The Gryphon

Joanna met his gaze boldly, still viewing herself as Rosalind to his Duke Frederick. The tension between them was causing her breath to quicken and her chest to rise and fall in the drama of the moment.

And then, abruptly, everything changed. It wasn’t Duke Frederick’s face she saw a heartbeat away from hers but Laurence’s—one that had become dearer to her than any other. She could feel the warmth of his breath on her face, smell the fresh citrus scent of his soap as he drew closer. In that moment they were totally alone in that deserted theatre. No one else was there … only the two of them.

‘Joanna,’ he whispered.

His head bent towards hers, his lips drawing closer, and she closed her eyes and reality slipped away …

AUTHOR NOTE

Welcome back to the colourful world of Regency theatre and the complicated lives of the Bretton family, who made their first appearance in NO OCCUPATION FOR A LADY.

The second book in this series focuses on Laurence Bretton, Victoria’s older brother, a quiet, scholarly man who shocks everyone—including his family—by standing up and claiming to be Valentine Lawe, the celebrated playwright. While his family know that Valentine Lawe is actually Victoria’s pseudonym, and that Laurence only assumed the role in order to protect her reputation, he ends up bringing the character to full and glorious life when, overnight, he is thrust into the glittering spotlight that is London society.

But real life isn’t a scripted play and, once launched upon the deception, Laurence finds there’s no easy way of turning back—something he wishes he could do when he meets the beautiful Lady Joanna Northrup. Lady Joanna isn’t interested in the flamboyant playwright who takes centre stage at elegant soirées. She’s drawn to the amusing, scholarly man she met in a bookshop while browsing for books about ancient Egypt, a subject near and dear to her heart.

Unfortunately the truth comes at a cost, and as one lie follows another Laurence sees the woman he loves slipping away. His only chance is to take off the mask and step out of the role. But shedding a public face doesn’t come without painful repercussions …

Enjoy!

About the Author

GAIL WHITIKER was born on the west coast of Wales and moved to Canada at an early age. Though she grew up reading everything from John Wyndham to Victoria Holt, frequent trips back to Wales inspired a fascination with castles and history, so it wasn’t surprising that her first published book was set in Regency England. Now an award-winning author of both historical and contemporary novels, Gail lives on Vancouver Island, where she continues to indulge her fascination with the past as well as enjoying travel, music and spectacular scenery. Visit Gail at www.gailwhitiker.com

Previous novels by this author:

 A MOST IMPROPER PROPOSAL*

 THE GUARDIAN’S DILEMMA*

 A SCANDALOUS COURTSHIP

 A MOST UNSUITABLE BRIDE

 A PROMISE TO RETURN

 COURTING MISS VALLOIS

 BRUSHED BY SCANDAL

 IMPROPER MISS DARLING

 NO OCCUPATION FOR A LADY

*part of The Steepwood Scandal mini-series

NO ROLE FOR A GENTLEMAN

features characters you will have met in

NO OCCUPATION FOR A LADY

Did you know that some of these novels are also available as eBooks? Visit www.millsandboon.co.uk

No Role for a Gentleman

Gail Whitiker

www.millsandboon.co.uk

MILLS & BOON

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To my dear friends and fellow Pen Warriors Bonnie Edwards, Vanessa Grant, E.C. Sheedy and Laura Tobias, with whom I brainstormed the idea for this series during one of our memorable Red Door weekends. I am so grateful for their remarkable creativity and never-ending enthusiasm. And, of course, for the laughter that invariably results from five women being locked up in a house together for three days.

Chapter One

It was in the Temple of the Muses that Laurence Bretton first saw her—a slender, dark-haired young woman standing by the far side of the circular counter, her features partially hidden by the wide brim of a fashionable bonnet. She was engaged in conversation with a clerk whose eagerness to assist was all too evident, but whose frequent blushes and stammering replies seemed to indicate a greater interest in the lady than in whatever she was attempting to buy.

