Tomorrow's Treasure (46 page)

Evy had trouble concentrating in class the next morning, so deep was her concern about Arcilla. What if she had actually convinced Charles to run off to France and get married?

After classes, Madame Ardelle entered the dormitory room that Evy shared with Frances and Victoria. Her round, olive-toned face was animated, and her brown eyes turned to Evy, who sat curled in chair with her music history book in hand.

“You have a caller, Miss Evy.” The woman always used the formal
Miss
before the names of her students, even after three or four years under her tutorship. “Rogan Chantry waits for you with a coach. He is asking permission to escort you out to dinner, but I told him that was highly irregular for a Thursday night. I hope I have not disappointed you too severely. You may speak with him in the parlor if you like, but you must insist he leave for his university by eight o'clock.”

Frances and Victoria slipped over to the window and peered down into the carriage yard.

“Oooh … look at that divine coach.”

“Never mind the coach. Look at him!”

“Miss Frances, Miss Victoria?” Madame Ardelle looked at them, brows raised, then turned again toward Evy. “It is not befitting to keep a young man of such good breeding waiting.”

What Madame Ardelle meant, of course, was that the Chantry name was associated with South African diamonds.

Evy hurried to freshen up and run a brush through her hair while
Frances and Victoria gave her advice on what would make her look her prettiest. She calmly changed into a pretty dress and added the saucy hat Rogan had bought her, setting it carefully on her thick, tawny hair. Again she noted how the ribbons and color emphasized the jade flecks in her eyes. Would he notice?

Evy smiled and left the room. Once away from the girls, she admitted to herself that she was not as indifferent toward her dashing caller as she pretended. She sped to the stairway and looked down into the quiet front hall. She hoped Madame Ardelle had not loitered, and she sighed when the woman was not in sight. Evy came down the stairs, looking toward the door that led into the parlor. It was ajar, and she knew Rogan had entered and was waiting.

She hoped the news on Arcilla would be good. Interesting … that Rogan had wanted to go to dinner.

She entered the parlor, where the gloomy late November weather was chased away by a glowing log burning in the grate. The large parlor was furnished in Madame Ardelle's old-world taste. Heavy wine-colored draperies, Louis XIV furniture, and a matching wine and cream Persian carpet. Through the floor-to-ceiling windows the bare branches of trees were starkly fingered against a pale five o'clock sky. She paused, lifting a hand to touch her smooth hair.

At the same moment, Rogan left the bookcase and came toward her, scanning her with obvious pleasure. He took in the hat. “Very charming. A perfect match of green.” His genteel manner was in contrast with the lively gleam in his eyes. He took her hand, that enigmatic smile dancing across his features.

“How good of you to see me on a Thursday evening, Miss Varley. Madame has made it clear you need your sleep, and I am not to keep you up past eight.”

From his exaggerated gravity, it was clear he was amused by Madame's strict code of rules for her music students. Yet his actions were smoothly calculated to represent the pinnacle of gentlemanly grace's.

“Our first class starts at half past five,” she said with a rueful smile.
“So, unlike spoiled fourth-year university students, we must adhere to a strict discipline.”

He smiled. “So you still believe I am spoiled and arrogant. I'll have you know I am agonizing over final exams for graduation and going without sleep.”

“Should I believe you? I wonder … You look well rested and alert.”

“I cannot help what your stimulating presence does to me.”

She laughed. He really was a rogue—and far too appealing when he was like this. She breezed past him toward the window, sitting primly on the cushioned window seat, her folded hands on her lap.

He watched her with a ghost of a smile, and she had the sense that he was still trying to understand her. She hid a smile of her own. Good. Let him wonder. He was altogether too accomplished in understanding young women as it was.

“I told you I'd come to let you know about Arcilla.”

She inclined her head. “Thank you. I've been concerned for her. However, you could have sent a message and saved yourself a trip from the university.”

“Would you have preferred that?”

She lowered her gaze, affecting a demure posture. “I was thinking of your busy schedule.”

