Secret Valentine (3 page)

They stopped in front of another store, an
emporium this time, and Cecelia swung around to face him. "Would
you wait for me out here?"

The window contained a display of ornate
cards.
Let
your sweetheart know with a Valentine card
read the banner draped above the display.

"By all means." He gave a slight bow. "I'll
just look at these silly fripperies"—he gestured toward the
window—"while you make your purchases."

Cecelia blanched white and then blushed
furiously. She ducked her head down before she entered the
store.

Whatever she needed to purchase in there,
she
might consider more embarrassing than all the volumes of
love poetry he had paid for at Hatchards. He doubted it. He stared
at the cards decorated with lace and loveknots, and a plan began to
form.

* * *

Inside Hartley's emporium Cecelia kept her
body between her satchel and the front window as she removed a
bound parcel and handed it across the counter to the
proprietor.

He unwrapped the parcel she had just handed
him and spread the contents across his counter. Cecelia winced
hoping Devin couldn't see the display of her wares.

"These are smashing. Can you bring me more by
Tuesday next?"

Cecelia nodded. "Are the big ones selling
well then?"

The man smiled. "Not yet, but they will.
There 'ave been a lot of govs looking at 'em. Like the cove out
there looking at 'em now."

Cecelia winced, knowing he must be talking
about Devin, who hadn't even realized Valentine's Day was
approaching and considered her cards silly. "Looking isn't
buying."

"They'll be back. The Ladies are the one's
buying 'em now. I 'ave orders for a dozen more like this." He
tapped one of the smaller cards. "Ladies seem to like to give the
simple ones, but expect to get the fancy ones."

He reached to the bottom of the stack in the
display case and handed her a card with the lace dangling off the
edge. "Could you repair this?"

Her heart sank as she saw the damaged edge
where the glue had come away with a chunk of pasteboard. "I don't
know." She tucked it in her satchel. "I'll try."

The proprietor knelt down and removed a lock
box from under the case. He opened it and handed her a small bag
and a handwritten list. Cecelia's eyes swam as she stared at
it.

"Is it all in order, miss?"

She peeked into the heavy bag and gasped at
the sparkle of gold guineas and silver crowns winking back at her.
"So much?"

"Raised the price when the first lot sold so
fast, I did," said the shopkeeper proudly.

"Thank you." She scrambled to get the shock
out of her voice. "Quite astute of you to do so. I knew it should
be to my advantage to work with you."

He touched his forehead. "To both our
gain."

He gathered up her work, handling them like
they were made of the most delicate china. She didn't handle them
so nicely.

She folded the list and pulled the purse
closed and tucked both in her satchel. Who would have thought?
Well, she had hoped, but this kind of success she hadn't
expected.

Now she needed to go outside and pretend
nothing was out of the ordinary with her unsolicited companion.

"Where now?" Devin asked, as she stepped on
the sidewalk.

She pulled on her gloves. "I'm done."

"Should you like to go to Gunter's for a
shaved ice?"

"It's rather cold for frozen treats."

"They serve tea and cakes too."

"Do we have to?" She was appalled that those
words had slipped out of her mouth.

"No, of course not." A frown marred his
forehead.

Perhaps the walking had worn him out and he
wanted to rest on their trip home. Anxious to get back to her
workroom and count the money in her bag, she had allowed her
overset nerves to overrule her civility. "We can stop if you'd
like."

He gestured toward the maid and footman,
sending them on home with her purchases. He turned toward her, and
his blue eyes searched hers.

Heat rose in her face. Perhaps shaved ice was
in order. "I'm sure I should enjoy a cup of tea."

That was as long as he didn't ask her what
she did upstairs in the attic. She would tell him eventually. After
all, when she'd raised enough money to strike out on her own, she
would have to tell him. But her fledgling business venture needed
dry wings before she would risk flapping them about. He would
probably think she was all wet anyway.

"Good, because I have something I wish to ask
you."

