Page 50 of Twelfth Night Sorcery (The Cambion Club #2)

When Valance set Cherie up as his mistress, he provided her a house in a respectable, but not fashionable, neighborhood.

Most of her neighbors were merchants or middle-class professionals.

The neighbors had probably been scandalized when a nobleman’s light o’ love settled amongst them.

Perhaps that was why the curtains across the street twitched whenever Valance visited.

He felt nervous standing on the doorstep today, because he knew perfectly well that the gossips watching him would have much to say about him showing up again after not having visited Cherie for months.

Valance’s nervousness about the Nosie Nellies was nothing compared to what he felt when the door was opened not by a housemaid, but by a tall, lean, golden-haired man whose perfect face was well-known by theater-goers. He had worked his way up from bit parts to leading roles in Drury Lane.

“What do you want?” Thomas Sowerby growled, clenching his fists. He stepped into the middle of the doorway, effectively blocking it.

“I would like to speak to Miss Barbauld about—”

“No,” Sowerby interjected. “There is nothing you can possibly have to say to Mrs. Sowerby.” He put a heavy emphasis on the name. “You abandoned her months ago. My wife has nothing to do with you any longer. You had better leave, Your Lordship.”

Valance stared, mouth hanging open in surprise.

He had long suspected Cherie had a tendre for Sowerby, but he never expected the two to marry.

He had assumed that Cherie, having grown accustomed to the life of a courtesan, would look for a new noble protector rather than a husband from her own station of life.

“Congratulations on your nuptials,” he said at last, not knowing how else to respond.

“Thank you.” Sowerby did not sound the least bit grateful. “You can have no business here, Lord Valance. I bid you good day, sir.”

Why, Valance wondered, was Sowerby so belligerent?

Did he think Valance wanted to resume his relationship with Cherie?

Surely, he didn’t think Valance would pursue Cherie now that she was married to someone else?

Valance would never be unfaithful to Honora, but it would be particularly bad form to try to damage someone else’s marriage, too.

But of course, there were men who would do that. Men like Belmont, who had wanted Honora even after her wedding. He thinks I’m like Belmont, Valance thought numbly. Valance was to Sowerby what Belmont had been to Valance: a wealthy predator from whom his wife must be protected.

Valance closed his eyes as a wave of shame swept over him.

He knew he was no saint, but he had always thought himself to be an honorable man.

He had believed he was a gentleman of whom his parents and his guardian could be proud.

But that self-assurance crumbled in the face of Sowerby’s defensive anger.

Valance had once told Honora that he was not as good a husband to her as he ought to be.

But perhaps the same was true of his relations with Cherie.

Had he ever considered whether setting her up as his mistress was in her best interest? Or had he simply acted out of lust?

It had never before occurred to Valance to wonder what Sir John Carrington would have thought of his ward seducing a neophyte actress. But now he felt certain that his guardian would have been disappointed in him. That sent a pang through his heart. He had always valued Sir John’s good opinion.

Meanwhile, Mr. Sowerby was trying to shut the door on him.

“Wait!” Valance stopped the door with his foot. “I do need to talk to Miss—to Mrs. Sowerby, about her dog. And I owe her an apology.”

“An apology,” Sowerby repeated. His golden brows were still lowered over his eyes, but some of the heat in his eyes was replaced by curiosity.

“Yes. May I speak to her?”

Sowerby glanced over his shoulder. “Wait here. It must be for her to decide whether she will receive you.”

“Of course,” Valance agreed. “I will wait.”

To his great embarrassment, he spent nearly five minutes standing on the front steps, waiting to find out whether Cherie would hear him out. It must be a red-letter day for all the gossips along the street, he thought sourly. This would give them fodder for days.

When the door opened, Cherie herself stood there, wearing a simple day dress and (of all things) an apron covered in flour.

Valance, stunned by this unexpected domesticity, gaped at her.

He had never seen Cherie wear an apron. He had never seen her try to cook anything herself.

On the contrary, she had enjoyed having servants do such work for her.

Perhaps he was not the only one who had changed over the last few months.

“You may come in, but I can give you no more than fifteen minutes, my lord.” She stepped aside so he could walk in.

“That will do quite well.” Valance had no desire to spend hours here. Already, he wished himself far away.

He followed Cherie to the little sitting room that had been decorated in Cherie’s favorite colors before she moved in.

Everything looked much the same, except for a new bookcase in one corner and watercolor portraits of family members Valance did not recognize—Sowerby’s family, perhaps? —on the wall.

Cherie took a seat on the sofa, but instead of lounging, she sat up primly, with her feet on the ground and her back straight.

Her face showed not a hint of a smile. Valance suspected she felt as nervous about this conversation as he did.

He settled in an armchair across from her, probably sitting just as stiffly.

“My husband says you wish to talk about the dog, but I had better tell you at once, Bishop Barkley is no longer here. We were keeping him in the back garden and he ran away.”