“I'm rarely too busy to see someone whose company I find so … intriguing. I was hoping you would come to dinner with me. I'd forgotten you were held under lock and key by the stalwart madame.”

“I did not receive an invitation to attend dinner with you.”

“Ah. A word to the wise, eh? I am expected to arrange things well in advance. You do not like surprises, then.”

Did that displease him? She could well imagine that Patricia Bancroft rearranged her schedule to be with him whenever he wished.

“I assure you it is Madame who is inflexible.” She quickly changed the subject. “I take it then that Arcilla is back at Montague, safe and sound?”

His wry smile was nonetheless indulgent. Clearly he cared about his
sister. “Yes, alas, the emergency is over—for the present. My sister, as you know, is not above creating new storms to bring a bit of unwanted excitement into everyone's lives. Thanks to Charles, everything worked out reasonably well. He is from the old school of thought and prefers the status quo. Meaning he is not interested in galloping off to Paris in the dead of night to marry secretly. He knew what was expected of him and carried it through to the proper end. Instead of fleeing with her like two escaped lovebirds to France, he kept a stiff upper lip and brought her back to the school.”

Charles Bancroft most likely had experience in avoiding awkward social positions, and Evy was fairly certain he must know Peter Bartley had arrived. Had Arcilla put up an emotional fuss and begged her beloved to flee with her to Paris? Poor Charles! The temptation to surrender to her pleadings must have been difficult to resist.

Rogan walked up to the window seat and looked down at her.

She refused to let his nearness unnerve her. “What do you think Mr. Bartley might have done if they had come back into the museum together?”

“I'd rather not imagine. But ol' Bartley does seem to be rather a sport. Like someone who would dutifully drink poison for the cause, rather than lose favor.”

She laughed.

“In this case, it's Sir Julien whose favor Bartley fears losing. Not that matters are anywhere near being resolved where Arcilla and Charles are concerned. It's a gummy situation. Two men want to marry her, and the family must decide, but not according to which man will make her life most contented. That would be too simple. The choice must be based on social agendas.”

And on what will bring more success to the diamond dynasty
, she thought, remaining silent. She was a little surprised at Rogan's cynicism for his own social stratum.

He leaned against the wall near her. “I'm relieved the decision is in my father's hands. Naturally, I'll give him my opinion. I've promised Arcilla I would. I like Charles”—from the sincere tone of his voice,
Evy believed this—“though he's a bit of a lockjaw. He can be very pompous sometimes. But I do trust him. We've been friends since we were boys. But Bartley …” His gaze drifted to the far wall. “He is Sir Julien's golden boy. I don't see a bright outcome for Arcilla and Charles. Julien holds the purse strings to the family cache of diamonds—and mines.”

“I'm surprised you can view the situation so clearly.”

A brow lifted. “You think I am blind to the sins and foibles of the aristocracy? Only one who has never studied the French Revolution could be so. Sir Julien has feet of clay, as do we all, including the poor and downtrodden, by the way. I've never been one to believe in the righteous poor and the evil rich. What is that old saying? ‘The Colonel's lady and Rosie o' Grady are sisters under the skin'?”

“I don't doubt that Rosie might pass herself off as the Colonel's lady if given half a chance,” she said. “Anyway, I should hate to be forced to marry a man I did not love because his family had a stake in my marriage—and in the cache of diamonds.”

“You are not suggesting that the aristocracy are the only ones who hold to the opinions of family and society, are you?”

She met his challenging gaze. “Yes, indeed. It does appear to be so. Arcilla has little to say about her marriage.”

“You think she would make a wiser choice if it were left up to her?”

That stopped her. She had to be honest. “Well … in Arcilla's case—”

He smiled. “And in your case?”

“In my case”—she rose from the window seat and turned to look outdoors—“the same criteria do not apply. Your sister and I are worlds apart.”

From the corner of her eye, she saw him contemplate the small explosion of wood and flames in the fireplace. “So your world is more generous with its young daughters, you think?”

