Chapter 17

Chapter Seventeen

V alentine stood alone in the darkness. The night air was meant to cool his blood—or so he'd hoped when he stepped out here into the inner courtyard—but so far there'd been little relief. Above him the sky was ablaze with stars and the scent of the night-perfumed plants in the walled garden threatened to make him swoon.

Or was that the memory of Marissa wanton in his arms?

His body began to throb again and he gritted his teeth. This was madness. He was suffering. And yet he could not seem to stop himself. Despite his doubts about his own capacity as a lover and a man—Vanessa's legacy—he felt remade when he was with Marissa. The way she gazed at him, the way she made him feel, was like a healing draught. And now he'd arranged matters so that he could keep her by his side, at least for the foreseeable future.

But he wasn't healed completely—the scars were still there.

An owl called from the gatehouse. He turned to follow it, a black shape against the sky, as it flew through the arched gateway and over the stone bridge that spanned the moat and disappeared into the park. Valentine wondered if Baron Von Hautt was out there, spying, and then dismissed the thought. What was the point now they both had the list? One thing Valentine knew with cold, hard certainty; he would never let Von Hautt beat him to the Crusader's Rose.

And what about Marissa? his inner voice mocked.

Will you protect her just as fervently?

He knew in his heart that he would.

She was good and beautiful and honorable, everything he could ask for in a woman, but she was also set against the life he led, with his obsession with roses and his library full of dusty botanical tomes. Her childhood had driven her to look for another life. And then there was George. Valentine felt a twinge of guilt, but he suppressed it. George had had his chance and he'd preferred a boxing match to wooing Marissa.

Is that what I'm doing? Wooing her?

Out in the park the owl called again—perhaps it had a mate—and then there was silence. Suddenly the whole world felt empty and he was very much alone. Was this how he would feel without Marissa? Or would he be able to lose himself once more in his search for his rose, burying his emotions and pretending he didn't care? Would his feelings for her turn out to be an illusion, an infatuation, and like a summer cold would pass as swiftly as they had come.

"I'm not good enough for her," he said aloud. "No matter what she thinks now, I'll never be good enough for her. How can we be happy?"

It was what he'd learned from Vanessa and now the words were like a well-worn path in his head. It did not occur to him to question them.

With a sigh he lifted his face to the stars, then turned to go inside, and ran straight into a figure standing a mere yard away from him.

"What the hell . . ." Valentine began, struggling with the loose-limbed body clinging to him. The overpowering smell of ale engulfed him and he swore again, pushing George hard. His brother fell into the privet hedge, struggling to escape its scratchy clutches.

"No—no n-need to be like that," he slurred.

"What are you doing here?" Valentine said furiously. "And in that state?"

George had got himself back on his feet and was peering at his brother in the starlight. "Who w-were you talkin' to?" he demanded. "Thesh no one here."

"I was talking to myself, if it's any of your business." Valentine strode off through the walled garden, but George followed him, stumbling every now and then and muttering curses.

"I—I was in Ma-agna Mi'combe," he said at last, catching Valentine's sleeve and attaching himself to it, trying to stay upright.

After trying to shake himself free, Valentine gave up and let his brother use him as a crutch as they made their unsteady way to the door and into the lamplit manor. Somehow he pulled George up the stairs after him, into the long gallery.

Moonlight washed through the windows, illuminating the family portraits gazing down upon them, generations of de Fevres and Kents and everything in between. Usually Valentine was inured to the faces, not even seeing them, but now he remembered Marissa's words about how lucky he was and how the past mattered, and he viewed them in a new light.

He could give Marissa that stability, that sense of belonging. He could make her Lady Kent and carry on the family line for another generation. And just as all these people had lived and loved and wept within the walls of Abbey Thorne Manor, then so would they. Well, live and love, hopefully, with less of the weeping.

"You're at it again." George was digging a finger into his chest, pressing it painfully through his clothing. "Talkin' to yourself."

Valentine frowned—he hadn't been aware of speaking his thoughts aloud.

"Firsh sign, you know," George announced wisely.

"Of what?" Valentine muttered, as he moved toward the library.

"Insan-insan . . . madness."

George had followed him and he shoved his brother none too gently down into one of the leather chairs. George sprang up again like a jack-in-a-box.