‘We do carry … an extensive selection of books dealing with the Ottoman Empire,’ Laurence heard the young man say. ‘Many of which I’ve read and can recommend myself. Reynier’s State of Egypt after the Battle of Heliopolis was most informative and I have … a very good copy of that in stock.’

‘As it happens, so do I,’ the lady replied in a brisk though not unkind manner. ‘And while I found Mr Reynier’s perspectives entertaining, they were not detailed enough for my liking. Have you a copy of Volney’s Travels through Syria and Egypt? The second volume?’

Volney? Laurence knew that name. Constantin François de Chassebœuf, Comte de Volney, was a French philosopher and historian who had spent several months in Egypt and Greater Syria, and who had written his Voyage en Egypte et en Syrie upon his return to France in 1785. Even to a scholar it was relatively dry reading and as such, hardly seemed the type of book a flower of English womanhood would be enquiring after.

Curious, he moved closer, in time to hear the clerk say, ‘Regrettably, we do not have a copy of that particular book in stock, but if I might suggest—’

‘Could you order it for me?’

The request was accompanied by a smile of such sweetness that the young man actually gulped. ‘Well, yes, of course, though I don’t know how much luck I will have in finding it. Perhaps Savary’s Letters on Egypt?’

‘Again, entertaining, but I have been told Volney’s book is far more detailed.’

‘It is,’ Laurence said, slowly stepping forwards. ‘And while it does not have as many sketches as I would like, his rendering of the Temple of the Sun at Balbec is quite exceptional.’

The lady turned her head, the quick movement setting the feathers on her bonnet swaying and treating Laurence to an unobstructed view of an exceptionally lovely face. Eyes, large and expressive framed by dark lashes that appeared even more so against the pale gold of her complexion, stared back at him, but with curiosity rather than alarm. ‘It is?’

‘Yes. I would be happy to lend you my copy as long as you promise to return it to me once you are done.’

A pair of sable-smooth eyebrows rose above a small nose lightly dusted with freckles. ‘You would lend such a valuable book to someone with whom you were not acquainted?’

‘No, I would lend it to someone I knew to be as interested in the subject as I,’ Laurence said with a smile, ‘after having taken the liberty of introducing myself so that we would no longer be unacquainted.’ He touched the brim of his beaver hat and bowed. ‘Laurence Bretton, student of history and reputable lender of slightly used books. And you are …?’

His enquiry was met by a startled pause and then by a flash of amusement in eyes the colour of Cleopatra’s emeralds. ‘Joanna Northrup. Dedicated researcher and devotee of all things Egyptian.’ She extended her hand. ‘It seems we are well met, Mr Bretton.’

The proffered hand was encased in a smooth calfskin glove, but it was not the directness of the reply or the firmness of her grip that took Laurence by surprise. ‘Northrup,’ he repeated thoughtfully. ‘Not, by any chance, related to Mr William Northrup, former Oxford lecturer and archaeologist involved in explorations in the upper Nile Valley in Egypt?’

Her look of startled surprise was followed by one of cautious interest. ‘He is my father. Did you have the good fortune to attend one of his lectures?’

‘Regrettably no, though, given his fondness for throwing chalk, it may have been to my advantage.’

‘He does have exceptionally good aim,’ she agreed.

‘I know of several gentlemen willing to attest to it. Nevertheless, I would have liked the opportunity. He is a legend to those who have an interest in the study of ancient Egypt.’

‘And have you such an interest, Mr Bretton?’

Recalled to the hours he had spent devouring anything he could find about the Rosetta Stone, a centuries-old block of igneous rock discovered in Egypt and said to be the key to translating ancient Egyptian hieroglyphs, Laurence nodded. ‘You could say that, yes.’

‘Then I wonder if you would be interested in attending a lecture my father is giving at the Apollo Club tomorrow evening? Attendance is by invitation only, but …’ Miss Northrup dug into her reticule and pulled out a card ‘… if you present this at the door, you will be admitted.’

