume of someone highly placed in society. For a time, it was even whispered that his sister, Victoria, now Mrs Devlin, was the famous playwright and that caused quite a stir, I can tell you. But it wasn’t long after those rumours began to surface that Mr Bretton stepped forwards and claimed the role as his own.’

‘An interesting story, Aunt, but this is not a costume ball and the gentleman’s appearance is years out of date.’

‘Of course it is, but you cannot deny how dashing he looks in the part,’ Lady Cynthia said. ‘The ladies all adore it, of course.’

‘I still think it speaks to an outrageous sense of vanity,’ Joanna muttered, refusing to admit, even to herself, that the elegant clothes and raffish manner did suit him uncommonly well.

‘Nonsense, Mr Bretton is the most humble of men! You heard him just now. There was no arrogance to his speech. No condescension to his manner. He is exactly what he seems. A charming man gifted with the ability to write excellent plays. And to think you already knew him,’ her aunt said in a tone of exasperation. ‘I cannot imagine why you did not bother to tell me.’

‘I did not bother to tell you because I did not know he was anyone of consequence,’ Joanna said. ‘He introduced himself as Mr Laurence Bretton, plain and simple.’

‘Well, he is neither plain nor simple and I suspect if he was better placed in society, Lydia would have already snapped him up.’

‘His lack of a title doesn’t seem to be an impediment as far as she is concerned,’ Joanna drawled. ‘But I am astonished you invited him to Papa’s gathering. Will that not throw off your seating arrangements at dinner?’

‘Yes, but I shall send a note to Mrs Gavin and insist that she bring Jane,’ Lady Cynthia said, referring to Joanna’s other aunt and her eldest daughter. ‘It will be a pleasant change for the two of them to mingle in such elevated society and it will be a feather in my cap to have Valentine Lawe at my table.’

‘I think you overestimate his worth. A number of Papa’s colleagues will be there, not all of whom attend the theatre,’ Joanna reminded her. ‘Mr Bretton may find himself without an audience to impress.’

‘I am sure he will manage just fine.’

‘What if he is already engaged for the evening?’

‘If he is, I suspect he will do whatever is necessary to disengage himself,’ her aunt said with a complacent smile. ‘I saw the way he looked at you. If I don’t miss my guess, he is already quite taken with you.’

‘Taken with me?’ Joanna said, blushing furiously. ‘What a ridiculous thing to say! I barely know the man and, I can assure you, I have no interest in furthering the acquaintance.’

‘Not in any serious way, no,’ Lady Cynthia agreed. ‘Mr Bretton would have to be as rich as Croesus to even hope to justify such a mésalliance. Nevertheless, it will not hurt your reputation to be seen as someone he admires and it may draw the attention of other more suitable gentlemen, like Mr Rowe, your way.’

Joanna, having caught sight of Mr Rowe through a break in the crowd, said, ‘I am not at all sure I wish to draw his attention my way, Aunt. He is corpulent, balding and well into his fifties.’

‘Nevertheless, he is the sole heir to his father’s fortune and, given the state of your father’s finances, we cannot afford to dismiss him out of hand,’ Lady Cynthia said, smiling in the portly gentleman’s direction. ‘When the roof over one’s head is in danger of collapsing, one cannot be too picky about the manner of the man who brings hammer and nails to repair it!’

Laurence was not in the best of moods as the carriage made its way from Cavendish Square to Green Street in the early hours of the morning. He knew he had no reason to feel that way. Compliments about the play had rained down upon his head and he had been sought after and celebrated from the moment he had walked into the house. But it was a house in which he had not expected to see Joanna Northrup—or rather, Lady Joanna Northrup—and that, Laurence admitted, was most certainly the source of his consternation. Had he known beforehand that she was going to be there, he would have left off the velvet and lace and worn more conservative attire. But because he’d known that Valentine Lawe was expected, he had dressed for the part and the exquisite Lady Joanna Northrup had seen him in the role.

What must she think of him now?

‘You’re very quiet tonight, dearest,’ Victoria observed from the seat opposite. ‘Did something happen at the reception to upset you?’

‘Hmm? Oh, no, not at all.’ Laurence drew his gaze from the window and rallied a smile. ‘The evening was a great success. You must have heard all the praise being lavished upon your plays.’

‘I did and it was flattering in the extreme, though even after all these months, it still seems strange to hear people talk about my plays as though they were yours,’ Victoria said. ‘Do you know, one elderly lady called me Miss Lawe the entire evening? I was happy to play along, of course, but it did make me smile, given that she was far more correct than she knew.’

‘Of course, because you are the famous playwright and the one deserving of all the praise,’ Laurence said. ‘God knows I’ve done nothing to warrant the attention.’

