by Regina Scott
Claire raised her chin. “I believe you are referring to the gowns I commissioned this afternoon. Clothing takes time, sir. I thought you’d prefer that I make the most of yours. Surely you wouldn’t want Lady Everard sitting at home for her first two weeks in London, waiting on me.”
“Perhaps not,” he allowed, though the stiffness in those broad shoulders told her that he was not mollified. “But a thousand pounds, Claire!”
She spread her hands. “I told you fripperies do not come cheap. If it makes you feel better, know that I plan to spend twice that on your cousin.”
“Twice!” He yanked his hat from his head, disheveling his hair. “Madam, strike your colors!”
Claire raised her brows. “I will not pretend I know that expression. But I stand by my plans. If you want the girl to be a success, you must do things correctly. I can explain the entire process on our trip north tomorrow. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to change. My carriage will be here shortly.”
He stared at her. “I knew it! You did buy a carriage!”
“Certainly not. I meant the carriage I hired to take me out this evening. I must keep a promise to a friend.”
His eyes narrowed, and he took a step toward her, glaring down at her. She imagined the sailors on his ship would quake at the sight. “Friend?” he asked, voice low and deceptively calm. “What friend?”
She felt the polite face slipping into place again. Habit. It had seen her through Winthrop’s drunken tirades, his denials the day after that he could ever be less than a gentleman. For ten years, she’d been at one man’s beck and call; for seventeen years before that, she had done her father’s bidding. She was not about to let herself be put in that position ever again.
She tilted back her head to meet his gaze, so dark, like the sky on a stormy night. “You did not purchase a slave, Captain Everard. I promised to bring out your cousin for a reasonable compensation. I did not give you permission to question my acquaintances.”
“We have an agreement, madam. I have the right to know whose company you keep. I will not have your behavior reflecting poorly on Samantha.”
Another woman might have felt slapped by his words, but she’d taken harder blows. Claire turned and reached for the door. “I believe you’ve made a mistake,” she said. “If you leave now, you might find another lady to serve as sponsor. I suggest you treat her with considerably more respect.”
He frowned as if not understanding. “You’re throwing me out?”
“Certainly not, Captain Everard,” she said, opening the door. “I hope I am a better hostess than that. But London is rather thin of company as yet. If you want to find another sponsor, you’ll have to start looking this very moment.”
He sighed, shoulders coming down. “I don’t want another sponsor. I want you.” He swept her a bow. “Forgive me, Claire. I’m a jealous fool.”
Jealous? He was jealous? She should take no pleasure in that ugly emotion, yet some part of her trembled with the knowledge that he might actually still care a bit for her. Immediately she chided herself. He couldn’t care for her. Very likely he was only jealous of the time any friendship might take away from her attentions to his cousin. He knew nothing of what she’d become. Perhaps he was right to wonder about her associations.
“I will do my duty as sponsor,” she promised. “Please trust that I have your cousin’s best interests at heart.”
He inclined his head. “Very well. I will hold you to your word.”
He did not add this time, but she heard it nonetheless. “Good,” she replied. “Now, I bid you good-night, sir.”
He made no movement toward the door, where the sound of rain rose louder. Cool air rushed into the entry, chilling her.
“May I ask where you are going this evening?” His tone was considerably kinder, but she still could not like his interference.
“You may not.”
“Cut line, Claire,” he said with a sigh. “I’m only trying to determine whether I can join you.”
Claire raised her brows. “Join me? You mean, you want to escort me to the ball?”
He made a face. “A ball, is it? Ah, well, I suppose I’d better get used to it, for Samantha’s sake. Yes, if you’ll have me. I’d be honored to escort you.”
Did he have any idea of the ramifications of what he had suggested? A gentleman generally escorted a lady to a ball if he was considered a member of the family or intent on courting. Some in London would remember how she’d jilted him ten years ago. She knew what they would assume now that she was widowed, and he was still unmarried, from the gossip she’d heard. But she wasn’t ready to be the object of the captain’s courtship, even if that courtship was only a fiction in the minds of her friends.
