The Valentine's Day Ball (7 page)

“Then your father was an antiquarian?”

“Only as a hobby. His other hobby was horses, and I was more able to share that with him. Although I was happy about his discovery of the crypt, I didn’t want to see it.”

“So you have never been in it?”

“Yes, I finally agreed to go down there after the group from the university left. It had been cleaned up by then and the rats removed.”

“Where is it?” Lord Devlin looked around expectantly.

“If I remember correctly, it is over here.” Jane climbed up on a small pile of stones and pointed to a mass of shrubbery on the other side. “Father had it locked after they took all the papers away and had examined it thoroughly.”

“What happened to the papers?”

“They are on display at Oxford or Cambridge, I forget which.”

He laughed. “I thought you loved this place so much.”

Jane looked about her then she shook her head and smiled. Lord Devlin could have told her that at that moment that she was as beautiful as any woman he had ever seen, but she wouldn’t have believed him.

“I love the abbey but not because of its history. When I am here, I am with my father. My memory of him is strongest when I walk among these crumbling stones.”

“You are lucky to have such memories. My own father was killed in a curricle race when I was seven years old. I grew up under the thumb of my uncle and my two older cousins.”

The bitterness in his voice was overwhelming, and Jane might have been moved to comfort him had the two phaetons not chosen that moment to arrive.

They ate the magnificent offerings of Mrs. Brown in the bright sunshine by the remaining walls of the ancient ruin, sheltered from any breeze that might spring up. Lord Devlin was at his most bewitching as his tales of the exotic Indies wove a spell around the listeners.

In response to Miss Aubrey’s query about the natives of the islands, the viscount looked about furtively and whispered, “Voodoo.”

Cherry shivered. “Do tell,” she almost whispered.

Lord Devlin’s stories of pirates and scenery were naught compared to his next tale.

“Their superstitions are many, intertwined with their native religions as well as bits of Christianity. It was a well known fact to the landowners that on certain nights of the year it was best to simply lock one’s doors and not venture outside until daylight.” Lord Devlin’s narrowed eyes moved from one listener to another.

Cherry breathed an “Ohhh.” He quirked one brow at Jane’s sardonic smile, but he continued his tale with an ominous laugh.

When his story was told, Devlin’s smile broke the spell.

“A fascinating story, to be sure,” wheezed Havelock, who promptly settled back for a little snooze.

After putting away the remains of their cold collation, Jane settled beside Mary Aubrey. Mary was twenty years old, the veteran of two Seasons in London, and still unmarried. It was rumoured that she would not be averse to receiving the attentions of the local curate, Mr. Primrose, but her mother wanted better things for the eldest of four daughters.

Mary was often overlooked at social functions. Her appearance was neither striking nor repulsive. And her wit was sharp and, at times, biting. Jane preferred Mary’s company to women closer to her own age.

“It is just as you predicted,” said Miss Aubrey quietly, her nod indicating her brother and Lord Devlin dancing attendance on Cherry who smiled and flirted with her bewitching blue eyes.

Jane smiled. “I hope you don’t mind, Mary. Cherry isn’t deliberately rude. She doesn’t realize one shouldn’t monopolize the only two eligible
partis
at such a small gathering.”

Mary stretched her lanky frame and leaned against the stone wall at her back. “Don’t forget, one of those eligible
partis
is my brother. I’ve grown accustomed to that puppy dog look. He’s been making a cake of himself since the day Cherry turned the tables and quit tagging along behind him.”

They shared a quiet laugh before Mary continued. “Of course, Lord Devlin is a different case entirely, but I have no interest there. He seemed almost annoyed when we arrived and interrupted your tête-à-tête.”

“And it was of such a personal nature,” scoffed Jane. “I was merely relating the history of the abbey. While I do not care for Lord Devlin’s manner, he does seem possessed of a more lively intelligence than the average spoiled darling of the
ton
.”

Without thinking, her eyes came to rest on her Cousin Roland, who snored quietly, his head listing to one side where he leaned against a large stone. Jane’s mouth twisted in distaste. No wonder he slept after the vast quantities of food and wine he had consumed.

Not knowing what turn Jane’s mind had taken, Mary said, “Still, he was very solicitous to me, serving my plate, seeing that I was comfortably seated.”

Jane frowned. “Cousin Ro—?
Oh
! You mean Lord Devlin.”

“Yes, Miss Lindsay. May I be of service?”

