A Most Sinful Proposal (The Husband Hunters Club 2)

“Kent?” Jasper was watching him with a trace of impatience, probably wondering what on earth was going on in his friend’s head.

Valentine cleared his throat and regained control. He pointed to the parchment. “Before you, Miss Rotherhild, is a document that has been in my family for centuries. My father took it with him into the army, and when he died his batman took it into his keeping. It has only recently come to light—in fact, I received it in the post this very morning.”

Marissa looked down at the grubby parchment with some distaste.

“Read it,” he instructed her.

Dutifully she leaned forward to peer at the faded writing. Jasper promptly presented her with his own list and with a grateful smile she examined the names he’d copied in his neat hand. When she’d finished she looked up, gaze traveling to Jasper and staying there.

“Who are they?” she said, ignoring Valentine.

But Valentine wasn’t having that. “Have you heard of the Crusader’s Rose?”

Reluctantly she turned to where he still stood, tilting her head to look up at him. “No. Should I have?”

“Not necessarily. Suffice it to say that the Crusader’s Rose is one of those mysteries that has become legend in botanical circles. Think of the Holy Grail, and then transfer it to the world of the rose collector. Everyone who wants to make a name for himself wants to find the Crusader’s Rose.”

“And you are one of those people?”

Valentine smiled without humor. “The rose belongs to us. It was brought back from the Crusades by my ancestor, Richard de Fevre, but unfortunately it was destroyed in 1735. However, we know de Fevre gave a second rose to one of his companions, one of the men who traveled to the Crusades with him. De Fevre stated that this man had saved his life in the Holy Land, and the legend says that the man then grew the rose in his own garden. Presumably it grows there still.”

“Rather a large presumption, Lord Kent. The Crusades were in the twelfth century?”

“Yes, the Third Crusade, and probably the most famous one, was in the twelfth century. It was led by Richard the Lionheart.”

“And you expect a rose to live for all those years?” Her voice was disbelieving.

“Of course not. But the Crusader’s Rose was known for its self-seeding capabilities. There was always a vigorous young bush to take over when the older one began to wane. And if it survived here at Abbey Thorne Manor then why not elsewhere, too?”

“And these are the names of the other men who were de Fevre’s companions?”

“Exactly. I believe this list to be part of a collection of documents that were once held here in my library. Most of the collection was broken up and scattered, sold.”

She was silent, taking it in, and he watched her curiously. If she and George were really as one then she would stand now and excuse herself and leave them to it. The quest would hold no interest for her whatsoever.

Her dark eyes lifted to his and they were full of brilliant intelligence; Valentine had to remind himself very sternly that he had promised not to touch her.

“But…what makes this particular rose special? Why is it so sought after?”

She was interested. She wanted to understand. There was nothing more exciting to Valentine than a woman with an inquiring mind, especially when she was inquiring about his favorite subject.

“Let me explain, Miss Rotherhild. Until very recently all the roses we grew in England were summer or spring flowering—that is, they only flowered once a year. The Crusader’s Rose flowered several times throughout the spring, summer and autumn, a truly remarkable feat in Medieval times. And its color was very different from the white and pink colorings we were used to. The Crusader’s Rose was golden orange—in fact, de Fevre claimed the hue reminded him of the sun setting over Jerusalem.”

There was a glow in her eyes. “Oh,” she murmured, her lips curving up at the corners, clearly enthralled with the picture he’d painted. Then, as if suddenly realizing she was showing interest in something she’d claimed bored her, her face went blank. When she spoke again her voice was carefully devoid of enthusiasm.

“But this is supposition on your part, is it not? You never actually saw the rose yourself? Not if it was destroyed in 1735?”

“No. But there are plenty of statements to back up the story. People came from far and wide to admire the rose. That was the reason my ancestor destroyed it. He claimed he was tired of strangers trespassing in his garden, and after a party of gentlemen from France appeared outside his library window and began exclaiming over the beauty of the rose, he decided enough was enough. He ordered the rose be dug out and burned, and any seedlings similarly destroyed. No one dared disobey him—he wasn’t a very pleasant man—and when it was done everyone believed that was the end of the Crusader’s Rose.”

“Except it wasn’t.” Jasper was leaning forward as if he was hearing the story for the first time.

“When my father was a boy a manuscript turned up at an antiquarian bookseller’s in London. It was incomplete and my father was certain it had once belonged to the de Fevre collection in our library. Historians concluded the manuscript was part of a larger document which told the story of de Fevre and his companions, but the important thing is, it mentioned the fact that there were two roses. Unfortunately, although it spoke about de Fevre handing one of his companions the other rose as a thank-you for saving his life, the name of that companion was completely illegible.

“That find inspired my father to begin his search for the rose, a search I have since carried on. When my father died I made a promise that I would do everything in my power to find it.”

The spark of interest was back in Marissa’s face.

“Kent is on a mission to restore the Crusader’s Ros