“I’m attending Lady Widmore’s ball,” she told him. “If you don’t already have an invitation, I sincerely doubt you will endear yourself to her by showing up at the door.”
A light came to his eyes. “Widmore, eh? That shouldn’t be a problem. Give me a few minutes to go home and change, then I’ll return for you.”
She peered closer, and he arranged his face in a charming smile that did not fool her. “She will expect you to dance, you know,” Claire warned him. “A presentable gentleman cannot stand along the wall like a girl fresh from the country.”
He laughed, and the sound warmed her. “Then I’ll be fine. No one ever considered me a presentable gentleman.” He bowed again. “I’ll be back shortly.” He dashed out into the rain.
Claire shut the door behind him and leaned against it. Feelings swirled around her like pigeons on the steps of Saint Paul’s. A handsome gentleman wanted to escort her to a ball. She should be in alt. But having Richard beside her all night was a sure way to go raving mad.
How would she achieve her purpose when all she could think about were other balls, other nights when he’d refused to leave her side? The only thing that had mattered then was being together—listening to him talk of his dreams for glory, sharing her wishes to marry for love rather than position or wealth. How young she’d been! She felt as if she’d aged a lifetime.
And why was it men never saw the difficulties in their sweeping statements? So the Widmores would be no problem, eh? She knew his uncle had been a particular friend of the marquess, but one did not attempt to enter a ball uninvited. Perhaps she needn’t worry after all; perhaps they’d simply refuse him entrance.
Claire shook her head as she made her way carefully up the stairs. Even after three years, the first turning still made her body clench in memory and set her knee to throbbing. She did her best to ignore it, continuing on up the marble flight for the chamber story, where Mrs. Corday was waiting to help her.
The cook curtsied as Claire entered the bedchamber that had been hers since her marriage. Stripped of most of its furnishings, save the great bed and her dressing table, the pale blue room felt no more welcoming than it had when it had been stuffed with fine woods, costly fabrics and delicate porcelain.
“I know more about baking than buttons,” her cook murmured, as she helped Claire into the black evening gown she hoped would be suitable for the ball. The bodice was covered in black lace, and the back was gathered to spill from her shoulders in graceful folds. Had it been any other color, she might have delighted in it. Still, she was lucky Lady Widmore was an old friend and had been gracious about Claire’s last-minute decision to attend, sent only this afternoon.
“Any fingers strong enough to knead bread are strong enough to fasten these infernal tapes,” Claire replied. “And I thank you, so much, for all your help. I don’t know what I would have done without you.”
“There’s strength, and then there’s strength,” Mrs. Corday said, stepping back to smile at Claire. “And you’ve strength aplenty, your ladyship, if you don’t mind my saying. I’ve seen it.”
She had indeed, but Claire di
dn’t want to remember that dark day when her cook had had to intercede for Claire’s life. “We’ve been through a lot together. And I appreciate everything.”
Mrs. Corday’s eyes were bright with unshed tears. “That captain’s a better man, your ladyship. I’d bet my life on it.”
Claire merely smiled. She’d already bet her life on a man’s character, and she’d nearly lost. She thanked Mrs. Corday again and sent the woman back to her other duties.
Claire’s standing looking glass was long gone, so she bent to peer at herself in the glass on her dressing table. The square-cut neck of the gown demanded a necklace. A shame that in the last months she’d had to quietly sell every piece Winthrop had given her, just to pay bills. Even the jewelry box was gone. There was only one piece left, one she hadn’t worn in ten years.
She slid open the little drawer on her dressing table and reached far to the back. The amber cross came out in her hand, its sterling chain turning dark with age. No more than an inch long, the stone glowed in her hand. She should have returned it when she’d accepted Winthrop’s offer. But, like her memories, she simply couldn’t part with it. Did she dare wear it now that Richard Everard had returned to her life? Would he see it as an admission that she still cared for him?
