by Regina Scott
The bold, arrogant hand on this letter was nothing like hers. And she hadn’t been in the village since Sunday, when they’d all been together, so she couldn’t have posted anything from there.
Still, how could he drag her further into this puzzle? If he’d truly thought there might be danger, he would never have brought her here. But the letter indicated otherwise, and Claire had a right to know what she was facing.
He held out the letter. “Someone doesn’t want Samantha to go to London. Any idea who?”
He watched as she opened the letter and read it. Would she be frightened? Dismissive?
Be warned. Disaster awaits Lady Everard in London. You are only safe in Cumberland. —A friend.
Claire handed it back to him. “A shame the world boasts so many craven curs,” she said as if remarking on dismal weather. “How can I help you protect Samantha?”
Her words might have been pleasant, but a cold fury burned in those pale eyes.
He couldn’t help the chuckle that bubbled up. “The hen protecting her chick, eh? Even after the last few days, I find it hard to picture you that way.”
She lifted her chin. “I should hope not. I would prefer to be pictured as a falcon than some barnyard fowl.”
He inclined his head. “My apologies. But I would think you’d want something more grand. Perhaps a peacock.”
Oh, there was definitely fire in her, and now it was directed at him. “Indeed. We will ignore for a moment that the peacock is the male of the species. Tell me, does it remind you of me because of my enduring vanity, or the fact that I screech at odd hours?”
Richard laughed, then bent to meet her gaze. “A peacock, madam, is the most beautiful bird of my acquaintance. That’s why it reminds me of you.”
Her head remained insufferably high, but the fire banked to a warm glow. “In that case, Captain, you are forgiven. And I will be even more pleased with you if you tell me what you intend to do about this letter.”
“You don’t recognize the handwriting?”
She shook her head. “No. Could this be associated with the problem you mentioned about your brother?”
“Possibly.” His skepticism must have been evident, for her eyes narrowed. He could at least lay that concern to rest. “We have reason to believe Todd is dead.”
She took a step back. “Dead? How?”
“A falling-out among thieves, the Bow Street Runner told me. This is something else.”
She drew her shawl about her shoulders as if the thought chilled her. “You’ve made no secret of the fact that we’ll be leaving for London after Easter. Could one of your neighbors be envious?”
“Doubtful. None of the older people care, and there isn’t a rival young lady in miles, according to Jerome’s wife.”
She looked thoughtful. “But there are suitors. You know the way Toby Giles has been hanging about.”
Giles? Richard could see the lad’s brash confidence in the bold handwriting, and Giles had certainly made it clear he disliked London. Given his tendency toward pranks, would he have seen this as a lark? Was Richard reading too much into the note?
“Then you think there’s nothing more to this than a jest?” he asked Claire.
She shifted on the hard floor as if standing pained her, and he told himself not to be a fool and pick her up again. “Oh, I imagine he is serious,” she said. “He knows what could happen in London. He doesn’t want to lose her to a superior gentleman.”
“If he’s a man,” Richard returned, “he should speak to me directly about Samantha. I’m willing to listen.”
She turned up her nose. “She could do far better.”
Something inside him protested. “She has money and position to spare. She can marry who she likes.”
She raised a brow. “Would you give her away to a fortune hunter, sir?”
The words only raised the specter of their past once more. “Is that how you saw me, Claire? As a fortune hunter?”
She sighed. “Must it always have to do with us? We were speaking about Lady Everard and the young man who may be threatening her.”
“You didn’t answer my question. Again.”
She gazed up at him. “I never saw you as a fortune hunter. Fortune wasn’t important to me.”
Anger rushed through him, and the words spilled out. “Important enough that I must leave England to find it. Important enough that you married the first fellow who offered it.”
She stiffened. “I married a man who offered me hearth and home, whose feet were planted firmly on the ground in England, not on some far-off isle. And if you think you can throw me off the scent by distracting me with our dismal past, sir, you are mistaken.”
“Lady Winthrop?”
Richard and Claire turned at the sound of Samantha’s voice, and his hand went immediately to Claire’s elbow to steady her. The softening of her look told him she’d noticed.
The girl had come out of the withdrawing room, face puckered in concern. Monsieur Chevalier was right beside her, but something about the spring in his step told Richard he was more interested than concerned.
Claire smiled. “Yes, my dear? Did you have need of me?”
“No,” she admitted, venturing closer and glancing between the two of them. “You were just gone so long that I wondered…”
Claire looked at Richard with an accusing frown, as if to say that this was all his fault. “Of course you wondered,” she replied, returning her gaze to the girl. “Everything’s fine. Your cousin and I were just discussing the best way to see you safely to London.”
The story was only a shade of the truth, yet it rolled easily off her tongue. Even though he knew the tale was designed to protect Samantha, he could not like it.
And he couldn’t help wondering what other tales she’d told.
Chapter Seventeen
Claire found sleep elusive that night. She believed the note was merely Toby Giles’s attempt to scare Samantha into staying. She knew the tactic well. How many times had Winthrop used it on her?
