No Place for an Angel
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Gail Whitiker
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Chapter One
The Gryphon Theatre, London—summer 1828
The single rose arrived precisely on schedule, exactly one half-hour after Catherine Jones took her bows and walked off the stage at the Gryphon Theatre.
The rose, cut at the peak of perfection and tied with a white satin bow, was brought to her dressing room by the same young man who appeared after every performance; an envoy sent to deliver the long-stemmed tribute on behalf of an admirer who preferred to remain...anonymous.
‘Curious, don’t you think, Lily,’ Catherine mused to her dresser, ‘that after all this time, the gentleman still refuses to identify himself.’
‘Downright queer, if you ask me, miss,’ Lily said bluntly. ‘The other men who send you gifts all want you to know who they are in the hopes you’ll offer them the appropriate thanks. Why not this one?’
‘I don’t know.’ Catherine drew the velvety pink petals across her lips. ‘Perhaps he is married and does not wish his wife to know he has been showering roses on another woman for the better part of five months. I know I wouldn’t.’
‘I’m not sure rich men care about that sort of thing, miss,’ Lily said. ‘And he must be rich, given what he’s spent on all those flowers. Lord, what if he’s a duke...or one of those handsome Arabian sheiks!’
Amused that the girl would think one as significant as the other, Catherine smiled. ‘It can be of no consequence to me what he is. A dear friend once told me I can encourage neither prince nor pauper, no matter how rich one or poor the other. And she was right.’
‘But why? You’re not married or engaged, so why shouldn’t you enjoy the company of gentlemen the same as everyone else?’
‘Because I have responsibilities and obligations others do not,’ Catherine said quietly, preferring not to think about the meeting she was to have in two weeks’ time with the man who had taken control of her life five years ago. A man who might have been her father-in-law had a terrible accident not happened to prevent it. ‘Never mind that. What’s this I hear about you and Mr Hawkins walking out together? Is it true?’
The question, introduced as a way of diverting Lily’s attention, launched the girl into a blushing recital of the young man’s attributes, allowing Catherine—who wasn’t expected to answer—to close her eyes and let the sound of the girl’s voice drift around her. She didn’t mind that Lily enjoyed the occasional night out. The girl had a good head on her shoulders and knew better than to let any man take advantage of her. Still, it was difficult at times not to feel a little envious of her dresser’s amorous adventures.
What wouldn’t she have given, Catherine mused, to be able to flirt with a gentleman without fear of reprisal? To have the freedom to spend an evening in his company and not have to worry about who might be watching. To indulge in a few hours of harmless pleasure for a change.
But such choices were no longer hers to make. The errors of her past dictated the path of her future, and the price for straying from that path was too high. She had already sacrificed more than any woman should have to...
‘I mended the tear in your rose-coloured silk,’ Lily said now. ‘And I added a new piece of lace around the neckline. But I don’t know why you would want to wear that gown tonight when your turquoise satin is far more fashionable.’
‘Yes, but it is also a great deal more revealing and, given that I shall be performing in front of the Marquess of Alderbury’s entire family, I think it best I appear in something a little more conservative,’ Catherine said. Plunging necklines and diaphanous gowns were all very well for her performances on stage, but for private concerts like the one she was giving tonight, she preferred a more modest appearance. One never knew who might be watching.
She glanced at her rose again and stroked the petals with a lingering caress. Who was he, this mystery man who bestowed such exquisite flowers yet refused to show his face? Someone who had no desire to reveal his identity—or someone who dared not?
‘Are you sure you’re up to singing at Lady Mary’s reception tonight, miss?’ Lily asked. ‘You’ve already been on stage the best part of four hours, and Mr Templeton’s scheduled an early rehearsal for the morning. You should be home resting.’
‘I will have plenty of time to rest when I get back from my trip,’ Catherine said, slipping the rose into the vase with the others. ‘Besides, I have only been asked to sing six songs. Hardly an arduous task.’
‘I might agree if you hadn’t performed twice that many in the last four hours,’ Lily said, pinning the last of Catherine’s golden curls into place. ‘Still, I suppose you know best. Is it to be the pearls or the rubies tonight?’
‘The pearls, I think. They look better with the gown.’
‘Either work nicely.’ Lily unlocked the jewellery box. ‘Both make you look like a lady.’
