She sniffed.
“Very well. As long as you keep up appearances.”
“You know what, Mother?” he said, his patience having reached its limit. “I could care less about appearances.”
“Valentine!”
“Did you care so much when you were a physician’s wife? You were respectable then. I was the only blight upon the family name. Now I am the one who holds the family name, and I can bloody well do what I please with it.”
“My word! I—”
He stood now, pushing his chair back and throwing down his serviette. “If you say a word to anyone about Rebecca and her father, then I will see to it that all of these things you have become so enamored with will no longer be available to you. Your extravagant gowns, your new carriage, the jewels you have purchased to wear around your throat — I will sell all of it to pay these debts.”
“Sit down, Valentine, this instant. You are acting like—“
“Like what? A boor? A commoner? Well, that is what I am.”
“You are the Duke of Wyndham,” she said, standing, her fury barely contained. “It is time you act like it. You have been such a—”
“A disappointment? Well, guess what? I’m used to it. And I do not care any longer. Be disappointed in me all you like, Mother. For you know what? I am disappointed in myself as well. Disappointed that I have tried to live up to a man who would never have approved of me. That I continue to try to do what he would have wanted of me, despite the fact that he is no longer even here. That I have allowed my mother to make me feel as though I am not worthy when all I have ever done is to try to provide for myself and this family by doing what makes me happy. That I have cared enough about what others may think to send this family into further debt. It ends today. No more new things until our debts are paid. No renovations to Stonehall. Wyndham House will be finished, but as frugally as possible. I will never fix what happened to Matthew and will regret it for the rest of my life, but I cannot become him.”
He began to stride from the room, unable to look back at his mother’s stricken face.
“And no marriage to Lady Fredericka Ashworth!”
“That was quite the spectacle,” offered a feminine voice from the doorway of his study.
“Thank you for providing me your support,” Valentine responded sarcastically.
He sent his foot back to the floor, sending the front two legs of his caned klismos desk chair down against the hardwood with a crash as he regarded his sister over fingers steepled in front of him.
“I didn’t feel the need to interfere,” Jemima said with a slight smile as she entered the room and took a seat in the cushioned open armchair in front of his desk. “You were doing just fine on your own. Good for you, Valentine, for finally standing up to Mother. It was about time.”
“Easy for you to say.”
She shrugged. “Mother ignores me. Which I am more than happy with. But she has asked too much of you. So did Father. You need to stop holding yourself responsible for Matthew’s death. He would never have wanted you to suffer so, to try to be someone you are not. You are not Matthew, and you never will be.” She leveled him with her gaze. “But you are an idiot.”
“I am already aware of that, Jemima. I do not need your reminder, but thank you anyway.”
“That is not what I mean, and you well know it,” his sister answered. “When it comes to Rebecca, you are being a stubborn bull. She never meant to deceive you. You should know better than that.”
He hated being chastised like a child.
“She doesn’t care for me, Jemima. She never did. She was simply using me, and it hardly matters.”
“You are wrong,” she said softly, tilting her head toward him. “She cares for you very much.”
“She is telling you what you want to hear,” he countered. “She is deceptive.”
“She was only trying to protect her father,” Jemima said, leaning forward now, her posture no longer laid back. “Wouldn’t you do the same? As it is, you have been trying to please our parents for years now, and Father is not even alive. She was trying to keep her own father’s legacy intact while using the talent she has been given. It hasn’t been easy for her.”
“She still shouldn’t have used me to try to advance herself.”
“Rebecca was just trying to survive, Valentine. Just as you are.”
He sat back in his chair once more as Jemima’s words began to resonate. Was she right? Could she be right? Did Rebecca actually feel something for him, or was he a placeholder, as he seemed to be for everyone else?
“It is unfortunate that her creativity is wasted,” he said, looking at the plans set before him on his desk. She had done it all rather brilliantly, but he knew that no one would ever agree to a young woman, trained only by experience, designing for them.
“It doesn’t have to be,” Jemima said. “You could allow her to finish her work here. And there is something else she could use your help with — something that would free some of the burdens she has been carrying.”
Valentine eyed her suspiciously. He had a feeling this had been Jemima’s angle since she had walked into the room.
“Go on.”
“Did she tell you about the houses her father built upon speculation — an entire neighborhood full of them?”
“The Atticus Project? She did. I went to see them for myself. They are ingenious, though not overly practical, and built too far from the West End for most to be interested in them. They are also unfinished.”
“They haven’t sold, and Mr. Lambert ran out of money to complete them.”
“So I am told. I thought Mr. Lambert — though I suppose it was all Rebecca — had an idea to sell tickets for them as some kind of lottery.”
“That is Rebecca’s plan, yes, but she requires Crown approval and thus far, her request has been deemed unimportant. She may never receive an answer.”
“You want me to intercede on her behalf, don’t you?” He shook his head. He should have learned by now to never underestimate his sister.
“You are a duke, Valentine. You are as close to the Crown as anyone can get. Can you at least write some sort of correspondence?”
He tapped his pen on the desk.
“That, I suppose I can do.”
He was still unsure about Rebecca’s motivations and her thoughts regarding him, but he was certain of a few other things.
First, she deserved to have her work seen. Secondly, her father was — or had been — a brilliant architect at one point in time and that legacy should remain unscathed.
And third?
He loved her, whether he liked it or not.
26
“Post for Mr. Lambert. Oh, and a letter for you as well, Miss Lambert.”
Rebecca stood and took the correspondence from the butler, who was aware that while her father’s name was on the house and most of the post, she was the one who looked after everything now.
Her heart quickened when she saw the seal on the back of the envelope, and she sat down at her desk with trembling fingers.
Mr. Lambert,
I am pleased to inform you that your request to sell tickets to a lottery for the homes of the Atticus Project has been approved.