Gail Whitiker (10 page)

Instead, with a regretful smile, he bowed and walked away, leaving her to stare after him, confused without knowing why. Hurting when there was no reason to hurt. Surely she did not
wish
to dance with Mr Bretton. He was a playwright. Someone she did not wish to know better. Someone she would not be
allowed
to know better.

But she did wish to know him better...and three times he had asked her to dance. Why did it suddenly matter so much that he had not asked her a fourth?

* * *

Upon returning home from the soirée, Laurence did not go immediately to bed. He was too unsettled, the memory of his conversation with Lady Joanna playing over and over in his mind.

Something had happened tonight. Something that had changed the tenor of their relationship. He knew it as surely as he knew his own name. Before tonight, Lady Joanna had struck him as being a supremely confident young woman—one who knew what she wanted and how to go about getting it. Only once in the carriage when she had talked about her mother had she demonstrated any signs of vulnerability.

Yet tonight, during the latter moments of their conversation, he had seen that vulnerability again. Her confidence had faltered and she had been unsure of herself, her words saying one thing while her eyes said another. And though she held fast to the belief that it was he who had spoken out of turn, Laurence knew, on a deeper and more instinctive level, that he had not.

There was a difference between a woman who blushed upon hearing something she did not like and one who blushed upon hearing something she did.

Still, what did it matter if she coloured at his compliments? Rumour had it she was being courted by gentlemen far more worthy of her affections than him. The Honourable Albert Rowe, heir to a viscount and a substantial fortune. Mr John Osborne, a barrister distantly related to the earl. And Captain James Sterne, son of Lord Rinstrom and already possessed of a considerable fortune.

What had he to offer when compared to men like that?

Or perhaps she was the type of woman who enjoyed the attentions of one man while flirting with another. If so, he was better off without her. It was only a matter of time before a woman like that broke a man’s heart.

Hoping to distract himself with work, Laurence pulled out the manuscript and sat down at his desk. He had made some small gains in the story, amending the plot to reflect a darker and more difficult goal for his protagonist, and combining two of his less important characters into one. It had added a sense of urgency to the story and had briefly inspired what Laurence had hoped might be a burst of creative brilliance.

But three hours later, with two empty wine bottles on the floor and all of the candles burned low, he shoved the papers back into the drawer and called it a night. He had written only ten lines—and crossed them all out again.

Clearly, this was not a good time for creative endeavours. His mind was too wrapped up in Joanna and with all of the reasons he shouldn’t care about her.

The problem was, he did care about her and, more than ever, Laurence realised that his infatuation with Signy Chermonde had been just that: a silly infatuation based entirely on the actress’s winsome beauty and seductive manner. What he felt for Joanna was already so much deeper because she was different from any woman he’d ever met. There were depths to her that would take a lifetime to plumb. She would challenge him and he her. They would meet as intellectual equals, their discussions about subjects of interest to each of them being both well researched and highly stimulating.

And there would be passion. Oh, yes, there would most definitely be passion. Joanna was the type of woman who felt things deeply. Laurence remembered the excitement in her voice when she had spoken to him about her time in Egypt. Remembered how her eyes had glowed with pleasure when she had stood at her father’s side during his lecture and explained what each of her drawings was about. If that enthusiasm for work was equated to passion for a man...for him...

But, no, it was foolish even to entertain the thought. Laurence knew he was not the one destined to introduce such intimacies into her life. Another more suitable man would have that pleasure. He was doomed to remain for ever on the periphery of her life; a fellow she might encounter a few times a year, perhaps in a shop or at the theatre or whilst riding in the Park. They would greet each other as friends and enquire after one another’s health. Then they would move on, perhaps feeling better for having had the conversation.

But he wouldn’t feel better. In fact, Laurence couldn’t imagine anything worse. He had no desire to engage in polite conversations with Joanna. He wanted more. A lot more. And the realisation he wasn’t going to have that opportunity brought home the futility of his hopes.

He was beginning to care deeply for Lady Joanna Northrup. And he had no need of anyone telling him that down that road lay the path to destruction.