She hesitated. She could see a trap coming, but she would not retreat. “Yes … I believe so.”

His gaze came back to capture hers, and she thought she saw a fire
reflected in the depths of his eyes. “Then why, unless something happens to force a change, is your future all but chiseled in stone? Why will you return to Grimston Way, become Mrs. Brown, and carry on in your aunt's footsteps?”

She started to respond, but he cut her off.

“And please do not tell me it is because that is what you wish, for I will not believe it.”

Evy walked to the settee and sat down, refusing to let his taunts ruffle her. “I did not realize I was being forced to marry Derwent.”

His cryptic smile set her nerves on edge. “Then am I wrong in thinking a match was made between your uncle and Vicar Brown when you and Derwent were still babes in arms?”

She had no answer for that—it was, of course, quite true—and so she simply remained silent. But when the stillness in the room grew oppressive, she gave a sigh. “Perhaps I wish to be a vicar's wife.”

One brow arched. “Derwent and you, the perfect vicar's wife … I wonder. Ah, well. Life can be full of little surprises, can it not?” His unexpected smile was disarming. “Despite all the plans of mice and men, and, I might add, despite the promise of diamonds, people are known to do very strange things.”

“I indeed hope so. I should be disappointed to think otherwise.”

“Love wins out in the end, is that it?”

“I think so, yes.”

“A man throws away everything for the woman he loves. Very romantic, but do you really believe that can happen?”

“Not often perhaps. I suppose, like Arcilla, more marriages are made to accommodate wealth and position than love and faith.”

“Faith. I wondered if you would bring that into the equation. A vicar's daughter—in your case a niece—must marry her own kind, just as we must marry our own kind. Or as you would say it, someone
socially suitable.
”

“One must marry of like faith, yes. Not because one is related to a vicar, but for obedience.”

His head tipped at that. “Explain. I am interested.”

“I am obliged as a Christian to marry a man of the same genuine commitment to the Christian faith as my own.”

“ ‘Be ye not unequally yoked together.' Is that what you mean?”

She stared at him. Was Rogan actually quoting the Bible? “Yes.”

“So we are back to Derwent. You would marry him because he is … suitable. Very enlightening.”

She did not argue, partly because he was right. But she also was reluctant to give away her doubts about marriage to Derwent. She was not in the least doubtful that it would be a comfortable marriage. But was that enough?

Rogan startled her by pushing away from the wall and going to snatch his coat and hat. Quick disappointment stabbed her that he was so ready to depart. Not, she assured herself, because she wanted his company, but because she had a question.

She leaned forward. “Why do I somehow think—dare I say it?—that you do not like Sir Julien?”

His cool gaze came back at her. “Whatever gave you that idea?”

She shrugged. “When you mention him I've noted … a bit of doubt in your voice.”

“I did not realize my feelings showed so easily.” He smiled. “I'd better watch myself around him, or he'll disinherit me.”

She sat back, hands in her lap again. “Now you are being cynical again.”

“Am I?”

“You did not answer my question. Maybe because you do not want to reveal how you think?”

He hesitated, then pursed his lips. “Maybe
dislike
is not the right word to describe how I feel about him.
Distrust
may be closer. I've never fully trusted him, not even when I was a boy. Remember when we were children and I brought you to Henry's rooms?”

“How could I forget? Sir Julien came in, and you told me to hide. It was frightening.”

“I saw Julien search Henry's rooms the night before we went there. It was very late, so obviously he did not wish to be seen. I sometimes think he came to Rookswood to search.”

To search … for what? She stood and walked toward him. “He was looking for the Black Diamond? Then he does not think Henry was innocent, as Lady Brewster maintained in her letter!”

His gaze held hers, but his thoughts seemed to be elsewhere. “I think it was the map he wanted. I wonder if it wasn't also the letter from Lady Brewster.” He focused on her. “What did Heyden tell you about the diamond?”

She hesitated, then decided to tell Rogan exactly what Heyden had said. He needed to know there was at least one person in his family who did not hold her mother to blame.