Joanna’s cheeks, was not entirely unwelcome, making Laurence wonder as to the nature of the relationship. ‘It is indeed, Mr Penscott.’ She looked up from her notes and smiled. ‘That, and making tea over a campfire, which you do exceptionally well.’ Then she saw Laurence and the smile froze on her lips. ‘Mr Bretton. You’re … early.’
‘Am I?’ Laurence pulled out his pocket watch and flicked open the lid. ‘A few minutes, perhaps, but you did tell me I should come early if I wished to secure a good seat. A sound piece of advice given how crowded the room is already.’
She appeared flustered, as though she hadn’t really expected him to come. ‘Yes, well, as I said, this is the … first opportunity my father has had to speak about his trip to Dendera since we emerged from mourning. It is only to be expected that there would be … a great deal of curiosity about what he found.’
Laurence closed the watch and slipped it back into his pocket, finding her distress curious. Was she embarrassed that he had witnessed her light-hearted exchange with the other man?
Mr Penscott didn’t seem to care. After a cursory glance in Laurence’s direction, he went back to unpacking boxes and even her father didn’t raise his head. Clearly, the reasons for the lady’s discomfort were her own. Deciding not to make an issue of it, Laurence said, ‘I would not have expected otherwise. Your father’s reputation is well known in London.’ He set his satchel on one of the vacant seats. ‘For that reason, I hope there will be an opportunity to speak to him after the lecture concludes.’
‘That will depend on how many questions he is asked,’ Lady Joanna said. ‘Upon occasion, he has been known to run very late.’
‘Except when you are on hand to keep him to his schedule,’ Laurence said, gently reminding her of the comment she had made upon the occasion of their first meeting. ‘I’m sure he is grateful for your help in that regard, as well as in the organising of matters beforehand.’
‘It is … a necessary part of planning the evening,’ Lady Joanna agreed. She glanced back down at her notes, her brow furrowing. ‘Now if you will excuse me, I must get back to work. There is still much to be done before the lecture gets underway.’
Laurence inclined his head. ‘Of course. I would hate to be the cause of any delay.’
Joanna glanced at him briefly, then turned and walked away. She wasn’t sure why she felt so flustered all of a sudden. She had done enough of these presentations that standing in front of a room full of men didn’t bother her any more. What, then? Embarrassment that he witnessed her comfortable exchange with Mr Penscott?
Surely not. There was nothing wrong with colleagues enjoying a laugh together. Certainly no one else seemed to think so. After a brief glance at the newcomer, Mr Penscott had gone back to unpacking boxes and her father seemed not to have heard the exchange at all. Even Mr Bretton did not seem unduly concerned. Following his last comment, he had sat down and taken a small leather-bound notebook from his satchel, which he had proceeded to open and lay flat upon his lap. Joanna had seen lines of writing, along with what looked like hieroglyphic symbols covering the page from top to bottom. A moment later, he’d taken out a pencil and began making notes and hadn’t looked at her again.
Unreasonably miffed, Joanna had carried on with her preparations. So, the great Valentine Lawe had deigned to make an appearance. How gracious of him. He had even dressed for the part, looking every inch the academic in a dark jacket over breeches and boots, his appearance smart but decidedly understated. He had abandoned his fancy lace jabot for a conservatively striped neckcloth and the signature rose was nowhere in sight. He was even wearing his wire-rimmed spectacles again.
Did he really need them, Joanna wondered, or were they little more than a contrivance?
Not that it mattered, she reminded herself. Laurence Bretton was only one of the many gentlemen who had come to hear her father speak and though she had given him an invitation, it did not entitle him to any special consideration. She had extended the invitation for the same reason he had offered to lend her the book—because they shared a common interest in Egypt.
That was all. Joanna had no intention of getting to know the gentleman better because despite Lady Cynthia’s beliefs that Mr Bretton was interested in her, Joanna knew all too well the fickleness of the writer’s heart. She had experienced it firsthand. Her infatuation with Aldwyn Patterson had scarred her to a far greater degree than anyone knew because only Joanna knew what he had whispered to her in the folly when they were alone. Only she knew the sweet promises he had made and the lyrical poetry he had written extolling her glorious emerald eyes and the sweetness of her face.
Only she knew how madly and stupidly she had fallen in love—only to discover his true nature when she had found out she was not the only young lady to be on the receiving end of his flattery.
Such was her disappointment in having discovered Laurence Bretton’s true calling. Though he was a different kind of writer, Joanna had no reason to suspect he was any different at heart. He lived in a world of fictional characters and implausible scenarios.
Witness his appearance as Valentine Lawe. What was that if not just another role in his world of make believe?
But her world wasn’t like that any more. Joanna was no longer in control of her own destiny. She was the daughter of an impoverished earl, fated to marry a man of means; one who possessed either wealth or a title, or better yet, wealth and a title, and who was willing to spend a large part of that wealth on the restoration of Joanna’s home.
That was the only hope her family had. Personal feelings didn’t enter into it. She was to be married off to the highest bidder—and she was deceiving herself if she thought to call it anything else.
For Laurence, the next two hours flew by. Lord Bonnington offered a highly informative talk concerning his explorations of the ruins at Dendera and of the many unexpected finds he and his team had made along the way. Numerous samples were documented and described, some that were passed around during the course of the discussion, while the more delicate articles were kept at the front of the room for viewing. Mr Penscott, who turned out to be a former student of Bonnington’s as well as his assistant, was often called upon to elaborate a point, though his explanations, being more straightforward than the earl’s, were better suited to the laymen in the audience.
Then there were the engravings, incredibly lifelike drawings of hieroglyphs and friezes, drawn in greatly reduced scale, but in such exquisite detail that Laurence could almost picture himself sitting on the artist’s stool, gazing at the magnificent scenes before him. And she had drawn them. Lady Joanna Northrup. To his surprise, the lovely and refined young woman who was destined to become mistress of a grand house in London was also one of the finest illustrators he had ever seen.
His admiration and respect for her only grew.
Unfortunately, as the evening went on so did his awareness of the differences between them. She was the daughter of an earl; a woman who lived in a world vastly removed from his and whose privileged life included servants, magnificent houses and all the conveniences money could buy.
He was the son of a gentleman and a minister’s daughter. Though better educated than most and with opportunities greater than some, Laurence knew he would never achieve the lofty heights necessary to be considered someone with whom Lady Joanna might associate.
She was a goddess and he a mere mortal bound to earth. Not surprisingly, the discovery left him with a decidedly hollow feeling.
‘Smashing good lecture, eh what?’ said the gentleman seated next to him. ‘I’d