‘Don’t be silly. You stepped forwards and said you were Valentine Lawe at a time when it was most important that you did and I will always think you a hero for that,’ Victoria said. ‘Goodness knows what would have happened to our family’s reputation if you had said nothing. Still, hearing you talk about my plays as though you wrote them does take some getting used to.’

‘Sometimes, I almost forget I didn’t write them,’ Laurence mused. ‘But if I don’t talk about them that way, people won’t find me convincing.’

‘Exactly, and I am perfectly content to let my plays be thought the work of my brother so that I can still appear to be the very correct wife of Mr Alistair Devlin,’ Victoria said with a twinkle in her eye. ‘But are you sure there’s nothing bothering you, dearest? You seemed in a much better frame of mind upon arrival at Mrs Blough-Upton’s house than you do upon leaving it.’

‘It’s nothing,’ Laurence said, shaking his head. ‘I’m fine.’

‘Good, then you can tell me about the young lady I saw you with not long after we arrived,’ Victoria said eagerly. ‘The very pretty one with dark hair and rather astonishing green eyes. I noticed you talking to her just before Mrs Blough-Upton swooped down and carried you off again. Who was she?’

Laurence briefly debated the wisdom of pretending he didn’t know who Victoria was talking about, but, suspecting that his all-too-observant sister was unlikely to believe it, said, ‘Her name is Lady Joanna Northrup. We met in a bookshop earlier in the day.’

‘Lady Joanna.’ Victoria’s eyes widened. ‘Good Lord, isn’t her father the new earl? The one who assumed the title after his eldest brother fell off a cliff and his nephew was shot in a duel?’

Remembering fragments of the conversation he’d had with Lady Cynthia, Laurence nodded. ‘Yes, I believe so.’ He paused, frowning. ‘I thought duels weren’t fought any more?’

‘They’re not, but gossip has it that the husband of the lady with whom Lord Foster was involved was so incensed that he punched Lord Foster in the face—’

‘A crime punishable by death,’ Laurence observed.

‘Yes, and believing himself the superior marksman, Foster offered him a challenge, only to find out he was not superior in any way. But never mind that, tell me about Lady Joanna. Wasn’t her father an archaeologist of sorts before he inherited the title?’

‘Yes. He lectured at the university and is a recognised authority on Egyptian history.’

‘How delightful! You have finally met a woman who shares your fascination with the past.’

‘She may share my fascination with the past, but she was not at all impressed with my being Valentine Lawe,’ Laurence said in a rueful tone.

‘Ah, I see. And you’re afraid,’ Victoria said slowly, ‘that having first seen you in the guise of an academic, the young lady will doubt your credibility after having seen you tonight in a far more glamorous and, therefore, less admirable role.’

‘Something like that,’ Laurence murmured. ‘My being a famous playwright didn’t impress Lady Joanna nearly as much as it did her aunt.’

‘And do you wish to impress Lady Joanna?’

Yes, he did, Laurence admitted. He had been looking forward to attending her father’s lecture tomorrow night, not only because he was interested in hearing what her father had to say, but because he wanted to see more of her. He wanted to get to know her better, to find out what she thought about matters of interest to both of them and to ask her about the time she had spent in Egypt.

But how seriously was she going to take him after having seen him tonight in the guise of Valentine Lawe? There had been no mistaking the chilliness of her greeting, nor had her manner improved as the evening wore on, Laurence acknowledged grimly. Did she already believe him a fraud? Think the only reason he had come up to her in the bookshop was to initiate a flirtation? A woman that beautiful must have numerous suitors for her hand, not to mention the fact she was the daughter of an earl and well beyond the reach of a man like him.

‘Let’s just say, I would rather not have her doubting my reasons for attending a lecture her father is giving at the Apollo Club tomorrow evening,’ Laurence said, neatly sidestepping the question. ‘She may not believe a playwright would have a genuine interest in ancient Egypt.’

‘I cannot think why. We are all entitled to more than one interest in our lives,’ Victoria said. ‘Why should someone who writes plays be any different?’

‘I don’t know, but Lady Joanna was noticeably more distant when I spoke to her this evening than she was when we met in the bookshop this afternoon,’ Laurence said. ‘Which is why I intend to do everything I can to convince her that I am an avid student of history and that my appreciation of all things Egyptian is genuine. And you can be sure I plan on doing it sooner rather than later!’

Acting on his convictions, Laurence did not wait until the lecture to settle matters between Lady Joanna and himself. He suspected he wouldn’t have much time to talk to her after the lecture, and that even if he did, it would not be with any degree of privacy, so he decided to pay a call on her at home the following afternoon and to use Volney’s book as an excuse for stopping by.

