A Most Sinful Proposal (2 page)

“Never mind, my dear. At least we have had a jaunt into the country, and just think, if we’d been at home in London we may have been forced to travel deep into Scotland to help collect your father’s lichens and mosses. I doubt I could survive another visit to Yell.”

That was true, Marissa thought, but it still didn’t help to make her feel any less disappointed about George.

And how was she going to tell the Husband Hunters Club that she’d failed to capture her chosen husband before she’d even begun?

“Ah, Morris. Any news?”

Marissa looked up, hope shining in her eyes. But Morris’s mouth was down turned and he shook his head with a gloomy air. “I’m very much afraid Mr. George is nowhere to be found, my lord.”

“You’ve looked everywhere?”

“I have.”

“Should you…should you begin a search for him beyond the estate?” Marissa asked, stumbling over her words, as it suddenly occurred to her that George may be in trouble. Yes, that must be it! She should have known it. George was missing. He would never abandon her like this unless there was something wrong.

Morris and Lord Kent exchanged a glance.

“I very much doubt a search will be necessary,” Lord Kent said, his tone thoughtful, “but we shall see what the day brings. Now, Morris, can you arrange for some rooms to be prepared for Miss Rotherhild
and Lady Bethany? And inform Mrs. Beaumaris we will have extras for luncheon. There is no reason for them to travel all the way back to London just because my feckless brother isn’t here to greet them. They have come for a weekend party and we shall have a weekend party.”

Morris looked as if he’d been skewered but swiftly rose to the occasion. “I…certainly, my lord.”

Lord Kent nodded, and then gave a brief bow to the women. “If you will excuse me, ladies, I have some business to complete. We will meet again at luncheon.”

The door closed behind him and the two women were alone.

“Should we stay, Grandmamma?” Marissa asked tentatively. “Perhaps we should make our excuses and leave. If we take our time returning to London my parents will have left by the time we arrive.”

But Lady Bethany was adamant. “No, Marissa, we are not leaving. I want to stay. I declare I haven’t been so amused by a situation for years. Our host is a one of a kind.”

“Well, Lord Kent
did
seem very…”

“Underdressed, dishabille? Indeed he did. Not your usual English gentleman to be sure, but very manly, my dear. He quite melted my insides, and I haven’t felt like that since…well, such fond memories are not for your innocent ears.”

Another of her grandmother’s wicked recollections, Marissa thought wryly. Was Lord Kent manly? Certainly there was something about him that was very earthy. The unbuttoned shirt and the triangle of masculine throat she couldn’t help but
notice, as well as his unshaven jaw and ill-fitting jacket. She had a strong desire to brush him down and straighten him up.

“So, it is agreed. We will be staying?” Lady Bethany said with an arched eyebrow and a twinkle in her eye that hinted she knew exactly what Marissa was thinking.

“Yes,” Marissa replied primly, “I do believe we will.”

A
bbey Thorne Manor was a treat. George had spoken of it to Marissa but she hadn’t realized until the carriage brought them into the quiet serenity of the Surrey countryside and she saw the mellow red bricks and half-timbered upper stories of the old moated manor house just how beautiful and ancient his home was. As she recalled he’d been far more interested in his London town house.

“The countryside is all very well,” he’d said, with a hint of wickedness in his smile, “but it dulls in comparison to the excitement of life in London.”

At the time Marissa had been quick to agree, but now as she stood in her room, overlooking the moat and the countryside beyond, she wondered how it would be to live her life in such a place as Abbey Thorne Manor. Her family resided in London, when they weren’t out and about on field trips. Their house was large and untidy but there was no tradition, no heirlooms or family portraits. Her father didn’t believe in hanging on to the past, and her mother usually went along with her father’s wishes. What would it be like to be George and his brother, descendants of a family who’d lived in the same house,
on the same piece of land, for centuries? Wistfully, she decided it must give them a wonderful sense of belonging, of knowing who they were. Until this moment Marissa hadn’t quite understood it was a feeling she was missing in her own life.

“Who would have thought a rattle like George Kent would come from such delightful beginnings?”

Lady Bethany’s voice startled her. Her grandmother had removed her hat and gloves and set out on a journey to inspect Marissa’s rooms. Her elegant, upright figure showed nothing of the weariness most older ladies would be feeling after such a journey, and her dark eyes darted about her. She murmured her appreciation when she spied the ormolu clock on the mantel, and lifted the pince-nez which hung on a fine gold chain about her neck so that she could examine it more closely.

“So, where do you think he has got to?”

Marissa met the sharp eyes that missed nothing and deliberately made her tone light. “I have no idea, Grandmamma. Perhaps he was called away on some business and did not have time to let us know.”

“Mmm, perhaps he was. Although if that was the case, my dear, one would think he would have left word with his brother, or the servants.”

“Not—not if it was extremely sudden and—and urgent.”

