by Regina Scott
“Why did you marry him, Claire?” The words tumbled out of him, yet he would not call them back. He needed to know that he’d been supplanted by the better man. Then he might be able to find the forgiveness that verse talked about.
Her fingers froze on the needle, suspended in midpull, red satin floss trailing across the fabric. “What a strange question after all this time.”
“Not so strange,” Richard replied, shifting on the hard seat. “You said you’d wait.”
“You’d said you’d write.” Her head remained bowed, as if she focused on her task, yet the needle did not move.
“We made port rarely. I posted when we did.”
At last the needle returned to its course. “The first letter arrived when I returned from my wedding journey. My husband burned it in front of me, unopened.”
He wanted to reach out and stop her hand, force her to meet his gaze, show some emotion. “Why? I was no threat to him. I was half a world away, and he’d already won what I most wanted.”
The path of the thread grew uneven. “He didn’t see it that way. Winthrop expected absolute obedience and utter devotion from his women.”
Women? Anger licked up him anew. Had the wretch been unfaithful to her? “Tell me you were happy,” he demanded.
She pulled the thread taught and twisted it to make a knot. “As I told you, Captain Everard, I have learned to be content.”
He wished he could say the same. And he wished he could believe her. But the more time he spent with her, the more questions he had about her life over the last ten years. Unfortunately, Mercier slipped back into the room just then, stilling his tongue as surely as the discussion had stilled Claire’s needle.
But nothing could stop him from wondering.
* * *
Claire had never been so thankful to see a servant. She’d jabbed herself twice trying to pretend she felt nothing for Richard’s pain. Another moment in his company and she’d have been crying on his shoulder, lamenting the life they might have had together.
Had she been happy, he’d asked. There were moments, in the early days of her marriage, when she’d been delighted with her life, sure she’d made the right choice in a husband. Winthrop was the perfect partner in Society, at first—handsome, witty, charming. Those characteristics had quickly faded from their home life and then their social life, leaving her wondering whether she’d been blind or simply naive.
Even her astute father had failed to see the problem. He’d gone to heaven before he’d learned the true nature of the son-in-law he’d so admired. And she’d hidden the truth from friends and acquaintances under a pleasant smile that twisted her stomach and bruised her heart. She could hardly admit the circumstances to Richard now. Let him believe she had been content in her life. He certainly seemed as if he’d been content in his.
She thought he must be concerned he had revealed too much of his feelings, for he asked no more questions about her life and told her little more about his over the next three days of travel. He did, however, ask her about her plans for Samantha.
“We have set the stage,” Claire replied, as the coach wound its way through the little hamlets of Leicester, north and west into the tree-lined lanes of Cheshire. “The best families are in charity with Lady Everard and should welcome her into their midst.”
“Even after the gossip?” Richard pressed, dark eyes narrowed.
“Every play has critics,” Claire said. “Many people go to see it because of the criticism. We must use the gossip to our advantage. We will show them that your cousin is a young lady of good breeding and character. Her very presence will prove the rumors false.”
She said those words with all the conviction of her heart and the faith in the prayers she had been sending up each night before retiring and each morning before she and Richard set out. Richard looked skeptical.
“In my experience,” he said, “people see what they want to see.”
Claire smiled. “I share your experience, sir. That was why it was so important for us to paint your cousin in a good light. Now, we must make sure she has all the skills she needs to succeed in London, and we take the town by storm.”
“Plays, painting and war,” Richard said with a grin. “You make the Season sound delightful.”
Yet Claire was certain it would be. She hadn’t realized how much she needed a challenge, something worthwhile to make her forget about her own troubles. In Samantha Everard, she was sure, she would finally achieve something of lasting value.
By the time they reached Dallsten Manor, Claire was on the edge of her seat, gazing out over the head of the postilion. The lands started at a quaint stone cottage and ran along oak woods turning green with spring. On a rise stood the house, a lovely reddish sandstone not too distant a color from Richard’s hair. As the coach drew up before it, the mountains loomed in the background, shrouded in mist and mystery. Claire was enchanted.
Winthrop had had a pretty place like this, but it hadn’t been entailed, and he’d sold it with the excuse that he was not the type to rusticate in the country. As Richard handed her down onto the graveled drive, Claire found it far easier to imagine living here, watching the snow pile high in the winter, the flowers bloom in the summer.
She could also picture Samantha growing up here, unspoiled, innocent, sweet. She couldn’t wait to guide her, to shepherd her into the bigger world and help her find her place in it. Even Claire’s leg felt stronger, her step more sure, as she followed Richard up the stairs, leaving Mercier to escort her things to the back of the house, where the postilion would be paid before returning the post chaise to its owner.
Richard didn’t bother knocking at the stout oak door. He opened it with a flourish and bowed Claire in ahead of him.
The entry hall was wide and parquet tiled, and a medieval tapestry, colors still proud, shrouded one of the tall, white walls. A carved oak stair rose in majesty to the upper story. A shame they could not simply take the house to London with them. She could see herself welcoming guests in a receiving line, introducing the titled and wealthy to a blushing Samantha, helping the girl start her first ball.