Yes, Catherine reflected, just as jewels and costumes had made her look the part of a siren, a goddess, a street waif and a witch. All roles cast by the charismatic theatre owner, Theodore Templeton, and for which she had achieved a level of fame unimaginable five years ago, when she had left Miss Marsh’s house in Cheltenham with few hopes and even less money. Now she had the wherewithal to afford a house in a decent part of town, the staff to maintain it and the clothes necessary to play the part. She might not be as well known as the illustrious Mrs Siddons, but many favourable comparisons had been made in terms of their acting abilities.
But it was her voice that had catapulted Catherine to the forefront of the industry, her incredible four-octave range making her one of the most talked-about performers of the day. She had even been invited to sing before one of the royal dukes on his birthday.
Sometimes it was hard to remember she had been born the only daughter of a governess and a schoolmaster, so far had she risen from those humble beginnings.
‘Here’s your shawl, miss,’ Lily said, draping a lightweight silk wrap around Catherine’s shoulders. ‘I’ll just get my things and we can be off.’
‘We?’ Catherine glanced at her dresser in confusion. ‘It isn’t your job to accompany me to private engagements, Lily.’
‘I know, but you had to send poor Mrs Rankin home early, and I know she doesn’t approve of you going out on your own,’ Lily said, referring to the widow who had been Catherine’s companion since her arrival in London. ‘So I thought I would go myself.’
‘But you told me you were seeing Mr Hawkins this evening.’
‘I was, until Mrs Rankin fell ill. Then I told him I wasn’t available.’
‘Well, go and find him and tell him you are available,’ Catherine said, slipping the strap of her fan over her wrist. ‘I doubt he will have left the theatre yet. He’s likely still helping Mr Templeton take the sets down.’
‘But what if that man Stubbs sees you gallivanting around Mayfair without a chaperon?’ Lily persisted. ‘Mrs Rankin told me he makes notes of everything you do and everyone you see.’
‘I will hardly be gallivanting and so I shall tell Mr Stubbs if and when I see him,’ Catherine said, surprised the normally tight-lipped Mrs Rankin had been so forthcoming with information. ‘Lord Alderbury is sending a private carriage to collect me, and at the end of the evening, I shall take a hackney home. Now go and find your young man.’
Lily did not look convinced. ‘I don’t think Mrs Rankin is going to be very pleased about this, miss.’
‘Don’t worry, Lily, everything will be fine. I shall go to Lord Alderbury’s house, sing for his guests and then leave,’ Catherine said confidently. ‘You’ll see. There won’t be any trouble at all.’
* * *
‘Are you going to read me a story tonight, Uncle Val?’ the little boy asked. ‘I’m really not very sleepy.’
‘You never are, even when you don’t have a fever,’ Valbourg said, stowing the last of his nephew’s toys in the large wooden box. ‘I would be quite worn out if I did all you do in a day.’
‘Is that because you’re old?’
‘I beg your pardon?’ Valbourg straightened. ‘Who told you I was old?’
‘Aunt Dorothy. Right before she told Grandfather it was time you were married.’ Sebastian gazed up at his uncle with wide, trusting eyes. ‘Are you getting married, Uncle Val?’
‘I wasn’t planning on it, no.’
‘It would be all right if you did. I mean, as long as you didn’t send me away.’
‘Send you away? Why on earth would I do that?’ Valbourg asked, sitting down on the edge of Sebastian’s bed. ‘This is your home now and has been for the past two years.’
‘I know, but Aunt Dorothy said the lady you marry might not want me to stay here any more,’ the boy whispered, his flushed face evidence of the fever that had only recently broken. ‘She said she might prefer to have her own children around her rather than someone else’s.’
Anger swelled like a balloon in Valbourg’s chest. Damn Dorothy! Why couldn’t she mind her own business? She should have known better than to say something so hurtful in front of an impressionable young boy. ‘I am not going to send you away, and you mustn’t listen to anything Aunt Dorothy says. I shall marry when I am good and ready and not a moment before. So let’s have no more talk about you leaving, understood?’
‘Understood,’ Sebastian said, relief chasing the shadows from his eyes. ‘I’m not getting married either. I think girls are silly,’ he proclaimed with all the certainty of a six-year-old. ‘Don’t you?’
‘They certainly can be.’
‘Uncle Hugh doesn’t think so. He said I’ll come to like girls very much when I am his age, because he started liking them very much when he was mine.’