It was a poor effort, and Lady Bethany rightly ignored it as she perambulated toward the window, gazing thoughtfully through the small glass panes. “The brother is nothing like George, is he? Has George spoken much about him?”

Marissa didn’t trust her grandmother’s airy tones,
eyeing her suspiciously and wondering where this was leading. Lady Bethany kept her eyes trained on the view.

“George said his brother was much older than him, and that he more or less brought him up after their father died at Waterloo. Lord Kent is a keen botanist. George calls him obsessive.”

“One doesn’t see Lord Kent about in London society. Is he married, do you know?”

“I think he is a widower.”

“Ah.” She smiled.

“Grandmamma, he is far too young for you,” Marissa retorted.

Lady Bethany smiled. “Wicked girl, I wasn’t thinking of myself.”

“Then who—” But suddenly it seemed more sensible not to prolong the conversation; whatever machinations were going on in her grandmother’s head were better left unspoken. Lady Bethany had a reputation for meddling and although Marissa supposed she meant well the outcomes to her plans were not always the ones she’d imagined. Look at her own parents. Lady Bethany had decided upon a rich and handsome gentleman for her daughter, but instead found herself with a son-in-law whose hands were perpetually stained green from handling the mosses in his ever-increasing collection.

Lady Bethany was leaning forward to peer down toward the gatehouse, and the stone bridge that spanned the moat. “I thought Lord Kent said there wasn’t a house party planned for this weekend?”

“Yes, he did say that.”

“Well, a gentleman on a rather fine bay has just ridden over the drawbridge.”

“George—” Marissa began, hardly daring to believe.

“No, my dear, it wasn’t George. He was more mature than George. I wonder who it could be? There isn’t another brother we haven’t met? Or an older relative?”

Marissa swallowed her disappointment. “No, there are only two brothers and I don’t know of any elderly relatives. Perhaps we will learn his identity at luncheon, Grandmamma.”

“Perhaps we will. I must say I am looking forward to luncheon a great deal more than I ever expected to when we set out for Surrey.” Lady Bethany gave her an innocent smile and wandered off. Marissa watched her go, eyes narrowed suspiciously. Her grandmother was up to something, and Marissa knew her well enough to be extremely uneasy.

If only George was here!

With a sigh she turned again to the window as if she expected to see him galloping wildly toward her. Where could he have gone? And why? She’d so looked forward to being here with him, to him showing her his home, to their conversations, and the way he made her laugh. He was so different from her parents and their circle of friends.

Marissa had been positive George was as attracted to her as she was to him. She was so certain she would not have to try very hard when it came to hunting him and making him hers. Now she was thrown into confusion and doubt.

To be honest she didn’t know if she was capable of hunting a man, especially if he didn’t want to be hunted. She knew more about the mating habits of plants, such as they were, than she did about people. Lady Bethany may have told risqué stories but they meant little to Marissa—it was because she’d never felt the passionate emotions her grandmamma remembered with such fondness. Until she met George she had begun to think herself incapable of anything warmer than a formal, cool fondness, and a dispassionate intellectual curiosity. It was a frightening vision of her future, never to care enough or feel enough for her husband beyond liking, and perhaps not even that, if some of the marriages she’d seen were anything to go by.

With George everything had changed, and suddenly she’d been able to hope for a truly happy and passionate future.

But now George had vanished, and taken that hope with him.

“Kent, I can’t tell you how glad I am that you are at home. I thought you might be on one of your rose visits to the Continent.”

Valentine returned the brisk handshake. “Jasper. What brings you here?”

Lord Jasper was dressed as neatly as a pin, and when he lifted his hat his scalp glowed through the remaining strands of copper hair as if it had been polished. Bright and watchful hazel eyes and a thin-lipped mouth completed the picture of a man not given to impetuous behavior. His next words explained everything to Valentine.

“Did you know that Von Hautt was in England?”

Valentine’s brows snapped down.

Jasper gave his cautious smile. “I thought not, my friend. Well he is. And I have heard that he is hot on the trail of
your
rose.”

Valentine appeared startled. “The Crusader’s Rose? I have been looking for the Crusader’s Rose for twenty years, and my father was searching a lifetime before me, but we have found no trace. The trail has long gone cold. I thought I was the only one who still believes it exists…”

“Von Hautt is aware that if he found the Crusader’s Rose his name would be made. He would be famous. And it appears he’s now come into some information that may well give him what he wants.”

“What information?” Valentine scoffed.

“A list of names.”

Valentine fixed him with a piercing look. “Names?”

“The names of the men who traveled to the Crusades with your ancestor, Richard de Fevre.”

Long before Abbey Thorne Manor was the home of the Kent family, there had been a motte and bailey here, belonging to the de Fevres, an ancient family related to Valentine through his maternal side. By the twelfth century the wooden tower had been replaced by stone, and it was from here that Richard de Fevre had set off on his journey to the Crusades. Richard was a pious man who believed his fight to free Jerusalem from the Saracens was a just one, and before he went he took a vow of chastity, swearing it would not be broken until he returned home—Valentine had often wondered what de Fevre’s wife
thought of that. Richard had traveled with some like-minded companions, neighbors of his, and by luck or miracle they had all survived and all returned.