“Yes, I know. He ran back to our house on Curzon Street,” Valance explained. “That is why I came to visit you.”

He cleared his throat. He expected this to be a rather difficult conversation.

He had, after all, given the dog as a gift to Cherie.

Barkley was unquestionably hers, so far as property rights went.

And Cherie did not seem to be in a particularly generous mood today.

He feared she would instantly reject his request. But he had to at least try.

“As it happens,” he said cautiously, “my wife was hoping she could keep the dog, as she has grown fond of him. We would, of course, recompense you—”

“You can keep him,” Cherie interrupted, not even giving him a chance to offer her money.

“He cannot live with us. Thomas starts coughing and sneezing whenever he is around dogs. That is why we were keeping Barkley in the garden.” She crinkled her nose.

“I don’t think he liked being outside all the time, poor thing. That’s probably why he ran away.”

“I would imagine so,” Valance agreed. Many dogs lived their whole lives outdoors, but a spoiled housedog would probably have a hard time adjusting. “As I said, we are happy to recompense you.”

He reached into his pocket for a handful of sovereigns and placed them on the tea table with a soft clink. Barkley was not, of course, worth so much money, but Valance thought it better to err on the side of generosity.

Cherie swallowed heavily as she eyed the coins. “I would like to refuse your gold, but we might have need of it.”

“It is only fair for me to recompense you for the dog,” Valance reiterated. Though, in truth, the money also served as something of a guilt offering.

Cherie nodded. “I thank you, my lord. Now, is that all? For I do have chores to do.” She rose out of the chair, signaling that Valance should leave.

But Valance made no move to get up. “That is not all.” His heart began to pound more heavily, and his mouth felt dry. This part of the conversation would be even harder than asking to keep Bishop Barkley. “I came here in part because I believe I owe you an apology.”

Cherie stared at him, then slowly sank bank into her chair. “Indeed?”

He plunged into his prepared speech. “When you spoke to Lady Valance in February, you told her that I, ah, ‘led you down the primrose path’ to your ruin. You are right. I did take you away from your family and from a respectable future.”

He swept his eyes about the room again, thinking about her long relationship with Thomas Sowerby. “If not for me, you might have gotten married long before now. I lured you away from that possibility with promises of jewels and silk. I am sorry for that.”

Cherie’s eyes widened. She silently studied Valance for what seemed like half of an eternity, then shook her head.

“You offered me a carte blanche, Oliver, but you did not force me to accept it. I chose to be your mistress. I chose to remain living under your protection, to remain faithful to you, despite—well, I think we both know there was not much love lost between us at the end.” Her mouth twisted into a bitter smile.

Valance could only nod. It was true. He was not certain how Cherie had felt about him when she first became his mistress, but he knew that if she had ever been at all attached to him, that had ended long ago. They had both been unhappy for the last few months of their arrangement. Maybe longer.

What stuck out to him was the phrase “remain faithful to you.” Had he been wrong about her infidelity?

If so, he had treated her more badly than she had treated him.

At the Twelfth Night masquerade, he’d slunk off down a hallway intending to bed a beautiful woman he had just met, without the slightest regard for his existing lover.

And that lover, it seemed, had done better by him.

Perhaps he had never valued Cherie as he ought.

“Even so,” he told her, “I am sorry for how things played out between us, and for how abruptly I dismissed you. I am glad you seem to have landed on your feet.” Those were not empty words: he was glad that he had not ruined her life beyond repair.

Cherie shrugged. “For now. But the lease on this house will run out, and we will not be able to afford the rent.” She stared at the handful of coins Valance had deposited on the table.

“Thomas wants to go into partnership with the fellow who owns that new theater, the White Rose. He thinks he can write plays that will help bring in a larger audience. All our money must go towards buying a share of the business.”

“I see.” Valance nodded his head as he did some quick thinking. “Well. If ever you need an investor, you should let me know.” Susan’s cousin was a member of the troupe at The White Rose. It was, so far as Valance could tell, a promising venture, though he was no expert on the subject.

“I will do that.” Cherie unexpectedly smiled at him—not one of her artful, performative smiles, but a simple pleased grin.

She stood up again, and this time Valance took the hint and made his farewell.

He walked out the door and down the steps.

The twitch of a curtain across the street indicated that one of the gossips was indeed spying on him.

He tipped his hat and flippantly bowed in the direction of the curtains, letting the neighborhood spies know he was on to them. Then he turned towards home.

Most likely, he would never see Cherie again, unless he saw her on the stage.

Their lives would not intersect, since they moved in different social worlds.

If Valance ever did invest in Mr. Sowerby’s theatrical ventures, he would do so through the medium of his man of business.

He doubted Sowerby would want to see him in person again.

Even so, he was glad to have mended some bridges. He knew it was not possible to undo all his past wrongs. He could only hope to do better in the future. And perhaps Honora would help him make better choices. She saw the world through a different set of lenses.

As he drew closer to home, his heart lightened, and he began to whistle. At least he had good news about Bishop Barkley!