"I quite think you shouldn't."

"I shouldn't?"

"Well, yes, you have asked too much
today."

"Really?"

He looked adorably puzzled. Had he forgotten
he had asked to marry earlier in the day? Or actually, he hadn't
asked. He had suggested that marriage to him was the only
reasonable solution. Although since she knew it wasn't, Cecelia
didn't know why she was fretting about it. It had probably slipped
his mind, which was a good thing.

She turned toward his home and began walking.
He fell into an easy step beside her.

"Isn't it time you left off the mourning? Is
that why you were buying the ribbons and lace? To trim new gowns?
Do you need money for dresses?"

"Mourning?" She had been quite braced for him
to ask about the attic, but that was neither here nor there.

"Yes, the black stuff you wear. All your
dresses are black, aren't they? You should have switched to half
mourning months ago. Have I been remiss in seeing to your clothing
needs?"

"I'm not in mourning, I always wear
black."

"Why?"

Cecelia shrugged. "I never thought much about
it."

He stopped, and Cecelia debated whether or
not to continue walking without him. She was hopelessly
unfashionable. It had never occurred to her to vary the order she
gave the dressmaker every year since her mother died, black
bombazine and crepe.

Last season she had been in full mourning, so
a single black ball gown and a couple of black morning dresses were
fine at first. Later, her first chaperone had tried to outfit her
in the latest fashions and colors. Cecelia pulled up her heels
after the first court dress with yards and yards of lace and a cost
that was far too dear for a penniless ward.

It wasn't that Cecelia hated lace. It looked
rather pleasing in small bits on her cards, but she didn't like
being draped in the stuff. It was itchy, and she felt like a
decoration. She was not meant to be a diamond of the first water,
or even the second or third water. There was no point in her
dressing to the nines.

She simply didn't have the looks to carry off
being an ornament. She felt like a fraud all wrapped up in fine
linen. Better to stick to her basic black. Besides that, the court
dress was little more than shreds now, the lace all pirated for her
card designs, which had been a terrible thing for her to do, she
realized with a guilty start. Devin had paid a pretty penny for
that dress, and she had sacrificed it on a whim. A lucrative whim
to be sure, but a whim nonetheless.

He spun around and started back the way they
had come. She stared at him.

He returned to her side and reached for her
elbow. "Come on."

"Have you changed your mind? You don't want
to stop at Gunther's, after all?" One could of course hope. Perhaps
he had realized he didn't want to be seen with such an
unfashionable creature as her. In which case he would quite realize
he wouldn't want to marry her either. She sighed.

"You need new clothes. Why don't you tell me
these things, Cecelia?"

She dug in her heels. "I don't need new
clothes."

"Yes, you do. I should have noticed
sooner."

"I don't
want
new clothes."

He tugged; she resisted.

"Cecelia, we're here on Bond Street. We could
at least buy material to have dresses made up. You have to quit
wearing black all the time."

"Why?"

"Because I can't see you in the shadows."

He had spent the twelve months barely
noticing her; why would he want to start seeing her now? "I'll
contrive to stay in the light."

Damn, she wished he wouldn't grin at her like
that. It made her toes curl and her knees weak. She shoved her
spectacles up on her nose. When she forced herself to look through
them, everything developed a nice haze. His looks grew blurry, and
her heart didn't beat quite so hard when his perfection was a
little smeared.

As if to say what was he going to do with
her, he gave a tiny shake of his head.

If she had it her way, not a blessed thing.
Or everything. She hated not being able to make up her mind.

Cecelia sat down
across from Devin and pulled her napkin across her lap. She was
enshrouded in black again, and her hair was pulled back in a simple
braid. At least that way she seemed to have control of it. He
carefully refolded
The
Morning Post
and set it down
beside his breakfast plate.

One of the servants poured coffee for her and
brought her a plate with seared ham and poached eggs. She eyed the
newspaper folded beside his plate.

"Good morning, Cecelia."