Valbourg sighed, wondering if there was any member of his family he wasn’t going to have a word with. ‘I think we’ll leave that discussion for another time. Your aunt Mary’s betrothal ball is this evening and she won’t be pleased if I am late.’ He tucked Brynley Bear, Sebastian’s loyal companion, into the bed next to him. ‘Nanny Lamb will be in to read you a story, all right?’
‘Yes, all right,’ Sebastian said, though Valbourg could tell from the expression on the boy’s face that his thoughts were still distracted. ‘Don’t you want to get married, Uncle Val?’
‘I suppose, when the right lady comes along. But for now, it’s just going to be you, me and Brynley Bear rattling around in this big old house. And here’s Nanny Lamb to read you a story.’ Valbourg leaned forward and kissed his nephew on the forehead. ‘Sleep well and I’ll see you in the morning.’
‘Uncle Val?’
‘Hmm?’
‘I’m glad you don’t want me to leave. I do miss Mama and Papa, but I’m happy I came to live here with you rather than with Aunt Dorothy,’ Sebastian confided. ‘She looks a lot older than you and, sometimes, she smells funny.’
Valbourg’s mouth twitched. ‘Yes, she does, but it isn’t polite to tell ladies things like that, so we’d best keep that to ourselves, all right?’
‘If you say so. Goodnight, Uncle Val.’
Valbourg ruffled the boy’s dark curls and then vacated his seat on the bed. He regretted not being able to stay and read Sebastian a story. Reading to his nephew had become one of the highlights of his day. The childishly innocent stories took him back to his own untroubled youth, and the quiet time he spent with Sebastian was a reminder of what really mattered in life. It was only when he had an important engagement like this evening’s that he let Nanny Lamb take over.
It might seem a surprisingly domestic arrangement for the Marquess of Alderbury’s eldest son and heir, but Valbourg had no complaints. Having Sebastian living with him was the best thing that could have happened to him—even if it had come about as the result of the most unfortunate circumstances and a promise rashly given to his youngest sister six years ago.
A promise he never thought he’d be called upon to fulfil.
‘Ah, good evening, my lord,’ Finholm said as Valbourg arrived at the bottom of the stairs. ‘Is Master Sebastian feeling better?’
‘I believe so, though Dr Tennison said he would stop by again in the morning,’ Valbourg said. ‘If you need me, just send word to Alderbury House.’
‘I’m sure everything will be fine,’ the butler said. ‘Master Sebastian is a plucky little lad. I doubt there will be any cause for concern.’
‘I hope not, Finholm. Goodnight.’
With the butler’s reassurances ringing in his ears, Valbourg set off for his sister’s engagement celebration, content in the knowledge that he was leaving Sebastian in good hands. It was amazing how completely the responsibility for raising a child changed his priorities. Before his nephew had come to live with him, Valbourg had lived a life as irresponsible as most; gambling too often, drinking too much and amusing himself with a string of beautiful young mistresses. He had given no thought to his future because he’d had no reason to expect it would be any different from his past.
He certainly hadn’t expected Fate to walk in and turn his life upside down. Who could have foreseen that his youngest sister and her husband—both only twenty years old—would be struck down by illness, forcing Valbourg into the role of guardian to their four-year-old son? Who could have known that with Sarah’s death, the sybaritic lifestyle he’d led would come to an abrupt end? That the room he had used as a study would be converted to a nursery, or that Nanny Lamb would be coaxed out of retirement and that overnight, the heir to a marquessate and one of London’s most eligible bachelors would become a sober and responsible family man.
Certainly not him.
But, in fact, that was precisely what had happened, and in the two years since Sebastian’s arrival, Valbourg had become a model of sobriety and restraint. A paragon with no vices and few regrets.
Except one—and he would be seeing her tonight. Miss Catherine Jones. The Angel of London. The one temptation he had tried—and so far succeeded in—resisting.
It must be Fate interfering in his life again, Valbourg reflected moodily as he set out on foot for his father’s house. Only a perverse deity would bring the Angel into his life at a time when he could do absolutely nothing about it—because only Fate knew how desperately he wanted her. He had, ever since the first time he had seen her on the stage of the Gryphon Theatre in the role of Flora, goddess of spring.