But she was suddenly aware of a noise, rising in volume and threatening to dispel her vision. It sounded like a clank and clash of metal on metal, and it was punctuated by cries of “Take that!” and “Again!” Richard, who had been a few steps ahead of her, backed up to her side as if to protect her.
Two figures appeared on the landing above them, rapiers in hand. One was a man in a flowing white shirt over black breeches and boots. She thought she recognized Richard’s cousin Vaughn Everard, with his white-gold hair and lean physique.
His opponent was a girl gowned in white muslin with golden curls tumbling around her slender face. One hand was tight in her skirts, lifting them out of her way like a charwoman. Thrusting and parrying, she forced Vaughn Everard back to the great oak stair. With a cry, he leaped down it to avoid her blows. Grinning, she seated herself on the banister sidesaddle and slid down it to land upright on the parquet floor. Her sword point was at his neck as he reached the last step.
Disappointment dug into Claire, stopped the breath in her chest. This was the shy flower she’d hoped to bring into bloom? This creature the sweet girl who feared to leave the country? What must Richard think of Claire to see her as the woman to bring this, this hoyden, into fashion? Or was Samantha Everard’s untamed nature the secret he’d been hiding?
Richard must have seen the look on her face, for he said in a strangled voice, “Claire, I can explain.”
Both his cousins turned at the sound, and their dark eyes, so alike, widened.
Claire didn’t stop to think, didn’t even raise a prayer. She lifted her chin and put on her polite smile. “It appears you’ve brought me here to no purpose, Captain Everard. I fear I cannot help you. Pray return me to London, immediately.”
/>
Chapter Nine
Richard barely smothered his groan at Claire’s demand. When he looked at his cousin Samantha, standing there sword in hand, he saw a spirited girl who was eager to sample all life offered. But Claire obviously saw an untamed creature whose actions would reflect poorly on her. Samantha must have thought as much, for she tucked both hands and the sword behind her and curtsied demurely. The sword thunked against the parquet.
“Lady Winthrop,” she said breathlessly, “welcome to Dallsten Manor. I’m so sorry I wasn’t ready to receive you properly.”
Vaughn also swept them one of his expansive bows, head down, free arm making an arc of white linen. Richard was certain the movement had never failed to impress the ladies. “A pleasure to see you again, Lady Winthrop,” his cousin said.
Claire’s stiff posture did not thaw; every regal line of her black gown shouted offended femininity. “A shame I cannot say the same, Mr. Everard,” she replied. “I had heard your wit was sharper than the sword, but here I find proof otherwise.”
Vaughn’s dark eyes narrowed as he straightened. “Even a lady must needs defend herself.”
“Ah, yes,” Claire said, smile as icy as her look. “When a gentleman fails to ask for a second dance, Lady Everard can no doubt whip out a blade and teach him a lesson. That will certainly distinguish her from the other young ladies.”
“Samantha knows better than to carry a blade in public,” Richard felt compelled to say.
“Indeed,” Claire said. “Then my work here is clearly done. Lady Everard, I wish you luck. I fear you’ll need it.”
“Claire,” Richard started, but the sword clattered to the floor before he could finish. White-faced, Samantha rushed up to Claire and seized her hand.
“Oh, please don’t despair of me, Lady Winthrop!” Those big brown eyes swam with tears, and her lower lip trembled. “I’ve been raised out here, all alone, with no mother or sister to guide me. Now I’m expected to take on London, and I simply cannot do it without you!” She sucked back a sob and cast herself into Claire’s arms.
Vaughn met Richard’s gaze over Samantha’s shaking shoulders. His poet cousin’s pale brows were up, his head cocked as if he couldn’t quite believe the girl’s performance. Neither could Richard. Samantha was entirely too good at manipulating emotions, using tears and temper to effect her ends. He could not admire the trait. But if she won the day this time, he knew he wouldn’t have the heart to scold her.
“There, now,” Claire was murmuring, patting Samantha’s back. “I’m sure it’s entirely too easy to follow your cousin’s exciting example, but you must think of your future. A woman’s reputation is her most precious possession. You wouldn’t want to tarnish it.”
“No, no,” Samantha said, disengaging to wipe at her eyes with her fingers. “Of course not. But how can I tell what’s merely in vogue and what’s downright scandalous without advice from someone who understands such things?”
Richard watched Claire. Emotions flickered behind those cool eyes—interest? Concern? He knew the moment she straightened her shoulders that she’d made her decision.
Please, Lord, let her stay.
The strength of the prayer astonished him. Until that moment, he hadn’t realized how much he wanted Claire to stay. Certainly Samantha needed the guidance of a lady, as she’d just proven with her antics. He was more surprised, however, to find that his feelings for Claire had little to do with Samantha.
* * *
Claire smiled at the girl before her, so contrite, so concerned. She had no doubt that at least part of Samantha’s seemingly heartfelt plea was playacting. Tears still brimmed in her wide eyes, but Claire saw intelligence and cunning underlying the gleam. If the girl truly wanted Claire’s help, Claire could do much good here. And the girl was right—with Jerome, Richard and Vaughn Everard as cousins, she certainly needed a female to guide her.