Very likely, he wouldn’t notice or even care. He hadn’t returned to her, not really. He was here merely because his cousin needed someone like her. If he’d known any other suitable lady, he would never have come knocking on Claire’s door. When the Season was over, he would leave her life as quickly as he’d entered it. And she would be left with memories again.
Memories, and a chance for a future. She was certain he’d keep his word. If she brought his cousin out in style, she could lay claim to a house, some place snug and safe, anywhere in England. The bit she’d managed to save to purchase a cottage could go instead to keeping her clothed and fed. With a little garden, she might be able to eke out an existence. True, she’d forfeit her standing on the ton, but she’d gain security. She had to focus on that hope.
She fastened the chain around her neck, feeling the cool weight of the stone against her skin. She’d had a purpose for attending this ball tonight; she must look like a proper lady to achieve it, and the necklace would help. If Richard remembered the day he had given the cross to her, she would simply have to deal with his reaction.
And pretend her own didn’t eclipse it.
Chapter Six
Claire had barely finished the last touches on her toilette when the knocker sounded again. This time, Mrs. Corday beat her to it. Claire was still descending the stair when the cook opened the door. The white-haired woman stared a moment, then bobbed a curtsy.
“Goodness, Captain Everard, sir. I barely recognized you!”
Claire felt the same way. Richard’s reddish hair had been brushed nearly smooth and pomaded until it shined. His white cravat was spotless and elegantly tied. The black evening coat hugged his shoulders, just as the white satin breeches brushed his thighs. Gone were any vestiges of the eager boy she’d known. This was a gentleman born to command, accustomed to obedience.
But he could not expect hers. She raised her chin, determined not to be easily swayed.
“Even an old sea dog knows how to polish the brass before escorting an admiral, ma’am,” he told Mrs. Corday with a smile.
Claire reached the bottom step. “Hardly an admiral, sir.”
His gaze met hers, and the admiration in it nearly stopped her progress. His smile broadening, he offered her a bow. “My mistake. Clearly royalty.”
His tone was teasing, so she decided to take the statement as a compliment. “And dare I hope you managed some suitable conveyance as well?”
He stepped aside so she could see down to the street. “Will this do?”
Claire was at the door before she remembered moving. “Oh, Richard, she’s a beauty! Where did you find her?”
“She belongs to my cousin Vaughn,” he said, gazing down, with almost as much admiration as he’d shown her, at the sleek blue chariot and its pair of matching white horses. “It appears the Everards have a carriage after all. I’d offer to let you take the reins, but I wasn’t sure you’d want to arrive at the ball in that sort of style.”
And why was she so disappointed by that truth? She hadn’t driven her own carriage since she’d married. Winthrop had always insisted on either driving his phaeton himself or having their coachman drive the larger carriage. At first, she’d thought he was merely being a gentleman, but he’d been aghast the day she’d asked to try her hand at his sporty carriage.
“My wife will not be seen behind a team of horses like some farmworker.”
Even now the remembered contempt on his face cut her. She realized her hands were clenched at her sides and opened them. “Quite right,” she said to Richard. “I’ve outgrown such antics.”
For a moment, she thought she saw a disappointment matching her own flicker in his dark eyes. Then Mrs. Corday stepped forward with Claire’s black velvet evening cloak. “You’ll be needing this, your ladyship.”
“Allow me,” Richard said, and took the cloak from her to drape it over Claire’s shoulders. The brush of his hand against her cheek as he drew back was as soft as a caress.
Claire’s fingers trembled as she fastened the cloak at her neck. She looked up in time to see him erase a frown from his face. The amber cross seemed to press against her skin. But if he’d noticed it before the cape had covered it, he made no mention of the fact as he took her arm and escorted her down to the carriage.
