Gail Whitiker (24 page)

‘Thank you,’ Joanna said coldly, ‘but if we were married and I changed my mind about going on the expedition, I would have told my father in enough time that he could have found someone else. He is not without connections. But that was never the case, was it, Captain Sterne? You had no intention of letting me go regardless of what I wanted.’

‘Does it really matter?’ His smile was suddenly hard. ‘Lady Cynthia told me you were not to be allowed to go unless you
were
married, so if you don’t agree to marry me, there is absolutely no chance of your going to Egypt. Either way, we both know it is in everyone’s best interests for you to accept my proposal.’

Joanna nodded, an equally cold smile forming on her lips. ‘I did feel that way. Briefly. But your conduct today has more than convinced me that I would have been making a bigger mistake by agreeing to do so than by refusing. I have no intention of marrying you, Captain Sterne, and there is nothing you can say that will make me change my mind.’

He didn’t look surprised...or particularly troubled by her answer. ‘I wouldn’t be so sure. I suspect your father will have something to say about all this.’

‘I suspect he will, but I doubt it will be what you think,’ Joanna said quietly. ‘He will not be pleased that you have taken the liberty of interviewing someone for a position on his expedition without his knowledge or permission beforehand, and he would
never
expect me to enter into an engagement with a man who had lied to me without compunction. We will manage just fine without your help, Captain Sterne,’ she said, starting for the door. ‘Of that, you can be very sure!’

Chapter Thirteen

L
aurence was glad
The Silver Chalice
was finished. Had it not been, it would have languished in a drawer for months before he rounded up the energy or the inclination to finish it. His brief spurt of creativity had exhausted itself and he had no desire to write another word until this matter with Joanna was settled once and for all. He had written to her, several times, but each note had been returned unopened. He had even called at Eaton Place, only to be told that she was not receiving visitors.

And so he resorted to his last option. One he would never have considered had the circumstances been different.

‘My dear Mr Bretton,’ Mrs Gavin greeted him as he walked into her drawing room. ‘I cannot tell you how pleased I was to receive your note asking if you might call.’

‘I hope you will be as pleased when I tell you why I have come,’ Laurence said.

‘I see no reason why I should not. I suspect you wish to speak to me about Jane.’

‘Actually, no.’ His smile was strained. ‘As delightful as your daughter is, it is your niece I have come to talk about.’

‘Joanna?’ Mrs Gavin repeated in surprise. ‘Is there some reason you cannot apply to the lady yourself?’

‘I fear that on the occasion of our last meeting, we had a slight...misunderstanding,’ Laurence said, careful with his words. Joanna’s aunt was no fool. She would see through him in an instant if he told her too much. ‘As a result, she is reluctant to see me.’

‘I see.’ Mrs Gavin’s eyes narrowed. ‘So you have come to plead your case to me?’

‘I hoped you might be willing to help me, yes.’

‘I hardly think it my business, Mr Bretton. If my niece has no wish to see you, you can hardly expect me to intervene on your behalf.’

‘I understand that. But the reasons behind the misunderstanding are what I wish to explain to her and she is reluctant to hear them.’

‘Why don’t you send her a note?’

‘I have written several, all of which have been returned unopened.’

‘Hmm.’ Mrs Gavin’s observant eyes focused in on him like a hunter on its prey. Then, finally, ‘Very well, Mr Bretton, I will give you the opportunity you seek, though it goes against the grain to do so. I will make arrangements for my niece to be here and will advise you in advance of the day and time. I will then give you five minutes alone with her, but five minutes only. Do I make myself clear?’

Laurence assured her that she had, and when he left her house, it was in a mood of cautious optimism. If he could sit Joanna down and make her listen to what he had to say, hopefully five minutes would be all he needed. But first, he had to get through his next meeting. One that was going to be a great deal harder than the one he had just left.

One that no matter how it turned out was going to affect the rest of his life and that might make his five minutes with Joanna a complete waste of time.

* * *

‘Mr Laurence Bretton,’ the butler informed the gentleman seated behind the huge mahogany desk.

As the doors closed behind him, Laurence walked into Sir Michael Loftus’s exquisitely appointed library and waited for the man to look up.

‘Mr Bretton,’ Sir Michael said, finally doing so. ‘This is a surprise.’

‘I hope I haven’t called at an inconvenient time.’

‘Not at all. I was just finishing up some correspondence. Sit down,’ Sir Michael said, indicating the deeply padded armchairs in front of the fireplace. ‘I’d not thought to see you so soon after our encounter at your uncle’s house.’

‘It is partially because of that encounter I’m here,’ Laurence said. ‘You left before I was able to tell you something that I have decided you need to hear.’

