‘What brings you home, Claire?’ A shade of his old smile kicked up one corner of his mouth. ‘I thought you’d brushed off all signs of Castonbury dust. How can I be of help?’
Her angry words coming back to haunt her. It saddened her that he realised she had not simply come to visit. He must be used to receiving petitioners, people who came because of his power, not for the man himself. She regretted it could not be otherwise with her.
‘My husband is dead.’
‘I am sorry, my dear.’ The regret sounded genuine.
‘I am not. You were right. He was not a kind man. Or a good one. But I made the best of it until he left us destitute.’
Worse than that, in truth. But she would hold that information until she had a sense of his reaction.
Rothermere sat silent for a moment staring at the fire and Claire wondered if he had slipped away into his own melancholy and forgotten her. She glanced at Jane, who was staring at her uncle intently.
‘Why is he wearing his night clothes?’ the child whispered. Jane’s whispers were piercing.
‘Hush,’ Claire said, thinking she would have to leave and try another day. ‘Your uncle is not well.’
The duke raised his head and looked at her. ‘I followed, you know. I almost had you just before the border. Hit a rut and broke a wheel.’
‘You came after me?’
He nodded.
So a wheel had altered the path of her life. ‘I had no idea.’
Jane slipped off her stool and wandered across the room to look at a portrait of a man in a full Elizabethan ruff, then moved on to peer into a glass cabinet full of snuff boxes.
‘When he came later, for his money,’ Crispin said, drawing Claire’s attention back to his face which looked quite sad, ‘he said you never wanted anything to do with us, but he wanted the dowry I owed.’
Claire gasped. ‘You didn’t pay it?’
The bushy brows drew down. ‘I did. Not that he was all that grateful. I think he thought it would be more.’
She gasped. The money was gone? Her heart twisted, her mind reeled. She’d been relying on her dowry to resolve her troubles. ‘George said you refused to part with a penny.’ George had cursed the name of Montague. Blamed his failures on not receiving his proper due. This was worse than anything she could have imagined. ‘He told me you threatened to horsewhip him for his audacity.’
The gnarled hand tightened on his stick. ‘I should have.’
Jane moved on to look at a suite of armour. ‘Don’t touch it, please, darling,’ Claire said.
‘I’m glad you came home, Claire.’ Crispin’s eyes glistened. Tears? For her? ‘I made a mess of things, Claire. Cocked it up.’ He shook his head. ‘No. Wrong words in front of a female. I sold when I should have bought.’ He lowered his head as if to hide his anguish.
‘I don’t understand, Crispin,’ she said softly.
‘The funds. I sold them. Jamie would have known better. And now, finally when you come to me for help, I’m of no use to you or anyone. Not any more. Not any more.’ His lifted his head, his eyes focusing sharply. ‘I was right about Holte though. You wouldn’t listen to me. But I was right. I told you he was a dashed loosed screw.’
‘Yes.’ She swallowed. ‘You were right.’
He glanced over at Jane, who was now inspecting a statue of a Roman soldier. ‘Your daughter looks like you.’
He meant Jane was not pretty. Was not a true Montague. All the Montague women were lovely. And the men handsome as sin. It hadn’t carried through to the child of the duke’s second marriage or to her daughter. But to Claire, Jane was the most beautiful child ever born. ‘She has some of me and some of her father.’
‘Hmmph. Well, why did you come back?’ His mind seemed to dart hither and yon and there would be no point in beating about the bush if she was to get an answer.
‘Holte left debts. I thought to ask for my dowry to pay them off, but it seems he was before me.’
‘Money,’ he said gloomily. ‘You’ll need to speak to Giles about financial matters. There’s little to be had.’
She knew a refusal when she heard one. She’d humbled her pride for nothing, but in truth she was glad to know her brother didn’t hate her. Glad to know he was happy to see her again, even if he couldn’t be of assistance. ‘I am so sorry to have troubled you,’ she said. ‘You clearly have more important things on your mind. Jane and I will leave in the morning.’