Garbed in a flowing white gown and with her silken hair caught up in a coronet of roses, Catherine Jones had appeared to him like something out of a dream; a golden-haired goddess sent to bewitch and beguile him. Her incredible, bell-like voice had filled the theatre and caused the chattering crowd to raise their lorgnettes and peer with wonder at the glorious creature standing before them.
Unfortunately, it was not only her voice that had captivated Valbourg. When at the end of that first performance, she had stared out into that vast auditorium, raised her sapphire-blue eyes to the first row of boxes, and her gaze had connected with his—and she had smiled. From that moment on, Valbourg had been lost. The thought of holding Catherine in his arms kept him awake at night, while the desire to lose himself in the softness of her body made him ache.
Quite simply, the woman was intoxicating; more seductive than the finest wine, more addictive than the strongest opium. And like an addict, Valbourg kept returning to the Gryphon Theatre night after night, simply for the pleasure of watching her. She never glanced in his direction again, but it didn’t matter. The die had been cast. Valbourg became her greatest admirer...and she didn’t even know his name.
But she would after tonight, because tonight, she would be singing at his sister’s betrothal celebration. Mary had specifically asked him to engage Miss Jones to entertain their guests, and his father had asked him to look after the young lady while she was in his house.
Not an onerous responsibility. Indeed, Valbourg could think of a hundred men who would have jumped at the opportunity. But not him. For him it would be an exercise in frustration. A test of will-power...because the day he had become Sebastian’s guardian was the day he had vowed to lead an exemplary life. One that gave no one any room to criticise his behaviour or a reason to take Sebastian away—which a liaison with Catherine Jones would most certainly do. That meant he had no choice but to keep her at arm’s length. He would greet her when she arrived at his father’s house and introduce her to his sister and her fiancé at the appropriate time. If called upon to do so, he would even talk to her as though she was any other woman and not the bewitching creature who charmed with her music and ensnared with her beauty.
He had a reputation to uphold and a six-year-old boy to take care of. Not even the glorious Catherine Jones could be allowed to jeopardise that!
* * *
The Marquess of Alderbury’s town house was an imposing Georgian edifice graced with five levels of windows, a row of sculpted Gothic columns and a fringe of grinning gargoyles that glared down on unsuspecting visitors. A house built to impress and intimidate.
Catherine was not intimidated. She might have been when she had first arrived in London five years ago, but so much had changed in her life since then she no longer gazed with open-mouthed wonder at such things. Her employer, Theo Templeton, owned an exceedingly gracious residence just a few streets away, and she had often been invited to attend receptions given by the former actor and his flamboyant wife, also a former stage actress. Together, they had introduced Catherine to an eclectic group of actors, writers, artists and entrepreneurs, few of whom would have been made to feel welcome in the drawing rooms of polite society, but all of whom were accepted and embraced in the Templetons’.
Catherine had been similarly welcomed, because in that gloriously ornate room, no one knew about the scandals in her past. No one knew about Will Hailey, the young man with whom she had fallen in love and committed that one terrible mistake, or about Thomas, the beautiful, golden-haired child who had resulted from it. No one knew about Will’s father, the Reverend James Hailey, who had ripped Thomas from her arms when he was but a baby and then told her to leave. A man whose hard-hearted actions had necessitated the dramatic changes in her life.
No one knew any of that because here she was just Catherine Jones, the much-admired singer who had taken London by storm; a woman celebrated for her talent rather than looked down upon for her sins.
A woman who had buried her pain so deep no one even knew it existed.
Catherine glanced down at her gloved hands and sighed. She must be talented indeed to be able to fool all of London into believing she was happy.
The marquess’s carriage rolled to a stop at the bottom of the stone steps and one of the liveried footmen jumped down to open the door. He was too well trained to peer inside, but Catherine knew he was waiting for her to disembark...something she knew better than to do. Actresses were not deposited at the front door of elegant residences. They were admitted through the servants’ entrance and taken up the back stairs, hopefully without being seen by any of the guests. No doubt, the butler would soon come out and instruct the driver to move on.
But to her dismay, no such direction came. And when a shout rang out from one of the carriages in line behind them, the footman finally poked his head in and said, ‘Excuse me, miss, but we have to move on.’