‘Oh? Has it to do with your new play?’

‘Not exactly,’ Laurence said, sitting down in one of the two high-back leather chairs. ‘It has to do with the last four Valentine Lawe plays, all of which I know you’re familiar with.’

‘I am indeed, Mr Bretton,’ Sir Michael said, settling into the vacant chair beside Laurence’s and stretching out his legs. ‘So, what is it you wish to tell me?’

Laurence took a moment to gather his thoughts. He was well aware that what he said next was going to change everything, but he had thought long and hard about this and he knew it was what he had to do. Joanna was right. As long as the truth remained hidden, there could never be honesty between them. And without honesty, there could never be respect. A man might lie for what he perceived to be a good and valid reason, but in the end, it was still a lie.

‘I came here to tell you,’ Laurence began quietly, ‘that I am not now, nor have I ever been, Valentine Lawe. I assumed the role for reasons I intend to make clear, but it is my sister Victoria who is the author of those four plays and it is she who deserves to be acknowledged as such.’

Laurence waited for the news to sink in. He wasn’t surprised to see the expression on Sir Michael’s face change, but he was surprised when all the other man said was, ‘Go on.’

And so, Laurence did, explaining in detail how Victoria had started out writing and how it had been necessary to conceal that fact from their mother, who viewed the theatrical world with abhorrence. He explained how his uncle, Theodore Templeton, had been instrumental in encouraging Victoria’s skills, and how, when she had written something worthy of production, Theo had suggested that she do so under an assumed name so that their mother would not learn of her occupation and be disgraced by it.

Finally, Laurence admitted that he had assumed the role of Valentine Lawe in the hopes of protecting his sisters’ reputations after they both fell in love with men whose families would not have approved of their association with the theatre. He admitted to having done so without the prior consent or knowledge of his family, and that he had then done everything he could to make sure society believed he truly was Valentine Lawe.

In the end, there was nothing left to say. The truth was out and as Laurence waited for Sir Michael to respond, he knew the man had every right to call him a liar and a cheat. To demand that he leave his house and be prepared to face whatever consequences might result.

To his surprise, however, none of that happened. Sir Michael stood up and locked his hands behind his back. He began to pace, his head down, his brows pulled together in a dark line. Finally, he stopped and fired an abrupt question at Laurence. ‘Are you the author of
The Silver Chalice
?’

Surprised, Laurence nodded. ‘I am.’

‘And did you write it entirely on your own, unaided by your sister, your uncle or anyone else?’

‘I did.’

‘And is anyone, other than myself and your family, aware of what you’ve just told me?’

‘Yes. Lady Joanna Northrup by virtue of having overheard a conversation between my mother and my aunt a few weeks ago,’ Laurence said. ‘Validating that conversation was the reason she was at my uncle’s house the day you also happened to be there.’

‘Then you did not tell her of the charade yourself.’

‘No.’ The comment shamed him, though Laurence suspected that wasn’t Sir Michael’s intent. ‘I wanted to, but out of a concern for my family, I said nothing. I went to my uncle’s house that day for another reason entirely and found her there. Then you arrived and, by praising my work, inadvertently confirmed my role as Valentine Lawe.’

‘Ah. So the lady still believes you to be the playwright?’

‘Yes, though I have every intention of setting her straight,’ Laurence said. ‘Coming here and telling you the truth was the first step in being honest with her.’

‘Because you love her.’

‘Very much.’

‘Fine. Then tell her what you must and let that be an end of it,’ Sir Michael said, abruptly sitting down again.

Laurence stared at him in confusion. ‘I don’t understand. I’ve just told you it was all a lie. That I’m not Valentine Lawe.’

‘Of course you’re not Valentine Lawe. I knew that as soon as I read your play.’

It was a stunning revelation and one Laurence wasn’t sure whether to believe or not. ‘How?’

‘Your voice. Every writer has his own unique voice, Mr Bretton. A tone, if you will, that sets his apart from every other writer’s,’ Sir Michael said. ‘Valentine Lawe’s is quite distinctive and was consistent throughout all of the first four plays. The moment I read yours, I knew it was not the same voice and, therefore, could not be the same author.’

‘Then why didn’t you say something that day at my uncle’s house?’ Laurence asked. ‘From what I understand, you and my uncle have not always seen eye to eye. It would have been an excellent opportunity for you to even the score.’

‘Yes, it would, but revenge is a dish best served cold and I have no desire to make an enemy of Templeton. As it happens, I think he’s a damn fine producer, though I’ll deny it if you ever say as much. Besides, I know
why
you did what you did, Mr Bretton,’ Sir Michael said, ‘and even a hard-hearted critic like myself would find it difficult to find fault with your motives. But tell me, does your sister intend to write any more plays?’

