Page 44 of The Viscount and the Vicar’s Daughter

“They were childhood friends. Lady Sara was much younger than her, of course. By seven or eight years, if I remember. But they had grown up together on neighboring estates. Raised practically as sisters. When Eleonore and I married, Lady Sara was one of our wedding party.”

“But…I don’t understand. If my mother was like a younger sister to the Countess of Lyndon, then why—”

“Why didn’t we help her?” Lord Lynden’s face betrayed a brief grimace of self-disgust. “By that time, my wife had died. I wasn’t myself for a long while. It’s not much of an excuse, but there it is.”

A sense of the injustice of it all settled in Valentine’s chest. If only things had been different. If only someone had come to her mother’s aid. “Is that why you’re helping me, my lord?”

“The wrong done to your mother was no fault of mine,” Lord Lynden said. “But when she found herself in trouble, I could have done more. Many in society could have done more. It’s too late to make amends to Lady Sara herself, much to my regret. But I will try to do my best by her daughter. It’s what my wife would have wanted.” He paused. “As for my son…”

“You don’t believe he will honor his promise.” Try as she might, she was unable to keep the tremor out of her voice. “You don’t believe he’ll come back for me or…or marry me.”

“What I believe, Miss March,” Lord Lynden said grimly, “is that you would be wise to put my son out of your mind for the next three months. And wiser still if you could manage to put him out of your mind altogether.”

London, England

Autumn, 1861

“Stand up, girl. Let me have a look at you.”

Valentine rose from the tassel-trimmed sofa in Lady Hermione Caddington’s opulent drawing room. She couldn’t have envisioned a more intimidating setting for her first meeting with one of her mother’s relations. The walls were papered in patterned yellow silk, the floors covered in rich Persian carpets. Plush settees and tufted ottomans vied for space with carved mahogany tables and button-back chairs and, from the ceiling, hung a truly magnificent crystal gasolier.

Taken altogether it made her feel the veriest country mouse.

She was still clad in her brown wool travelling gown. There’d been no time to change after arriving in London. Lord Lynden hadn’t even summoned his carriage from the station. Instead, he’d hailed a hansom cab and directed the jarvey to take them to Lady Hermione’s residence in Belgrave Square—a stately townhouse where her ladyship lived alone, save for the presence of her servants and two overfed pug dogs.

An expressionless butler had conducted them to the drawing room in all decorum. But when Lady Hermione had entered moments later, she hadn’t greeted Valentine as a guest. Nor had she acknowledged the presence of the Earl of Lynden. She’d merely strode in, her dogs trotting ahead of her like two medieval pages announcing the arrival of the queen, and lifted a pearl-encrusted lorgnette to her cool gray eyes.

Stand up, girl.

Every fiber of Valentine’s being bristled with indignation, but she submitted to the arrogant inspection without a word. Her hands were clasped in front of her, her spine straight as a ramrod. She could feel the two pugs snorting around the hem of her voluminous skirts. One of the rude little beasts even poked its gargoyle-like face under the edge of her crinoline. She was sorely tempted to nudge it away with the toe of her boot.

“Primrose,” Lady Hermione snapped. “Get out of there, you ridiculous creature.”

Valentine cast a fleeting glance down at the offending pug as it withdrew from her skirts and loped off. The other pug followed.

Lord Lynden strolled up alongside her. “Well?”

After another long moment, Lady Hermione dropped her lorgnette. “It’s exactly as you said.”

“Naturally. If there were any doubt I wouldn’t have wired you.”

Lady Hermione gave an imperious wave in the direction of the sofa and chairs. “Sit, sit. We have much to discuss.”

Valentine resumed her seat on the velvet sofa. Her stomach was trembling. She’d hoped that meeting one of her Caddington relations might be different. That it might make her feel as if she had a family of her own. A family who wanted her or, at least, wanted to know her better. But it didn’t feel like that at the moment. Quite the opposite.

Lady Hermione seemed as if she were made of ice. At first, Valentine had thought it was only her appearance. She was a tall arctic blonde of middle years with sharp, chiseled features and a straight, uncompromising figure. Her eyes, though intelligent, lacked all warmth. And her clothing…

Valentine couldn’t be entirely certain, but it seemed to her that Lady Hermione was wearing neither corset, nor crinoline. Her black silk gown fell about her frame in a wholly unstructured spill of fabric, a wide ribbon belt at her waist the only point of definition.

Such an ensemble might have softened another woman her age. Made her seem charmingly eccentric or even silly. On Lady Hermione Caddington, however, the clothing only served to make her look more formidable.

“I don’t know how you find yourself involved in this, Lynden,” she said.

“Does it matter?”

“It will soon enough. Everyone in London will want to know the story, down to the smallest detail. It will make the broadsheets, I’ll wager. And when they see her…”

“Will they see her?” Lord Lynden asked quietly.