She looked up startled. "Good morning, my
lord. Was your hotel comfortable?"

Devin rolled his eyes. Trust Cecelia to pull
up polite after previously ignoring the niceties of formality. "Not
a bit. I miss my own bed."

"You shouldn't have left, then. Oh, look,
they pulled a body from the Thames."

Now there was a conversation stopper, he
thought. She wasn't getting off the hook that easily. "Yes, a young
woman. Probably did herself in."

Devin was rather glad she wasn't squeamish
like most women he knew, but he was quite sure the retrieval of
another body from the Thames was inappropriate conversation for the
breakfast table.

She took a bite of eggs. She had never even
given it a thought.

"She was wearing a lawn nightgown." Cecelia
commented.

"Maybe she was walking in her sleep."

"And walked right into the Thames? More
likely she was murdered."

Devin glanced at the paper at his elbow.
Cecelia was leaning across the table, reading—upside down. She
chewed her breakfast, while straining to read the article. She
looked up halfway through her meal as if feeling the weight of his
gaze upon her.

"What?" she asked.

"You've made your point."

She flashed him an innocent look and then
lowered her gaze when he met it skeptically.

"Might as well read it the easy way." He
turned the paper over for her, so she could actually read the news
right side up. He slid it across the table.

She picked it up with her left hand and read
while she finished eating.

"She probably exasperated her guardian," said
Devin.

"It's too bad she didn't have you as a
guardian, then," said Cecelia.

"Meaning...I wouldn't exert myself to the
point of throwing a willful creature in the Thames?"

"Of course you wouldn't." Cecelia didn't look
up from the newsprint. "It's kind of sad. No one even knows who she
is."

Devin supposed he should be glad she didn't
think he would ever resort to murder, but then, she probably
thought he was too lazy to bother.

Barnes entered the room, the silver salver
used for correspondence and calling cards in his hand. "Miss
Clemmons, this has just come for you."

She blinked and looked up, hesitating for a
long moment. She folded
The
Morning Post
and set it
beside her plate, and reached for the frilly confection of lace and
ribbons on the tray. "Thank you, Barnes."

His butler bowed and tucked the salver under
his arm and left the breakfast room, leaving the two of them
alone.

She drew the valentine into her lap, below
the edge of the table out of Devin's sight. Not that he needed to
see it again. He was more interested in her reaction. The
shopkeeper, possibly sensing Devin's unease at buying the card, had
assured him that
all
women adored the cards.

Cecelia's eyes widened and her surprise and
shock were easy to read.

"What have you there?" he asked when the
silence stretched thin.

"Nothing important." She shoved back from the
table and rose from her chair so violently she jarred the table.
Coffee slopped into his saucer. With the card pressed against her
chest, she flew out of the room.

Well, he couldn't count the card a total
loss. It had raised an excess of emotion in her. He sipped his
remaining coffee. What emotion, he could only guess.

Once out of the breakfast room, Cecelia made
a dash for the staircase. Seeking the sanctuary of her bedroom, she
took the steps two at a time.

At first when the card arrived she thought
there was some problem with it; the lace had come unglued, the
loveknots loose. She had thought one of the shop owners had sent it
back for repairs, but when she had read the signature,
from your
Secret Valentine,
she wasn't sure what to think.

All kinds of possibilities ran through her
head. The card had been misdirected or misdelivered. Unfortunately,
there was no direction on it. It surely couldn't be for her.

She pressed her fingers against her warm
cheeks. How could she have a secret admirer? She didn't know many
people. It had to be a mistake.

But, zounds, how her heart had pounded when
she thought the valentine might be for her. Was this how the
recipients of her cards normally felt? She had to admit it was a
frightfully nice feeling for a moment or two before she realized it
had to be a mistake.

She could perhaps question Barnes where it
had come from. But without a name on it, it was unlikely she could
get it to the person it was intended to charm. She propped it on
her dressing table near her looking glass.