Chapter Six

T
he days leading up to Lady Cynthia’s dinner party were not restful ones for Joanna. Aside from being assiduously courted by Mr Rowe and Mr Osborne—who had taken to appearing almost daily in her drawing room—she was subject to the ever-changing whims of her aunt, who became more of a tyrant the closer the party came. Nothing was done to her satisfaction and the servants were kept busy from morning until night polishing silver, sweeping floors and dusting furniture.

For her own part, Joanna sought solace at the British Museum. The building on Great Russell Street had become a refuge of sorts and she had spent many hours gazing at Mr Towneley’s classical sculptures or admiring the marble statuary Lord Elgin had acquired from the Parthenon and Erechtheum.

Today, however, it was not the stone busts or intricate friezes that drew her attention, but the fragment of black granite taken in the looting of Alexandria after Napoleon Bonaparte’s defeat. The famous Rosetta Stone.

As she approached it now, breathless in the face of such a monumental piece of history, Joanna wondered about the people who had carved it. It was a substantial block of granite, standing almost four feet high, two feet wide and about twelve inches thick. Tiny lines of script covered the entire surface of the stone, each distinct and different from the other. Each, clearly, its own unique language.

But what did it say? Joanna wondered as she ran her finger over the lines. What secrets did it really hold—?

‘The bottom portion is Greek,’ a voice said quietly to her left. ‘The middle contains a cursive script known as Demotic, and the top portion is hieroglyphic. Scholars have been able to translate the Greek portion because the knowledge of the language is still with us, but it is only recently that the meaning of the hieroglyphic portion has become known.’

Joanna inhaled sharply. She had not expected to see Laurence Bretton today and the degree of pleasure she felt upon hearing his voice was undeniable. She strove to keep any sign of it from her voice. ‘Does anyone know how old it is?’

‘The Greek inscription indicates that the stone is a decree originating in 196 BC,’ Mr Bretton said, his expression as solemn as hers as he gazed at the stone. ‘Which would place it in the reign of Ptolemy V. But what matters is that the identical inscription is written in each of the three languages, thereby allowing scholars to isolate similar letters and words in each. Once they knew what the letters were, it was possible to form an alphabet and then go on to decipher other hieroglyphic writing.’

Joanna knew that what he was telling her was not imparted with a view to impressing her with his knowledge, but rather in the hopes of educating her and to share his enjoyment of this incredible piece of history. ‘I really don’t know very much about it,’ she admitted.

‘No one does. Jean-Francois Champollion was the first to decipher the hieroglyphs. He was well schooled in the ancient languages and said the symbols were basically phonetic in nature.’ Mr Bretton reached out and reverently touched the stone. ‘I have a feeling we will learn a great deal more about it in the centuries to come.’

Joanna slid a sideways glance in his direction, aware that it was becoming more and more difficult to equate the educated scholar with the flamboyant playwright she had glimpsed so briefly on that one occasion. There were so many levels to this man, so many facets to his personality. And as each new facet was revealed, Joanna felt herself being more and more hopelessly drawn in.

‘I think about that every time I travel to Egypt,’ she said now. ‘I find myself wondering about the discoveries yet to be made and if I will be fortunate enough to be there when they are.’

‘You are lucky just to have
been
to Egypt,’ Mr Bretton said. ‘Most men and women will learn no more than what is to be found in their books and see no more than what is on display in this room.’

‘But I should like to feel I have
participated
in some way.’

‘You have. Your sketches will serve as an invaluable record of all you have seen.’

‘I know, but wouldn’t it be marvellous to be the one who stumbles upon the tomb of some great king and who shares his history with the world?’ Joanna said, feeling the thrill of it even as she spoke. ‘At the very least, I would like to be like Mr Champollion, able to decipher and read the words of the ancients.’

Mr Bretton’s mouth lifted in a smile. ‘Champollion is a brilliant man. He has dedicated his life to the study of languages and many years to deciphering the writing on the stone. Knowledge like that isn’t gleaned overnight.’

‘I know,’ Joanna said. ‘It’s just that...I would so like to be able to look back on my life and feel I had made some kind of worthwhile contribution to historical exploration.’

‘Do you really place such little value on your art?’