Catherine bit her lip, wondering who was responsible for the mistake. She glanced at the crowds milling beyond the carriage door and knew exactly what they would think if she were to emerge from Lord Alderbury’s carriage now. Unmarried women of good birth did not arrive unescorted at evening events and certainly not in the carriages of their hosts. That suggested an association well-bred people chose to ignore. But what choice did she have? She couldn’t sit in the carriage all night.
And so she climbed out, trying to appear nonchalant as she stepped into the crowd of richly dressed women and their elegant escorts. A few of the ladies raised well-groomed eyebrows while others just whispered and smiled behind their fans.
Catherine smoothed out the folds in her gown and pretended not to notice. She wanted to tell them she had been specifically invited by the Marquess of Alderbury to perform at this evening’s soirée, but if that was the case, why had no one been sent to meet her? Had his lordship forgotten she was coming—?
‘Good evening, Miss Jones. Welcome to Alderbury House.’
The voice, polite, reserved and as smooth as warm honey, came from somewhere to her left and, turning around, Catherine saw a gentleman walking towards her. He wasn’t old enough to be the marquess, but neither could he be mistaken for a member of the household staff. Tall, dignified and impossibly handsome in exquisitely tailored evening clothes, his self-sufficient air suggested a man who was at home in his surroundings. One who had been born to the role. Another member of the family, perhaps? ‘Thank you, Mr...?’
‘Valbourg,’ he said. ‘My father is engaged elsewhere, but asked that I be on hand to greet you. I apologise for having kept you waiting.’
‘My apologies, Lord Valbourg,’ Catherine said, belatedly aware that she was addressing the marquess’s eldest son. ‘I hope you will convey my gratitude to your father for having been so kind as to send a carriage to collect me from the theatre.’
‘Actually, that was my doing,’ Valbourg said. ‘Since I asked you to come immediately after your performance, I thought the least I could do was provide comfortable transportation to bring you here. A carriage will also be made available to take you home at the end of the evening.’
‘Thank you, but that won’t be necessary,’ Catherine said, well aware that the infamous Stubbs would be watching for her arrival and preferring not to have to pay him extra to forget what he had seen. ‘I am able to make my own way around London.’
‘I’m sure you are, but you will not be required to do so this evening.’ He indicated the stairs. ‘Shall we?’
There was nothing in his tone to indicate disapproval of her response, but Catherine felt it none the less. Obviously Lord Valbourg did not deem it appropriate for a woman to travel around London on her own and had no doubt formed an opinion as to her character and morals as a result. Pity. She didn’t like being judged on appearances, especially when those appearances were misleading.
The truth was, she seldom went anywhere on her own because Mrs Rankin, the lady who had been with her since her arrival in London and who acted as both companion and chaperon, made sure she did not. It was only as a result of the lady being so dreadfully ill—and Lily being otherwise engaged—that Catherine had come on her own tonight. However, suspecting there was little she could say that would change his opinion, she gathered her skirts and started up the stairs beside him. She would deal with the issue of the ride home later.
They entered the hall, a magnificent room sumptuously furnished and sprinkled with priceless artwork and gilt-edged mirrors. Guests were directed up the white marble staircase and to the left, where Catherine assumed the marquess and his family were receiving.
She was taken up the stairs and to the right.
‘I thought you would like to see where you will be performing,’ Valbourg said politely. ‘Refreshments, if desired, will be brought to you there.’
Catherine inclined her head. ‘Thank you, my lord.’ As kind as Valbourg’s offer was, she knew what he was saying. She was the paid entertainment; not an invited guest. Strange how that still had the power to hurt. ‘Actually, I never eat before a performance,’ she added in a voice as remote as his. ‘I find it affects my voice.’
‘Then I wonder at you having the stamina to perform so magnificently in Promises night after night.’
Her head came round sharply. ‘You’ve seen the play?’
‘Indeed. I was curious to know what all of London was talking about.’
‘Really.’ She resented having to ask, but curiosity got the better of her. ‘Did you enjoy it?’
‘Very much.’ Valbourg glanced briefly in her direction. ‘And you were...exceptional.’
His gaze lingered for no more than a moment, but it was long enough for Catherine to form an impression of sculpted cheekbones, dark eyes and a firm, sensuous mouth. Lord Valbourg was an elegant and powerful man; one whose slightest glance would bring women flocking to his side in the hopes of securing his affection.
How fortunate she was not one of those women.
