She’d made herself turn from the mirror in self-disapproval. Was she that vain?
She was, if a little powder meant Valentin would not notice how elderly she was becoming. But he would discover the lines sooner or later, especially if he kissed her as he had in the anteroom. He likely had already noticed them.
In the end, Mary left off the powder, but dared to touch her cheeks with the tiniest hint of rouge.
As Mary suspected, this was not to be an intimate visit with Duke Rudolfo and his wife. When they entered the ambassador’s mansion, two other English gentlemen Mary did not know, along with their wives, already strolled about the drawing room. Julia looked dismayed until she realized she was the only young and unmarried lady present.
The gentlemen retired to the billiards room, leaving the ladies to tea and the pianoforte in the high-ceilinged drawing room. Long windows brought in winter light to touch gold highlights to the French chairs, delicate tea tables, and ladies’ gowns. Mary sat at the satinwood Sheraton pianoforte at Duchess Mina’s insistence, having heard that Mary played well.
Mary let her fingers take her through a Mozart minuet while her gaze strayed to the partly open door to the adjoining billiards room. The click of balls and sound of male voices drifted from it, but Mary was aware only of Valentin, who’d discarded his coat to play in shirtsleeves. The half-open door gave Mary tantalizing and maddening glimpses of him leaning over the table to shoot.
Mary forced herself to pay attention to the keyboard for a difficult passage, pleased at the way the notes tripped from her fingertips. Mary had excelled at music as a girl and had mourned when her husband’s gambling debts had taken away her beloved pianoforte. She’d practiced some at the Lincolnburys’ these past weeks, but this instrument—finely built and well tuned—was a joy to play.
When Mary lifted her head again, Valentin was standing in the doorway of the billiards room, his cue upright beside him. Without his coat, his shirt clung to his torso, his Nvengarian uniform having no waistcoat. Mary fumbled a chord, her heart thrumming.
Valentin watched until she reached the end of the piece. The ladies clapped, Julia with enthusiasm. Valentin said nothing at all. He gave Mary a long look then turned silently and went back to the game.
Julia came to the pianoforte, still clapping, and slid to the bench beside Mary. “Tell me what I should play, Aunt Mary. Something the duchess will like.”
She meant something she would not mangle too embarrassingly. Mary sorted through the music on top of the instrument until she found an easy piece Julia already knew. She laid it out for her then rose and left Julia to it.
Duchess Mina smiled at Mary and patted the cushions on the sofa next to her. Julia launched into her piece rather loudly, and Mary sat down, her hands hurting for some reason. She must have held them too stiffly on the keys.
Duchess Mina leaned to her and spoke into her ear. “I saw him watching you. Valentin, I mean. It is difficult for him.”
Mary glanced at the other ladies of the party, but they sat together on another sofa, their full and polite attention on Julia. “Difficult?” Mary whispered in return.
“That piece you played. It was a favorite of his sister’s.”
“Valentin has a sister?” Mary asked in amazement. She’d never heard anything about a sister.
“No more, my dear,” Duchess Mina said, sounding mournful. “Her name was Sophie. She died, poor thing, when Valentin was about twenty.”
“Oh.” Mary stilled in disquiet. “I didn’t know. How sad.”
“It was more than sad. It was terrible.” The duchess lowered her voice still more. “Our old Imperial Prince came to call one day when Valentin was not at home. Valentin had been sent away by the Imperial Prince himself, on ‘official’ business, so the prince said. The prince found Sophie alone and expected her to show him hospitality.” Duchess Mina leaned closer. “If you know what I mean.”
Mary hesitated, worry rippling through her. “I am not certain I do.”
“Ah, my dear, you English are so innocent.”
“I am Scottish,” Mary murmured.
“I mean he wished to seduce her.” Mina gave her a knowing look. “Valentin’s sister resisted, as you might expect, so the old prince, he took what he wanted. No one refused the Imperial Prince anything.” Duchess Mina shook her head. “He let his manservant have her afterward, to punish her for being so stubborn. Sophie could not live with the shame. Not many days later, she took her own life. I do not blame her for this.”