His pattern had been predictable—first denial that he could have struck her while he was drunk, then anguish and guilt when he saw the bruises forming, and finally threats that she would lose her friends, her privacy and her source of income if she petitioned to the church to separate from him. Her own needs for financial security had kept Claire at his side.
Samantha didn’t have that problem; she was an heiress. Richard was right that she could marry whomever she liked. But Claire wasn’t about to let a bully force the girl into a poor decision.
Still, things went so smoothly the next few days that Claire began to hope Toby Giles had had a change of heart. As if he knew he’d gone too far, he didn’t attempt to call at the manor. Samantha didn’t seem to notice his defection; she was far too busy. Monsieur Chevalier had identified a set of twelve dances that she must learn, and he and the girl practiced every afternoon in the receiving hall, with Claire at the piano.
Because so many of the pieces required another couple to execute properly, Richard and Mrs. Dallsten Walcott were often pressed into service. Mrs. Dallsten Walcott brooked no nonsense from her partner, bringing him back to his task with a rap of her finger if his gaze wandered from hers. The older woman had a natural grace, and she picked up the steps easily.
Richard was similarly sure-footed. Where the dance master flitted about, Richard took command of every movement. He was as comfortable on the floor as on his quarterdeck, Claire thought. Sometimes she nearly misplaced her fingers on the keys for watching him.
Despite her concerns, he did not press her about her past or her leg. In fact, he seemed to have distanced himself a little. He spent a great deal of time riding, but she thought perhaps he was checking the area to make sure no enemy lurked in the woods. Once in a while at dinner or
in the evenings, she caught him watching her with a slight frown, as if he wasn’t sure what to do with her. She was equally unsure what to do about him. But her tasks kept her from doing more than ruminating about the matter.
In the mornings, she, Mercier and Samantha worked on packing for London. Clothes and accessories were one thing; Claire was certain Samantha needed furnishings and decorations as well. Claire had never been to the Everard town house, which had been a bachelor domicile ever since Samantha’s grandmother had passed away, nearly thirty years ago. She could only imagine the changes that would be needed to make it comfortable for a young lady like Samantha.
Richard was little help. “We have perfectly good chairs, Claire,” he’d said, when she’d approached him one morning over breakfast in the ivory-draped dining room. “I see no need to uproot the ones in the withdrawing room.”
“But Lady Everard prefers the ones in the withdrawing room,” Claire had protested, knowing she also preferred them. She could imagine sitting beside Samantha, watching her flirt with her scores of suitors, helping her engage in conversation with some of the most important women of the day, such as the new Lady Cowper. She was only a little older than Samantha, yet had married a renowned politician who might well become prime minister one day.
But Richard couldn’t seem to grasp her vision. “We don’t need to move chairs. If Lady Everard fancies them so much, she can return to them when the Season is over.”
Monsieur Chevalier alone seemed to appreciate Claire’s purpose. Though he often slept late in the mornings, he generally appeared sometime before noon, dressed in tailored coat and breeches, hair pomaded until it shined, to offer advice and counsel on what was currently in style.
“Not another landscape,” he said, when Claire considered a lovely piece hanging in the library, while Samantha selected some books to take with her. “They are so plebeian. Has Lady Everard no ancestors to grace her walls?”
Samantha sat back in a pool of muslin, face scrunched in thought. “Did anyone ever paint Papa?”
“Very likely,” Claire assured her. “And it’s probably in the London house. We can search for the portrait there.”
Samantha nodded and returned to her task. Monsieur Chevalier took one of his mincing steps toward Claire. “Then you intend to see this through?” he murmured.
Claire raised her brows. “Certainly, sir. Whyever not?”
He glanced at Samantha with a fond smile. “She is a delightful lady, but I think perhaps she is a little young. I would not want to see her eaten alive. The lions of London delight in their prey, as I believe you have cause to know.”
What had he heard? Claire studied his profile. His skin was soft, his face and features rounded like a boy’s. Yet something lurked in those gray eyes, and she wondered whether it was wisdom. He’d certainly seen enough of the aristocracy to know when a young lady was ready. And she felt the same way. Yet she’d made a promise to Richard, and Samantha was certainly eager to go.
“Lady Everard is going to London,” Claire told him. “And I will do everything in my power to make her Season a success. I suggest you do likewise.”
“Oh, assuredly, assuredly,” he returned with a bow, but she saw his gaze flicker back toward Samantha as if he could not find Claire’s faith.
So, neither of the gentlemen who should be helping her were as helpful as Claire would have liked. Their lack of understanding frustrated her, but worse was Mrs. Dallsten Walcott. No sooner had Mercier or Claire set aside an item to go to London, than the lady wandered by and declared that she could not be parted from it.
“That belonged to my great-great-grandfather,” she insisted, speaking of a velvet lap-robe Samantha had chosen. “I’ll just take it down to the dower house for safekeeping.”
By Sunday afternoon, Claire was feeling stymied at every turn. Monsieur Chevalier had been given the afternoon off and had headed for Carlisle, most likely to arrange his next assignment when he finished at Dallsten Manor. Richard had escorted the ladies to church and then gone out riding. Claire knew she should spend the day in more contemplative pursuits, but she heard every tick of the ormolu clock on the mantel as if it were tolling her doom.