As such, he dressed carefully for the interview, choosing a well-cut jacket of dark-green kerseymere over a linen shirt and breeches. With it, he wore a pristine white cravat, a very pale-gold waistcoat and boots that, though polished to a high sheen, bore no fancy tassels or spurs. He was determined that when he saw Lady Joanna again, his appearance would in no way remind her of the man she had seen last night.

Unfortunately, when he was shown into the elegant drawing room of the house on Eaton Place, it was to find her in the company of an older woman; one whose wide-eyed expression upon hearing his name confirmed Laurence’s fears that the anonymity he had hoped for would not be forthcoming.

He advanced, somewhat hesitantly, into the room. ‘Good afternoon, Lady Joanna.’

‘Mr Bretton.’ She looked like a vision of spring in a white-muslin gown encircled by a band of pale-green silk, with a darker paisley shawl draped over her shoulders. Her hair, reflecting shades of copper and gold in a bright shaft of sunlight, was arranged in a loose cluster of curls around her face and she looked, in every way, the picture of feminine grace and refinement. But her brow was furrowed and her expression left Laurence in no doubt as to where he stood in her estimation. ‘I had not thought to see you until the lecture this evening.’

‘That was my intention,’ Laurence said, ‘but I had errands that brought me in this direction and I decided to take the opportunity to drop off Volney’s Travels on the way.’ He set the book on the table beside her chair. ‘I thought you might like to start reading it before the weekend.’

‘How thoughtful.’ Her eyes fell hungrily to the book, but Laurence knew good manners would prevent her from opening it. Instead, she looked up at him and said, ‘Are you acquainted with my aunt, Mrs Gavin?’

‘I have not had the pleasure, no.’

‘Ah, but I know you, Mr Bretton,’ said that lady with a smile. ‘Or rather, I know of you and I am very pleased to make your acquaintance. Unlike my niece, I have seen all of your plays and enjoyed them very much.’

‘Thank you, Mrs Gavin,’ Laurence said, liking the rosy-cheeked lady and grateful for her recommendation. ‘It is always a pleasure to hear that my work is being appreciated.’

‘Of that there can be no doubt. I hear there are even rumours that your next play will be produced at Drury Lane.’

‘We are only in the opening stages of negotiation,’ Laurence said, not entirely surprised that word of his uncle’s discussions with the manager of the Theatre Royal should have reached the streets. In London, only the wind travelled faster than gossip. ‘The play is not yet finished and there is still much to be discussed.’

‘Ah, but I am sure satisfactory terms will be reached by all parties. Not that I see anything wrong with your work continuing to be shown at the Gryphon,’ Mrs Gavin said. ‘It is a superb theatre and the cast is exceptional. Your uncle is to be commended for his efforts at making the Gryphon the success it is, as are you for contributing so greatly to it.’

Guiltily aware that he had contributed nothing to his uncle’s success, that it was his sister’s plays that had taken London by storm, Laurence gruffly cleared his throat. ‘Thank you. I will be sure to pass your compliments along to my uncle. But now, I must be on my way. I look forward to seeing you at the lecture this evening, Lady Joanna, and hopefully, to speaking with you afterwards.’

‘I doubt there will be time.’ The lady’s words were clipped, her tone discouraging. ‘I expect to be fully occupied assisting my father, both before and after the lecture.’

The remark confirmed Laurence’s suspicions that the chances of his changing her mind were slim. Clearly, she had not appreciated his being less than honest with her upon the occasion of their first meeting and, having seen him as something of a performer last night, was not interested in furthering the acquaintance. It seemed that while the lady could keep secrets from him, he was not allowed to keep secrets from her.

‘I understand. Nevertheless, I look forward to the occasion.’ He turned to offer the other lady a smile. ‘It was a pleasure meeting you, Mrs Gavin.’

‘And you, Mr Bretton. I look forward to seeing many more of your plays and wish you continued success with all of them.’

Grateful for having received at least one positive endorsement in Lady Joanna’s hearing, Laurence took his leave, keenly aware of two sets of eyes following him out of the room.

He had hoped to be able to explain to Lady Joanna why he hadn’t told her about his other life as Valentine Lawe, but clearly he was not to be given the opportunity. Whatever positive impression he might have made by offering to lend her Volney’s book had been overturned by his appearance at Lydia Blough-Upton’s soirée as Valentine Lawe. Lady Joanna was clearly not a fan of the theatre and had not been to see any of the plays. She was an academic and historian like her father and, despite Mrs Gavin’s glowing words of praise, Laurence knew her opinion of him was already formed.

It was going to take a lot more than an apology, however heartfelt, to change it.