by Regina Scott
The very next day, he’d ridden his horse to their family town house, an imposing edifice off Hyde Park, and followed the footman up a polished mahogany stair to a withdrawing room at the back of the house. Fine paintings graced the light green walls, ancient vases from China and Rome sat on alabaster pedestals, and white-marble statues gazed back from alcoves and corners.
The man sitting in a leather-bound chair near the center of the room regarded Richard just as thoughtfully and still. The earl didn’t even extend a hand as Richard approached him across the thick Aubusson carpet, and his gray eyes showed no emotion as Richard stammered out his request for permission to offer for Claire.
“And why,” the earl had said, steepling long fingers in front of his gray coat and making Richard feel even more like a student brought before the headmaster for stealing, “should I give you my greatest treasure?”
Then, Richard could only agree with the man that Claire was a pearl beyond price, and he would do anything to have her at his side. Now he couldn’t help wondering whether her father had counted her in the same category as his other priceless pieces of art.
“Because I love her,” Richard had said, standing tall. Even at seventeen, he’d been able to look over the heads of most men, including Claire’s father, had the earl deigned to rise from the chair. “With me, you’ll always know your daughter is honored and respected. I will care for her and protect her all the days of my life.”
“Fine words,” Claire’s father had said in that cool voice, face stiff. “But I hear nothing of support. You are not the heir to the Everard legacy, are you?”
Richard swallowed. “No. My brother holds that distinction.”
“Then you must have some bequest through your mother’s line.”
“A small one,” Richard acknowledged, thinking of the house in the corner of the Four Oaks estate that his mother had intended for him should he decide not to go to sea.
“A small one.” The earl stood, and somehow Richard felt shorter. “I’m afraid you do not know my daughter as well as you ought, Mr. Everard. A small inheritance will never satisfy Claire. If you have no other means of supporting her, this conversation must be at an end.”
He started forward to pass Richard for the door. Desperate, Richard darted in front of him. “My uncle hopes to charter a privateer against the French. I could apply for the crew and a share of the prize money.”
The memory of the earl’s distant, polished smile, so like the one Claire had worn yesterday, still chilled him. “Very well, Mr. Everard. Return with a fortune, and my daughter’s hand is yours.”
He’d returned with a fortune, two years later, to find that Claire’s hand was already firmly in her husband’s. Neither Claire nor her father had seen fit to honor their promises. Richard had used the money to outfit his own ship, as a merchant vessel. And he’d refused to give his heart again, especially to a woman like Claire.
* * *
Claire could hardly wait for the carriage to arrive that afternoon. Everything was going as she’d planned. Monsieur Chevalier had sent word this morning that his other commitment would be met sooner than expected, and he would be joining them in Cumberland within the week. The Marquess of Widmore truly was a man of his word.
And thank You, Lord, for working for the good of those who love You.
She felt as if she was following His lead instead of her own for once. Surely that would make a difference in her life.
She was leaving London, as she’d planned, but instead of hiding away in the back of beyond, she would return for one more Season, to sponsor a girl who needed her help. She’d made so many mistakes her first Season. She felt as if the Lord was giving her a chance to help another avoid those disasters.
She’d never been blessed with children, but perhaps she could show her love to Samantha Everard. She could imagine the girl listening raptly to Claire’s advice as Claire dressed her in pretty clothes and taught her how to look beyond circumstances to character. What fun they’d have planning her coming out.
She was so eager to leave that everything was ready when Richard arrived. Thanks to her new maid, Josette Mercier, Claire’s clothes were packed and the amber cross was tucked into her reticule for safekeeping. A neighbor had agreed to hold the key for the solicitor to pick up for the new owner. Claire even had a new hairstyle under her black satin-lined bonnet.
“Madame has such pretty hair, oui?” the diminutive maid had said that morning when she’d come to wake Claire with the last of the bohea on a tray. “She should wear it softer, non? A few curls here and here to bring out the eyes, oui?”
“Yes,” Claire had acknowledged with a smile at the way the dark-haired girl made every declaration a question.
There was nothing questioning about Richard, however. He took command the moment he stepped down from the coach. Gone was the elegant gentleman from the night before. His brown wool coat was practical, his boots below his tan breeches scuffed from long wear. He hadn’t donned a hat, but then Claire doubted he’d have been able to wear it, tall as he was, inside the carriage he’d brought with him.
Claire was a little disappointed they wouldn’t be taking the chariot to Cumberland, but she knew the yellow post chaise with its shiny black trim was built for travel. A postilion, an older man of slight build, was already astride the lead horse; he tipped his white hat to Claire as she descended the stairs from the house. The yellow waistcoat peeking out from his blue jacket exactly matched the color of the coach.
Claire thought he might help load her bags onto the rear of the chaise, but it appeared he needed to stay with the horses, for when she explained that her footman was gone, Richard stripped off his coat and ported her trunks and bandboxes down the stairs to the carriage himself. She thought the grimace on his face might have something to do with the number rather than the weight, which he seemed to bear effortlessly on his broad shoulders.
He raised his brows only when Mercier made her dainty way past him, a small travel case in her hands.
