Page 56 of The Viscount and the Vicar’s Daughter

“Courage,” Lord Lynden murmured.

She gave him a weak smile.

They were not obliged to wait long. In less than a quarter of an hour, the door to the salon opened and a gentleman entered the room.

He was of medium height and build with hair the color of golden wheat and eyes a cool shade of slate gray. He had sculpted features with a decisive chin and a straight, uncompromising nose. His posture, too, was straight and unbending—inflexible and decidedly unfriendly. He was dressed for the country in tweed trousers and a loose-fitting coat.

“Hermione,” he said. “Lord Lynden. This is an unexpected surprise.”

“Stokedale.” Lady Hermione moved from the fireplace and beckoned for Valentine to come stand beside her. “Allow me to present Miss Valentine March, formerly of Surrey.”

Lord Stokedale’s gray eyes came to rest on her face. He regarded her for a long while, his brows drawn and his lips pressed into a thin, disapproving line.

Valentine’s palms grew damp and her mouth went dry. She felt the weight of Lady Hermione’s hand upon her back. She couldn’t tell if it was to lend her support or to prevent her from running away.

“You’re Sara’s daughter,” he said finally.

“Yes, my lord.”

“You want money, I suppose.”

She stiffened. “Indeed I do not, sir.”

“Didn’t you write to me? Requesting assistance of some sort? My secretary, I assume, has disposed of the letters, but if memory serves—”

“I wrote to you because my father had died. I had no family left. No one to whom I could turn for help.”

“And you thought to come here, did you?” Lord Stokedale sighed. “Hermione, this is beyond the pale, even for you.”

“Won’t you recognize her?” Lady Hermione demanded. “Won’t you try to make amends for what happened to Sara?”

“I’m not the one who ordered Sara out of the house,” Lord Stokedale said. “I was at Oxford. There’s nothing I could have done.” He cast another narrow glance at Valentine. Distaste registered in his face. “We don’t even know who her father is.”

“My father,” Valentine said, “was Peregrine March, the late Vicar of Hartwood Green in Surrey. He married my mother in November of 1834, three months before I was born. He came to her aid when her family wouldn’t. She might have died otherwise, and I along with her.”

“Yet she did die,” Lord Stokedale said.

“Yes, she…” Valentine faltered. “She died bringing me into this world. I never knew her, but I would have liked to have known her family. My family.”

Lord Stokedale strolled to the opposite end of the room. He stopped in front of a portrait of an eighteenth century gentleman in a powdered wig posed with his hunting dogs. “I find this discussion to be in extraordinarily bad taste. My sister’s behavior is not the sort of family history one discusses with strangers. However, since you have broached the subject, I will speak plainly. It’s not common practice in polite society to recognize children born on the wrong side of the blanket.”

“She’s Sara’s daughter,” Lady Hermione said. “Your sister’s only child, Stokedale. Don’t let your pride—”

“You travelled here by train?” he asked. “You should have telegraphed. I might have saved you the journey.”

“You’re being damned uncivil,” Lord Lynden said.

Lord Stokedale turned to face them. “I am being exceedingly civil. We’re an old and honored family, Lynden. A sizeable family. Were we to begin welcoming every bastard and by-blow with a claim on one of our members, we may as well establish an orphanage.”

Lady Hermione inhaled a sharp breath. “You go too far, sir.”

“It’s you who have gone too far, madam,” Lord Stokedale said. “Sara has been dead more than a quarter of a century and there are still those who speak of her disgrace. What you’ve done will only serve to fan the flames of a scandal that’s never fully died. You should never have brought her here. Even a woman as reckless as you can’t fail to appreciate the consequences of such a rash act.”

“And how do you propose to behave when you encounter her out in society?” Lord Lynden asked.

“A remote prospect,” Lord Stokedale said. “We’re unlikely to move in the same circles.”

“It won’t be unlikely,” Lord Lynden retorted. “It will be inevitable. Miss March is betrothed to my heir. She will soon be the Viscountess St. Ashton.”