Tomorrow's Treasure (48 page)

Thank you, Father God.

Evy bowed to the audience.

When she left the dais, Madame was there in the waiting room, her hands clasped and her eyes shining. “Magnificent.”

At the woman's simple praise, Evy smiled her delighted gratitude.

“Now you must meet some guests. They are waiting to congratulate you.”

It was some time before she met Arcilla and Mr. Bartley. She looked behind them and felt a small stab of disappointment. No Rogan.

“Evy, you were grand!” Arcilla turned to Mr. Bartley. “Was she not, Peter?”

“Indeed, most excellent, Miss Varley. I look forward to hearing you again.”

“Thank you,” Evy repeated over and over to her well-wishers. But her focus was elsewhere. Where was Rogan?

She turned and almost bumped into him. He was unaccompanied. Evy's heart tripped. Where was the ever-present Patricia? Had she not wished to accompany him? Or had he decided against her company tonight? She felt a little thrill at the possibility.

Rogan's eyes shone, and the unrestrained admiration in his dark gaze brought a warmth to her cheeks. Unlike the others he took her hand and bent over it, kissing it. Once again her heart leapt at his touch.

“You were wonderful.”

His low murmur moved over her like a sweet summer rain. “Thank you,” she managed, withdrawing her hand, but still feeling his touch. “Did you approve of my first choice?” She barely restrained a grin.

A faint, knowing smile touched the corners of his mouth. “It was superbly done.”

Evy had never known such joy as filled her in that moment.

It was some time before she could break away, and when Madame Ardelle gave permission for her dinner out with the Chantrys, she escaped with them to the coach. Arcilla and Mr. Bartley got in first. Arcilla was busy chattering as Rogan handed Evy inside. He then got in beside her, shutting the door. The horses' hooves clattered across the damp cobbles on the way toward the Chantry Townhouse located on the Strand.

Arcilla was still laughing and chattering with Mr. Bartley, looking very unlike the forlorn young lady she had portrayed only a few weeks ago. So much for the deep, undying love she had vowed! Or was this apparent happiness only affectation? It was difficult to tell. Evy would rather believe Arcilla had decided Peter Bartley was not such a dreadful choice after all.

She glanced at Rogan, meaning to look away again, but his gaze would not relinquish hers.

“Unlike some others, I am not surprised at how lovely you look tonight. I have always credited myself for seeing beyond the unadorned rectory girl to the real woman who is Eve Varley.”

That gave her pause. “I am and always shall be the rectory girl, Rogan.”

His smile wrought havoc on her already heightened nerves. “I hope so. It's the rectory girl I find most appealing. She remains the same, even when adorned in pearls and velvet. Someday it must be diamonds.”

She flushed, nearly overcome with a pleasure she did not want. She
must not feel this way … It made her foolishly vulnerable. It had been a mistake to come with him tonight, to act is though she belonged to this social echelon. And yet, there was not another place she would rather be than sitting beside him, warmed by his attentive interest and what appeared to be genuine compliments.

And so for a moment, she allowed herself to deny that she was climbing a precipitous cliff. Or that the fall, should it occur, would be a dreadful one.

Aware of a sudden silence in the coach, Evy looked quickly across at Arcilla. It would be dreadful if she could read Evy's thoughts! Arcilla had already seen fit to warn her not to fall for Heyden van Buren. What would she think if she knew her true feelings toward her brother, upon whom Arcilla thought the sun rose and set?

The Chantry Townhouse was exactly what Evy would have expected: It stood in a class all its own surrounded by other two-story houses in the socially elite area of the Strand, known for royalty and titled families.

“Mum used to like coming here,” Arcilla reminisced, after exiting the coach. “Do you remember, Rogan?”

Of course he would, and made no unnecessary comments as Arcilla continued in her nostalgia. “There was something about the rose garden that was special. Mum would say, ‘You can smell them tonight. The little fairies are out playing on the velvet petals.' No sooner would we all arrive than Mum would take my hand and we'd go off to check on her special scarlet roses. If she thought anything was not just right, she'd call Simms—our old butler, the dear—and she would chide him about the health of her
babies.
Simms used to be so gentle with Mum, as though she were a child herself.”

