by Regina Scott
The footman accepted his card with a respectful bow. “Please wait inside, Captain Everard, while I determine whether his lordship is at home to visitors.”
Richard followed him into the house and glanced about as the footman made his stately way up the stairs. The entry hall was tall, with pale blue walls rising to a veined dome of glass in the ceiling. Already the light was fading with the afternoon. On one wall hung a massive oil painting of sailing ships in the middle of a battle, cannons coughing smoke.
Richard shook his head. The artist was clearly in love with the idea of the sea but had never sailed. No captain would waste powder on the air, the target already past. And the flying flags should be pointed in the same direction as the sails. But then, he’d seen sailing as just as romantic when he’d headed out as a youth.
He clasped his hands behind the back of his brown wool coat and balanced on the balls of his booted feet. Standing about, riding in carriages, felt odd after so many days at sea. At times he missed the order of things; at others he was glad for the good food, a company that included women. Even the sounds of London were different from the roll of the sea, the calls of his crew at work. Here in the house, someone was playing the piano, with a great deal more precision than his cousin. The scent of a woman’s cologne, sweet and flowery, hung in the still air.
Claire hadn’t been wearing any cologne. He snorted at how easily his mind returned to thoughts of her. She’d always smelled of roses before. The scent had reminded him of the formal gardens his mother had enjoyed at Four Oaks in Derby, the estate where he’d been born. But then, perhaps he’d always wanted to associate Claire with thoughts of home.
“Everard,” the marquess called, descending the stairs with a lively step, as if he’d kept the prince waiting and not the nephew of an old friend. “Good to see you.”
Richard shook the hand the lord offered as he drew near. He was a little surprised to find that the marquess’s hair had gone all white, kept back in a queue like Vaughn’s. He looked a little leaner than Richard remembered as well, in his dove-gray coat and black breeches, as if the weight of his responsibilities had worn him thin.
But his grip remained firm and strong as his gray eyes regarded Richard solemnly. “A shame about your uncle. A bit of color left the world the day he died.”
“Thank you, my lord,” Richard replied, releasing his hand. “And that’s what brought me to your door. Do you have a moment for private conversation?”
The marquess frowned. “Certainly. This way.”
He led Richard down the silk-draped corridor. As they passed the open door to what was obviously a music room, Richard caught sight of a young lady with close-cropped chestnut curls and a scowl of determination on her lovely face.
“My daughter, Lady Imogene,” the marquess offered as if he’d noticed Richard’s look. He made no move to introduce them formally. “Join me in the library, if you please.”
Richard followed him into the next room. The library was paneled in satinwood; built-in bookcases with leaded-glass fronts lined opposite walls. Oriental carpets ablaze with color lay across the polished-wood floor. The marquess went to a straight-backed settee by a wood-wrapped fireplace and took a seat, nodding to Richard to sit on one of the Egyptian-style chairs across from him.
“Now then,” he said, “what can I do for you, Everard?”
Richard braced both hands on the thighs of his tan breeches. “My uncle left us a letter, apparently written the night he died.”
“Oh?” the marquess said. He leaned back as if making himself comfortable, but Richard could see the tension in him, like a sail stretched against the wind. Had he known about the letter?
“In it,” Richard continued, watching him, “he advised that if we questioned anything about his death, we should apply to you for answers.”
His lordship raised his silvery brows. “How extraordinary. But I would assume you would know more than I would. Which of you seconded him that night?”
“That’s one of the things we find questionable, my lord. He didn’t ask any of us to second him. The first we knew of the duel was the physician returning with his body.”
He leaned forward, eyes narrowing. “And did this physician have nothing to report?”
“Nothing of use to us. He claimed he’d been retained by my uncle’s valet to oversee the duel, but he didn’t even know the name of the fellow Uncle fought. And Uncle’s valet has never returned to the house.”
“Naturally you’ve made inquiries.”
Richard inclined his head. “Naturally. But the fellow’s gone to ground. We had business in the north, so we haven’t been able to investigate further until now.”
A smile thinned the marquess’s lips. “In the north? Then I suppose you’ve finally met your cousin Samantha.”
Richard nodded. “I understand you knew about her long before we did.”
He spread his hands before his tastefully embroidered waistcoat. “Your uncle and I were once closer than brothers. I knew all about his marriage to that Cumberland girl, and why he chose to keep her daughter a secret.”
“Oh?” Richard cocked his head. “Then tell me, for I confess, the need for it eludes me.”
His smile softened. “Oh, come now, Captain Everard. You know how many adventures your uncle survived by the skin of his teeth. Having a daughter watching would have made life far messier.”
That he could not deny. “He could have told us.”
“He could have. He chose not to. Only you can determine the reason.”
Richard didn’t like the implication that he, his brother and Vaughn were somehow a threat to Samantha. “Then you know nothing of the duel itself.”
“Alas, your uncle ceased confiding in me a while ago. I suspect he was converted to that evangelical nonsense Wesley used to preach.”
Richard had heard of the minister who had at times fought the established Church of England to ensure that all who wished to know Christ might be saved, but he found it difficult to associate the devoted preacher with his uncle.