‘You need a husband.’
She gasped. The beautiful face of the chef flashed into her mind, leaving her aghast at the wayward turn of her thoughts. ‘It is the last thing I need.’
He shook his head. ‘Every gel needs a husband. You are young. You are still in your child-bearing years. A duke’s sister is quite a catch, you should do very nicely on the marriage mart.’
She didn’t want another husband. She did not want to be at another man’s beck and call, subject to his temper and foibles. She’d wanted to come home to Castonbury and hide. ‘Who would want to marry me, after all the scandal I caused?’
‘There are still plenty willing to ally themselves with this family, aye and pay for the privilege. If you want my help with these debts, you will be guided by me.’
The snare pulled tighter around her. ‘Crispin, please, I have my daughter to think of.’
‘Then think of her, not yourself. There are a few good men in this county who would see marrying my sister as a step up, and who are deep in the pockets too.’
She hesitated, panicked, not sure how to answer. She had not expected this.
‘I can’t force you to marry anyone, Claire.’ He cracked a laugh and put a hand to his chest as if it hurt. ‘I learned that lesson, but perhaps you would trust my judgement this time? You would be helping the family.’
The anxiety in his voice made her nervous. ‘How?’
‘As I said, there are some who would pay handsomely to claim kinship to a duke. And for the influence they’d gain. The estate could use an infusion of money.’
Money for the dukedom. He wanted to sell her to the highest bidder in return for welcoming her back into the family. Heart pounding, her gaze sought her child, now seated on the floor with the statue, making him march along the patterned edge of the carpet. Jane needed security and safety. This would provide it.
And this time Crispin would choose. Wisely. A choice made of reason and logic. ‘Do you have someone in mind?’
He looked pleased. ‘I’ll make up a list of possibilities. Then I advise you talk to Seagrove. Get a sense of the men. He knows people’s hearts.’
‘Seagrove?’
‘Bloody parson. You remember him. Plays chess.’
So she was to consult with the vicar about a suitable husband. It seemed a little embarrassing to say the least. ‘How is Lily Seagrove? Does she still live at home?’
The duke raised his head. ‘Aye. For the nonce. She’s to marry Giles in the summer.’
Now that was a surprise. ‘I didn’t think they liked each other.’
The duke’s eyes began to glaze as if the topic wearied him. Dash it, she had one more thing to ask. ‘I was wondering if Jane and I could stay here at Castonbury.’
‘Stay? Yes, stay. What else did you think? No females here at the moment, I’m afraid. No one to act as chaperone. Phaedra is off somewhere with her aunt Wilhelmina. Ask Smithins where they went. He’ll know.’ He lowered his voice. ‘Kate married, you know.’ He leaned closer. ‘An American.’
He made it sound as if she’d married a criminal. She’d seen the notice in the papers and had dithered about sending congratulations. She wasn’t even sure Kate would remember her. And Phaedra had been so young when she left.
The lost years saddened her. ‘I’m a widow. I don’t need a chaperone, but if I am to meet these men, I will need to entertain a little.’
‘That’s the ticket. Catch yourself a husband.’ He nodded as if they hadn’t just discussed the matter in detail. ‘I’ll have that steward
of mine give you some pin money. We can’t have you looking like a crow. You are a Montague.’
Tears scalded the back of her throat. ‘You really are too kind, Crispin.’
‘Should have run the bugger through. That would have been kind. I was as hotheaded as you, I suppose. I wanted you to learn your lesson.’
She bowed her head. ‘I did. You don’t know how often I regretted what I did.’
He glared at Jane, who had wandered back to stand at Claire’s side. ‘Learn from your mother, girl. Do what your family expects.’
Jane visibly wilted.
Crispin turned his head to stare into the fire. ‘We need Jamie. That’s who we need. He would have known what to do.’
Smithins appeared as silent as a wraith at Claire’s elbow. ‘Best leave now, Mrs Holte. I will issue his instructions.’ He gestured to the door.
Claire rose and took Jane’s hand.