‘Thank you,’ she said, returning her gaze to the stairs. ‘I would not have thought Promises the type of play a man like you would enjoy, but I shall certainly pass your comments along to Mr Templeton.’ She flicked another glance in his direction. ‘I cannot recall having seen you in the audience.’
‘Why would you? I am but one of the many thousands who stare at you every night,’ Valbourg said. ‘In such crowds, all faces blur into one, none of them distinguishable or particularly memorable.’
And yet, yours would be, Catherine found herself thinking. In fact, as she glanced at Valbourg again, she realised there was something familiar about his features. The black, wavy hair, the dark slash of eyebrows above expressive eyes and a slender, aristocratic nose. And that mouth, capable, no doubt, of humbling a man with a few carefully chosen words, or of bringing a woman to ecstasy with a lingering kiss—
‘I say, Brother, what gem have you brought into the house tonight?’ A very different voice cut into her musings. ‘Can it be the Angel of London come to grace us with her presence?’
Valbourg stopped and turned around, causing Catherine to do the same.
‘Ah, Hugh, I wondered when I would be seeing you. Miss Jones, allow me to introduce my brother, Lord Hugh Nelson. Hugh, Miss Catherine Jones.’
Brother. Yes, Catherine could see the resemblance. Though he looked to be younger than Valbourg, Lord Hugh shared his brother’s dark hair, sculpted cheekbones and slender, aristocratic nose. But where Valbourg’s eyes were a warm chocolate brown, Lord Hugh’s were the cool clear grey of a winter morning. His clothes were more dandified than Valbourg’s, and where the latter’s build suggested a man who enjoyed outdoor pursuits, Lord Hugh’s was already tending towards corpulence.
But it was in their attitudes towards her that Catherine saw the biggest difference. Valbourg’s regard was polite but uninterested. Lord Hugh’s was engaged and appreciative, leaving her in no doubt as to the nature of his thoughts.
‘So, we are to be treated to a performance by the Angel of London,’ he murmured, reaching for her hand. ‘How honoured we are.’
His words were as flattering as his regard, but Catherine suspected honour had very little to do with them. ‘Thank you. I was delighted to be asked and look forward to performing for your father’s guests.’
‘Not nearly as pleased as we are to have you. I say, Val, why don’t you leave Miss Jones in my care until Mary is ready for her to sing?’ Lord Hugh said, his hands pressing moist heat into hers. ‘I’m sure you have more important things to do.’
‘As a matter of fact, I do not,’ Valbourg said, pointedly freeing Catherine’s hand from his brother’s. ‘Mary charged me with the responsibility of looking after our guest and that is what I intend to do. Come, Miss Jones, the music room is just ahead. I’m sure you would like a chance to rehearse before the guests start arriving. One of the footmen will keep watch outside.’ He levelled a warning glance in his brother’s direction. ‘I have left instructions that no one is to be admitted until you are ready to begin.’
With that, he placed his hand in the middle of Catherine’s back and gently propelled her forward.
Catherine was not sorry to walk away. She was familiar with Lord Hugh’s type: men who had been indulged since birth and were used to having what—and who—they wanted. He no doubt enjoyed the company of actresses and ballet dancers, many of whom were, for the most part, elegant prostitutes, and while Catherine did not think of herself in that way, she was realistic enough to know that others did.
For that reason, she was surprised when a few minutes later, Valbourg said, ‘I apologise for my brother’s behaviour, Miss Jones. There is nothing he likes better than to find himself in the company of beautiful women, and while I cannot say he would not have made an improper advance, he would certainly have tried to monopolise your time.’
Catherine slowed, her expression thoughtful. Valbourg thought her beautiful? ‘Thank you, my lord, but there is no need to apologise. I have encountered your brother’s type before and am perfectly able to take care of myself.’
‘Are you?’ A glint of amusement warmed the brown eyes that suddenly turned to meet hers. ‘Have you a bronzed Nubian bodyguard you call upon at such times?’
Catherine allowed herself a small smile. ‘No, but I do know a few techniques that can come in useful. Ways in which to deflect a gentleman’s unwanted amorous attentions.’
‘If force is required to put distance between you and an admirer, he can hardly be called a gentleman.’
‘Ah, but he can,’ Catherine said. ‘A man will always treat a lady with respect, but he is not obliged to show the same consideration when in the company of an actress.’
