Fortune's Flower (Passport to Romance Book 1)

by Anthea Lawson

  “I suppose a certain continental flair in dressing is to be expected. And her choice of fiancé shows impeccable judgment.” Lady Fernhaven nodded.

  Lily hoped the baronessa had made the right choice in Lord Severn. After all, she had been so wrong about James. But anyone could make a mistake. Hadn’t Lily done so herself? James had been handsome and kind and honorable—or at least had appeared to be.

  Her mother laid the paper aside and took a sip of tea. “Lord Buckley is escorting us to a picnic this afternoon. And the weather is so lovely for it. We shall have a splendid time.”

  “Oh yes, a perfectly splendid time.” Lily wasn’t sure she could bear another outing. Perhaps she was developing a headache. She drew her brows tightly together. Yes, there it was now.

  “I am not feeling quite well, Mother.”

  Lady Fernhaven gave her a sympathetic look. “Nerves again, darling? Go and rest. I hope you will be recovered in time for the picnic. It would be a shame to miss such a pleasant afternoon with your suitor.”

  “Yes, a rest will do me good.” Sleeping seemed the one thing she excelled at these days.

  The butler entered the room, bearing a silver salver piled with correspondence. “The morning post has arrived, my lady.”

  “Very good, Edwin.” Lady Fernhaven riffled through the stack. “My goodness. Well, Lily. You have certainly cultivated the right acquaintances lately. An invitation”—she held it up proudly—“to the betrothal ball of Lord Severn and the Baronessa Bellini. Well done, darling! We shall attend, of course. Everyone will be there.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  “James! You’re back!” Caroline dropped her fork with a clatter and rose from her chair. “Why didn’t you let us know you were coming home? We’ve been so worried since the Strathmores returned without you.”

  He caught his sister up in an embrace. “Caro—it’s good to see you!” He held her close for a long moment, then set her back on her feet. “Hello, Uncle. I see I have arrived in time for dinner.”

  Lord Denby rose to greet him. “Welcome home, James. I must say it is good to see you have returned in one piece. Did you just arrive in England?”

  “No. I had urgent business with Sir Edward and went directly to Brookdale.” He smiled at his sister. “I was only there long enough to finish my business before I came racing back to see you.”

  It was true. He could not have stayed another day at Brookdale Manor even if he had a mind to. A weight had lifted from him upon seeing Sir Edward in good health, but the manor held too many reminders of Lily for him to linger.

  Lord Denby rang for a servant. “I’ll have another place set. Do join us.”

  Caroline folded her arms. “I’m not sure he merits it, the way he disappeared without a word to his family. What happened, James? Your last letter said you were leaving Tunis, then we get a note from the Strathmores saying there had been an attack and you were not with them—that you had ridden off into the wilds. Alone!”

  James swept her up again—he couldn’t resist.

  “I’m certain you’re ruining my gown,” she said. “Put me down, you oaf, and come sit. I want to hear everything.”

  When they were at the table, his uncle lifted his glass. “A toast, James, to your safe return.”

  “To safe returns.” James drank.

  “And how goes your work with your charitable societies, Caroline?” he asked when his plate had been set before him. “Are you still intent on founding a school on Malta for the orphans of British solders and sailors stationed there?”

  “Of course. Did you think I’d given it up for needlepoint in your absence? I will happily talk for a week or more about the work, but not before you tell us about your adventures. What happened?”

  “Yes, James,” his uncle asked. “How fared you in Tunisia? Were you successful?”

  “I can hardly rate it a success. The expedition itself was a disaster.” James paused for a moment, trying to push thoughts of Lily from his mind. No matter how he tried, how much he knew that she had lied to him from the start, he would never be able to forget the feel of her body against him as he held her beneath the stars.

  “Go on,” Caroline said, her eyes full of questions.