“You agreed to a French maid,” Claire reminded him as he put a hand to her elbow to help her into the carriage.
“I didn’t think she’d come with us to Cumberland,” he replied, stepping back to shrug into his coat. A moment later, the carriage rocked as he climbed in. He took one look at Claire and the maid sitting side by side on the front-facing seat, then pulled down the catch that held an extra rear-facing seat for himself. Somehow Claire thought he hadn’t intended to spend the journey on the narrow, ill-padded bench.
“Surely you didn’t expect me to travel for weeks alone with you?” she said.
“Weeks?” He twisted to wave at the postilion through the wide front window. “We’ll reach Dallsten Manor in under four days, madam, or I’ll know the reason why.”
As the postilion called to his horses and the coach set off, Claire smiled at the goggle-eyed maid beside her. “I expect we’ll hear a great deal of bluster from Captain Everard between here and Cumberland. He can’t seem to help himself.”
“As your ladyship says, oui?” Mercier avoided Richard’s frown and busied herself with pulling out some sewing from her case.
He sighed. “I beg your pardon, both of you. This will be a long journey, by anyone’s reckoning. I’ll do what I can to make it easier for you.”
His smile was kind, and Claire felt herself smiling back. “Ah, but even weeks isn’t such a long journey for a sea captain, I’m sure. Your travels kept you from England for years.”
As soon as she said the words, she wanted to call them back. They reminded her of the years that had separated them, forever. But he didn’t seem to notice her lapse.
“That much is true,” he said, voice warm against the squeaks of the carriage frame, the rattle of tack. He shifted in the seat as if trying to find a comfortable position. “It’s funny how you can sail all over th
e world, and still long for one glimpse of the green fields of England.”
Claire settled herself into her seat, too, the well-used leather conforming to her body, her leg at the best angle to avoid a mishap. “Equally odd that one can spend a lifetime in England, dreaming of being elsewhere. Tell me about your travels. I’ve wondered where you were, what you were doing.”
Lord, help me, please. What is wrong with me? That statement to Richard was even worse than her first blunder. She’d made it sound as if she’d been longing for him!
But Richard didn’t seem to find her request improper. He launched into a series of tales that soon had her thoroughly engaged. Listening, she fancied she could hear the wind howling in the rigging, the calls of his sailors as they scrambled about the deck, the clash of cutlasses when they met the enemy. Oh, how marvelous to see the flash of bright plumage on exotic birds in strange lands, to inhale the sweet scent of honeysuckle, the dusky aroma of cinnamon. What she wouldn’t have given to have traveled to all those places with him.
Immediately guilt tore into her. She’d traded those dreams for what she’d thought was more real at the time—stability and security. Lord Colton Winthrop had had the lineage Richard lacked, the wealth Claire had been raised to expect. He had been dashing and handsome, and her father had pressured her to make a match of it. She’d agreed, and lived with her regret for the next ten years.
She’d wanted her marriage to be a partnership. She’d known she wasn’t in love with Lord Winthrop, but she’d hoped whatever feelings they had for each other would grow into love, or at least a comfortable companionship. Instead, it seemed her husband would be satisfied with nothing less than the complete obliteration of the woman he’d married. The very traits she thought others might prize in her—her intelligence, her wit, her spontaneity—he found abhorrent. For a short time, she was ashamed to admit to anyone, she had tried to conform, tried to be a soft little dormouse who meekly acquiesced to her husband’s demands. But she’d felt herself being chipped away, little by little, and something inside her had protested.
Thank You, Lord, for that!
She was fairly certain there were men on the ton who were capable of appreciating their wives, who treated their spouses with something approaching admiration and equality. She had every intention of helping Samantha Everard tell the wheat from the chaff. Claire, however, wasn’t ready to try her hand again. Perhaps she’d never be ready. She would keep her promise and bring Lady Everard out, but her heart would stay safely hidden. And nothing Richard Everard could say would change that.
Chapter Eight
By evening, they’d reached Dunstable in Bedfordshire, an area of fairly flat farmland, the fields plowed for planting. The half-timbered Bull Inn was just off the London Road, and the many fine carriages thronging its wide, cobbled coaching yard gave testament to its popularity. Richard escorted Claire and her maid inside and made the arrangements with the friendly innkeeper, securing a large bedchamber at the top of the house for the two women, with a private parlor adjoining it, and another room for himself down the corridor.
They gathered a short while later in their parlor. Paneled in warm oak, with elaborate carvings over the fireplace and door, the room made Claire feel settled. Even the carved-back chairs proved welcoming as she and Richard sat at a heavy-legged table to eat. Richard seemed to have thought of everything. He gave Claire the best place by the fire and served her first from the spiced mutton the innkeeper provided. He kept her glass and her plate so full she finally had to wave him away.
“Practicing for your cousin?” she teased him, when the maid had gone to return the empty dishes and tray to the kitchen.
He stretched long legs to the red glow of the fire, and his satisfied sigh, she thought, came more from the ability to relax after the cramped quarters of the coach than from the innkeeper’s hospitality.
“I could use the practice,” he said. “It’s been a long time since I participated in the Season.”