Laurence glanced at the card, upon which the address of the club, and underneath, the initials, JFN, had been written. ‘Thank you, I will most certainly attend. I wasn’t sure if your father was still involved in Egyptian explorations, given that I haven’t heard much about him for quite some time.’

‘We have not been much in society of late,’ Miss Northrup said, her glance briefly dropping away. ‘We suffered a series of … unfortunate deaths in my family and are only recently emerged from mourning.’

‘I am sorry to hear that,’ Laurence said, aware from the expression on her face that the memories were still painful. ‘Such things are never easy.’

‘No, they are not, especially when one’s life is so drastically altered by the outcome.’ Miss Northrup paused, as though reflecting on some private memory. Then, she drew a bracing breath and said, ‘However, we bear it as best we can and move on.’

‘Yes, we do,’ Laurence said, seeing no point in telling her that while the dramatic changes in his own life had not been inspired by such grievous events, they had kept him fully occupied in areas that had nothing to do with archaeological exploration. ‘At what time does the lecture commence?’

‘Seven o’clock, but I suggest you come early if you wish to secure a good seat,’ Miss Northrup said. ‘Given that it is Papa’s first lecture in quite some time, we are expecting a large turnout.’

‘Then I shall make every effort to do so,’ Laurence said, tucking the card into his pocket. Then, because it was important that he know, said, ‘Will you be in attendance as well?’

‘Oh, yes. While my father is one of the most meticulous archaeologists I know, he tends to be considerably less so when it comes to the organisation of his lectures,’ Miss Northrup admitted with a smile. ‘He would no doubt leave half of his notes at home and end up wandering off into a lengthy dissertation about the pyramid of Djoser, which has nothing to do with his more recent work in the area around Thebes. I am there to make sure he adheres to the program.’

Observing the fashionable gown, the elegant bonnet and the cashmere shawl fastened at the throat by a fine pearl brooch, Laurence was hard-pressed to imagine the delicate creature before him taking an interest in what his youngest sister had once called the most boring subject on earth. ‘You don’t find the subject a little dry?’

‘Not at all. I have worked at my father’s side for a number of years, transcribing his notes, organising and labelling his finds, even helping him to map out his future expeditions. And last year, during a visit to the temple complex near Dendera, I was fortunate enough to find the most incredible piece of—’

‘You found at Dendera?’ Laurence repeated in astonishment. ‘Are you telling me you actually went to Egypt with your father?’

It was a mistake. The lady’s eyes narrowed and her lovely smile cooled every so slightly. ‘Yes, I did. My second trip, in fact, and, in many ways, even more remarkable than the first. Words cannot describe the size and scope of Tentyra, or the magnificence of the Temple of Hathor. Such things truly must be seen to be appreciated.’

‘Of that, there can be no doubt. And I meant no offence,’ Laurence said, aware that she had misinterpreted his reaction and clearly thought less of him as a result. ‘I am simply envious of your good fortune in being able to visit a country I have been reading about for so many years. To travel up the Nile and to see firsthand the wonders being discovered in the desert would be the culmination of a dream.’

She raised an eyebrow, but her voice was scblueeptical when she said, ‘It would?’

‘Good Lord, yes. Oh, I’ve read all the books, studied the drawings, even talked with gentlemen who’ve been there,’ Laurence said, ‘but nothing could possibly replicate the experience of actually standing in a crowed street in Cairo, being assaulted by the sounds and smells of the markets or deafened by the babble of a thousand voices. One must go there in order to experience such things.’

The lady tilted her head, as though in reconsideration of her first impression. ‘And is it your intention to go there one day, Mr Bretton?’

‘I sincerely hope to, yes,’ Laurence said, knowing that if the opportunity were presented to him, he would go in a heartbeat. The consequences—and there would be consequences—could be dealt with once he got back. Right now it was important that he convince Miss Northrup of his sincerity, since he had obviously damaged his credibility and commitment to the field by having had the audacity to question hers.

