“To you?” he asked, confused, but she chose that moment to lean in and kiss him once more. His last coherent thought was that she must have come to appreciate architecture and buildings after living with her father, the architect, for so long. He chose then to simply revel in the sweet passion of her kiss.
Her face grew hazy then, and while he didn’t think he had closed his eyes, his world started to go black, and he began to lose even the sensation of her lips upon his.
“Val?” he heard, but her voice seemed to be far away in the distance.
Then everything went dark.
15
“Is something the matter?” Jemima whispered to Rebecca at the breakfast table, but she shook her head. She had been awaiting Valentine’s appearance for the past quarter of an hour.
Last night after he had passed out she had summoned Archie, but he hadn’t seemed overly concerned.
“Just a result of a few hits to the head,” he had said nonchalantly. Understanding the situation, however, he had suggested that Rebecca might want to retire, and he would see to his friend and employer.
“Not to worry,” he had told her. “Isn’t the first time Val has been knocked out for the night.”
But worry she did. She had hardly slept through the night, so concerned was she, and this morning she had been eager to see what condition Valentine was in when she entered the breakfast room.
“Not at all,” she answered Jemima’s question now on whether anything was wrong, though her new friend eyed her with some suspicion. Rebecca was unsure what she was supposed to say, however. That her father sat through their sessions droning on and on about previous projects with ever-decreasing input on their current project while she did it all on her own? That she had to determine just how they were going to make back all of the money he had lost, while not ruining their reputation with the row of houses he had built on speculation, of which all were now sitting empty in London? That the man she was falling for, Jemima’s brother, had no room in his life for her besides what would be a brief dalliance, and might now be lying in his room with a head injury?
There was nothing she could exactly share at the moment. So she did what she always did and fixed a smile on her face as she moved the food around her plate to make it look as though she had eaten something, for she couldn’t stomach right now.
“Good morning. Apologies for my tardiness.”
“Valentine!”
They all turned toward the door to see Val walk in, but it was his mother’s exclamation that rose above the rest of them. He did look truly awful this morning. Both eyes were surrounded by a sickly shade of yellow and green, his scratches were pronounced on his pale face, and his gait was slightly pained.
But he picked up his plate and began to load it from the sideboard as though nothing was amiss.
His mother waited until he sat down to address him.
“My God, Valentine, what are you thinking?”
Apparently she was aware of what would cause such injuries.
“Nothing to worry about, Mother,” he said, waving a hand in the air. “Just a friendly little bout, is all.”
“Valentine, if that is friendly, I should hate to see any animosity,” Jemima said. Rebecca could hardly enter the conversation, for she didn’t want to admit to being anywhere near the fight. Valentine looked her way for a moment, however, and sent her a quick wink that, fortunately, everyone else missed, so intent were they on what had happened.
“Why, Valentine?” his mother said, resting her cutlery on the table as she brought her hands to her face dramatically. “You are a duke now. It is one thing to go have fun with other noblemen at that place you all attend, but I cannot imagine there is anywhere near here for you to do such a thing.”
“There is not,” he said, tucking into his food as though nothing was amiss. “To answer your question, I did it for the purse.”
“Did you win?”
At that, he paused with a forkful of food halfway to his mouth. “I did not.”
“Then it wasn’t even worth it,” his mother mourned, shaking her head. “That beautiful face, and you would throw it all away for a bag of prize money. I suppose there is nothing a man wouldn’t do for a heavy purse.”
Rebecca’s head shot up at Mrs. St. Vincent’s words — though not for how they currently related to the situation. No, they had triggered something in Rebecca’s mind. An idea, that could potentially make all the difference to her own financial situation.
“What is it?” Jemima asked her now, though after a moment her eyes widened as she stared at Rebecca in surprise. “You knew.”
“Pardon?” Rebecca pretended to misunderstand her.
“You knew that Val fought yesterday, or at least of his current condition. You were not indisposed, as we all thought.”
She spoke softly enough so that no one else at the table could hear, but still, Rebecca looked around them to make sure that no one was within hearing range.
“I, ah, I did happen to see him yesterday, yes,” she said, not wanting to lie to Jemima but also not inclined to share the entire situation. “I thought it was, however, his circumstance to share.”
“We are quite the unconventional lot, aren’t we?” Jemima said with a chuckle. “You have likely never seen any such as us before.”
“Every family has their quirks,” Rebecca answered diplomatically.
At which time her father rose from the table and walked out of the room. The rest of them stared after his unexcused exit for a moment before turning to Rebecca.
“I, ah, excuse me, please, I best go ensure he is well,” she said with a forced smile before hastily pushing back her chair and following him out the door.
“Father!” she called, chasing after him as he strode through the ante-room before entering the long gallery.
“Yes?” he said, finally turning at her voice, though his eyes held that faraway look that caused her such despair.
“What are you doing?” she asked, her breath coming in huffs once she finally caught up to him. “We were in the midst of breakfast.”
“A man can choose when to leave in his own home,” he said indignantly, and Rebecca brought a hand to the back of her neck as tension began to form.
“But Father… this is not your house,” she said, though she knew her words were futile. It was usually simply a matter of time before he returned to himself. She took his hand and led him over to the sofa. Perhaps a change of subject, an idea that could potentially solve their problems, might capture his attention.
“Father, do you recall the houses you recently built? The ones on Atticus Street?”
“Yes, of course,” he said indignantly. “Some of my finest work. How could I not remember?”
Rebecca took a deep breath, reminding herself not to be hurt by his accusatory tone. He didn’t understand why she would ask him such a thing.
“I had a thought for how we might be able to make back the money invested into them.”
“They will sell because they are the finest of buildings, some of the most beautiful in London.”
“Yes, of course, they are,” she placated him, knowing he wouldn't listen to reason — that they were too unconventional and, as a result, too expensive, for most to purchase. Besides that, they were too far from London’s fashionable West End. “But I was thinking, perhaps the best way to showcase how truly wonderful they are would be to hold a lottery.”