“Uncle wasn’t known for his piety,” he replied.
“It seems you’ve been at sea too long, Everard. Things change.” He rose. “Now, if you have no other questions, I have more pressing matters to address.”
Richard rose as well. “Only one question, my lord. Have you ever employed a servant with the last name of Todd?”
The marquess frowned. “Todd? The name doesn’t sound familiar, but he may have worked on one of my estates. Why do you ask?”
“He recently left our employ and took something of value along with him. His letter of reference said you’d been his previous employer.”
“A liar as well as a thief, it seems,” the marquess replied with a sad smile. “I’ll mention the fellow to my steward, but I doubt anything will come of it. Give my regards to your brother and the new Lady Everard.” He started for the door.
“I will,” Richard promised, following him, “but you’ll likely see them yourself soon enough. Samantha is coming to London for her Season.”
He stilled and glanced back at Richard, gray eyes thoughtful. “Is she indeed? Do you think that advisable? After all, I imagine she’s grieving the loss of her father.”
“Of course she is,” Richard acknowledged, choosing his words with care. He didn’t dare trust anyone, not Claire, not even the marquess, with their family secrets. “But you know Uncle. He couldn’t abide any sadness. He intended her to come out this Season, and she’s determined to honor his wishes.”
Widmore shook his head as if doubting the wisdom of the approach. “Surely you could dissuade her, Everard. I cannot think it seemly.”
Richard imagined the marquess was used to instant obedience, too, but he obviously didn’t know Samantha well. And he couldn’t appreciate how much depended on her meeting th
e requirements of the will.
“I fear she has her heart set on it,” Richard replied, with a shrug to show the matter was out of his hands.
The marquess’s lean face tightened, but his manners were too good to allow him to show his pique otherwise. “I certainly hope you’ve found someone to sponsor her properly, then. Imogene is about to start her second Season, with a ball tonight, and I don’t know how her mother manages. You have no such lady, if I remember correctly.”
“You’re right,” Richard said, “but an old friend has agreed to help.”
He cocked his head. “Anyone I know?”
“Lady Claire Winthrop.” Odd that the name felt easier to say than it had earlier.
The marquess straightened. “Excellent choice. She’s an exceptional female. I knew her husband. But isn’t she still in mourning, or do you plan to challenge that, too?”
Richard wasn’t sure what he was asking or how much he remembered of Richard’s courtship ten years ago, but he wasn’t about to claim a courtship now. “I understand her mourning will end just before the Season starts in earnest.”
“Ah,” he said, “well, I wish you all the best of luck.”
Richard somehow thought they’d need it.
The marquess excused himself, and Richard followed the footman waiting outside the library toward the front door, passing the music room again as they went. Lady Imogene had evidently finished practicing; she was arranging her music neatly on the stand. She must have heard his boots on the floor, for she glanced up and offered him a kind smile.
Now, why couldn’t he be interested in a woman like that? True, she was some years his junior, perhaps nineteen years old, if memory served. But she was lovely and talented and seemed to have a pleasant disposition with no sign of pretensions, if her smile was any indication. Considering her father’s affection for the Everard family, Richard might even be able to convince him to allow Richard to court her. There was only one problem.
She wasn’t Claire.
As he left the town house, he sighed. The weather was fair, his tasks nearly accomplished, but his spirits remained dismal.
Lord, I thought I’d put this behind me. I thought I’d forgiven and forgotten. Now a short time in her company, and all the old emotions come back to plague me.
The peace he’d hoped would flow from his prayer eluded him. Perhaps he was meant to act instead. He’d swept Claire from his mind before; he could do so again. They had a bargain, nothing more. He wasn’t offering her his heart this time. The only promise between them was to see Samantha safely through her Season. That was where his duty lay.
He ran several more errands, including commissioning an interior decorator, before returning to Everard House to learn that the mirror had been delivered. But that information wasn’t the only thing waiting for him.
“What’s this?” he asked, as their most recent butler handed him a piece of paper. Mr. Marshall had only been working for them a few months. He was tall but thin, with thick, graying hair. He reminded Richard of the mops his crew used to swab down the deck, except for that hook nose and a disapproving mouth.
“I believe that is a receipt from a dressmaker, Captain Everard,” he replied now, as they stood in the wide entryway of the Everard town house.
“So it would seem,” Richard replied, glancing at it again and feeling staggered by the sum. “But somehow I don’t see you in apricot silk.”
“Certainly not, sir.” That formidable nose was in the air. “I believe the gowns are for a certain person of the female persuasion.” He wiggled his bushy gray brows up and down.
Richard attempted to hand the bill back to him. “If Uncle arranged this before he died, I fail to see how it’s my problem. Send the bill to our solicitor. If Caruthers refuses to pay it, Uncle’s lady friend is out of luck.”
Mr. Marshall cleared his throat. “I believe, sir, that the lady is a particular friend of yours.”
Claire.
