Rake in the Regency Ballroom. Bronwyn Scott
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come to concede!’ Beldon called back good naturedly.
Philippa’s cheeks went scarlet. She didn’t need a mirror to know her face was burning with mortification. They had seen. Beldon’s reference made it perfectly clear.
‘Steady, love.’ Valerian chuckled. ‘I don’t think Lucien’s coming to concede on that point.’
He made a show of pulling out his pocket watch and flipping it open. ‘Concession accepted, Canton. It’s two o’clock and the sun’s been out for ten minutes.’
If her cheeks could have reddened further, they would have, this time from anger. While Valerian had been seducing her with sweet words and kisses, half his mind had been on the ridiculous wager and she’d lost half of hers for falling temporarily to his seductive efforts—further proof that Valerian Inglemoore was no more than the sum of rumours and her past experience made him out to be.
‘How’s the prospect from here?’ Beldon asked, striding to the area marked off with string where the folly was slated to be.
‘It’s lovely.You can see all the way to Truro,’Valerian said vaguely. ‘Philippa hasn’t seen it yet. Now, we can all see it together.’ He led the way to the outcropping, very much aware that Philippa lagged behind, shooting not-so-subtle daggers at his back.
He could imagine with a fair degree of accuracy what she was thinking: how like a man to turn the situation so adroitly. One would never guess he’d been lying on top of her, proclaiming to be in the throes of passion and making impossible promises literally moments ago. Here he was, playing tour guide and looking for all the world like a man whose sole interest in coming up here had been to see the sights.
Well, she was wrong about that. He’d seen the opportunity to get her alone when the vicar indicated he had to go back. That had been the end of his inspiration. He’d taken the opportunity, but done nothing with it except compound Philippa’s distrust. He’d meant to tell her Beldon knew about their past romance. He’d meant to confess the reasons for leaving her. But events had taken a different direction and they had ended up on the granite slab, apparently against Philippa’s better judgement.
Her ‘better judgement’ rankled. It was one thing to know, to suspect, what she thought of him. It was another thing entirely to hear her articulate those ideas out loud. She thought he wasn’t a man of honour. She thought she couldn’t believe in him again.
And maybe she was right.
Valerian fought back a wave of self-doubt. He’d failed to help those people in Negush too, failed to find a way to peace before all revolutionary hell broke out. People who believed in him notoriously came to bad ends. It was not an accomplishment he was proud of.
Valerian cautioned himself to control his dark thoughts. He could not give in to the megrims that accompanied his guilty moods. This was not the place for it, on top of an overhang on a house-party outing. It would be the height of bad form to come down with one of his devastating headaches—compliments of the Phanariot revolutionaries.
Gathering his concentration, Valerian had to admit that the prospect did not disappoint. Once the actual folly was built, it would have a breathtaking command of the Truro area. The vicar would be pleased with the results. Beside him, Beldon took a deep breath and exhaled expansively. ‘Ah, there’s nothing like clean Cornish air. I swear there’s no place on earth as grand as this.’
Valerian smiled at his friend’s Cornish pride. It helped to lighten his mood. He too had loved growing up and living here. But Lucien seemed inclined to argue, suddenly much less ‘Cornish’ since he’d lost the weather bet.
‘I think I prefer the Lake lands with their mountains. Much more rugged, more challenging. Makes the mountains here look like rolling hills.’
Valerian raised an eyebrow, indicating that he disagreed wholeheartedly. ‘While I was away, I saw many different terrains—mountains, seaboards. Some places were blistering hot and others were cold enough to freeze a man’s thoughts. When I couldn’t tolerate the climates, I would think of Cornwall.’ His eyes strayed to Philippa as he spoke the last. He had meant more than ‘Cornwall’ in the comment. The startled look on her face suggested she guessed as much.
Encouraged, he went on, blurring out those around them. ‘I would think of the gardens, especially the gardens at Pendennys Hall and Roseland and all my plans for it. I’d imagine walking in the gardens in those places, sometimes making plans, other times finding peace.’ Did she remember their walks? Their talks? They’d shared many secrets in their time.
Philippa broke away from his gaze and turned to stare out over the land. He hoped she’d heard the hidden message: I thought of you; I treasured memories of our time together. Most importantly, you and you alone sustained me when I kept no hope for myself. Although he doubted she’d fully comprehend how dark his life had been, how far from the light he’d wandered.
Beldon coughed discreetly, drawing his attention with an over-loud voice. He must have drifted off in his thoughts. ‘Contemplating the weather again, Val? Lucien and I were wondering how you knew it wasn’t going to rain.’
Valerian gave a negligent shrug of his shoulders, all glib aristocrat once more. ‘Well, for one, I didn’t say it wouldn’t rain, only that it wouldn’t rain before tea time. As for that, I do believe it will rain after six tonight and before nine o’clock. Double or nothing on that, Canton?’
Canton eyed him suspiciously and Valerian knew he’d be packing his bags tonight. It was a sure sign it was time to leave when one was reduced to the subterfuge of wagering on the weather in order to distract the host from the reality that his guest was bold enough to seduce his hostess right under his nose. Oh, yes, it was definitely time to go home.
Chapter Eight
Philippa was going home. Danforth’s stultifying conversation at dinner decided it by the time the duck was served. She would leave in the morning. From the looks of things at the table, she wouldn’t be the only one.
Immune to such uncharitable thoughts, Mr Danforth held forth ceaselessly about his bank throughout dinner, although it was exceedingly obvious no one was paying him serious attention except Lucien. But even Lucien appeared to have his mind on other things. Philippa didn’t want to dwell too long on what those things might be for fear of discovering she was at the heart of them.
She was certainly at the heart of Beldon’s absorption. Beldon, who was normally very adept at dinner conversation, seemed lost in his own thoughts, letting his gaze drift between her and Valerian.
Valerian had apparently used up his quotient of good behaviour the night he’d squired Lady Pentlow. It was clearly not in evidence tonight. Valerian was in one of his blacker moods, not even making an effort to follow the conversation beyond sprinkling it with an occasional pointed comment regarding the risky nature of country banks. ‘Venture capital is all well and good, but let’s call it that instead of calling it “banking”,’Valerian drawled over the last course.
Lucien took offence, which was probably what Valerian had been planning, Philippa thought. ‘Exactly how is it not banking, St Just? We do what any other bank does. We loan money to those who wish it. We hold money for those who wish to deposit sums with us.’
Valerian sipped his wine thoughtfully. ‘With the exception that you invest deposited sums in high-risk ventures without the benefit of safe investments to act as ballast should the risk fail. Frankly, you and I both know there is a significant chance people could not get their money back. It’s why folk of our status bank in London at Childs or Coutts. Don’t you find it telling that certain classes of people are rather limited in the banks they have access to?’
Philippa didn’t like the gleam in Valerian’s eye, but could find no way to intervene without giving the impression she was championing Lucien. For starters, Lucien didn’t need a champion. He could handle himself well enough in a financial conversation. For the rest, she didn’t want