  He gathered himself and continued. “At least I can confirm that Grandfather’s stories about his adventurous youth have some basis in fact. The flower he found does exist and truly was an undiscovered species. I brought back a specimen for Sir Edward, who was overjoyed at the sight of it. He’s now working on a monograph to present to the Royal Horticultural Society. The working title is ‘Primula Mercerium: A New Species Discovered by the Huntington/Mercer Expedition of 1792 and Collected by the Huntington/Strathmore Expedition of 1848.’ Catchy, don’t you think?”

  “Mercerium, eh?” Lord Denby said. “After your grandfather’s companion who died in the valley.”

  “It seemed… appropriate.”

  “Indeed. And with the publication of the monograph, your grandfather will have much of what he wanted—recognition for his early explorations in Africa and his discovery of a new species. I do not think it was easy for a man of his temperament to give up the adventurous life and accept his role as holder of the family title. I understand that far better now that I have taken up his responsibilities.”

  James looked at his uncle. “I never knew he gave up anything for the sake of his title.”

  “No? Consider that he was suddenly responsible not just for himself, but for producing an heir, managing the estates, the well-being of the servants and tenants, not to mention his responsibilities with the peerage in Parliament. He put the carefree life of the adventurer behind him, not because he wished to, but because he had to. His role was scripted before birth and he had to play it whether or not he was suited for the part. Not everyone has the luxury to do what they wish with their lives.”

  It was an unexpected thought, that family duty and obligation had kept his grandfather from his true passion. James took a sip of wine.

  “But what about you, James?” Caroline asked. “Were the journals in the valley?”

  “No. There was nothing of the journals in the valley.”

  She frowned. “Oh, how disappointing. You would have looked dashing striding around grandfather’s old estate ordering your minions about and pruning things.”

  “A pity,” Lord Denby agreed, “but with the passage of so many years, the loss of the journals is not wholly unexpected.”

  No, not unexpected. James closed his eyes. It had not been difficult to find the valley after leaving the Strathmores in the care of Dr. Fenton. They had been so close when the attack occurred. The boulders stood, just as his grandfather had sketched them, surrounded by a sea of wild orchids. Trampled earth and overturned rocks told that Reggie had been here before him, but James searched anyway.

  There was nowhere else to go. His heart still reeled. How could Lily have deceived him? Each kiss, each caress, each smile had been a lie. When she had cried out beneath him and held him as if the entire universe were shattering—it had all been a lie.

  Now everything was broken. Even if he could recover the journals and win Somergate, what would it gain him? He had lost the only thing he truly wanted—no, damn him, he had not lost it, for it had never been his.

  So he combed the rocks, crawling in the crevices, turning over boulders. There was nothing. He expanded the scope of his search on the chance the box containing the journals had been carried somewhere and discarded. When darkness fell, he slept, exhausted, at the base of the rock outcropping while his horse nipped tender shoots and watered at the small spring.

  He spent days searching the valley and the lonely hills, with no companions except the flowers—the ubiquitous purple orchids that carpeted the valley, and a small yellow flower that twined among the rocks, scenting the air with its delicate fragrance. Each morning the sun rose, chased shadows across the valley, then set—he did not count how many times. It could have been five or fifty. It made no diffe
rence to the ache and loss he felt. Only when his supplies were almost gone did he think to leave.

  On the last morning, in the cool before dawn, he made tea and took his battered tin cup to the top of the boulders to watch the sun rise. Steam bathed his face with each sip. The strengthening light brought the vivid purple of the orchids to life, and it seemed he was on an island in the middle of a lake of flowers.

  Here, in this valley, his grandfather had fought for his life and lost his closest friend. Here James had come to search hopelessly and grieve his broken heart. Yet beauty dwelt here, full and complete and untouched by human joy or sorrow. The flowers and grasses waited for the rains, then bloomed heedlessly, and the pink and gold of dawn painted the clouds in hues for which no words existed.

  He’d stood watching, transfixed, as the sun rose above the horizon. Rays of light burst into the sky—yellow light picked up and reflected by the yellow flowers that clung to the rocks.

