style="font-size:15px;"> Joanna glanced down at her hands. ‘It all seems so silly now. But it was very painful at the time.’
‘First love always is. And you didn’t have my sister around to give you the guidance and support you so desperately needed.’
Joanna nodded, remembering how much she had longed for her mother’s advice at the time. ‘He wrote such romantic poetry. I thought … I truly believed that he had written the words just for me.’
‘No doubt he told you he had,’ her aunt said with an understanding smile. ‘But I am not sorry nothing came of it, Joanna. Mr Patterson would not have made you a good husband. Men like that never do. Most likely he’ll end up some rich woman’s cher ami, or wind up in debtor’s prison. Creativity is all very well, but sometimes the more brilliant the mind, the more unstable the person.’
Joanna smoothed her hand over her skirt, wondering why Laurence Bretton’s face suddenly came to mind. He hadn’t struck her as being in the least unstable, though there was no denying that he was two very different people—and extremely convincing in both roles.
‘So Mr Bretton is planning to attend your father’s lecture,’ her aunt said, unwittingly tapping into Joanna’s thoughts. ‘Interesting. I suspect you will see him in a very different light this evening.’
‘Of course, but in which light does he shine the truest? Writing plays must take a great deal of dedication, especially plays as successful as his,’ Joanna said, getting to her feet. ‘How can he divide his time between that and the study of ancient Egypt?’
‘Obviously, he makes time for both. It is not a bad thing to have such diverse interests.’
Joanna managed a grudging smile. ‘You like him.’
‘Yes, I do. I sense he is a good man and I like his manners and humility very much,’ her aunt said. ‘You were not kind to him today yet he did not speak harshly to you.’
Joanna flushed at the criticism. ‘He was not honest with me when we first met. He should have told me who he was and what he did, rather than leave me to find out at Mrs Blough-Upton’s reception.’
‘I suspect he had his reasons for keeping silent. Nor am I saying that you should think of Mr Bretton as someone you might wish to marry because quite clearly he is not. He is far from being your social equal and that is something you must now constantly bear in mind.’
It was a truism Joanna had not yet come to terms with, even though it was one of the principles that guided society. ‘I fail to see why. Dukes marry actresses and are not thought any the less of for it.’
‘Unfortunately, dukes can do whatever they wish,’ Mrs Gavin said, chuckling. ‘With rank comes privilege and I know a number of ladies and gentlemen who have made excellent use of both. But I am confident you will make the right choice when the time comes,’ she said, getting to her feet. ‘Just remember that a promise once given is difficult to retract and a vow once spoken is spoken for life.’
Joanna glanced at the book Mr Bretton had left for her, beginning to wish she had never encouraged the conversation with him in the bookshop. He confused her … and Joanna didn’t like being confused. Indeed, life in general seemed to have become a great deal more complicated since her father had become Lord Bonnington. ‘Thank you, Aunt Florence,’ Joanna said, slipping an arm around her aunt’s waist. ‘You know how much I value your opinion.’
‘Poppycock. You likely think my notions as old fashioned as I am, but are too kind to say so. Well, never mind. All I want is to see you happy. Money is not the only reason to wed, just as having your heart broken once is no reason to shy away from love. But I’m sure you already know that.’
Joanna nodded and kissed her aunt’s cheek before bidding her a fond farewell. Only then did she turn her attention to the book Mr Bretton had left for her. She was glad the brusqueness of her words at Mrs Blough-Upton’s reception had not affected his decision to lend it to her, but she was sorry his arrival today had coincided with her aunt’s—who seemed as enamoured of the man as everyone else.
Was she the only one who thought his not telling her the truth was a problem?
Joanna picked up the book and held it reverently in her hands. It was a lovely copy: leather bound, beautifully engraved and in excellent condition. Mr Bretton certainly took good care of his books, but then, who would have more respect for the written word than a man who made his living by them? A playwright would be as respectful of books as her father and Mr Penscott were of the ancient scrolls they found buried in the tombs.
But could the dashing Laurence Bretton, more famously known as Valentine Lawe, really be as interested in those artefacts as he was in his wildly successful plays? Did his reasons for wanting to attend the lecture tonight stem from a genuine desire to learn more about the distant past? Or were they, as Joanna was beginning to fear, little more than an excuse for spending time with her, as her aunt was all too inclined to think?
The Apollo Club was a favoured haunt of gentlemen who gathered to share ideas and exchange views on a variety of interesting and diverse topics. It was also where Ben Jonson had written The Devil is an Asse, thereby serving to unite Laurence’s literary leanings with his more historical ones. No doubt that was why he felt so at home as he strolled into the room known as the Oracle of Apollo a full fifteen minutes before the clock struck seven.
For once, he was in his element, surrounded by fellow students of history all caught up in the excitement of hearing about William Northrup’s—correction, Lord Bonnington’s—latest expedition to Egypt and of the wondrous things he had seen there. Valentine Lawe didn’t belong here any more than an orchid belonged in the desert and Laurence was heartily relieved when no one seemed to recognise him. No doubt the conservative clothes and spectacles helped.
He glanced towards the front of the room where Lady Joanna and her father were busy getting ready for the lecture and allowed himself the pleasure of watching her unobserved for a few minutes. She was dressed in a dark-blue pelisse over a pale-blue gown, the fitted lines of the garment making her look even more slender than she had in the bookshop. She had set her bonnet aside, allowing the candlelight to catch the highlights in her hair, and her cheeks were slightly flushed as a result of her efforts at getting everything ready.
‘Joanna, where are my samples of pottery from the fourth week’s dig?’ her father asked abruptly. ‘Don’t tell me I forgot to bring them!’
‘You did, Papa, but I did not,’ Lady Joanna said, calmly lifting a wooden box on to the table. ‘All ten pieces are here, labelled as to their place of origin and date of discovery.’
‘And the papyrus scrolls?’
‘In the glass cases. I wasn’t willing to risk curious onlookers being overly enthusiastic in their handling of them.’
‘Excellent,’ Lord Bonnington said, regarding the neat arrangement of glass display cases with approval. ‘Now, if we can just get these last few pieces of statuary in place—ah, there you are, Mr Penscott,’ he said as a lanky young man wearing a dark-brown jacket over fawn-coloured breeches walked up to the table. ‘Give me a hand with this stone head, will you?’
‘Of course, my lord,’ Penscott said, bending to pick it up. His sandy-coloured hair was swept back from a wide forehead bronzed by the sun and he had a pleasant, amiable countenance. ‘It’s my job to do the heavy lifting. Isn’t that right, Lady Joanna?’
The