Valentine poured himself a drink, uncomfortable with the events that had taken place in here only a short while ago—Marissa's face, lifted to his, the tears in her eyes as she fought against what she perceived as his rejection of her most precious gift.

"I have something to tell you," George said importantly.

"And what is that?"

"I saw Von Hautt." His pronunciation of the name left much to be desired. "In Mi'combe. I came to tell you. Important."

"You saw Von Hautt in Magna Midcombe?"

"I juss said so, didn' I?" George waved his arms furiously, and lost his balance, stumbling backward and falling into the chair. He went on as if nothing had happened. "Rode home as quick—quick . . . as fass as I could."

"With a stop off at the tavern, George." Valentine frowned. "We need to sober you up so that you can tell me about Von Hautt."

The process took time. Morris was woken and dragged from his warm bed to make some of his special coffee—a brew he'd perfected when Valentine was young and prone to experimenting with the family wine cellar.

"This takes me back," Valentine said, holding George's nose while Morris poured the coffee into his unwilling mouth. "Remember the days before the inestimable Mrs. Beaumaris came to cook for us permanently?"

Morris shuddered, his jowls trembling. "I never claimed to be a cook, my lord."

"You did your best, Morris. And you were rather better than some of those who declared they were food experts."

Morris looked pleased with his praise.

"Morrish has been with us for . . . for years . . ." George spluttered. "Time he retired to a nice lil' place and put hish feet up."

"I suppose that day is coming, sir," Morris admitted, "and sooner than I like to think."

"Oh." Valentine looked surprised. "I do hope not yet, Morris."

"So do I, my lord. Now come on, Mr. George, drink up," Morris said heartily, pouring more coffee into the protesting George. Valentine turned back to the task at hand.

Eventually, between the two of them, they sobered George sufficiently so that he was able to tell Valentine what Von Hautt had said to him in Magna Midcombe.

"But that makes no sense," Valentine said crossly.

"Made no sense to me, but that was what he said."

"I know nothing of his family, and as for his mother . . . how could we turn our backs on a woman we don't even know?"

"The man is clearly loopy." George shrugged, then gave a jaw-breaking yawn.

Valentine stared into space, considering the puzzle his brother had presented to him. The trouble was that Von Hautt, while clearly mentally unstable, believed that what he said to George was the truth. The truth as he saw it. And if Von Hautt thought Valentine or his father had caused some ill to befall his mother, then it just might explain his obsession to be the first to find the Crusader's Rose.

"Revenge? Is that what this is all about?" Valentine said. "Von Hautt wants to hurt me because he thinks I hurt his mother?"

"There was something else." George looked uncomfortable.

Valentine sighed. "What else?"

"He said something about you searching for the rose beneath Marissa's . . . well, her skirts." Swiftly he glanced at Valentine and away again. "I don't think we need to talk about that."

"No, I don't think we do," Valentine said, his face taut with anger.

George thought a minute more, then seemed to remember something else. "I was meaning to ask you: What is it you've given up for the rose? Von Hautt told me I was a weakling for taking an ale or two, and that I should be keeping myself pure for the rose. I should give up ale for the rose, like you have. Or some such guff. What did he mean by that, Valentine?"

Valentine considered the question. "I think he's drawing allusions to the knights of old, King Arthur and his knights of the Round Table."

"Lancelot and so on? What have they got to do with anything?"

"When they went on a quest they believed that to be worthy of the prize they must be pure. Pure of heart and mind and body. They would make vows to forgo worldly things until their quest was complete."

George thought about that, and then his eyes narrowed. "Bloody hell, Valentine, please tell me you're not trying to be Lancelot?"

"Don't be stupid, George. I'm no Lancelot. I don't know if that's what Von Hautt is talking about and from the sound of it you probably don't, either."

They made their way to bed at last, and Valentine found himself in a far more optimistic mood than he'd been in earlier, when he stood outside in the courtyard and listened to the owl. Determination and confidence buoyed him up, as he strode along the corridor to his bedchamber. He was on a quest to find his rose and he would not fail. He could not fail.

At least when it came to this he was confident and sure of his abilities. A pity he could not feel the same way about Marissa.