by Regina Scott
She thought he might choke, his look was so choleric. “My uncle didn’t think of the consequences and didn’t seem to mind the scandal that resulted. I assure you, the rest of the family has more restraint.”
“Lady Winthrop!” The ton’s favorite dandy, Horace Hapheart, stood in front of them, hands on the hips of his pink-satin breeches. “What a surprise! We must have a nice, long coz!”
“We certainly must,” Claire agreed with a ready smile. “I’ll look for you at supper, shall I?”
He nodded so vigorously he nearly smashed his high, pointed collar. “Of a certainty! And I hear they’re serving those lobster puffs you so enjoy.”
“I shall look forward to sharing them with you, sir.” As he dashed off to meet another friend, white coattails flapping behind him, she turned to Richard, only to find that his frown had turned to a scowl. “Your family is not at all in the common way,” she told him, “and you know it. Your cousin Vaughn writes poetry that sets the town ablaze, and you were a privateer.”
“Claire!” Lord Peter Eustace seized both her hands and bowed over them, every line of coat and breeches perfection. “My word, but I’m glad to see you out and about again. Say you’ll partner me at whist. I so long to give Thurston and his set a drubbing like we did last year.”
“She’s taken,” Richard snapped, rising and glaring down at the fellow. Lord Eustace dropped Claire’s hands and scuttled away with a squeak of apology.
Claire patted the seat beside her. “And that is precisely why we must talk. You cannot go around pretending you own me. Like it or not, I am Lady Winthrop.”
“He called you Claire.”
He sounded like a little boy annoyed his older brother had been given a treat. “He is related to my late husband,” Claire explained, “and I’ve known him for years.”
“You’ve known me for years, too.”
“I knew you years ago. There’s a difference. And any number of people here will remember that tale if we give them cause. I prefer that they forget.”
“I haven’t.”
The words were soft and sad. Something inside her wanted to cry over the matter as well. But she couldn’t sit here, letting near strangers see her sob. Lord, lend me Your strength. She put on her polite smile.
“Be that as it may, Captain Everard, you have charged me with a task, and I intend to do it to the best of my ability. For now, I suggest you find some other lady and ask her to dance. Our hostess is bearing down on us, and I need to plant the seeds that will bring your cousin Samantha a rich harvest.”
She was afraid he’d argue, but one look at Lady Widmore’s determined face, and he stood and headed toward the opposite side of the room, for a group of older gentlemen who were, no doubt, discussing politics.
Lavinia dropped onto the chair he had vacated. She and Claire had met socially and, despite the differences in their ages, had taken to each other at once. “I cannot tarry, dearest,” she said now. “I have too many duties as hostess. Quickly, tell me all! Why are you here with Everard? I thought you loathed the fellow!”
“Nonsense,” Claire said with an airy wave, hoping to brush aside her past as easily. She went on to explain about Samantha. Lavinia was quickly in sympathy for the poor child, raised alone in the wilderness. So were any number of ladies with whom Claire shared the story as the night progressed. And of course, the gentlemen were ready to believe anything she said as she chatted and played whist and supped. Everything would have gone quite to her satisfaction, except for two gentlemen who did not behave as she expected.
The first was the Marquess of Widmore himself. Claire had known him through Winthrop, who had had visions of rising to a more prominent place in society. She’d wondered whether marriage to her might have been part of his plan. However, shortly before his death, her husband had refused to have anything to do with the marquess, saying that Widmore had odd notions for a nobleman. She wasn’t sure what that meant, given what her husband considered normal.
She’d been raised by a father with strict propriety, and she’d certainly grown up trying to please him. But nothing had prepared her for her husband’s lengthy list of requirements. Some she found easy to manage, like his desire for her to be a leader in fashion and a welcoming hostess. Others made her chafe. Lord Winthrop’s wife was not supposed to have an opinion, it seemed, on politics. She wasn’t even supposed to have an opinion on the opera or the latest book everyone was discussing, and certainly never an opinion that varied from his. Lord Winthrop’s wife, in short, was supposed to have the character and usefulness of a pretty porcelain vase. Small wonder she’d nearly shattered under the weight of her marriage.
Lord Widmore was a refreshing change. He always treated her with respect and raised topics of conversation as if assuming she had every right to take part in the discussion.
“You’re heading for Cumberland, I hear,” he said now, falling into step with her as she returned to the ballroom from the card room, where she had helped Lord Eustace trump Lord Thurston. “With Everard, no less.”
Claire nodded to a passing acquaintance. “A gentlemanly escort is useful when traversing the wilds.”
“Or navigating the ton,” the marquess acknowledged. “I should hate to see your generous nature put to the test.”
Claire smiled at him. “Thank you for your concern, my lord, but I’m certain I will be fine.”
“They are Everards, you know.” When she looked him askance, he merely shrugged. “Much as I enjoyed Lord Everard’s company, I know some consider his family a bit on the scandalous side. And there is, of course, the question about the girl’s paternity.”
Claire motioned him aside, closer to the pale blue wall and away from any other guests. “My lord, surely you don’t malign an innocent child.”