‘I honestly don’t know,’ Laurence said, still reeling from the shock of finding out that Loftus already knew he wasn’t Valentine Lawe. ‘She has taken to writing children’s stories and seems to enjoy that very much.’

‘Pity. Writing for children may be rewarding for the soul, but I doubt she will find it particularly lucrative. However, married to Alistair Devlin, that won’t be a consideration. Still, it is not the end of the world. If
you
are able to continue writing plays the calibre of
The Silver Chalice
, Valentine Lawe needn’t die.’

‘But I’ve just told you I’m not him.’

‘And I’m telling you it doesn’t matter
who
Valentine Lawe really is,’ Sir Michael said. ‘Only that he is
perceived
to be the playwright. It may surprise you to learn that some believe William Shakespeare was only a pseudonym. This is no different.’

‘I cannot lie to the people I care about,’ Laurence said. ‘Not any more.’

‘Fine. Then be honest with those you love and lie to everyone else. The theatre is not meant to be taken seriously, Mr Bretton. It isn’t a place of law or punishment. It is a place of entertainment and farce. A place where a man goes to forget about his troubles for an evening. What does it matter if you are truly the author of plays that in a few years’ time society will have forgotten all about?’

Laurence got to his feet. ‘It matters to me.’

‘Yes, I’m sure it does, but what of your family? Do you not care about them any longer? Your eldest sister is part of a noble family now and your younger sister is not yet married. Are you prepared to see them suffer so that your conscience can be clear?’

It was the question he still battled with, Laurence acknowledged, the question for which he did not have an answer.

‘No, I thought not,’ Sir Michael said quietly. ‘And that is not a bad thing. A man should care about his family and wish to protect them. For that reason, I suggest we strike a bargain.’

Laurence raised an eyebrow. ‘What kind of bargain?’

‘One that works to the benefit of everyone involved. I respect what you did today, Mr Bretton. It took courage to tell me the truth and I understand your desire to acquaint Lady Joanna with the facts given that you’re in love with her and likely hopeful of marrying her. But beyond that, I suggest you make no further declarations of the truth,’ Sir Michael said. ‘The fact your plays are going in an entirely different direction from those of your sister will be a sufficient point of differentiation. Even if you suddenly start writing plays as Laurence Bretton, society will still think of you as Valentine Lawe. And while there will be those who don’t like your new plays as much as your old, there will be just as many who like them even better.’ Sir Michael crossed the short distance between them and held out his hand. ‘The main thing is that we continue to produce plays that continue to be profitable. Are we in accord?’

It made sense, Laurence admitted. While still not being entirely honest, it did protect those he loved from censure and he had Sir Michael’s assurance that any new works would be published under his own name. More importantly, it allowed him to go to Joanna now and tell her that the identity of Valentine Lawe was no longer a secret.

But would it be enough? Would she be able to forgive him for the lies he had told, or was it too late to regain her respect? Because without her respect, there wasn’t a hope in hell of winning her heart.

* * *

Joanna had no desire to go shopping with her aunt. The days following her unhappy meeting with Laurence and her unpleasant argument with Captain Sterne were far from cheerful and the last thing she felt like doing was making frivolous fashion decisions. But after being told that her complexion was the colour of uncooked pastry and that the circles under her eyes were making her look like a street waif, she decided an outing might not be a bad idea.

If nothing else, it would be better than sitting in her room, brooding.

The arrangements were made for her to call at her aunt’s house on a day suitable to her, at which time the three of them—Jane being included on the expedition—would set out for the shops.

Joanna dressed and arrived at her aunt’s house on the prearranged day and at the requested time, and was informed by the butler that Mrs Gavin and her daughter would be down shortly. But when she was shown into the drawing room to wait for them, it was to find the room already occupied.

Laurence Bretton was there, standing with his back to the fireplace.

‘What are you doing here?’ Joanna demanded.

‘Waiting for you,’ he said quietly. ‘Since you refused to meet with me or to read any of my letters, I was left with no other choice.’

‘You
planned
this?’

‘I’m afraid so.’

‘With my aunt’s help.’

‘I could not do it without.’

‘How dare you!’ Joanna said, her embarrassment turning to anger. ‘I don’t know who to be the more upset with.’

‘Please do not blame your aunt, the idea was entirely mine,’ Laurence admitted. ‘I asked Mrs Gavin if she would be willing to allow a meeting to take place and, against her better judgement, she granted me five minutes to state my purpose. If, at the end of that time, I have not managed to change your mind, I will leave and not bother you again. But I wasn’t about to let you go on with your life without telling you how I felt, or assuring you that the guilt you are feeling is entirely misplaced.’