All his good intentions sailed out to sea. They’d had a bargain, true, but somehow he’d thought he’d be the one to manage the funds. She would suggest items to be purchased; he’d graciously agree or send her out for more reasonable alternatives. Yet, once again, Claire had taken matters into her own hands without waiting for him.
Richard stared at the bill. “Five hundred pounds! She spent five hundred pounds in one afternoon?”
“Actually, sir, I believe that’s just the first installment. See the note?” His finger, looking boney even through his white gloves, pointed to words at the base of the bill. “The other half will be due in a fortnight when the dresses are delivered.”
Richard snatched his tricorne off the hall table and clapped it on his head. “Then perhaps those dresses won’t be delivered. I’ll have words with the lady immediately. Don’t expect me until late, Mr. Marshall. And there had better not be a bill waiting for a new carriage!”
Chapter Five
Claire could not help but feel pleased with her afternoon. Not too many Society ladies, she was sure, could have accomplished so much in so little time. Already she’d written to Monsieur Chevalier to ask him to travel to Cumberland to teach Lady Everard to dance. He had returned a note with his regrets, explaining that he was already committed elsewhere, but she was certain she could find a way to change his mind. She’d also interviewed two maids and accepted a young lady, who would return this evening to start her position and pack Claire’s things for the trip to Cumberland.
Sadly, the current dresses were black, but Claire took heart that her new wardrobe was on its way, courtesy of one of the most coveted dressmakers in London. Madame Duvall took commissions by appointment only. That she’d cleared her schedule to see Claire this afternoon was a mark of Claire’s continued standing on the ton.
“And the apricot silk,” Claire had said as she wandered through the shop, “for the day dress.” She ran her finger along a counter covered with frothy laces and shiny satin ribbons. Madame Duvall’s establishment was designed to appeal to elegance, with walls papered in pale pink and white, dainty white chairs for customers, and the largest standing looking glass in London, strategically positioned in one corner. The room always smelled of lavender.
“Your ladyship has exceptional taste,” the plump modiste murmured, making notes in pencil in a little clothbound book. Her shrewd brown eyes glanced up. “May I recommend the emerald satin as well?”
Claire eyed the expensive fabric draping the nearest dressmaker’s form. “Too dark. I am quite tired of darkness. The sprigged muslin for the morning dress.”
“Exquisite,” she agreed, making another notation. Her bronze skirts rustled as she followed Claire toward the drawers holding buttons and embroidery floss. “I cannot tell you how pleased I am that you will be staying with us in London this Season, Lady Winthrop. You were planning to leave for Italy, were you not?”
Claire kept her smile hidden as she fingered a poppy-colored skein of floss. She’d long ago learned that the French émigrée charged outrageous sums for her creations, all the while conducting a lucrative side business feeding tidbits of her clients’ lives to the gossip sheets. “Well, of course I had to stay,” she told the woman. “I couldn’t disappoint dear Lady Everard.”
She recognized the sharp light in Madame’s brown eyes. “Oh, non, non,” the dressmaker said, as if she hadn’t just heard the Everard title used for a woman for the first time in thirty years. She licked her coral-colored lips. “I do hope I shall have the pleasure of gowning her ladyship.”
Oh, but she was good at fishing. “My dear Madame Duvall,” Claire said, turning to her with a gracious smile, “would I take the girl I am sponsoring anywhere else? I’ll bring her to see you as soon as we return from her winter home in Cumberland. What do you have for Brussels lace?”
Claire smiled now as she hung her pelisse in th
e closet under the stairs. By this time tomorrow, half of London would know a new lady was coming to town, and Claire would be bringing her out in style. Richard should be quite pleased.
Someone slammed the knocker into her front door. Claire stiffened. Not another dun! How many more of those bill collectors would she have to bear? She’d been stunned when the first fellow had arrived, bills in hand, oily smile on his narrow face.
“Your husband promised payment but, sadly, was unable to provide remuneration before his untimely death. And your solicitor seemed to think there were no funds to be had.” His smile had broadened, revealing crooked, yellowing teeth. “I was sure you’d see reason.”
Of course she’d seen reason. She’d always found the aristocracy’s willingness to ignore bills appalling. God had blessed them with resources. They should not withhold such resources from people who had given service. Besides, what would her neighbors and acquaintances think if men like this kept showing up at her door? She’d paid the first few bills out of her pin money, what was left of it. But as the debts mounted, she’d been forced to take other measures.
She squared her shoulders and marched to the door. She’d let Jones go this afternoon, with a glowing recommendation she could only hope would help the footman find other employment. She had nothing left to pay this new challenge but her mourning clothes, and she was ready to give them away.
She pulled open the door, and Richard barreled into her house. It had begun to rain, and the drops clung to his greatcoat, peppered his russet beard with silver. She had to clench her fists to keep from reaching up to brush them away.
“Did you even wait until I was down the street before spending my money?” he demanded.
How rude! Claire shut the door with shaking hands. “Moderate your tone, if you please. I’m certain you would not want my neighbors to think you had me under your protection.”
He turned to face her. “I will moderate my tone, madam, when you offer me an explanation.”