  It was then that something shifted inside him and he knew he must return to England.

  The journals might be lost, but his grandfather’s flower was here. It had been with James always as he searched. For days he had been walking among the un-catalogued blooms that both his grandfather and Sir Edward had tried in vain to collect. His own ambitions had been crushed when he parted from Lily, but beauty remained. He would carry it back with him to honor his grandfather, and for Sir Edward, his friend who saw in every leaf and flower the wonder James had glimpsed in the morning sunrise.

  And he had done it. He had finished the work started by his grandfather so many years ago. It was enough. It had to be.

  James forced his thoughts back to the present. “Reggie didn’t come back with the journals, did he?”

  Lord Denby looked at him in surprise. “No, he would have sought to claim the inheritance by now if he had. Were you expecting him to? I thought you said the journals were lost.”

  “No. I said they were not in the valley.”

  “James!” Caroline said. “Speak plainly. Did you find the journals or not?”

  “Well, I found something, though they can’t properly be called journals. When I decided to bring back specimens of the flower, I returned to the nearby village. The villagers there had scavenged the goods we had abandoned in our hurry to get Sir Edward back to Tunis, and I hoped to recover some of the expedition’s plant collection bottles.

  “I must have looked the fool, pantomiming the shape of the bottles, but somehow I made my intent known. The headman kept nodding and repeating a word I did not understand. He motioned to one of his men, who soon returned with Sir Edward’s bottles, and I paid him well for them.

  “I packed them away and was about to return to the valley when I was struck by how old the villager’s dwellings looked. They must certainly have stood when Grandfather explored the area. Were these the descendants of the bandits who had attacked him? Had their fathers and grandfathers looted the remains of his expedition? I returned to the headman.

  “‘Book,’ I said, trying both English and French. ‘Pictures.’ I was miming again, doing everything I could think of to communicate. I squatted down and drew an open book in the dust, and endeavored to show a flower sketched on one of its pages. Not my best work, I assure you. How I wished then that I had not lost my guide and interpreter.

  “The headman and others spoke to each other. I couldn’t understand what they were saying, but again one of them left. I had nearly given up hope when he returned with an ancient little man dressed in stained robes. The old man’s face was lined and weathered, and he leaned heavily on the younger man. ‘Book,’ I said again, pointing at my sketch and miming someone reading and writing in a journal.

  “The old man paid very little attention. Instead he tottered forward and tugged on the chain of my watch.”

  “Father’s watch?” Caroline asked.

  “Yes. Before I could stop him, he lifted it from my pocket and held it swinging and sparkling in the sunlight. He looked up at me and then proceeded to pet the watch.

  “I looked to the others in hopes that they would take him in hand. ‘Book,’ I said yet again, and the old man stopped petting the timepiece long enough to fish up his sleeve and retrieve several tattered pieces of vellum. He had these.” James brought out an envelope and handed it to his uncle.

  Lord Denby opened it and carefully removed four pages.

  “Extraordinary.” He gestured a servant over. “Turn up the lamps, and fetch my quizzing glass.”

  “What are they?” Caroline shifted in her seat, trying to get a better look.

  “Sketches,” James said. “The first is of the rock formation in the valley where the flower grew. The second two are of plants that must have grown locally in the region. The last is the mosque in Tunis. Its square minarets are unique.”

  “Yes,” his uncle said. “But how in blazes did the old fellow get them?

  “I can only guess. Perhaps he had a hand in looting Grandfather’s camp. Or maybe he found where they were hidden sometime later. The leather bindings and most of the pages must have been used for other purposes, but these drawings would interest even an illiterate.”

  “Do you really think these are from Grandfather’s journals?” Caroline asked.

  “I believe so. They are of subjects that would have interested him.”

  “Then you did it, James!” She turned to their uncle. “Didn’t he?”

  Lord Denby was still scanning the pages with his glass. “Remarkable. If these can be established as pages from the lost journals, then they could be very valuable pieces of paper, indeed. May I keep them for a few days? I can make no promises, but I would like to consult the family solicitor.”