Today was Palm Sunday. Next Sunday would be Easter. And the Monday after Easter marked the day many families began the trek to London for the Season. One week did not seem to Claire long enough to finish the work remaining. Accordingly, she started checking the boxes and crates Mercier had already packed and left in Samantha’s bedchamber to confirm that everything was in order.
Samantha accompanied her, but she was little help. So long as the girl had a purpose, Claire noticed, she remained sunny, but leave her to her own devices and the clouds quickly gathered. That afternoon, she kept wandering to the window and heaving dark sighs, as if being kept away from the spring air was a great burden to her.
“Did you wish to go riding?” Claire asked, folding an evening cloak into a packing case. “You might be able to catch your cousin.”
Samantha toyed with the brass loop that held back the drapes. Her room was nearly as feminine as the withdrawing room, with everything pink and white and graced with ribbon and lace. “No,” the girl replied. “He’s probably to the Kendrick estate by now. And riding isn’t any fun alone.”
“I’d be happy to accompany you,” Claire offered.
She dropped her hand. “No, thank you. It’s not the same.”
She didn’t add, “without Cousin Vaughn,” but Claire heard it nonetheless. She patted the chair next to her. “Come here, Lady Everard. We must talk.”
Samantha raised her brows in surprise, but she joined Claire and fisted her hands in her sprigged muslin skirts. “What have I done wrong?”
Claire chuckled. “Must you have done something wrong for me to wish to speak to you?”
“Perhaps not,” she said, but her voice betrayed her doubt. “But Mrs. Everard always used that tone when I was about to get a scold or some such.”
Claire sat back on her own chair, black skirts spread about her. “I have no desire to scold you. As your sponsor, it is my privilege to ensure that you have the very best Season possible. Remember when we talked about your goals for your time in London?”
Samantha nodded. “Of course.”
“I am concerned you may not be able to achieve them.”
Her brows drew down. “Why?” She waved a hand at all the boxes. “We certainly have enough supplies for an army.”
Claire smiled. “You’d be surprised how much a young lady needs on her Season. But it isn’t the supplies that concern me. It’s your attitude.”
Samantha sighed again. “Forgive me. I do want to go. Truly. Sometimes I just want to jump in the coach and drive away.”
“Tempting,” Claire agreed, “but you’d only get to the first inn before you’d wish you’d brought a nightgown.”
“I suppose,” Samantha said, but she didn’t sound convinced. “I truly don’t need much to be happy—my riding habit, my mother’s pearl earbobs and the Bible my father left me.”
Claire frowned. “Your Bible? I don’t have that on our packing list. Where is it kept?”
“On the side table by my bed,” Samantha said readily enough, but she turned and looked. “Only it isn’t there.”
This was the outside of enough. Claire rose, leg giving her a twinge. “And I could guess where it’s gotten to—the dower cottage.”
“She wouldn’t dare,” Samantha said, eyes wide.
“Oh, I’m quite certain she would. The only question is whether you are content to allow it to remain there.”
Samantha looked surprised to be asked. “Well, no. I was rather counting on having it with me in London.”
Claire nodded. “Then you must request it back.”
“I couldn’t,” she said, quailing. “For all I know, it bel
onged to her before Father gave it to me.”
That excuse was far too easy. “Then she would have sold it with the house. She cannot have it both ways.”
Samantha visibly swallowed. “Perhaps you can explain that to her. No one else has managed to do so, not even Cousin Jerome, and he can talk the birds from the trees.”
“Charm isn’t called for,” Claire replied, heading for the door. “You must stand your ground, Lady Everard, or you will never be mistress of this house.”
Samantha followed her with another of her deep sighs. “Very likely I never will, then.”
Claire stopped to eye her. She could not let the girl give up so easily. Too many trials in life, she’d learned, called for backbone. She may have had to take Winthrop’s blows, for a wife had little recourse against a husband’s cruelty under the law, but she had learned to stand up against the pain.
“Nonsense,” Claire told Samantha. “You have no idea how many people will attempt to make you less than you know yourself to be. You cannot allow it.”
“I thought we were to turn the other cheek,” Samantha protested.
“The Lord advised us not to attempt vengeance,” Claire explained, “for violence breeds violence. But I cannot believe He intended us to be taken advantage of. Some battles must be fought, and I fear this is one of them. Now, fetch your pelisse. We will face the dragon in her lair and return with the fabled treasure.”
“If you say so,” Samantha replied, going to her wardrobe, “but I have a feeling the dragon will eat us instead.”
* * *
Richard also had reason to visit the lady in the dower house. It had occurred to him that Mrs. Dallsten Walcott knew any number of the local families and might be able to identify the handwriting on the note. No other warnings had appeared, and he’d seen no evidence of anyone hanging around the manor grounds, though he’d made it a habit to go riding at varying hours, and had asked Mr. Linton to keep his eyes open.