Rake in the Regency Ballroom. Bronwyn Scott
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Beldon nodded. ‘I know. Sleep well, Val,’ he said in all sincerity.
‘Aren’t you coming up?’
‘No, I want to sit a while longer.’ Beldon held up his half finished snifter. ‘Wasting fine brandy is a sin of the highest order.’
‘Enjoy,’ Valerian said from the door. ‘Remember, I did answer your question.’
‘And gave me a hundred more to think about in return.’ Beldon offered him a sardonic toast. He would sleep shortly. Valerian was right in one respect. Part of the riddle in terms of Valerian’s dislike of Canton was appeased. They both wanted Philippa.
Beldon would wager it was for vastly different reasons. Valerian loved her. And, well, love was not a commodity Lucien Canton was known to trade in. Canton wanted her for something else.
For a long while, Beldon had entertained the idea that Canton appreciated the intelligent companionship Philippa offered. She understood the man’s talk of finances and business since she’d been well groomed by Cambourne for appreciating that aspect of the Cam-bourne holdings. The duke had believed a woman should understand her worth and seen to it that Philippa had.
After watching Canton and Danforth tonight talking over the new bank, Beldon had to wonder if Canton’s interest in Philippa was and had been financial. He’d not thought of it before, since Canton was not without his own wealth or the ability to increase it on his own. Canton had no obvious need to find a wealthy bride.
Valerian’s sudden reappearance had certainly acted much like a clarifying solution, throwing the muddied depths of their lives into sharp relief. If it was up to him, Beldon much preferred that Philippa married Valerian.
Valerian was a man of honour, a man who could be trusted to do right even in the most dire circumstances, which brought his thoughts for the evening full circle.
Why had Valerian stepped aside when Cambourne offered for Philippa? What would Valerian have seen as a more honourable pathway than the chivalry of fighting for his heart’s desire? Who or what had Valerian been protecting that would have compelled him to set aside Philippa and leave his own country? They had not spoken of his abrupt departure, but Beldon felt certain the two were connected.
Beldon smiled to himself in the near-darkness. The fire had died down to mere embers. He loved a good mystery and this was proving to be an excellent one. He’d need his sleep in order to be fresh for the trip. He could hardly wait. Who would have thought such a seemingly innocuous jaunt to view plants at a vicarage could provide so much drama? Oh, yes, the morning promised to be very interesting indeed.
Cornwall could always be counted on for oddities when it came to weather. When the rest of Britain’s estuaries froze, the streams near Truro and Falmouth were full of migrating eider and goldeneye ducks. When many parts of Britain thought the dark winter would go on endlessly, the sheltered south of Cornwall celebrated an early arrival of spring. So it was that the weather for the trip into Veryan was mild for January, even though the day before had been plagued with bitingly cold winds.
The last of the guests were gone by eleven o’clock after a late breakfast that would preclude the need for lunch, and the group of four was seated comfortably in Lucien’s shiny black coach with large glass window panes by half-past the hour for the short trip. Philippa would have preferred to ride, since the distance between Veryan and Truro was negligible and the weather promised to remain true. But Lucien insisted on the coach.
‘What’s the point of having such a splendid vehicle at one’s disposal if one does not make use of it?’Lucien said.
Philippa secretly thought it more likely Lucien preferred the attention the elegant equipage drew as the coachman tooled through Truro. ‘Still, there aren’t many days in the winter when the weather holds for a long ride. It seems a shame to waste one of them,’Philippa replied.
‘Ah, but that’s just it, my dear. I doubt this weather will hold.’ There was a slightly condescending tone to his voice. ‘Certainly, the skies appear safe at midday. But I predict clouds and rain before tea this afternoon.’
Valerian stirred in his seat across from them, a glint in his eye that made Philippa uneasy. ‘You sound quite sure of your prediction, Canton.’
‘I am, St Just. I’ve spent the better part of the year these last few years living here,’ Lucien boasted.
Valerian nodded, gesturing to Beldon and Philippa, ‘I’ve spent, as the rest of us present have, the better part of our lives living here, and I say the weather will hold.’ Valerian glanced out of the window and tilted his head to catch a view of the sky. ‘In fact, I would go so far as to say the sun will show itself by two o’clock.’
‘Care to wager on that?’ Lucien responded.
Philippa stifled a groan. The weather was supposed to be the one safe topic of English conversation. Wasn’t that the rule one learned growing up? Somehow, Valerian and Lucien had turned the weather into a competition as if either of them could control it. Although, if she had to place her bets, she’d bet on Valerian. Lucien knew mining, but Valerian knew the climate. His estate on the Roseland Peninsula contained some of the rarest plants and flowers known to grown in Britain.
‘Twenty pounds,’ Valerian said. ‘The sun shines by two o’clock with no rain until after five, I win. Canton here wins if the sun fails to shine and it rains by tea at four o’clock.’
Beldon broke in, drawing his attention away from the window where it had been riveted for most of the trip. ‘Who wins if the sun doesn’t shine and it doesn’t rain? Or the sun shines, but the rain comes early?’
Oh, lord, not him too? Philippa sent her brother a beseeching stare. Worse, Lucien and Valerian looked as if they were seriously contemplating the developments. By the time they reached Veryan, the two of them would have concocted such an elaborate wager it would be impossible to determine a winner.
‘A draw then,’Valerian declared resolutely. ‘If there’s any discrepancy, it becomes a draw.’
‘Fair enough,’ Lucien concurred.
Philippa shook her head and shot Valerian a scolding glare. He fought back a smile and discreetly turned his head to look out of the window at the passing landscape.
The vicarage was a place of organised chaos when their coach pulled in. Samuel Trist, the new vicar, broke away from a cluster of workmen and strode through the soft mud and dirt to greet them, smiling excitedly. ‘You’re here! This is a great pleasure. I was delighted to get your note yesterday.’
Philippa liked the man immediately. He was tall and lean, moving with a loose-limbed gait. Even though he’d known they were coming, he still wore the cotton flannel clothes of a workman and mud-spattered boots. He stripped off his gloves and ran a hand through the shock of flax-coloured hair that stood on end. She recognised his type immediately. He was the kind of man who forgot all else when set on a project dear to his heart.
‘It was kind of you to let us come on such short notice,’ Philippa said, giving him her hand as she stepped down, glad for her sturdy half-boots and short-skirted walking dress of simple merino wool. She’d guessed correctly that anything more formal would be out of place, although Lucien had quietly disapproved of her informal attire.
‘Watch your step there. Some of the mud is a bit squishy yet,’ Trist advised.
‘Reverend Trist—Viscount St Just. He enjoys horticulture. I immediately thought of your place,’ Lucien said, making the introductions. Lucien surveyed the scene. ‘Quite the ambitious project you’ve got going.’
‘Yes, this is just the beginning. The vicarage had become seriously run-down during my father’s last years. I took over as vicar and decided the place had to be brought up to standard. I want something more fashionable, more up to date.’ Samuel gestured for a man to join them. ‘This is my foreman on the project. He can show you the plans while I show the viscount around. There’s not much out here yet in terms of a formal garden,