‘No. I know my work is good,’ Joanna said. ‘But I am not in any way unique. There are many artists far more talented than I.’

‘There may be artists
as
talented, Lady Joanna, but I doubt there are many as unique,’ he said. ‘You have far gone beyond what is expected of a woman in our society. You are fearless, and for that must always be thought unique. But I’m sure I am not the first man to tell you that.’

‘In fact, you are,’ Joanna said, blushing. ‘Other than my father, of course, but one cannot put too much stock in what a father says.’

Mr Bretton laughed, the sound drawing appreciative glances from a group of young ladies clustered around a display case on the other side of the room. ‘Of course you can. Not all fathers believe their children are unique. If your father compliments your work, it is because he truly believes you are deserving of it.’

‘But surely yours must think the same of you,’ Joanna said. ‘Not many sons can be as gifted in so many ways.’

She was surprised to see him look momentarily uncomfortable. ‘Gifted goes far beyond what I am able to do, Lady Joanna. Gifted is a doctor who is able to heal the sick. Gifted is a composer like Mozart, whose music seems to come from the heavens. All I do is write stories that amuse people.’

‘Oh, now I really must take exception to that,’ Joanna stated. ‘I am told you are quite brilliant. If you would be so critical of your own abilities, do not think to elevate mine.’

‘You have not yet seen my play.’

‘I don’t need to. Enough people of my acquaintance have and they would not say you were brilliant if you were not,’ Joanna said. ‘You know how fickle society can be.’

‘Oh, yes, I know,’ Mr Bretton acknowledged. ‘But what brings pleasure to one brings pain to another. I do not care for the sound of the bagpipes, yet its music has stirred countless generations of Scots for centuries.’

Joanna wrinkled her nose. ‘If it is of any consolation, I do not care for the music of the pipes either. I am surprised they even consider it music. But then, the Scots view many things differently from us.’

‘Aye, they do that.’

Aye?
Joanna glanced at him, an unwelcome suspicion dawning. ‘Please don’t tell me
you
have Scottish ancestry?’

‘No, but my Aunt Templeton does,’ he said, grinning. ‘Fiona Anthea McTavish she was before she married my uncle, with flaming red hair and eyes as green as shamrocks.’

‘Marvellous,’ Joanna said, laughing so that he might know she was teasing. ‘And here I was, hoping to make a good impression.’

‘Who says you haven’t?’

Her laughter died as his eyes caught and held hers. Suddenly, she felt like a breathless girl who had just received her first compliment. One that meant more than any other ever would—because it had come from him.

Needing time to gather her thoughts, Joanna moved away to examine some of the other display cases. ‘Tell me about...your sisters, Mr Bretton,’ she said.

‘My sisters?’

‘Yes. What it is like to have them.’

He watched her for a moment and then smiled, as if recognising her need to change the subject. ‘I have two sisters and they could not be more different. The eldest, Victoria, whom you’ve met, is accomplished, beautiful and uncommonly wise for her age. The youngest, Winifred, is more beautiful, less accomplished and far more inclined towards silliness.’

‘Are the three of you close?’ Joanna asked.

‘Victoria and I are. We share a number of common interests and see things in much the same way. Winifred and I have become closer over these last few months, but she is still very silly. All she thinks about is marrying Mr Henry Fulton.’

‘That is not uncommon for young ladies in our society,’ Joanna said. ‘It is what we are expected to do. Some of us more than others,’ she added, her voice dropping away.

‘But surely that will not be a problem for you. You must have numerous suitors for your hand.’

‘I do, but which ones are courting me
because
I am Lady Joanna Northrup?’ Joanna said. ‘Why do you think I didn’t tell you who I was the first time we met?’

‘I assumed it was because you didn’t
want
me to know,’ Mr Bretton said.

‘You’re right, I didn’t. I wanted to talk to you as though we were just two people who shared a common interest in Egypt,’ Joanna said. ‘One not affected by who I was or my position in society.’

‘I wouldn’t have spoken to you any differently had I known you were titled,’ he told her. ‘You are still who you are. And we still share that common interest.’

‘Yes, but it would have put a distance between us, as it does now,’ Joanna said sadly. ‘I wanted, for those first few minutes, to be able to talk to you as though we were equals.’