“Very well,” Claire said. “I will stay.”
Claire thought Richard let out a breath. Samantha certainly brightened, but Claire held up a hand. “On two conditions. First, you will heed my advice, in all things.”
“That promise,” Vaughn said, “could hide a multitude of evil.”
Claire met his thoughtful gaze straight on. Oh, but he was going to be the difficult one. She didn’t know him well. When Richard had courted her, Vaughn Everard had been a scrawny fourteen-year-old with a puppylike devotion to their uncle. Since then, he’d made quite a name for himself on the ton, with his outrageous poetry and equally mad habit of challenging other men to duels for the least insult. Many women probably went along with anything he suggested, out of eagerness to please or fear of reprisal. She wasn’t one of them.
“I find teaching a young lady to use deadly force no better,” she countered. “And I’m sure a gentleman would not be so cavalier as to interrupt a lady when she is speaking.”
Vaughn clamped his mouth shut, jaw clenching with the effort. Claire tried to ignore the grin on Richard’s bearded face.
“I’ll do my best to listen, Lady Winthrop,” Samantha said, hands clasped before her muslin gown.
Claire inclined her head in acknowledgment. “And second, we will have no more of these histrionics. I prefer honesty and plain speaking.”
Richard snorted, then turned the sound into a cough, covering his mouth with his fist. Did he think that Claire used such methods to manipulate? Once, perhaps, and to her sorrow. Well, he would soon learn that she was made of stronger stuff these days. If Samantha was to be her protégée, Claire would take that duty seriously.
“Yes, Lady Winthrop,” Samantha said, head bowed in humility Claire couldn’t believe she was feeling. Any girl with courage enough to take on Vaughn Everard in a sword fight would not be cowed by a little scold from a near stranger. Samantha would be no more easily led than her father and cousins.
That fact ought to have disappointed her, sent her into the dismals as much as when she’d first seen the girl, like an unbridled colt, leaping about the landing. Yet exhilaration filled Claire, as if for once she’d been handed a challenge she was perfectly equipped to meet.
That knowledge comes from You, Father. Thank You!
Just then, a little round woman came hurrying from the corridor to the left. She had snowy-white hair bound around her head in a coronet braid, and her gray gown was neat and clean.
“Forgive me, sirs, your ladyship,” she said with a humble curtsy, although the look in her gray eyes made Claire wonder whether she herself should apologize for some infraction. “I didn’t hear the knock or I would have been here sooner. Welcome back, Captain Everard.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Linton,” Richard said, going on to introduce their housekeeper to Claire. He took command of the situation then, ordering Samantha to her room to change, and the housekeeper to make sure Claire’s room was ready. Interesting how easily he slipped into the role of leader.
Of course, one of the things that had drawn her to him when they were younger was his confidence. At seventeen, Richard Everard had known exactly what he intended to achieve in his life and how he intended to go about it.
“There’s a whole world out there, Lady Claire,” he’d told her one summer night as they’d stood on a veranda, the sounds of the ball they’d been attending muted through the glass doors behind them. “England needs to be part of it.”
“My father says we have colonies across the globe,” Claire had said.
His dark gaze mirrored the stars. “And goods and people that must move between them. I mean to help that along.”
She was so thankful he’d been given that chance, and so sad she hadn’t been a part of it.
But she had no more time for reverie. Mrs. Linton seemed eager to show her up the great stair and across a gallery, to a long corridor that led toward the rear of the house.
Clair
e saw immediately that Dallsten Manor could prove a problem for her. The house was apparently shaped like an L, with a stone tower anchoring either corner of the shorter branch, and the bedchambers lying along the longer one. All this walking about added to the strain on her knee. She would have to be careful.
The room the housekeeper gave Claire was done in shades of purple, from the lavender silk wall-coverings printed with bouquets of violets, to the aubergine fabric draping the canopied bed. Even the curved-back armchairs by the fire were upholstered with purple velvet. The only other color was to be found in the dark oak of the furnishings and the soft green pattern of the carpet.
“Fit for royalty,” Claire mused to herself, as she took off her bonnet.
“English royalty, non?” Mercier said, coming from the dressing room with her tiny nose in the air. “We French have more originality, oui?”
“All the rooms are like this,” Samantha said, fairly skipping into the room. She still wore the muslin gown, though she’d tied a pink bow under her bosom, and the satin ribbon bobbed with her movements. “There’s an emerald room, a golden one and a blue one. Mine’s pink. Cousin Jerome says the designer was myopic.”
Claire couldn’t argue that. She also couldn’t argue that the girl was already disobeying orders. “What a shame the same can be said for your gowns. I was certain your cousin told you to change, yet here you are in a dress exactly like the one you were wearing.”
Samantha flounced over to one of the armchairs and seated herself. “You said you wished me to obey you. You didn’t say anything about Cousin Richard.”
“Mercier,” Claire said, “I am very sorry, but I fear you’ll only have me to serve. Lady Everard is obviously not ready for her own French maid. She never changes her clothes.”