Valerian Inglemoore. Bronwyn Scott
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were places in Europe the mails didn’t reach, places with names like Voden and Negush. Places that didn’t appear on a map unless you were a Turkish Pasha charged with keeping the Christian millet in line.
‘Cambourne died three years ago in a mining accident. There was a cave-in while he was touring one of his tin mines. It was a freak incident. A shaft support gave way. The miners pulled him out, but he died of his injuries three days later at home.’
Philippa was a widow. The implications were not lost on him. Valerian’s emotions ricocheted from a morbid elation that Philippa was free to a sadness that she’d had to bear the loss of a husband, set adrift in society as a dowager so early in life.
‘I hope Cambourne left her well provided for,’ he said quietly, knowing that the Pendennys’s fortunes had rested so completely on Cambourne’s welfare. Valerian didn’t like to think that her marriage had come to naught.
‘Absolutely. He had a cousin who inherited the title and the other estates, but Philippa has all she needs or wants. Of course, the principal estate went to his heir, but Philippa has the house in Cornwall where they spent their marriage. To my mind, she got the better end of the deal. Coppercrest is a much more hospitable dwelling. Even Cambourne himself preferred it.
‘“The heir” isn’t much on going up to town, so Philippa has free run of the town house. Cambourne also bequeathed her a substantial interest in the mines and the associate businesses. He owned a tin smelter and a small gunpowder works.’
Valerian only half-listened to Beldon’s itemization of Philippa’s situation. The first line had caught most of his attention—a cousin had inherited. Ah, there were no children. Another delicate question answered. Valerian wondered if Beldon had shared that information on purpose or if it had been accidental.
Beldon chuckled softly. ‘I forget that you haven’t seen her recently. She’s much changed since you saw her last. She’s not a budding débutante any more. She’s a sophisticated woman now, as comfortable in town among the leading hostesses and politicians as she is in the country, tramping over the cliffs and riding neck-for-nothing at the hunt. When she’s in town, her house teems with politicos. Everyone seeks her endorsement and asks her opinion. She’s a leading supporter of mine reform these days, and with justifiable reason.’
Valerian smiled thoughtfully in the gathering gloom. The grey afternoon was turning towards evening. Truro couldn’t be more than a few miles in the offing. Beldon’s revelations were enough to fill the time. Valerian turned his mind inwards, pondering all Beldon had shared.
Philippa was free. In a fairy-tale world, he would have a second chance. But his world was far from a fairy tale. They had parted badly nine years ago. Philippa’s final words to him were still achingly clear. And now there was all he had done during those years to contend with as well. His years in the Balkans had left him with another set of nightmares, another set of people he’d failed in their hour of need. Those failures hung like an invisible millstone about his neck, even when he was able to subdue the more physical reminders of his futile efforts.
He’d been surprised in London to know how much people had heard about his antics on the Continent. Of course, no one had known the depth of such shenanigans, but they knew the gist. He’d led a flamboyant lifestyle in Vienna during his brief time there, playing the role of a womanising diplomat. It had been the perfect foil for something darker that took him to the sinister underbelly of the rebellions popping up across Europe. He’d been nothing short of an expert spy and negotiator, engaging in the kind of diplomacy that never made the broadsheets.
‘We’ll stop tonight at Lucien Canton’s place just outside Truro. It’ll be much better than an inn. He has an excellent cook and an even better cellar,’ Beldon broke into Valerian’s ruminations.
Valerian nodded, only half-engaged in the conversation. ‘It won’t be an imposition, I hope?’ He didn’t remember this friend of Beldon’s from their early days as young bucks on the town. ‘I don’t believe I know him.’
‘He’s Viscount Montfort’s son and heir. He was close to Cambourne before his death. Since then, he’s been Philippa’s strong right hand.’
Valerian couldn’t quite read Beldon’s expression. It didn’t seem that Beldon was precisely elated about the man’s association with his sister, but had resigned himself to it. Beldon’s conversation was moving on. ‘It will be a party before the party, the three of us together again like old times. With luck, Philippa is there already. Lucien asked her to act as hostess for his New Year’s gala since she’s the best hostess in the neighbourhood and his sister couldn’t come down from London to do it.’
Now Valerian was fully engaged. ‘Philippa will be there?’ Regardless of Beldon’s assurances that Lucien Canton was a grand chap, Valerian doubted he’d like the man very much. He was inclined to dislike any man who had a claim on Philippa’s attentions and this Lucien clearly did. No one played hostess for someone they didn’t know well. They must be good friends indeed and perhaps something more.
Beldon grinned and leaned forwards in his growing excitement. ‘Yes. She will be beyond surprised to see you.’
She would indeed, Valerian reflected wryly, although he and Beldon would likely disagree about her reaction to that surprise.
Philippa Lytton, the widowed duchess of Cambourne, glided down the curved staircase of Lucien Canton’s Truro manor at half-past six, consciously aware that she would be the last one to the drawing room and that she’d be the only female present. What had started out as a small en famille supper with Canton and the bachelor vicar from down the road had turned into a supper party with three unexpected guests.
One of them was her brother, Beldon, who had arrived unannounced just two hours ago and a guest he’d brought with him. Beldon’s arrival was understandable given the terrible weather and the fact that she was already in residence. The third guest’s presence was less clearly explained. Lucien knew him only through the acquaintances of others. He was a Mister Danforth, a well-to-do shipping merchant from Liverpool who hoped to start a provincial bank. He was not someone they would normally associate with. He was a rich Cit who’d made most of his money during the war, making his fortune somewhat speculative as to the legitimacy of its origins. But the underpopulated wilds of Cornwall in mid-winter and his tenuous connection to Lucien made it difficult to turn him away.
Philippa stopped at the foot of the stairs to draw a deep breath and square her shoulders. She stole a glance in the hallway mirror as a final check. She looked fine with her hair piled high and threaded with pearls. The heavy satin folds of her skirts fell neatly to her ankles into a deep Van-dyked hem. She liked the quiet shushing of the satin skirt as she walked.
Indeed, she loved this gown for its textures and feel as much as she loved it for its look. The cream skirt was set off by the deep blue velvet of the round bodice that fell low over her shoulders and into a plunging vee in the back. She fiddled with the simple choker of blue Kashmir sapphires that set off the expanse between her neck and the delicate cream-lace trim of her bodice.
She looked well. Not that she wanted to attract any attention. She wasn’t dressing for a man’s approval, not even Lucien’s, although he’d readily give it. Being in high looks boosted her confidence, a security blanket of sorts. In a room dominated by the male species, one could never have too much confidence if one was going to hold one’s own.
She stepped into the wide doorway of the drawing room, her eyes quickly assessing the gathering. Lucien stood at the carved-oak fireplace mantel, dressed in dark evening clothes, looking slender and elegant with his usual immaculate perfection. He was doing his host’s duty by chatting with the unworthy Mr Danforth. Across the room in a little grouping of chairs situated beneath an expansive Gainsborough landscape sat her brother, the vicar and apparently the guest her brother had brought with him. The guest’s back was to her, affording her only a glimpse of broad shoulders and dark hair, sleek in the evening light of candles.
Beldon saw her first. He gestured that she should join them, saving her from joining Lucien and his odious guest at the fireplace.