Mary put her hand to her throat in shock. “Dear heavens. Poor Valentin. He never told me.”
“He does not speak about it, no. But his need for vengeance runs deep.” Duchess Mina put her open fan between them and the rest of the room. “Valentin’s hatred for the Imperial family of Nvengaria is great also. It is said he will stop at nothing to destroy every last one of them.”
This was news to Mary. “I know he once tried to assassinate Prince Damien. But he has reconciled with Damien, hasn’t he? He escorted Damien’s cousin to Scotland last year, where she married my brother. Zarabeth has only high praise for Valentin.”
“He bides his time, my dear.” Duchess Mina looked wise. “My husband, Rudolfo, he so worries about Valentin. Of all the men the Grand Duke could have sent with us to England, he chose Valentin. To remove Valentin from Nvengaria perhaps? Was he plotting something against Damien again?”
Mary thought carefully before she replied. She had learned enough about Nvengarian politics from Zarabeth to know they were never straightforward. Nvengarians could have a dozen different loyalties and choose which one best suited the moment without thinking themselves inconsistent. Gossip and whispers were effective campaigns in destroying a rival. Valentin had warned Mary to watch the ambassador—now the ambassador’s wife was telling her to watch Valentin.
“Valentin must miss his sister very much,” Mary ventured.
“Of course he does, dear. He keeps much to himself.”
Julia’s piece came to an end. Duchess Mina dropped her fan and applauded, and Mary followed suit.
“Most excellent,” Duchess Mina crooned to Julia. “Your playing, it is delightful. Now, you must sit next to me and tell me all about your English Christmas customs. Your king has given us the use of a house in Hertfordshire, and I intend to celebrate a very English Christmas this year. I want to know everything about the Yule log and the bowl of wassail and maids stealing the footmen’s trousers.”
Julia went off into a peal of laughter, and Mary raised her brows.
“But is this not so?” the duchess asked, not the least bit embarrassed. “I read that if the footman does not fill the house with holly on the day of Christmas, the maids may take his trousers.”
Mary fought the urge to laugh as loudly as Julia. “I am afraid we never practiced such a thing at Castle MacDonald.”
“But Aunt Mary is Scottish,” Julia said, as though this made Mary backward and untutored. “Men there don’t wear trousers. They wear skirts.”
“Kilts,” Mary corrected her.
The duchess smiled a sly smile. “Yes, I have seen these Scottish men. Your brother, Mrs. Cameron, he wears the kilt, no? And Baron Valentin has told us about your customs—the black bun, and the first-footed man, and other intriguing things.”
“Not all of which is practiced in England,” Mary said quickly.
“No matter.” The duchess smiled all around, her ingenuousness vivid. “Miss Lincolnbury, you must come to my house in Hertfordshire and show me how to be very English. We will have some Scottish things too, and on Twelfth Night have the—how do you call him?—the Lord of Un-rule?”
“Misrule,” Julia said. “You put a bean in a cake, and whoever gets it in his piece is the lord for the night. Everyone must obey him no matter what madness he suggests.”
“Excellent.” The duchess clapped her hands. “We have a similar custom in Nvengaria, but our Lord of Misrule commands that all ladies must kiss him.”
&
nbsp; Julia giggled. “Oh, I think I should like Nvengarian customs.”
“Then it is settled.” Mina beamed at them. “You will come. I go tomorrow to be ready for Christmas Day.”
Julia’s face fell. “But I cannot. Papa has many meetings in the City, to do with his importing business, I think. We are staying in London for Christmas.”
Duchess Mina looked undaunted. “That is easy enough. Mrs. Cameron can accompany you, can she not? My husband, he stays in London as well, to do business with your king, but he will join us when he is able. He will speak to your father. I’m sure all will be well.”
Mary glanced at the billiards room. Framed by the open doorway, Valentin bent over the table, his body like a taut spring. He lined up his cue with the precision of a hunter, then made a sudden, tight shot. Balls clacked and rolled into pockets, and the other men groaned and backed from the table.