‘Why, he has fallen asleep,’ Jane said, looking at her uncle, bending over to peer right up into his face. ‘Uncle Duke?’
Smithins smothered a giggle. ‘He’ll rest now until lunch. It’s the laudanum, you know. It keeps the pain at bay.’
‘Come, Jane,’ Claire said. ‘Let us leave your uncle Rothermere to his nap.’ She led the child outside.
The smell of illness lingered in her nostrils.
‘Why don’t we go for a walk?’ she said to Jane.
The little girl gave a skip. ‘Can we make a snowman?’
‘I don’t see why not.’ Fresh air would help her come to grips with this new development. Find a husband? She almost laughed hysterically. Seemingly she had stepped from the frying pan into the fire.
Her stomach gave a sickening lurch.
Chapter Four
‘No eggs?’ André growled.
Becca shrugged.
‘Sacrebleu. How am I supposed to provide dinner without eggs?’
The girl looked at him with a considering gaze. André half expected her to tell him. The girl was as nervous as a cat most of the time, but when they were alone in the kitchen, she sometimes displayed a hidden courage. He tried to encourage it.
‘What flea’s biting you this morning, monsieur?’ she asked instead.
‘I beg your pardon? I do not have fleas.’
‘You’ve been as bad tempered as a dog with fleas since you got in here this morning. Which one bit you?’
Ah, the English vernacular. It always caught him out.
Yes, he had been out of temper. Not screaming and yelling as some chefs did when angry, but edgy and perhaps a little too sharp. It was his unexpected response to the Englishwoman that had unsettled him. His urge to help, when she had been quite clear she needed nothing from him. Such concern for a highborn woman wasn’t like him. And it certainly wasn’t Becca’s fault that there were no eggs in the pantry. ‘I beg your pardon, mademoiselle.’
She stifled a giggle behind a red work-roughened hand. She always did that when he called her mademoiselle. It made him smile back.
‘The boy didn’t bring no eggs yesterday afternoon,’ she said, bending to grab another potato. ‘I wondered why you didn’t ask him.’
She could have said something. He was lucky they’d had enough for breakfast. Merde, he’d been so incensed about Mrs Holte eating none of his sandwiches, so keen on making something to tempt her at dinner, he hadn’t noticed.
She’d made him forget what he was about, with her pale face and the crescents of lavender beneath sad grey eyes. And led him to go where he was not welcome. Her dismissal still irked.
He let go a sigh. There was no one to blame but himself and therefore he must solve the problem. He would go to the Dower House and see if the cook there had any eggs to spare. If not he would be walking to the village. In either case a walk would do him good. Clear his head of visions of the mousy Englishwoman who intruded upon his thoughts when he least expected.
He didn’t like skinny women. He liked them plump and curvaceous, with hearty appetites at the table and in bed. Women who did not cling or need cosseting. Women who enjoyed and moved on as he did. It was better that way.
Mrs Holte looked as if she needed a strong arm at her waist, or she would blow away in one of the infernal winds that swept down from the foothills they called Peaks. No, Mrs Holte was not his style at all.
So why could he not get her out of his mind?
He tossed his hat on the desk in his tiny office where he kept his papers and accounts and hung up his apron. He grabbed his coat from the hook behind the door. ‘I will not be more than an hour or two. Finish the potatoes and the root vegetables. They should keep you employed until I return. Agnes can help you when Madame Stratton has finished with them. Tell Charlie to bring in more wood, and coal too.’
Tonight there would be no untried dishes.
He stepped out into a grey day. Clouds obscured the hills he scorned and had left a fresh layer of white over the ground. Barely enough to cover the toes of his boots. He turned up his coat collar and headed for the path that wandered across the grounds to the small house set aside for the widow of the heir.
As he left the courtyard the wind hit him full force, tugging at his coat and making him grab for his hat. But it wasn’t the wind that took his breath away; it was the sight of the woman and the child in the middle of the lawn scooping snow into a pile.