Lord, now what do I say to him? she prayed, as they sat beside each other on the leather seats. No ideas popped into her head, but she was thankful that Richard seemed just as indisposed to talk, as he gazed out the windows at the lighted town houses they passed. She was also thankful the ride to the Widmores’ on Park Lane was mercifully quick, and the coachman was adept at maneuvering the chariot right up to the door.
Climbing out was always a gamble, and Claire prayed that her knee would oblige. But Richard stepped down first and fairly lifted her from the vehicle, his hands strong on her waist. She wasn’t surprised to find all her limbs trembling as he led her to the door.
The Widmore home was large, with a full ballroom on the second story. Soon Claire was in the receiving line with Richard, their cloaks taken by a strapping footman, the finest of London society around them. Music drifted from the ballroom beyond, flowing down the stairs. Already the murmur of voices threatened to drown it out, so numerous were the guests in their satins and velvets.
Claire wasn’t sure what to say about her escort to her friend Lavinia Devary, Lady Widmore, who stood with her husband and daughter outside the ballroom doors. All three were dressed in velvet, from the white of young Lady Imogene to the raisin-colored gown of her mother and the black coat of her father. As Claire and Richard approached, however, Lord Widmore spoke first. “Ah, Everard. I’m glad you sent that note about attending. You remember my dear wife and daughter?”
Richard bowed to the tall, slender, gray-haired woman standing on the lord’s left and the curvaceous young lady with short-cropped curls beside her. “Ladies, a pleasure. I believe you all know Lady Claire.”
Lady Widmore’s blue eyes widened, but Claire groaned inwardly. As the daughter of an earl, Claire was entitled to style herself by her first name, but as a married woman, even now widowed, she should be using her husband’s title. The Widmores had to know that, yet they murmured greetings like polite hosts, and only the marchioness’s look told Claire that her friend expected a full accounting soon.
This would never do. Claire and Richard would be a seven-days wonder before she even introduced the idea that Lord Everard had a secret daughter.
“We must talk,” Claire said to Richard, as he led her into the ballroom. Pale blue walls rose all around her, adorned by Grecian columns a
nd potted palms in marble urns. Already the golden light from the twin crystal chandeliers was warming the air. She tugged on Richard’s arm, and he followed her to a set of gilded chairs along one wall.
“A problem so soon?” he asked.
Claire smiled to an elderly couple who were promenading past. “We must decide what to tell people about this situation with your cousin if we are to use the gossip to our advantage.”
He frowned. “What gossip?”
“The gossip that will start the moment everyone realizes that your brother did not assume the title.” Claire leaned back in her chair, spreading her skirts around her. “I planned my strategy for this ball, but I can see that your being here complicates matters.”
“Strategy?” he asked, but a man drew up beside them just then. She recognized Sir Geoffrey Plantier’s lanky frame and artfully tousled blond hair.
“Lady Winthrop!” he cried, fairly prancing in his dark evening clothes. “What a pleasure to see you! Dare I hope for the honor of a dance later?”
Claire knew what her response must be. “I regret that I am not quite out of mourning yet, Sir Geoffrey. But I’d be delighted to hear of your latest triumph on the Thames. Beat The Falcon by a full length, I hear.”
“If you don’t count the bow spit,” he agreed with an embarrassed smile, slender cheeks flushing. “I’ll return for you shortly, then.”
“The Falcon?” Richard asked, as the baronet toddled away.
“A rival yacht,” Claire assured him. “Sir Geoffrey was ecstatic about the win, according to The Times. Now, sir, our strategy. I came here tonight with an express purpose.”
His look darkened. “I surmised as much. Who is he?”
Claire frowned. “I have no idea what you’re talking about. Will you pay attention, please? We must make sure to meet as many people as possible and share the story of your cousin’s tragic circumstances.”
“Tragic circumstances? She just inherited a barony!”
Claire laid a hand on his arm. “And that will be enough to shock most people. Do you know how few lines can descend from a daughter, sir?” She released him. “Now then, I suggest we paint Samantha as an innocent, kept pure from the scandals your family so enjoys.”