Jane blushed painfully as she peered up at the tall viscount who had wandered their way while she was wool-gathering.

“No, Lord Devlin. I…I was speaking to Miss Aubrey.”

He nodded, but she felt a fool.

To the group in general, Lord Devlin said, “I propose that we see this crypt Miss Lindsay was telling me about earlier. Who wants to join us?”

Cherry shuddered delicately. “I wouldn’t go near such a horrid place!”

Mary shook her head also. “You must count me out, I’m afraid. There are probably mice and perhaps bats.”

“Lord Pierce?”

“I saw it many years ago,” he said, never taking his eyes from Cherry. “But I wouldn’t mind venturing down there again.”

“Oh, no, Peter. You mustn’t leave Mary and me alone up here,” breathed Cherry, clutching at his sleeve.

The young baron swelled with pride and patted her hand. “Of course I shan’t leave you, if you don’t wish it. Or Mary either!”

“Very well,” said Lord Devlin. He nodded to the oblivious Roland Havelock. “Looks as though Mr. Havelock declines, so that leaves only you and me, Miss Lindsay.”

All eyes turned to Jane who sat fidgeting with her gloves.

“Miss Lindsay?”

“What? Oh, yes, of course. Only I don’t have the key,” she hedged.

“But Jane, the key is by the bottom step,” said Lord Pierce. “Don’t you remember? You dared me to go down there and—”

“How silly of me to forget!” Peter, Mary, and Cherry stared at her, as if none of them could believe what they had heard. Jane never forgot. Never!

Suddenly, Cherry giggled. “I know what it is! You’re afraid to go down there because of that monk being buried there! Afraid you’ll anger his spirit! It’s listening to that crazy old nurse all these years!”

Now everyone turned expectantly to Cherry for details—everyone except Jane.

“What rubbish,” said Jane, her voice as firm and certain as usual. “Come along, Lord Devlin. But I warn you, you will very likely ruin your coat.”

“Hardly a deterrent, Miss Lindsay.” He removed the garment and placed it neatly on one of the blankets.

As they moved away from the others, Cherry’s plaintive voice rose. “I am cold, Peter. Will you accompany me to the carriage, so I can get another blanket?”

Jane stopped in her tracks and turned around. Mary waved her on, saying loudly, “What a good idea, Cherry. I’ll go with you.”

Jane looked up to find Lord Devlin’s questioning gaze.

“I had to make sure Cherry wouldn’t forget her manners, but Mary will take care of it. She is wise beyond her years.”

“Hmm. And nearly as ancient as Miss Lindsay.” He reached down and picked up a sturdy stick. Taking out his handkerchief, he tied it around the end. “I took the liberty of equipping myself with a tinderbox from the picnic basket.”

Jane led the way, talking all the while to bolster her courage. “There is one monk buried in the crypt. His name was Brother Valentine, which is why—so the legend goes—my ancestor who built Heartland named it as he did. It is also why St. Valentine’s Day has held a special place in our family’s tradition.”

“A lot of superstition and poppycock, in other words, for this can’t possibly be the burial site of the St. Valentine who was supposed to have lived in the seventh century.”

Jane laughed. “Perhaps, but the key to what you said is ‘supposed to have lived’! No one knows for certain, and I choose to believe that our monk is the original St. Valentine.”

They had reached the entrance to the vault’s staircase, where the rough steps had been hidden by a well-placed shrub. The viscount pushed aside the foliage, lending a dim light down to the door.

“I’ll go down first. Where did you say the key was?” said Devlin.

“Next to the last step. There’s a recess in the wall on the right, I think it is.” Jane took a deep breath and followed slowly.

I am not afraid. I am not afraid.

“Ah! Here it is.”

Jane could hear the trusty lock protest as Drew tried to turn the key.

Please, don’t let it open.

But her luck was out. The lock groaned but gave way. Lord Devlin took out his tinderbox and proceeded to light the makeshift torch. He took Jane’s limp hand and led the way into the tomb.

The doorway was low, and Jane didn’t bend over enough. The snood that confined her long, heavy hair was plucked from her head.

“Oh dear!”

“What is it? Oh, never mind, I’ve got it.” He stopped, his head cocked to one side. His voice was silky as he murmured, “You should always wear your hair down. It is beautiful.”

Jane was disconcerted by his manner. She took the net and shoved it in the pocket of her habit. “Shall we go?”

