Free Valentine's Day by Elizabeth Aston

Chapter One
    London, 1800
    V alentine stood on the deck of the Salamander , ignoring the to and fro of the sailors as they docked the vessel. So this was England, the land of her birth, the land of her ancestors, the country that she had left as a small child and was now returning to at the advanced age of twenty.
    She had been prepared for the climate; in India, everyone from England constantly spoke of the inclement weather as if they came from some benighted land, but England had remained a fairy-tale place in Valentine’s mind, full of magic and possibility. The reality was somewhat different, with dull grey skies and a steady drizzle. Far removed from the heavy monsoon rain she was used to, it seeped into the very seams of her clothes. Her hair, too long after the voyage from India, was frizzing and curling from the dampness, and by the time Mrs. Heron hurried on deck to bring Valentine to the cabin below, remonstrating with her for standing on deck in the wet so that she was soaked through.
    Mrs. Heron said, “It will be a shocking thing if you mark your return to England by going down with a chill or some kind of fever. You have to learn to take care of yourself; you are not used to the cold and wet.”
    It had been a long voyage and not a comfortable one for Valentine, who had discovered herself to be a poor sailor. To be confined at close quarters with a small group of other voyagers didn’t suit her at all, and she had found herself often exasperated beyond expression by her fellow passengers.
    But that was all over. Here she was—the gangplank was being drawn up to the vessel, and at any moment now, her bandbox in her hand, she would walk down from the ship and stand on English soil.
    There had been a little disagreement between Valentine and the Herons, the kind friends of her father’s who had escorted her from faraway India. She knew how long it would take them to get to their home in Dorset, and she didn’t want to put them to the additional trouble of having to escort her to her destination in London. It was ridiculous to suppose that she would not be perfectly safe on her own; this was London, not some village in an upcountry region where bandits might leap out to attack or garrotte unwary travellers.
    She knew that argument would never win the day. This was a case for cunning. She would pretend that her hosts, Lord and Lady Mountjoy, had sent a manservant to meet her. Meanwhile, she must quickly make arrangements for the boxes and trunks that would be unloaded shortly from the hold of the vessel to be sent on to Mountjoy House.
    Valentine knew just how to appear truthful and straightforward, especially when she was least so. She took matters into her own hands and bounced the Herons into a decision by embracing Mrs. Heron warmly, shaking Colonel Heron’s hands, and wishing them a good journey down to their house in Dorset. She left them arguing with an official about their luggage, and before they noticed her swift departure, she was out of sight.
    She gave the necessary directions for the delivery of her boxes, although the port authorities seemed rather bewildered to deal with a single young woman, and they were inclined to ask whether her father or brother were not there to handle this.
    Flushed with triumph at her eventual success, Valentine emerged from the custom sheds still unsteady on her legs, which were accustomed to the motion of the sea, and looked about for a means of transport into the centre of London. There was a hackney cab; it didn’t look very agreeable, but it would do. She had given her direction to the jarvie and was just preparing to climb in when a tall man appeared at her side.
    He lifted his hat and said, “Do I have the honour of addressing Miss Welburn?”
    She paused and looked directly at him; he had a dark countenance with a severe aspect, although she thought she could detect a glint of humour in his rather piercing grey eyes. “I am Miss Welburn, but I do not believe