His eyes searched hers, as if trying to gauge her inner strength. “It is not her innocence that concerns me. There are issues here you cannot know, secrets the Everards are hiding from you. Are you certain you wish to associate yourself with that group?”
Secrets? Issues? Had Richard withheld information to gain her trust? Oh, those doubts were too easy to blossom, yet she could not risk all she’d tried to accomplish by giving in to them, especially not in front of the marquess, of all people.
“I am an old friend of the family,” she said dutifully. “It’s my pleasure to sponsor Lady Everard for her Season.”
He looked less mollified than anyone to whom she had peddled the tale. “Then you are intent on helping them.”
“Quite.”
He surprised her by laying a hand on her arm, his long face serious. “If you need anything, if the girl needs anything, let me know. I can do that much for her father.”
Claire swallowed as he withdrew his touch. “Thank you, my lord.” She very nearly let him go, then realized she did need help, in one area. “There is something, a triviality.”
His face was still as serious. “Name it.”
“I want Monsieur Chevalier to teach her dancing. I believe your daughter benefited from his instruction.”
He smiled then, as if he’d found the answer to his concerns. “Indeed she did. I’m sure I can offer incentive to send the fellow to you. Consider the matter settled.”
The other gentleman, however, was not so easily appeased. Everywhere she went, whatever she was doing, Richard was watching. Her husband had always abandoned her the moment he could, preferring the card room or the company of his friends to hers. But tonight she was constantly aware that Richard stood nearby, never interrupting, never threatening, but always ready to do her a service. If he was hiding some dark secret, he didn’t show it. His smile remained pleasant, his carriage confident.
He was the one who brought her a fan when the room proved heated. He was the one who found her and Horace Hapheart a table in the crowded supper room. And he was the o
ne who sat at her side when she plopped down on a chair near the end of the night, exhausted.
“Ready to leave?” he asked.
Claire nodded with a sigh. “My task is accomplished.”
“Is it?” He cocked his head. “I thought you had one more duty tonight—to dance with me.”
Dread fell like a rock into her stomach, but she kept her smile in place. “But you haven’t danced all evening.”
His mouth turned up on one corner, as if he was pleased at the thought that she might have been watching him as well. “Perhaps I was waiting for the most beautiful woman in the room.”
Claire made a show of glancing about. “Ah, I believe you are in luck. Lady Imogene is just releasing her current partner, and no one else has rushed forward yet, for once.”
“Lady Imogene can dance with a monkey for all I care,” he said with charming conviction. “Partner me, Claire.”
She couldn’t. Oh, she couldn’t! She’d longed to dance, to move with the music, to smile at her partner across the way in the pure joy of the moment. But she didn’t dare trust herself, especially with Richard.
“I regret that I do not feel it proper for a lady in mourning to dance,” she told him.
His smile was melting into a frown. “And aren’t you planning to give up mourning when we return to London?”
“For your cousin’s sake, certainly. I can’t go about looking like an old crow if I’m sponsoring her.”
“You don’t even resemble a young crow,” Richard said. “I’ve been patient. One dance is not too much to ask, madam.”
Her mouth was dry. Father, please! Make him give this up. You know why I can’t dance. Guilt poked at her for fending him off. “Unfortunately, I am quite fatigued. Will you be a dear and call for the carriage?”
He rose, and she nearly sighed with relief. But his puzzled look down at her told her he wasn’t satisfied by her answer. “Very well, Lady Winthrop, I’ll strike my colors and fetch you the carriage. But you’re hiding something, and we have three long days ahead of us for me to discover what that might be. I only hope I can convince you to trust me enough to tell me the truth.”
Chapter Seven
She’s changed.
The thought kept running through Richard’s mind as he saw Claire home and returned to Everard House for his own bed. Claire had always been popular; when he’d been courting her, at some balls he’d had to wade through suitors six deep to reach her side. Then she’d seemed entirely too aware of the power she held over them all; as little as a frown from her would take the wind from their sails. Tonight, she’d been gracious to everyone, from Widmore to the feckless Horace Hapheart. Was it all part of her plan to win them to Samantha’s side, or had her proud heart truly softened?
Then there was the matter of her dancing. Claire had danced with a rare combination of joy and grace. He’d found it hard to take his eyes off her as she swung around him, and he’d never known her to sit out a set. Yet tonight she hadn’t stepped onto the floor once. He simply couldn’t believe she’d forgo the pleasure just to complete her so-called strategy. So, why refuse to dance with him? Was he still so repugnant to her?
He was still thinking about the ball when he left the house the next morning to complete his preparations for the trip north. Mr. Marshall, the butler, had agreed, uncommon gleam in his eyes, to hire more staff and prepare the house for Samantha’s arrival, with the help of the decorator Richard had commissioned. Now Richard just had to see that Samantha reached London as planned.
He’d ridden from Cumberland, but he couldn’t see Claire making the return journey that way. And Vaughn’s chariot, though sporty, wasn’t built for travel over long distances. So he hired a post chaise and postilion and made arrangements for changes of horses along the way.