Thankfully, the earnestness of his reply must have convinced her of the true extent of his interest, for she nodded briefly and said, ‘Then I will offer you a few words of advice. If ever you do go, be sure to stay at Shepheard’s in Cairo. It is an exceedingly civilised hotel and the view from the terrace is quite splendid. Also, when dealing with the locals, take time to negotiate anything you are offered. You will be hideously overcharged if you do not.’

‘Thank you,’ Laurence said, relieved he had not done irreparable damage to a relationship he had every intention of pursuing. ‘If I am ever fortunate enough to find myself haggling over the price of a fellukah, I will be sure to remember your advice.’

‘A fellukah is fine if you are only looking for transportation across the Nile, but if your trip is to be of a longer duration, I would suggest a dahabeeyah,’ the lady said. ‘They are far more comfortable, some being quite luxurious, though the price will reflect that, of course.’

‘Of course.’ This time, Laurence knew better than to smile, though he was strongly tempted to do so. He’d never met a woman who knew what a dahabeeyah was, let alone one who was able to tell him it was the preferred method for travel along the ancient river. ‘Shall I bring Volney’s Travels with me to the lecture tomorrow evening?’

‘If you wouldn’t mind. Unless …’ Miss Northrup turned back to the clerk, who was still gazing at her with adoration and said, ‘Is there any chance of you being able to procure a copy of the book for me before then?’

The young man’s face fell. ‘I shall do my best, but I very much doubt it.’

‘Ah. Then I would be most grateful for the loan of Volney’s Travels, Mr Bretton,’ Miss Northrup said, turning back to him with a smile. ‘And I promise to return it as soon as I am able. As one who has experienced the difficulty in finding reliable source materials, I know how hard it is to let such an exceptional volume out of your hands.’

‘In this case, I have no concerns,’ Laurence assured her—knowing that as long as she had the book, he had an excuse for seeing her. ‘Volney and I will see you at the Apollo Club tomorrow evening. Good day, Miss Northrup.’

‘Good day.’ She started to turn away, and then stopped. ‘Oh, Mr Bretton, there is … one more thing.’

Laurence turned back. ‘Yes?’

She opened her mouth to speak, but then a tiny furrow appeared between her brows and she closed it again. Clearly, she wanted to say something, but for whatever reason was reluctant to do so. In the end, she merely shook her head and smiled. ‘Never mind. You will find us upstairs in the Oracle Room tomorrow evening. Please try not to be late. And don’t forget to bring the card.’

It was not what she had been going to say. Laurence was certain of that. But, hardly in a position to demand that she disclose what had so briefly tugged at her conscience, he simply assured her that he would not be late, offered her a bow then returned to his earlier browsing, all the while blessing the Fates for having sent him to this particular bookshop on this particular day.

To think he would actually be sitting in on a lecture given by the renowned archaeologist William Northrup! It was almost too good to be true, especially given the time he had devoted of late to activities that, while necessary to his family’s well-being, did absolutely nothing to quench his thirst for knowledge. He was first and foremost a student of history and tomorrow evening, he would have an opportunity to talk with like-minded gentlemen about the exciting discoveries taking place in the area of Egypt known as the Valley of the Kings.

It was a long time since he had found himself looking forward to anything as much … except to seeing the intriguing Miss Northrup again, Laurence admitted, casting another glance in her direction. A woman of rare beauty, she obviously shared her father’s love of ancient Egypt and, contrary to what society expected, had been allowed to travel with him to share in the excitement of his explorations. There had been no mistaking the enthusiasm in her voice when she had spoken of her impressions of the ruins at Dendera, and if she had worked at her father’s side for so many years, there could be no question that her interest in the subject was genuine.

Laurence could think of no other young lady—and he had met a great many over the last eight months—who would welcome such an adventure, which was all the more reason for getting to know the charming and decidedly intriguing Miss Joanna Northrup a great deal better.

