Gail Whitiker by No Role for a Gentleman

whatever they wish,’ Mrs Gavin said, chuckling. ‘With rank comes privilege and I know a number of ladies and gentlemen who have made excellent use of both. But I am confident you will make the right choice when the time comes,’ she said, getting to her feet. ‘Just remember that a promise once given is difficult to retract and a vow once spoken is spoken for life.’
    Joanna glanced at the book Mr Bretton had left for her, beginning to wish she had never encouraged the conversation with him in the bookshop. He confused her...and Joanna didn’t like being confused. Indeed, life in general seemed to have become a great deal more complicated since her father had become Lord Bonnington. ‘Thank you, Aunt Florence,’ Joanna said, slipping an arm around her aunt’s waist. ‘You know how much I value your opinion.’
    ‘Poppycock. You likely think my notions as old fashioned as I am, but are too kind to say so. Well, never mind. All I want is to see you happy. Money is not the only reason to wed, just as having your heart broken once is no reason to shy away from love. But I’m sure you already know that.’
    Joanna nodded and kissed her aunt’s cheek before bidding her a fond farewell. Only then did she turn her attention to the book Mr Bretton had left for her. She was glad the brusqueness of her words at Mrs Blough-Upton’s reception had not affected his decision to lend it to her, but she was sorry his arrival today had coincided with her aunt’s—who seemed as enamoured of the man as everyone else.
    Was she the only one who thought his not telling her the truth was a problem?
    Joanna picked up the book and held it reverently in her hands. It was a lovely copy: leather bound, beautifully engraved and in excellent condition. Mr Bretton certainly took good care of his books, but then, who would have more respect for the written word than a man who made his living by them? A playwright would be as respectful of books as her father and Mr Penscott were of the ancient scrolls they found buried in the tombs.
    But could the dashing Laurence Bretton, more famously known as Valentine Lawe, really be as interested in those artefacts as he was in his wildly successful plays? Did his reasons for wanting to attend the lecture tonight stem from a genuine desire to learn more about the distant past? Or were they, as Joanna was beginning to fear, little more than an excuse for spending time with her, as her aunt was all too inclined to think?
    * * *
    The Apollo Club was a favoured haunt of gentlemen who gathered to share ideas and exchange views on a variety of interesting and diverse topics. It was also where Ben Jonson had written The Devil is an Asse, thereby serving to unite Laurence’s literary leanings with his more historical ones. No doubt that was why he felt so at home as he strolled into the room known as the Oracle of Apollo a full fifteen minutes before the clock struck seven.
    For once, he was in his element, surrounded by fellow students of history all caught up in the excitement of hearing about William Northrup’s—correction, Lord Bonnington’s—latest expedition to Egypt and of the wondrous things he had seen there. Valentine Lawe didn’t belong here any more than an orchid belonged in the desert and Laurence was heartily relieved when no one seemed to recognise him. No doubt the conservative clothes and spectacles helped.
    He glanced towards the front of the room where Lady Joanna and her father were busy getting ready for the lecture and allowed himself the pleasure of watching her unobserved for a few minutes. She was dressed in a dark-blue pelisse over a pale-blue gown, the fitted lines of the garment making her look even more slender than she had in the bookshop. She had set her bonnet aside, allowing the candlelight to catch the highlights in her hair, and her cheeks were slightly flushed as a result of her efforts at getting everything ready.
    ‘Joanna, where are my samples of pottery from the