“We’ll give you plenty of opportunities to help,” Claire promised. “Your cousin will need an escort and a gentleman to attend her when she has male callers. Given your description of her, I imagine the door knocker will rarely be silent.”
To her surprise, his look darkened. “You’re probably right, though the scandal sheets didn’t help.”
Claire frowned. “Was there something in the papers about Lady Everard already?”
“Just rubbish,” he said.
Claire braced her hands on the table. “Rubbish or not, I need to know, if I’m to protect her.”
A smile tickled the corner of his mouth as he glanced up at her. “Since when were you the protector?”
Claire blinked. An excellent question. Yet the idea that the wretched scandal sheets would dare to print anything derogatory about her protégée was the outside of enough. She had such hopes for this Season! But surely Richard wouldn’t understand.
“Well, perhaps protect is too strong a word,” Claire allowed, pulling back her hands to fold them in the lap of her black wool gown. “But make no mistake, Richard. We must watch out for her. The Season can be a dangerous place for an untried girl.”
“Now you sound like Samantha.” He rose to go to the fire, strong fingers wrapping around the brass handle of the poker.
Claire watched as he stirred up the coals. “You said she is anxious about her Season. Is she so shy and retiring then?”
He snorted as he returned the poker to its place. “There isn’t a shy bone in her body.”
“Then why dread the Season?”
He kept his gaze on the fire and shifted on his feet, as if weighing his answer. Oh, there was a story here as well; she could feel it. Had Lord Widmore been right? Was there some secret surrounding Samantha Everard?
“She’s lived in Cumberland all her life,” he said. “London will be different.”
“Certainly,” Claire acknowledged, a little disappointed in his answer. “Though most girls I knew couldn’t wait to trade the country for the city. The shops, the assemblies are far superior.”
“You would know.”
There was an edge to his voice she could not like. Did he think her such a flibbertigibbet that shopping and dancing were all that mattered to her? “Come now, sir, you cannot disagree. You know that the museums, the theater, the art and science exhibitions in London eclipse anything else in the empire. You’ve been all over the world. Your cousin’s manor in Cumberland, however grand, cannot hold a candle to a city the size of London.”
“Dallsten Manor is a decent country house,” he replied, grudgingly, she thought, “but you’re right that London has more to offer by way of diversions.”
“And I shall show her each one, I promise. She will be so happy, she’ll never want to leave.”
He turned then and met her gaze. “If that happens, we shall have words, madam.”
Claire leaned back at his vehemence. “So you expect your little country mouse of a cousin to remain unchanged by her time in the city? Odd. Most families hope that their daughters will gain some sophistication during a Season.”
“Samantha needs no town bronze. She’s perfect the way she is.”
Claire smiled. “Spoken like a doting older cousin.”
He strode around the table to her side. “Make no mistake, Claire. I will not have you making Samantha into a copy of you. If that is your intention, I will return you to London tomorrow.”
* * *
Claire’s face tightened, her spine stiffened, and Richard regretted his words. He’d enjoyed the ride to Dunstable, more than he’d thought possible. He’d meant to spend the time engaging Claire in conversation, trying to understand her better, but she’d drawn him out instead.
He’d never been one to chatter on about his plans, to boast of his accomplishments. Yet reliving his travels with Clai
re had made him appreciate how fortunate he’d been. By the way she leaned forward, nodded in encouragement, widened her eyes at his escapades, he might think he truly had conquered the world. But he mustn’t forget his purpose in partnering with her, and turning Samantha into a conniving Society miss was not part of the bargain.
Yet that truly wasn’t what Claire had offered. She’d merely been assuring him that Samantha would enjoy London, that Claire could manage the girl’s doubts. Once again, he’d let the memory of the past overshadow the future.
He sighed and sank onto the chair beside hers. “Forgive me, Claire. I don’t know why I keep doing that.”
“Issuing ultimatums or bullying with your height?” she inquired in a pleasant tone, as if she were asking how he liked his tea.
He winced. “I shouldn’t use either tactic, especially with you.”
“Agreed.” Her smile was just as pleasant. “But you do seem determined to try.”
“And you seem determined to ignore it.”
She rose to go to a table along the wall and fetch the embroidery she’d been working on during the trip. She’d made good progress, he saw. Already a dozen bloodred roses bloomed from the white muslin.
“You engaged me to sponsor your cousin, sir,” she said, returning to her seat and taking up her needle. “If you need schooling in manners, I can recommend an excellent tutor in London.”
“No, thank you,” he said, trying to keep from wincing a second time. “I can master manners. It’s my temper that seems to be troubling me.”
“I’m afraid I cannot help you there.”
No, she couldn’t. But You can, Lord. Why do I want to lash out at her?
Condemn not, and ye shall not be condemned; forgive, and ye shall be forgiven.
That was one of many verses he’d learned on forgiveness. He knew the Lord expected it of His followers. Yet every moment in Claire’s company, he found himself wondering what would have happened if she’d been willing to wait. Would he have stayed in England instead of heading back out to sea? Would they have a daughter by now, perhaps a son with the dark Everard eyes? Would they have been as happy as he’d dreamed?