Rogan interrupted, but there was gentleness in his voice, as though he felt sorry for his sister. “Come along, Arcilla. We'd best go inside. Simms won't like it if the supper gets cold. Besides, I suspect after giving so much of herself tonight that Evy must be hungry.”

Actually, she hardly had an appetite. She was too excited. As they went up the walk she knew she would always remember this special
night when she had played to an approving audience and dined in December moonlight with Rogan Chantry.

The townhouse must indeed have been one of Lady Honoria's favorite places away from Rookswood. Evy could see it in the choice of furniture and paintings. The rooms were narrower, the house taller, and the intricately carved steep wooden staircase had been refinished so that it looked like a polished wooden gem. Three narrow flights of steps wound upward in a half spiral. The gallery railing on the middle floor was also highly polished, and ornate and lovely crystalline chandeliers shone and glittered like carved chunks of ice.

“It is beautiful,” she murmured as Rogan took her wrap and handed it to Simms.

Simms and his niece, a young woman with berry cheeks and thick brows, had prepared a cozy room facing the garden for the supper. There was a long table covered with festive linens and full of platters of all sorts of foods and delicacies. Candles gleamed on either end and above another smaller chandelier.

Comfortable chairs were arranged in a semicircle about a round table with a mammoth bowl of Christmas flowers and greens. Evy kept the surprise she felt to herself. She had expected other guests to be here, but the comfortable arrangement was set for a foursome.

She gazed about, aware of the thought that had gone into this. Warmth filled her at the realization of the care and honor that had been afforded her. Was it Rogan or Arcilla who had been the driving force behind it all?

They each were to choose whatever delectables they preferred. Evy felt as though her head were spinning.
Here I am, dining cozily with social aristocrats in a townhouse that once, long ago, entertained King Charles!
Surely this opportunity would not have been possible without Rogan. He must have been the instigator. The thought was exciting and dangerous—but she didn't care. She was here, in her new gown and hairdo, after a successful performance, enjoying the attention of quite possibly the most sought-after young bachelor in London.

Miss Patricia Bancroft was not here, but Evy Varley was.

The dining was quite pleasant and the company exhilarating. Even Arcilla, with whom Evy was so accustomed to chatting, entered whole-heartedly into the relaxed conversation. Mr. Bartley, or Peter, as both Arcilla and Rogan called him, talked extensively about South Africa and Capetown. Evy found it all quite intriguing. Peter told them he had been born in England and taken to Capetown when he was three years old, when his father was appointed a governing official.

“Peter may be appointed to aid the governor-general in dealing with the troublesome Dutch,” Arcilla told Evy.

“Boers,” Peter corrected her, though Evy noted his tone was most patient. “A proud and uncivilized band of farmers. Do you know much about them, Miss Varley?”

“No, I cannot say I do. I understand they settled there before the English arrived.”

“That is true. They call themselves voortrekkers. Their commander is Paul Kruger. A thornier, tougher-minded old Dutchman you'll not likely meet.”

Evy thought of Heyden at that, and her eyes met Rogan's. He looked a bit provoked.

“War is inevitable, don't you think, Peter?”

He studied Rogan at that. “If we do not force the Boers to accept British rule, then the Union Jack isn't likely to be flying over any new Rand that may be discovered. Therefore war, in my mind, is a necessity.”

“The Rand?” Evy asked.

Rogan turned his head toward her. “Witwatersrand. Where the first big gold rush took place. The name was shortened to The Rand.”

Had Rogan mentioned his idea of a second great gold find to his future brother-in-law? She guessed that he had not. Rogan listened more than he spoke, as though willing to learn everything he could from those who had been born and raised in South Africa. It was this tendency that made her think he would become an expert in whatever he set out to do. More and more she realized that he was not arrogant, as she had once thought, but confident. His interest in the Cape, in gold
especially, had not waned since childhood. Nor had his belief that he would be successful.

“Why do you think there will be a war?” Evy directed her question to both Peter and Rogan.

Arcilla yawned and nibbled at her dessert, a small custard tart with raspberry sauce.

“I can sum it up for you in one meaningful word, Miss Varley,” Peter said with a twisted smile. “Kruger. The soldier, the warrior, the stubborn Dutchman who refuses to see the sunrise of the British Empire spreading across Africa.”