Usually when crusaders returned from the Holy Land they brought back gold and jewels, rugs and tapestries, or even grisly souvenirs of the Saracen dead, but Richard brought back something else.

A rose.

It was said that this rose was far more beautiful than any other ever seen in England. It shone with all the colors of the sunset. De Fevre grew it in his garden and there it remained, regenerating through the ages, until last century when it was destroyed by one of Valentine’s ancestors. But legend had it that de Fevre didn’t bring just one rose back from the Crusades, he brought two, and he made a gift of the second plant to one of his companions as a reward for saving his life. It was possible—probable, Valentine liked to think, because of the rose’s ability to self-seed—that this second rose still existed in the garden of that unknown companion’s descendants.

Valentine had made it his life’s mission to find the Crusader’s Rose and restore it to his family.

And now Baron Von Hautt was on the same quest, but for far less altruistic reasons.

“Where could he have found such a list?” he said with quiet anger.

Jasper shook his head. “I don’t know, Kent. I thought you might. You have received nothing recently?”

“No. Only…” Valentine paused, remembering. “Wait a moment. I received two parcels this morning but I have only opened one.” Quickly he moved
toward his desk, finding the object—a square brown paper package with his address written in a shaky hand on the front. The name on the back was unfamiliar to him.

Without hesitation he tore the package open. A bundle of moth-eaten looking papers spilled out and, fastened to the top, a single sheet covered in the same shaky writing as the address.

“Ah, now that is interesting.” Valentine scanned the sheet. “This is from a Seth Bonnie, who says he was my father’s orderly during his time with the regiment.” Valentine looked up at Jasper, as though suddenly struck. “I believe I do remember the name now I see it in its proper context.”

“Why is he writing to you after all this time? Your father died at Waterloo, didn’t he, Kent?”

“Yes, he did.” He continued to read. “Bonnie says he was in possession of some of my father’s papers and always meant to send them on, but he was badly wounded at Waterloo and by the time he’d recovered the papers were long forgotten. He only found them again very recently. He has been sorting through his belongings in preparation for ‘the final bugle call,’ as he calls it.” He read on. “Bonnie says that a man, a stranger, came to see him. A Prussian.” His voice grew sharp.

“Good God, Von Hautt!” Jasper cried.

“Yes. He asked Bonnie if he could see my father’s papers—that was when Bonnie remembered he had them. The Prussian examined them, but Bonnie made certain he did not leave the room. He says he didn’t trust the fellow. But Von Hautt made notes. Bonnie has been thinking it over and now he’s con
cerned he did the wrong thing in allowing a stranger to look at my father’s papers. So he’s sending them on to me.”

Jasper joined him by the desk. “Is there a list, Kent?”

Valentine began to flip through the bundle, pausing once or twice, and then drew out a crumbling piece of parchment. His handsome, austere face broke into a smile. “I do believe there is, Jasper.”

At that moment the luncheon gong sounded.

Startled, Valentine looked up, and found himself strangely torn between the newly discovered list and the memory of Marissa’s dark eyes.

“Kent?” Jasper was frowning. “The list, man!”

“I have guests,” Valentine said, and set the paper down carefully on his desk.

“Guests? What guests? Who cares about guests when we are in pursuit of the rose?”

Valentine shrugged uncomfortably, knowing Jasper would not understand his sudden loss of the single-mindedness that had always accompanied his quest. “They are George’s guests, actually.”

“Then let George deal with them! You might be holding the key to the Crusader’s Rose in your hands and you’re worrying about some uninvited guests?”

But Valentine felt anticipation stirring within his heart, anticipation that had nothing to do with roses or plants of any kind. It was so long since he’d felt like this he didn’t know how to explain it to himself, let alone Jasper, so he didn’t try.

“I owe them a duty as their host. We will eat lun
cheon, Jasper, and then we will be free to take up the quest.”

Jasper shook his head in frustration, but nevertheless he reluctantly followed Valentine to the door. Once outside Valentine turned the key in the lock and tucked it into his pocket. “Von Hautt doesn’t know the English countryside like we do,” he soothed his friend. “It will take him longer to find out where de Fevre’s companions lived all those centuries ago.”

“But he has a head start.”

“Nevertheless, we will triumph, Jasper. Suddenly I am sure of it.” And he gave an uncharacteristically reckless laugh. He would be thirty-four next birthday but right now he felt like a youth, the blood pumping through his veins, his body powerful and strong, his mind clear.

Was that because he finally had a strong clue to the whereabouts of the second Crusader’s Rose? Or was it because he was about to take luncheon with the beautiful Marissa Rotherhild?