Mary’s heart sped as Valentin turned away, lost to her sight. If the ambassador remained in London, so would Valentin. That meant Mary would see little of him for the remainder of her visit to England. At New Year’s she would return to Scotland, leaving London and Valentin behind.
Which was what she wanted. Wasn’t it?
She waffled. “I expect my son from Cambridge any day now. He will look for me in London.”
Duchess Mina waved that aside. “Send him a letter and invite him to Hertfordshire. He can attend us ladies.”
Julia gave Mary an imploring look. “Please, Aunt Mary? Hertfordshire is ever so much closer to Cambridge than London anyway. Just think how it will be if I can tell everyone I spent Christmas with a duchess.”
It would be a social feather in plain Miss Lincolnbury’s cap, true. The visit would also enable Mary to watch the duchess and learn what she could about the ambassador, as she had told Valentin she would. She smothered a sigh.
“Very well, Julia. I will ask your father.”
Julia flung herself to her knees and hugged Mary’s lap. “Thank you. Thank you. You are the best aunt in the entire world. Even if you aren’t really my aunt.”
Mary looked up to see Valentin at the doorway again, his blue eyes quiet but his body tense. He nodded once at her, as though she’d made the correct choice, and turned away
* * *
When Mary departed later with Julia and Sir John, Valentin, coat restored, saw them into the coach. He said nothing to Mary, but she felt the rough edges of a folded paper press against her gloved palm as he handed her in. He stepped back to let a footman slam the door, while Duchess Mina waved them off like an excited schoolgirl.
Mary kept the note hidden until they reached the Lincolnbury house in Curzon Street, treasuring it as though it were a diamond Valentin had bought especially for her.
When she opened the message in the privacy of her bedchamber she found one cryptic line in a slanted but precise handwriting. Meet me, it read and told her exactly where and when.
Mary held the paper to her lips, her heart burning.
Chapter 4
Valentin’s breath quickened when he saw Mary striding toward him through the lowering fog in Hyde Park. The sun was setting and the weather was cold, but she walked steadily in her sensible cloak and hood. Practical Mary. The cloak would hide her identity from the casual passer-by as well as warm her.
A prim looking woman followed a discreet distance behind her. Mary’s maid, he guessed. A respectable widow could not be seen walking about alone, especially near dark.
“Can she be trusted?” Valentin asked, glancing at the maid as Mary stopped beside him.
“A good evening to you too,” Mary answered in her crisp voice. She took his offered arm and strolled with him down a path that led across a wide green. The park spread out to their left, offering a view of horses and carriages on the Rotten Row.
Valentin liked the feel of Mary’s gloved hand on his arm, her body warming his side. Her plaid skirt rippled from beneath her cloak as she walked. MacDonald plaid, the symbol of her clan.
“Yes, I trust her,” Mary said once they’d left the maid behind. “She’s Scots and loyal to my family. She might disapprove of my behavior and tell me so bluntly, but she would never spread tales outside the family. I read your note. What is this clandestine meeting all about?”
“Where is Hertfordshire?” Valentin asked abruptly.
Mary’s brows arched. “You bade me meet you in secret to ask where Hertfordshire is? Would it not have been simpler to consult a map?”
Valentin let her teasing flow past him, enjoying the sound of her voice no matter what she said. “The duchess mentioned her plans for her English Christmas, but I have not seen this house she speaks of. Is Hertfordshire far from London?”
“No, it is only a few hours north, and quite picturesque as I recall.” Mary smiled faintly, the corners of her mouth pulling. “The duchess longs to skate on a pond and savor English country Christmas traditions.”
“You will go with her?”
“Julia wants to.” Mary shrugged. “I admit, it would be good for her. Julia is not wrong that making friends with an ambassador’s wife will raise her worth on the marriage mart.”
Valentin watched horses and riders on the Row fade into the fog. “You speak of marriage so coldly.”
Mary was silent for a time, as though thinking this through. “I made the mistake of marrying for love—passion, rather,” she said, her voice quiet. “I hope Julia never does the same.”