She shifted in her chair at this passionate outburst.

Rogan had long since finished his supper and was stretched in his chair opposite her, hands behind his dark head. He had removed his dinner jacket and loosened his white frilled shirt around his throat.

“Gold and diamonds,” Rogan told her lazily. “You've heard of Cecil Rhodes, have you not?”

She looked at him.
I would have studied up on this before I came if I'd known I'd be drilled on South Africa.
She feared she might look as blank and bored as Arcilla. “I believe your father mentioned a colony … somewhere in Mashonaland.”

Rogan nodded. “Rhodes wants to push farther into the region and form a new outpost that he dreams will one day be a small country all its own—Rhodesia. Named for himself, of course. There are likely to be diamonds, gold, and perhaps emeralds in that region. He has gained a charter from the queen allowing him to form a company of settlers to make the trek inland. Peter is likely to be sent to Rhodesia as an official representative of the governor-general in Capetown.”

Evy looked at Arcilla to see her reaction. She had come alert and looked with shock, first at Rogan, then at Peter. “Rhodesia? You're being sent there by the governor-general?”

Peter looked a trifle uncomfortable and glanced at Rogan as if to ask why he'd told her so soon. But Rogan sipped from his glass, his expression bland and unreadable.

Had he done this deliberately? She recalled how he had said that he
preferred Arcilla to marry Charles. Perhaps she had settled in too comfortably with Peter, and Rogan was trying to alarm her, to make her put up more of a fight for the man she wanted. Did Arcilla wish to travel deeper into Africa as the wife of a commissioner?

But while the news had startled Evy, too, she found the idea of such a journey as exciting as it was dangerous.

“The governor-general of Capetown and your uncle, Sir Julien, will be sending me,” Peter said.

“Leave it to Uncle Julien,” Rogan commented. “He has his fingers in everything.”

“What of the tribes in the area?” Evy looked to Peter. “Do they agree on allowing more white settlers?”

Rogan cocked a brow and looked at Peter. “What say you, Peter?” Amusement tinged his casual words. “Will they welcome Rhodes with open arms, do you think?”

Peter emptied his glass in one gulp and set it down with a click of determination. “They will. All we need is more time to convince them it's in their best interest.”

Rogan looked over at Evy, a faint smile playing at his lips.

Arcilla was frowning, most likely imagining herself in a company of new settlers moving off into the unknown wilds of Africa. Evy saw her shudder a little, and at that moment her heart went out to Arcilla. Did Sir Lyle understand what he was doing by allowing Sir Julien to dictate his daughter's marriage?

Rogan stood, startling Evy, and looked at his timepiece. “I think we need a change in mood. One moment.” With that, he left the room.

Arcilla lapsed into thoughtful silence, and Evy did her best to carry on the conversation with Mr. Bartley, steering clear of his future in Rhodesia. Was he finding everything in London as he had expected? Was the cold weather difficult on him? How were the seasons in the Cape? Then she heard it.

The vibrant notes of a violin.

Emotions washing over her in waves, Evy sat straighter and turned her head. Rogan had reentered the room. He had his dinner jacket back
on, his shirt collar buttoned precisely, and held a magnificent violin. He bowed to Evy.

“I keep my promises, Miss Varley. After your superb performance at Parkridge, tonight seemed the perfect time.”

Arcilla's face was wreathed in smiles. She clapped her hands, looking at Evy with a childlike delight. “I
told
you we had a surprise for you.”

She stood and offered a sweeping curtsy. “Ladies and gentlemen, may I bring to your august attention the musical expertise of Master Rogan Chantry playing …?” Apparently she had forgotten the official name, for she covered her mouth with a laugh and looked over at her brother for help.

Rogan bowed deeply to Evy. “Paganini's Violin Concerto no. 2 in B Minor.”

As he set bow to strings, Evy leaned back in her chair, her eyes drifting closed. The music rose and swelled, filling the room as completely as it filled her heart. Rogan's suave yet dynamic performance of Paganini's concerto left a tingle running down her spine. She opened her eyes and saw his gaze fixed on her, and knew he was playing for her. Her breath caught in her throat at that, and she gave him a smile from the depths of her heart.