Building un bonhomme de neige. How many years was it since he had entered into such a childish game? A long time. If ever. He shook his head. Once, he recalled, the soldiers in his company had flung snowballs around. Then they’d created a man of snow and topped it with a shako, calling it their captain’s name and telling him what they thought of him. They’d all been very drunk, but they had laughed until they fell down. They were lucky not to have been flogged for such foolishness.
He’d been fifteen.
He stood watching them, mother and daughter. He heard their laughter carried on the wind. It made him want to smile. He liked children. He liked their innocence. Their lack of guile. He especially liked that Madame Claire would spend time with her child, instead of leaving her to a nursemaid. She was a woman to be admired.
He narrowed his eyes. They were making a very poor job of the man of snow.
He found himself walking closer. The child saw him first. ‘Have you come to help?’ she asked in a high piping voice. Her cheeks were rosy from the wind, her eyes bright, her smile welcoming.
‘Good morning, madame, mademoiselle.’ André looked at her mother, who regarded him warily. Her grey eyes reminded him of clouds full of rain. Her smiles for her child hid fear and sadness. He had a terrible urge to offer his help, not with the snowman, but with the deeper troubles reflected in her gaze. It wasn’t his place to offer anything.
He glanced down at the heap of snow at his feet and back at the child. ‘I do not wish to intrude, but if you take a handful of snow like this—’ he bent, picked up a handful of snow and formed a ball in his gloved palms, squeezing it until it was round ‘—and then you roll it like so…’ He rolled the ball and it gathered all the snow in its path until it grew three times its size. He looked up at the child. ‘Then you will soon have his body.’
He stood up.
‘Mama, look, isn’t he clever?’
‘Very,’ the woman said, but she did not smile. She no doubt found him impertinent. And he was. It was in his nature. Dictated by his heritage, he presumed. It had got him into all sorts of trouble in his youth. But he did not need trouble now, not when he was so close to achieving his dream.
He bowed. ‘I wish you both a good day.’ He headed for the path.
‘Don’t go,’ the child called. ‘Stay and help.’
He hesitated, then turned back.
‘I am sure Monsieur André has better things to do than play at making snowmen with us,’ her mother said. She had a nice voice. Light yet musical. She spoke his name beautifully, like a Frenchwoman.
‘I have time to build un bonhomme.’ The words were out of his mout
h before he thought about them and the little girl was looking at her mother for agreement.
The woman raised her hands from her sides in defeat. ‘Then I am sure Jane and I will appreciate the help.’
In short order the three of them were pushing a very large and very heavy ball of snow around the lawn. Twice his hand touched that of the English madame. He felt the shock of it all the way from his fingers to his chest. And then lower down. Deep in the pit of his belly. The rise of desire.
She moved her hand away so quickly he had the sense she had felt the tingles too. After the second time it happened, she was careful to keep the child between them.
Finally they could barely push the uneven-shaped ball it was so heavy.
‘I think it is quite big enough,’ Mrs Holte said, laughing and panting.
‘I want him to be the biggest snowman ever,’ Jane said.
‘He is,’ André said. ‘Now we need a head. Make a ball the way I did and we will start again.’
Jane pressed snow together in her hands, then raced around in larger and larger circles gathering snow on her ball, the green grass being revealed in an increasingly wide track behind her.
Breathing hard, Madame Holte watched her daughter with a smile on her lips. She was really pretty when she smiled. Not pretty. Striking. Because it was so unexpected, and so full of joy.
A joy he’d made possible.
Insanity. He’d simply stopped to help the child. He’d wanted to see the little girl happy, that was all. Children deserved to be happy.
Did they not? His childhood, the parts he allowed himself to remember, must have had some happy moments. He tried to recapture the feeling he saw in Jane’s bright eyes and flushed cheeks. The delight and the innocence ringing in her laughter. He couldn’t do it. Yet he had the sense of memories buried deep inside.
What would it be like, having his own child? A family. During the war, he had always avoided thoughts of family, children, ties. Life was too dangerous. And since then he had been working too hard to establish himself.
Lady of Shame Page 4