Page 40 of Twelfth Night Sorcery (The Cambion Club #2)

Valance did not, in fact, go to his club.

He did not feel like sitting around chatting with his friends or reading the papers.

He would much rather go shoot something, or kick something, or punch something.

Should he go to Gentleman Jackson’s? He had not dropped in there for a couple of weeks and would be out of shape, so he would be more likely to find himself on the receiving end of someone else’s punch.

Manton’s, perhaps? But that would mean going home to get his pistols. He was not ready to go back home.

Instead, he simply strode up and down the streets of Mayfair, going nowhere in particular. He prayed he would not run into any of his friends. He did not want to make polite chit chat with anyone. He felt far too angry.

He was not sure who he was angrier with: Cherie or Honora.

He was furious with Cherie for daring to visit Honora, and for whatever she’d said to blacken Valance’s name.

She ought to have known better than to behave like that.

Didn’t Cherie realize how gossip spread?

If other men learned how volatile and unpredictable her behavior was, she might alienate possible protectors.

No man wanted a mistress who caused strife at home.

But Valance was equally angry with Honora for believing Cherie. Maybe angrier. What right did Honora have to judge him for things he had done before he met her? She’d married him knowing perfectly well what kind of man he was.

Not that he was any worse than other men, of course. Better than many, in fact. He had dismissed his mistress right away once he determined to marry. Many men would have kept their mistresses despite their wedding vows.

And when had he ever treated Honora with anything but respect and affection?

How could she possibly compare him to Belmont, of all people?

He had rescued her from Belmont! She had been a total stranger to Valance, but he had gotten her away from the man she feared, protected her reputation as best he could, luxuriously provided for her, and lavished affection on her.

Few men in his situation would have done as much.

What, then, did his wife expect from him? Was he supposed to go back in time to live his life over again as a monk? He scoffed at the very idea. Honora certainly seemed to appreciate his skill in bed. How, exactly, did she think he’d developed those skills?

And yet, as Valance argued his case against an imaginary opponent, some part of him knew all of this was beside the point. What had upset Honora was not the fact that Valance had bedded other women before her, but that he had seduced a virtuous girl.

He told himself that doing so did not make him a rake. Many actresses sought wealthy protectors who could support them. They enjoyed a much better style of living than they could hope to earn with acting alone. It was more like a system of patronage than prostitution, when all was said and done.

Besides, he had not been the only man interested in young Cherie Barbauld.

If he had not pursued her, someone else would have taken her as a mistress.

Very likely she would have ended up with some unpleasant older man seeking to amuse himself because of his wife’s indifference.

Or she might have taken a lover who could not support her as Valance could.

Cherie had certainly enjoyed buying clothing, perfume, and sweets with his money.

She had willingly entered into their arrangement.

If she’d had any complaints about her treatment, she had not aired them to Valance.

However, there was one thing Valance could not argue with.

Honora was right that he would not have married the former Miss Grantly if she had been, say, the daughter of a laborer.

Or even a grocer’s daughter. He had proposed to Honora because a gentleman simply could not run away with a genteel young lady and then refuse to marry her.

But if she had been anything else, if her father had not been a gentleman, Valance would not have felt obligated to offer for her.

He might have helped her escape an unfortunate situation; he might have offered her temporary shelter; but he would not have extended to her the protection of his name.

But what was wrong with that? A man needed more from his wife than a partner in bed.

He needed her help making social connections, hosting entertainments, managing the household, and rearing his children.

Because Honora had been raised in a genteel household, she had the necessary manners, skills, and knowledge.

A woman raised in a different environment would not.

Valance felt very consoled by all of this sound reasoning.

As his anger cooled, he thought he might go to his club after all.

He looked around to see where he was. He’d wandered far from Curzon Street, and it took a moment to get his bearings.

But the sight of a confectioner’s shop he’d sometimes visited with the Carringtons helped steer him in the right direction.

He remembered his first visit to that shop very well, because it occurred shortly after Susan had joined the house as Abigail’s new companion.

(This was before they had fallen in love, of course.) Susan had initially seemed to be a quiet little mouse of a girl, and the visit at the confectioner’s was the first time Valance ever heard her say more than three words in a row.

Valance stopped in his tracks when he remembered what Susan had discussed as they lounged in the carriage eating ices.

She had spoken very frankly about her mother’s thespian family, including relatives who still worked in various theaters around London.

And she had talked about how her father had come to marry an actress.

A quarter of a century ago, Estelle Landon had taken the stage by storm with her first speaking role. Wealthy men about town had showered her with gifts, compliments, and offers of comfortable establishments.

Mr. Taylor, a younger son starting his career as a barrister, could not compete with those offers.

So instead of offering Miss Landon jewels or carriages, he had offered what none of the rich young lordlings were willing to give her: his hand in marriage.

She had accepted him, and from Susan’s account, they had lived happily, though perhaps not quite respectably, ever since.

Mr. Taylor’s legal career had probably suffered from the mésalliance, but he apparently had no regrets.

So, there were some gentlemen willing to marry beneath their station.

Valance had to admit that. Estelle Landon had obviously been a superior woman, and young Mr. Taylor had had both the wisdom to recognize that and the courage to act on his realization.

No doubt he should be commended. But that had nothing to do with Valance.

No one in their right mind would have expected him to marry Cherie Barbauld rather than set her up as his mistress.

He shuddered at the very idea. Marry Cherie?

As if he would ever have wanted to do so!

Even at the height of Valance’s infatuation, there had been nothing binding him to her but physical desire and doting fondness.

At the end, he had hardly been able to stand her company for more than an hour at a time—and only for that long if they were doing something other than talking.

Cherie seemed no fonder of Valance than he was of her.

Witness the amount of time she spent with Thomas Sowerby!

A marriage required more than physical attraction to work.

Little as Valance knew about matrimony, he knew that much.

Infatuation did not last, and physical appearance changed over time.

The happiest couples he knew were the ones who were bound together by friendship as well as attraction.

Like Sir John and Lady Carrington, or like Valance’s own grandparents, who had been able to make each other laugh even after decades of marriage.

They had been so close that Grandmother had passed away one month after Grandfather’s death.

Why couldn’t Valance have had that kind of marriage, too?

Not that he would want Honora to die of a broken heart.

He would rather she live and be happy, even if it were without him.

And yet, he had made her very unhappy, hadn’t he?

At breakfast, he’d noticed shadows under her eyes, as if she’d had a rough night.

Valance came to a halt and stood stock-still.

Last night, Honora had tried to apologize to him, and he had not listened.

He ought to have done her the courtesy of hearing her out.

Honora had been hurt by her encounter with Cherie, and instead of listening to or comforting his wife, he had blamed her for daring to judge him. As if he were somehow beyond reproach!

The last of Valance’s righteous indignation crumbled and fell to the ground. He sighed, knowing there would be no visit to the Cambion Club today, no Manton’s, and no Gentleman Jackson’s. He needed to go home to talk to his wife.

Valance looked around to get his bearings once again, and laughed ruefully. He stood on Curzon Street, a few dozen yards from his own home. By some serendipity, his feet had carried him here without his knowledge. Clearly, this was where he ought to be.

A heavy traveling coach stood in front of his house.

He glanced at it, puzzled, as he climbed the steps to the front door.

He did not recognize the coat of arms on the side.

It might be difficult to speak to Honora if she were receiving callers.

But morning calls did not last long. After this visitor left, he could tell Weller they were not at home to any additional callers.

Then he and Honora could have the conversation they should have had last night.