  “Do whatever you like with them,” James said. “I’d prefer to put pages—and the whole Tunisia adventure—out of my mind.”

  “A capital idea,” his sister said. “I know just the thing. You may take me riding tomorrow in Hyde Park. Along the Serpentine, preferably. I have a new…”

  As James stood from the table, Caroline’s eyes dropped to the place where his watch chain would ordinarily have been.

  “James! What did you give him for those pages? Not Father’s watch.”

  He was silent a moment, then shrugged as if to ease a weight he carried. “I gave what was required. Good night, Caro. Good night, Uncle. I must go.”

  ***

  At the gate to Hyde Park, James reined his horse to let an open carriage pass. It was filled with ladies decked in lace and finery. A fluffy white lapdog braced its paws on the rear seat and yapped at him. The park beyond teemed with the cream of Society strolling, riding in open barouches, or mounted on horseback.

  Was Lily here somewhere walking the paths with her intended? He had a powerful urge to turn his horse about and head back the way they had come. If they met, what would he say? “Miss Strathmore, such a pleasure. Really? I had no idea. Congratulations. You make a lovely couple?” Just the thought left his chest tight and his head swimming.

  “Come on, slowcoach. Accompanying your sister to the park on a sunny summer day can’t be that unpleasant.” Caroline was looking back over her shoulder at him.

  “Of course not.” He would not run away. He had already lost too many precious years with his sister when he had been in India.

  James straightened in the saddle and kneed his horse forward. Caroline deserved better than to have him run off whenever some chit got under his skin. If he saw Lily, he would simply ignore her. She would probably prefer that. And if cornered? Well, he could always turn the conversation to billiards or fowling guns.

  He took a deep breath as he passed through the gates. The sun slanted golden and lazy through the leaves, and ahead Caroline sat easily on her grey. Her saddle, worked in silver, had been their mother’s.

  There was a painting of their mother standing beside the saddle, and as children they had often examined the portrait, imagining what life would be for them if that kind-faced woman with the dark hair and eyes had be
en there for them. They had entertained one another with stories of the places she would take them—to the seashore, the market, or to watch the Morris dancers on the village green.

  Now it seemed almost as if the woman in the painting had returned and rode beside him. Caroline was no longer the adolescent he had left behind. In fact, she was certainly of an age to be considering marriage. The thought made him feel unanchored all over again.

  “Goodness, if you rode that slowly in Tunisia, no wonder it took you eons to return home.” She shot a smile at him.

  “You’re just trying to goad me into racing—don’t deny it.” James glanced around. “I’m afraid the path is too crowded, sister dear. You wouldn’t want to trample anyone.”

  Caroline peered ahead, her smile fading. “Oh, wouldn’t I? I see one gentleman ahead who simply begs to be trampled. The ever-vexatious Briarly.”

  “Miss Huntington! I say, Miss Huntington!” It was a young, fair-haired man driving a curricle toward them, seemingly heedless of the pedestrians he sent scattering out of his path. When he drew abreast, he pulled his horses to a stop and sprang out, sweeping his coattails back in a flourishing bow to Caroline.

  “My dear Miss Huntington, how good to see you. I was disappointed you did not attend the Daltons’ supper party. You haven’t been avoiding me, have you?” He straightened and shot James a dark look.

  “Viscount Briarly. Allow me to introduce my brother, Mr. James Huntington.”

  “Not the Dastardly Dueling James Huntington! Beg your pardon, but that is what some wits have called you.” He chuckled, then rushed forward and pumped James’s hand. “So pleased to meet you. I didn’t mean to slight you, sir. It is only that your charming companion steals my sense, leaving me witless in every situation.”

  “I assure you, my lord, one cannot steal something that does not exist,” Caroline said. “If you would be kind enough to release my brother’s hand, we really must be going. Good day.” She bestowed one of her winning—and entirely false—smiles on the hapless young man before urging her horse forward.