Joanna did not speak to Laurence Bretton again. Though she was aware of him browsing through a selection of books on a table close to the window, she could think of no reasonable excuse for approaching him a second time—other than to correct his erroneous assumption that she was Miss Joanna Northrup—and so, tucking her purchases under her arm, left the shop and climbed into the waiting carriage.

Why she had allowed the error in address to stand was something she was not so easily able to explain. She’d had eight months to come to terms with the fact that she was now Lady Joanna Northrup. Eight months to accept that as a result of the untimely deaths of her uncle and his heir, her father was no longer a humble academic, but the Fourth Earl of Bonnington. Surely that was time enough to come to terms with such a drastic alteration in one’s circumstances.

‘Obviously not,’ Joanna murmured as the carriage clipped smartly towards her new home on Eaton Place. Otherwise she would not have allowed a handsome but completely unknown gentleman to come up to her in a shop, offer to lend her a book then use the offer as an excuse to introduce himself, all without informing him of her true position in society.

The Practice, as her father’s eldest sister was so fond of saying, was to wait for a person acquainted with both the lady and the gentleman to make the introduction, then for the lady to enter into the conversation to the degree to which she felt it appropriate, that degree being determined by the gentleman’s position in society and, to a much lesser degree, by the nicety of his manners and comeliness of his person.

From what little Joanna had been able to glean of Mr Bretton’s situation in life, the conversation was not one of which her aunt would have approved.

Of course, had he not introduced himself, she would not be in the enviable position now of having Mr Volney’s book to read over the weekend. She would still be scouring London’s many bookshops, quizzing inexperienced clerks in her search for the elusive volume and probably meeting with the same disappointing results as she had in all of her previous attempts. So, in fact, her meeting with Mr Bretton had been most fortuitous in that it had saved her from all those endless hours of tedium!

The fact he had initially been sceptical of her interest in Egypt was a failing Joanna was willing to overlook. She had encountered it countless times before, both from gentlemen who thought she hadn’t a brain in her head and from women who couldn’t understand her desire to be more than a wife or mother. But given that his interest in the subject was surely as keen as her own, she was willing to forgive him his boldness in approaching her, and to excuse herself for having encouraged the conversation. She was even looking forward to seeing him at her father’s lecture tomorrow evening.

It would be a pleasure talking to a London gentleman who really did know more about pharaohs than foxhunting and wasn’t ashamed to admit it!

Upon arriving home, Joanna turned her attention to the events of the upcoming days. Now that the family’s period of mourning was at an end, invitations had begun arriving again. While she wanted to believe that most were extended out of a genuine desire to welcome the new Lord Bonnington and his daughter to society, she suspected that just as many were prompted by morbid curiosity.

After all, in the blink of an eye, her father had gone from being the ignored younger son and brother of an earl, to being the Earl of Bonnington himself, while she had been elevated from a bluestocking nobody to the highly eligible Lady Joanna Northrup.

Astonishing, really, how far reaching the effects of a single gunshot could be.

‘Ah, there you are, Joanna,’ Lady Cynthia Klegston said as Joanna walked into the morning room. ‘All finished with your shopping?’

‘For now.’ Joanna bent to kiss her aunt on the cheek—a token of respect rather than affection. She had never been entirely comfortable in the company of her father’s eldest sister, a brusque, plain-speaking widow with two married daughters who had paid little or no attention to her youngest brother before his unexpected elevation to the peerage and who only did so now because she realised it was in her best interests to do so. ‘I left your necklace with the jeweller to be repaired, checked on the order for your stationery and advised Madame Clermont that you would be in to see her at two o’clock this afternoon. She said that would be convenient.’

‘Of course it will be convenient,’ Lady Cynthia snapped. ‘I bring her a great deal of business. It behoves her to find it convenient. And I think you had best come with me. I’ve decided you shall have a new gown for the dinner party. As a young lady who is not engaged or married, we cannot afford to have you appear anything less than your best, especially now that you are Lady Joanna Northrup and in need of a wealthy husband. Dash it all, where are my spectacles? I can never find the wretched things when I need them.’