Valentine's Vow (Avenging Lords 3)

“Lady Durrant must be an exceptional woman,” she said, surprised at the faint hint of jealousy in her tone. “She seems to be the focus of everything you do.” Was she not the one encouraging his gambling?

“When a man is in love what hope is there?”

“Forgive me if I sound cynical, but she hardly has your interests at heart else she would have stopped you challenging the best shot in England to a duel.”

Jonathan poured water from the jug into the porcelain bowl on the stand. He washed his face and dried it on the towel before saying, “Love makes us reckless. Not that you would know. With you, a man is doomed before he’s had a chance to prove himself worthy.”

Ava watched the ungrateful wretch shrug into his shirt. Disappointment hung heavy in her chest. She had helped Jonathan more times than she could count, suspected he was the one guilty of pilfering items from her home. And he had the audacity to criticise.

“Do you not think I might like to be reckless?” She was tired of playing mother to a spoilt brat, tired of being the sensible one who had to correct his mistakes. “Perhaps I might like to ignore my troubles and wallow in a pleasure pit.”

“You?” Jonathan turned up his nose and stared into the looking glass to tie his cravat. “You’ve not smiled since the accident. Our parents are dead. When are you going to stop mourning and start living? When are you going to stop interfering in my life and concentrate on your own?”

A hard lump formed in Ava’s throat. Water welled in her eyes and she blinked it away.

Eighteen months ago, her perfect life had shattered into pieces. Try as she might, she could not patch the broken fragments together, not when there were missing pieces, not without cutting her finger and drawing blood.

“I ought to change out of these silly clothes,” she said, though her voice sounded distant to her own ears. She backed away from him, shuffled towards the door. She thought to ask where he was going at this early hour. Instead, she said, “Will you be home for dinner this evening?”

“Dinner? Lord, no. I am attending the Rockford ball. Don’t wait up. I might spend the night elsewhere.” Elsewhere with Lady Durrant, gambling? Or in the house he had been forced to lease to his friend Lord Sterling due to mounting debts? “Have Twitchett send my evening clothes over to Newman Street.” After tugging on his boots, he retrieved his black coat, breeches, shoes and stockings from the armoire and laid them on the bed.

She could have argued, made the point that Twitchett had enough to deal with in his role as butler, footman and gardener, but she was tired of being the constant voice of reason.

“Then I shall bid you a good evening.” With a heavy heart, Ava left the room.

Heaven knows what Jonathan would do in the interim, but she felt it necessary to write to Lord Valentine and warn him that her brother was not a man who counted his blessings but one who sought to manipulate others in the hope of gathering more.

An hour passed.

The house fell silent, so silent it proved deafening.

Having paid a boy to deliver the letter to Lord Valentine in Hanover Square, she stood at the drawing room window and stared out across the street. Were it not for Honora’s weekly meetings and Jonathan’s endless problems life held little meaning.

One accident had destroyed Ava’s hopes and dreams, her plans for the future. While her father had mined for crystals and gems, her mother crafted unique, breathtaking jewellery. Ava loved the bohemian lifestyle, the freedom, the independence, the stunning scenery along the Aegean coast.

Now, she was suffocating in the smog-filled city.

In London, a woman of means did not work. She did not mine alone in dark caves or discuss the healing benefits of crystals. A woman did not barter and trade with importers or charter ships to foreign lands.

Thoughts of her parents filled Ava’s head—people so loving, so happy, so carefree. The memories were so powerful that tears choked her throat. When grief wrapped its hands around her heart and squeezed there was but one thing to do.

She hurried up to her bedchamber.

As soon as she opened the door to her room, she knew something was wrong. The clawing scent of Jonathan’s spicy cologne irritated her nostrils.

No! He wouldn’t have. He couldn’t have known of her hiding place.

Ava raced around the bed, stared at the pretty red and gold Turkish rug. The tasselled border no longer ran parallel with the edges of the boards. She dropped to her knees, moved the carpet and lifted the wooden plank.

Relief flooded through her when she saw the two jewel-encrusted boxes. She opened the first, gazed upon the rainbow of stones, their unusual shapes, vibrant colo

urs. They were worthless—chipped, faulty, too small to be of any use—yet her father mined them with his own hands, and that made them priceless.

When she opened the second box, the sudden pang in her chest told her something was amiss. The box contained her mother’s jewellery—sapphire earrings, an unusual ruby pendant. Ava searched the box looking for the rare pink diamond her mother had crafted into a ring for her twenty-first birthday—the last gift, the last token of her love.

It wasn’t there.

Ava’s heart thumped so hard she thought it might burst from her chest. Tears trickled down her cheeks, and she struggled to catch her breath. Three times she emptied the box onto the bed and checked the contents. But in her heart, she knew Jonathan had stolen into her room, knew he was the light-fingered culprit.