‘Even though you knew we were not.’

Joanna nodded. ‘Even though. I had very few obligations in my old life, Mr Bretton. I was happy to work at my father’s side and content to arrange his meetings and catalogue his finds. Mr Penscott and I developed a very good system for doing so.’

‘You are fond, I think, of Mr Penscott.’

‘He and I share an interest in my father’s work,’ Joanna said. ‘Our friendship developed as a result of that.’

‘Is that all it is? A friendship?’

‘It is all it can ever be.’ She stopped and drew a long, deep breath. ‘The daughter of an earl does not associate with one of her father’s employees, Mr Bretton.’

Joanna heard the brittleness of her voice and knew he had too. ‘No, she does not,’ he said. ‘Nor, if she is wise, does she associate with a playwright, which I should think would be even more damaging to her reputation.’ He smiled, and glanced over at her. ‘However, if it is of any consolation, we all bear obligations of one kind or another, my lady. Some are simply more onerous than others.’

‘I cannot imagine you having such onerous obligations,’ Joanna said, wishing for a moment that they could change places so that he might understand the restrictions of her life. ‘You can come and go as you please. You have achieved success doing what you love and are free to marry anyone you wish, and given how famous you are, I imagine you have quite a variety of young ladies from which to choose.’

His mouth pulled into a cynical smile. ‘You might be surprised. I have only recently become famous, as you call it. Before that I led a quiet life and was content to do so.’

‘So you do not care to be the object of all eyes.’

‘Not of all eyes, no.’ He paused and then said, ‘Only of one lady’s.’

Joanna looked up—and found his clear blue gaze steady on hers. Unwavering. Surely he didn’t mean—

‘Mr Lawe?’

An unexpected voice intruded—and the moment was lost. Joanna turned to see that one of the ladies who had been admiring Mr Bretton from the other side of the room had come over in the hopes of talking to him.

It was the excuse she needed...and strangely, did not want. ‘Well, I must be on my way. Lady Cynthia will be wondering where I am.’

‘I hope I have not unduly delayed your departure,’ he said, ignoring the lady at his side.

‘Not at all. I found our talk most...informative,’ Joanna said. And then, prompted by some flight of madness, added, ‘I look forward to seeing you this evening.’

‘As I do you, Lady Joanna. And I hope,’ he said with a wry smile, ‘that by the time the evening is over, you will feel I have been considerably more than just...informative.’

* * *

Not surprisingly, Joanna was on tenterhooks for the rest of the day. When it came time to dress for the evening, she changed her gown twice, had her maid arrange her hair with a band of small silk roses, only to change to ribbon at the last moment, and looked through an assortment of fans before she found just the right one. She tried to assure herself it was because of her aunt’s insistence that she look well for Mr Rowe and Captain Sterne, but Joanna knew that wasn’t the case.

Her wish to look as lovely as possible had nothing to do with either of those gentlemen.

In an effort to calm her nerves, Joanna went in search of her father. She knew he would avoid showing his face for as long as possible and suspected he had taken refuge in his study—a bolt hole where the two of them had spent many a pleasurable hour talking about subjects of interest to them both. It was here her father had first mentioned the possibility of her going to Egypt with him in the months following her mother’s death and here they still met to discuss his ongoing expeditions to that most fascinating country.

Tonight, he was in a particularly good mood as a result of a letter he had received just that afternoon from Lord Amberley, confirming his intention to fund the trip to Abu Simbel. Now, preparations could begin and her father was never happier than when planning an expedition.

‘Yes, it is very good news,’ he said, ‘given that there is absolutely no way I could have covered the costs of the trip myself. There isn’t enough money left in the estate. This way, I suffer no guilt but still have the funding I need, which means I can start mapping out our next trip.’

‘A trip you
are
planning to take me on, I hope, Papa?’

‘Eh?’ Her father looked up and his bushy brows drew together. ‘Oh, well, I don’t know about that, Joanna. Your aunt is not at all keen on the idea. This is going to be a much longer expedition than those I’ve undertaken in the past and she is concerned that your first priority be to find a husband. Unless you have already made up your mind in that regard?’