‘He is when in this house,’ Valbourg said. ‘If you are treated with anything less than the respect you deserve, you are to find me at once and I shall deal with it.’
There was no trace of amusement in his voice now and Catherine was flattered by his concern. For all her fame, actresses were seldom accorded such consideration. It was refreshing to know there were still decent men in the world and that Lord Valbourg was one of them. What a pity their situations in life would prevent her from having a chance to know him better.
‘Thank you, my lord, but I doubt any of your father’s guests would be so inconsiderate as to misbehave beneath his roof. It would be a poor repayment of his hospitality.’
‘It would indeed, Miss Jones,’ Valbourg said. ‘And for everyone’s sake, I hope they remain aware of it.’
* * *
After making sure that Miss Jones was safely ensconced in the music room, Valbourg left her alone to practise, insisting she lock the door as soon as he left. The lady might believe herself wise to the ways of the world, but Valbourg knew there was very little she would be able to do against a man who had serious seduction on his mind. For that reason, he waited until he heard the click of the lock falling into place before making his way back to the ballroom.
Not surprisingly, his brother was waiting for him; a drink in his hand and a scowl on his face. ‘I say, Val, I didn’t care for the way you spoke to me back there. You had no right to be so dismissive in front of Miss Jones.’
‘And you had no right to move in on her the way you did. Dear God, Hugh, she is a guest in our father’s house,’ Valbourg said tersely. ‘Could you not have restrained yourself?’
‘She is an actress, not a guest,’ Hugh informed him. ‘One no doubt possessed of the same questionable morals as all the rest. She is only here to sing for her supper, and you can be damn sure she’ll be looking for a wealthy man to take her home. For a hefty price, of course.’
‘Which just goes to show how little you know about her. Catherine Jones hasn’t been any man’s mistress since she arrived in London,’ Valbourg said. ‘Her reputation is spotless. Would that the same could be said of yours.’
‘I’ll thank you to keep your opinions to yourself,’ Hugh said, securing a glass of wine from the tray of a passing waiter. ‘Just because you choose to live like a bloody monk doesn’t mean I have to.’
‘No, but something resembling restraint would be nice for a change,’ Valbourg drawled. ‘Speaking of conduct, watch what you say around Sebastian in future. I’d rather not have him thinking your conduct with women is one worth emulating. As for Miss Jones, keep your distance. She is here for our sister’s enjoyment. Not for your own personal pleasure.’
His brother’s eyes narrowed. ‘Why so protective, Valbourg? It’s not like you to warn me away from a woman. Can it be you’ve a mind to bed the wench yourself?’
Valbourg manufactured a smile for the benefit of a passing guest. ‘I won’t dignify that with a reply, but I trust we understand one another, Hugh.’
‘Miss Jones is off limits.’
For a moment, it was as though they were boys again; each determined to emerge the victor in an ongoing battle of wills. Hugh, three years younger and always the more competitive, still felt the need to prove himself, even though it was usually the elder brother who triumphed. Valbourg refused to allow emotion to cloud his judgement and took the time to weigh the pros and cons of a situation before deciding how to act. Logic trumped anger; reason suppressed passion. It was the only way of making intelligent and rational decisions.
Not that reason or intelligence had anything to do with how a man behaved when it came to a woman, Valbourg reflected narrowly. ‘I want your word on this, Hugh. Miss Jones is a guest in this house. Whatever her occupation or background, she is to be treated with respect while she is here. I will not allow you to harass or embarrass her.’
It was a hollow threat and they both knew it. Catherine Jones was an actress and as such, fair game for any man who wanted her. Indeed, for many actresses, becoming an aristocrat’s mistress was the far more desirable career. By ordering Hugh to behave like a gentleman, Valbourg had all but thrown down the gauntlet—and his brother had never been slow to pick it up.
Surprisingly, however, Hugh only shrugged his shoulders and said, ‘Very well, I won’t try to take advantage of Miss Jones. While it galls me to have to play the part of the gentleman, neither do I have any desire to be raked over the coals by you, or by Father after you trumpet your knowledge of my conduct to him. But mind you watch all the others, Brother,’ Hugh said, lowering his voice. ‘You can’t protect her from every red-blooded male who walks through that door, nor from the thousands who go to see her at the theatre every night. Catherine Jones is a beautiful and desirable woman. And you and I both know there’s nothing a man wants more than a woman someone tells him he can’t have.’