His second task was more grim. At his brother’s suggestion, he’d enlisted the aid of a Bow Street Runner to look into the disappearance of Repton, his uncle’s valet, and the treacherous footman Todd, who had stolen from them and threatened Jerome and his wife. Richard had no reason to think the footman had returned to London, but the famed thief-takers associated with the Bow Street magistrate’s office could travel anywhere in England, on request.
“I’ve found nothing on your valet,” the runner reported that morning, when Richard met him at a public house near the office. A slight, older man with graying, curly hair and a lined face, he wore his red waistcoat, the badge of office, proudly. “But a fellow matching the description of your footman turned up.”
“Oh?” Richard leaned closer across the top of the scarred wooden table. “Where?”
The runner cocked a grin. “He was found dead in a rooming house in St. Giles last night, shot through the heart. The constables felt it was a falling-out among thieves.”
Richard could see why they’d make that assumption. The St. Giles area of London was rumored to be a cesspool of crime. Though Todd had stolen from them, Richard found it hard to imagine the footman falling so low. And why stay in the rookeries? With a priceless porcelain box to sell, he could have gone anywhere, in far better style.
“Confirm his identity and keep looking for Repton,” Richard instructed, passing the fellow another twenty pounds for his efforts. “I’m heading to Cumberland this afternoon. Send word to me at Dallsten Manor in Evendale.”
The runner had agreed, and they’d parted company. Richard was returning home via Piccadilly when he saw the man Claire had called Lord Eustace from the evening’s ball strolling in his direction.
“Everard, isn’t it?” the young lord asked, positioning himself so that Richard could not easily pass him. The way he swung his ebony cane told Richard the fellow was actually considering using it as a weapon.
“Captain Everard,” Richard said, widening his stance.
Eustace nodded. “You seem a decent chap. See that you marry her this time. I’d hate to have to call you out.” With a tip of his top hat, he passed and left Richard standing there.
What was that all about? Did the fellow actually think Richard was courting Claire? If so, then Eustace was dimmer than he looked. With a shake of his head, Richard continued on his way, but he’d hadn’t even reached Hyde Park before he found Horace Hapheart blocking his path.
Today the dandy was dressed in a checked coat of red-and-white material that surely would have looked better draping the back of a horse. His shirt points were so high Richard wondered the fellow didn’t poke himself in the eye. He had a sheet of newsprint in one paw and an eager look on his flabby face.
“Intent on capturing her heart, are you?” he asked with a ready grin Richard might have appreciated on another occasion.
Richard impaled him with his captain’s glower. “Have we been introduced, sir?”
Hapheart had the grace to redden. “Well, by your leave, I thought, as you were a particular friend of Lady Winthrop’s…”
“And what,” Richard said, “gave you that idea?”
Hapheart thrust the paper at him. “It’s all there. You can’t deny what’s in print.”
Against his better judgment, Richard took the cheap newspaper and glanced down at it. It was one of many scandal sheets sold on the street corners to entertain Londoners with too much time on their hands. One tidbit immediately caught his attention.
It appears our fair city will shortly be witness to a rarity—a fully grown baroness rising from the wilds of Cumberland. Lord E really was a naughty fellow, wasn’t he?
If that wasn’t disturbing enough, the item below it set his blood to boiling.
And the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree. Captain E refused to leave the side of a certain widowed lady at Lady W’s ball, importuning her for a dance, we have it on good authority. He was doomed to disappointment, for it seems the lady has learned her lesson when it comes to the captain’s courtship.
/> He shoved the paper back at Hapheart. “Do not believe everything you read, sir.”
“Oh, certainly, certainly,” he chirped, pacing Richard as he set off down the street. “Just last week they claimed I’d increased by two stone and it wasn’t half that.” He leaned closer. “Just tell me, do you plan to do the pretty this time?”
Richard stopped. “I refuse to discuss the lady.”
Hapheart quailed. “Yes, yes. Normally I’d quite agree. But I’ve had a bit of bad luck at the tables, and I’d really like to get in on the wagers.”
Richard frowned. “Wagers? What wagers?”
“The betting book at White’s. Someone’s already giving two-to-one odds you’ll marry her in a fortnight.” He must have seen Richard stiffen, because he ducked back and held up his hands in front of his paisley waistcoat as if to fend off a blow.
“Good day, Mr. Hapheart,” Richard said. And he pushed past the dandy and left him behind.
This was why he hated London, Richard thought, as he returned home to watch his trunk being strapped onto the carriage he’d hired. All this intrigue, all this subterfuge, for what? Neither Hapheart nor any of the men who chose to waste their money betting on his future knew him or Claire. If they did, they’d understand why he’d never offer her marriage again.
He still remembered the day he’d emboldened himself to speak to her father the first time. He’d danced with Claire the night before at a ball, and she’d encouraged him.
“Do you think you could be happy with a seafaring man?” he’d asked at one point, when they’d promenaded around the room arm in arm, her rose-scented perfume teasing his nose.
Her smile up at him was tender. “I can be happy with you, Richard. I promise.” Her pale eyes had sparkled like stars, and he had dared to reach for the heavens.