“It is not your fault that your husband turned out to be a fool,” Valentin said, barely containing his temper. He’d heard about Mary’s husband from her brother and her nephew, Jamie.
Mary looked up at him, her eyes tight. “You are blunt.”
Valentin’s anger burned like a low flame, a rage that twisted him and stirred old pain. “He hurt you and left you destitute. You had to beg for help from your brother.”
Mary lifted her chin. “Egan was happy to have me live again at Castle MacDonald. And I never begged.”
Valentin softened his voice. “No. Not you.” He imagined Mary standing ramrod straight in front of her brother as she explained that her husband had died penniless and that Egan was stuck with her. It must have shattered her spirit to do even that.
“In Nvengaria it is considered honorable to marry for passion,” Valentin said as they walked along. “We prize love over riches. If a marriage must be arranged for political reasons, it is agreed that both parties can fulfill their desires with whomever they wish outside the marriage, without retribution.”
Mary’s look turned wry. “Gracious, how very convenient.”
Even her pointed observation sounded musical. “I would not know,” Valentin said, resting his hand over hers where it lay on his arm. “I never married.”
“Why not?” Mary sounded curious. “Did you never find someone who ignited your passion?”
“Not until I went to Scotland.” The words came out of him—truth.
Mary flushed and looked away. “You tease me. I am a widow of five-and-thirty and have a son who has started at Cambridge.”
They took a turning to a damp, narrow walk screened by hedges, where light fog wove ghostly fingers through bare branches.
Valentin sensed that Mary expected an answer, but he was not certain what to say. He’d never been eloquent. “These things, they are part of who you are,” was all he could manage when the silence had stretched too long.
“How old are you, Valentin? I never asked.”
Valentin had to calculate; he so little thought about such things. “Seven-and-twenty as the English would say it. But I am logosh.”
Mary raised her brows in surprise. “What has that to do with anything?”
“Full logosh are considered men at fifteen, ready to take a mate and produce offspring. In Britain your son does not even begin university until he is seventeen and he does not reach his—how do you say it?—majority—until he is one-and-twenty.”
“And then he goes on his Grand Tour.” Mary’s smile wa
s strained. “Before he even considers taking a wife. My husband was seven-and-twenty when he married me, the same age you are now. Only I was seventeen, making my first bow. And now here I am, a widow walking alone with a young, dashing, ambassador’s aide. What a scandal.”
Valentin leaned to study her face under the hood, taking in her scent trapped by her cloak. “Nvengarians would not consider us a scandal at all. They would celebrate it.”
Mary swallowed. “Well, I am not Nvengarian. And I have a son to consider.”
Valentin halted, pulling her to face him. They stood alone on the path, the cold wind blocked by the tall hedges, the maid, discreet indeed, nowhere in sight. “Do you think I would shame you by creating scandal for you?” he asked, anger stirring. “That I value you so little?”
By the pain in her eyes, Mary did think that. “Duchess Mina told me what happened to your sister.”
The words were not ones Valentin expected to hear, and he wondered why Mary spoke of Sophie now, without preamble.
His body tightened. “Why did the duchess tell you this?”
“I’m not certain, really,” she answered, sounding puzzled. “I suppose she wanted to explain that you lived to take your revenge and nothing more.”
An image of Sophie rose in Valentin’s mind, the one he always saw. His sister’s blue eyes sparkled with laughter, with her vibrant love of life. Sophie had remained lighthearted even as they’d watched their fortune dwindle and the house grow colder and shabbier each year. It didn’t matter, she’d said. They still had each other.
Remembering Sophie hurt like the devil, but Valentin never tried to push thoughts of her away.
“She was lovely,” he said, his voice gentling. “You would have liked her.”
“If she was anything like you, yes, I think I would have.” Mary put a warm hand on his arm. “I am so sorry, Valentin.”
Valentin swallowed the ache in his throat. “The ambassador’s wife is correct only in part. I tried to kill Prince Damien in vengeance for my sister. As I was not given the opportunity to kill his father, I thought to destroy his son. In Nvengaria, we are willing to take one family member in payment for another.”
The Longest Night Page 3