He took her hand again, sending exquisite tremors up Jane’s spine. Almost, she forgot her fear.

Once inside, Lord Devlin found a candle someone—probably one of the university researchers—had left behind. He lit it, let hot wax drip on a nearby rough table, and stood the candle in the wax.

“There, now we can see even if my torch goes out.”

Jane shivered beneath his strong hand as he once again led her farther inside.

“Cold?” He turned from his perusal of the room.

Jane shook her head, hoping her teeth wouldn’t start to rattle. Devlin drew her arm through his, never letting go of her hand. Jane made no protest, leaning on him quite openly. Under other circumstances, she would have been appalled to act so familiarly.

“You are afraid. I shouldn’t have forced you to come.”

Lord Devlin’s concern was evident, and he turned to lead her out, but Jane said quietly, “No, sir. I wanted to come.”

“Why? What are you trying to prove? It is obvious you have a fear of this place.”

Jane’s tiny laugh was sharp, but her voice was strong. “I do have a fear. I am ashamed to admit it, but it is true. But this is one fear I can face. I’ll be fine. You see?” She released his arm and walked toward the far wall.

“Now this tomb is where our Valentine is buried. You see the birds—all in twos—that are carved all over it?”

Devlin, standing beside her, held his torch closer. “Yes, if memory serves, St. Valentine’s Day became associated with lovers because it is supposed to be the day when birds choose their mates.”

“Quite right,” said Jane. “So you see why I think our monk is the true St. Valentine?”

“I must disagree. I think it much more likely this monk—who was no doubt quite distinguished since he has his own vault—this monk simply took the name Valentine. By the time he was alive, St. Valentine’s Day had become associated with lovers because of the birds choosing their mates on February fourteenth. And so this monk, this Brother Valentine, had those birds carved on his tomb.”

Jane’s laugh sounded quite normal as she protested. “And I cannot agree with you, Lord Dev— My God! What was that?”

Jane’s breath was suspended as they heard a low creak.

The slam that followed was anything but quiet. Jane let out a shriek.

b

“Shh! Who’s there?” Drew thrust the torch into Jane’s hand, closing her lifeless fingers around its handle. Hurrying to the door, he called again, “Who’s there? Hell and…the door’s locked!”

“L-l-locked?” Now Jane’s teeth rattled audibly. He hurried back to her, catching the torch as it fell from her fingers.

“Miss Lindsay! Jane! That’s enough!” He jammed the torch between the crumbling mortars on the brick floor and paused to ensure it would remain standing.

Jane’s eyes remained fixed on his face, her mouth rounded in an astonished O. Devlin put his arms around her to still her trembling. There was no passion in his embrace. Jane accepted this comfort passively, incapable of either speech or action.

When her teeth stopped chattering and the violent shudders ceased racking her body, Drew said, “Someone will come soon. Remember, Jane, Lord Pierce has been down here before. He will know there can’t be too much of interest and will soon wonder at our protracted absence. They’ll get us out, even if they have to break the door down.”

Thankfully, it didn’t occur to Jane to wonder how Lord Pierce and her Cousin Roland could break down such a thick and sturdy door without the proper tools.

“Who could have closed it?” she whispered, her face still buried in his coat.

“Wind, no doubt. I thought it had begun to shift. We’re probably in for some more cold weather. At least it is dry and relatively warm down here.”

Jane nodded against his shoulder. “And also, Mary was wrong.”

“About what?”

“At least we’re not sharing quarters with mice or bats.”

Jane’s mild attempt at humour wasn’t lost on Drew. Taking her firmly by the shoulders, he looked into her face. “I knew you’d come about. You’ve got bottom.”

b

He released her carefully and set two stools to rights beside the door.

As Jane sat down, she couldn’t help but think on the viscount’s warm comment. Warm but hardly romantic. Yet the last thing she desired from Lord Devlin was romance or flirtation, wasn’t it?

“So, Miss Lindsay, do you go to London with Miss Pettigrew?” he asked, his conversational voice more suitable to the drawing room than a dark crypt.

Snapped back to the present, Jane frowned. Why was he back on Cherry’s visit to London? “No. This is to be her time. Her mother will accompany her.”

“I should like to see Miss Pettigrew in London, holding court at her first ball.”

“Holding court?”

“Certainly. With her beauty and pleasing personality, I predict she will be the reigning belle of the Season.”