by Regina Scott
He was also still troubled about the piece of paper they’d found in the receiving hall the day Monsieur Chevalier had arrived. Richard had taken Samantha aside the day before to ask her what she remembered about her father’s party each summer.
“They were plotting,” she’d replied with a wrinkle of her nose, as if she suspected the idea had been offered to humor her. “That’s what he always said when I asked what he was doing with the other gentlemen.”
Richard could not like the idea any more than she did. “And you never knew the others,” he pressed, “outside the Marquess of Widmore?”
She cocked her head. “Funny. I know he’d mention other names from time to time, but none of them meant anything to me. Perhaps that’s why I don’t remember any of them now, except one.”
“Oh?” Richard had stepped closer to her as they stood in the corridor near her bedchamber. “Who?”
“Winthrop,” Samantha said, face tilted up as her gaze searched his. “A Viscount Winthrop. Do you think he could be related to Lady Winthrop?”
“Possibly,” Richard had said. “But I wouldn’t mention it. It might trouble her.”
Samantha had nodded and blithely gone about her business, but Richard was the one who was troubled. What business could Claire’s late husband have had with his uncle, especially before his uncle had found faith? He knew little of the viscount, but Richard’s suspicions of the way he had treated Claire made it hard to see the fellow in a good light.
With that knowledge and his concerns about the anonymous note, he could not be easy. Someone had felt it necessary to warn them of danger. He needed to know whether it was all a humbug.
Maisy opened the door to the dower house at his knock and indicated a room behind her with a wave of her hand. From the sitting room of the little cottage, ensconced in a rose-colored wing-backed chair, Jerome’s mother-in-law smiled at him.
“Ah, Captain Everard. What a nice surprise. May I offer you some tea?”
Richard declined. He couldn’t imagine trying to eat or drink in this room. He was having a hard time figuring out how to even enter. His quarters aboard ship might be cramped, for his captain’s cabin was half the size of this space, but Mrs. Dallsten Walcott’s house was bursting at the seams. Tables crowded against one another, made unsteady by the fact that they perched on no less than three Oriental carpets laid on top of each other. Richard had never seen so many gewgaws and knickknacks in his life, even in a busy Jamaican market.
He managed to thread his way through the chaos, though he’d found it easier to maneuver his ship past jagged rocks in a storm, and sat on a gilded chair next to hers. He thought he remembered its match in the withdrawing room at the manor. It shifted under him, and he would not have been surprised had it given out entirely.
“I was hoping you could help me,” he said to the lady, holding up the outside of the note. He saw no reason to burden her with its contents. “One of your neighbors wrote to me, and I’d like to reply, but there is no signature on the letter to tell me the sender.”
She leaned forward and squinted at the parchment. “That’s not from Lord Kendrick. He has an elegant, gentlemanly hand as befitting his station. And it isn’t Mr. Lane, the church warden—he writes more precisely. Nor is it the vicar. Mr. Ramsey effects entirely too much folderol in his writing for a man of the cloth.” She leaned back. “I’m afraid I cannot advise you, Captain Everard.”
“What about Toby Giles?” Richard asked.
She sniffed. “Mr. Giles? Has the boy even mastered the pen?”
Whatever Richard thought of Giles, he was certain the lady maligned him with that question. She continued before Richard could protest as much. “No, those strokes are entirely too bold to be anyone of my acquaintance. Except perhaps for that woman.”
Richard cocked his head as he tucked away the letter. “Forgive me, ma’am, but who do you mean?”
She hitched herself deeper into the chair as if consolidating her position. “Lady Winthrop, of course. I know she is a particular friend of yours, Captain Everard, but she is entirely too high-handed. You must have seen that.”
Far less than he’d expected. In fact, Claire was surprisingly humble. But perhaps she acted differently when she wasn’t around him. “She is the daughter of an earl.”
She waved a hand. “Yes, so I heard. But that only makes her lack of condescension more astonishing.” She raised her chin to meet Richard’s gaze. “She threatened me.”
Richard leaned back and crossed his arms over his chest, raising a squeak of alarm from the chair. “Did she indeed?”
“Assuredly! She seems to find my access to the manor troubling. And she begrudges me the few trinkets I’ve gathered, as if she didn’t have enough of her own.”
Claire had few trinkets, from what he’d seen, and Mrs. Dallsten Walcott had far too many. Yet what harm in humoring an old lady?
“Regardless, ma’am,” he said, “there would be no point in her writing to me when she can speak to me at any time.”
“Not necessarily,” she insisted. “Perhaps the contents are such that a woman dare not say it aloud to a man.” She eyed him as if hoping he would offer her a tasty morsel of gossip. He refused. Nor could he see Claire in the role of villain. What reason could she have to keep Samantha in Cumberland? Claire wanted to live in London; Samantha was her reason to return.
“I’ll speak to her on the matter,” he promised, rising. He thought the chair gave a sigh of relief. “Thank you for seeing me, Mrs. Dallsten Walcott.” He bowed over the hand she offered him. One of the side tables toppled to the floor with a tinkle of breaking glass. Richard turned to right it just as Maisy hurried into the room, Claire and Samantha at her heels.
“More company, ma’am,” she said. “Lady Winthrop and Lady Everard.” She hastily backed past them into the corridor, as if fearing she might meet the same fate Richard had.
Richard straightened as Mrs. Dallsten Walcott stiffened in her chair. Her long face was alight in triumph.
“Excellent!” she cried. Then she pointed an imperious finger at Claire. “There she is, Captain Everard. You can tell her the truth of the matter this very moment!”
Chapter Eighteen
Claire stared around at the dower cottage’s sitting room, aghast. That must be the Bible Samantha had missed, perched precariously on a side table already crammed with an ivory-and-ebony chess set, a porcelain candy dish shaped like a lady’s slipper, and three crystal inkstands boasting quills of varying plumage. That miniature of a powder-haired beauty, nearly lost among the other portraits on the far wall, had surely been hanging in the withdrawing room only yesterday. And there, draped over one of the polished brass andirons in front of the fire, was her amber cross from Richard!
Claire marched into the room, setting crystal to chiming, tables to knocking against one another. Richard raised a russet brow, and Mrs. Dallsten Walcott shrank to the back of her chair as if seeking shelter from a coming storm.
“Lady Winthrop—” Richard started, but Claire held up a hand to stop him.
“Mrs. Dallsten Walcott,” she said, “you are a thief.”
The lady shrieked and clutched the chest of her teal gown as if sorely wounded. “Do you see how she speaks to me, Captain Everard, a poor lonely widow?”
Claire put her hands on her hips. “I, madam, am a poor lonely widow, too, if you recall, but I have never resorted to filling my life with other people’s things.”
“Perhaps you are more fortunate, then,” Mrs. Dallsten Walcott complained, pulling a lace-edged handkerchief from her sleeve and dabbing at her eyes. “I have only my memories to sustain me.”
Her memories and half of the Everard household. Claire didn’t believe those tears for an instant. She turned instead to Samantha. The girl stood gazing about the room in obvious wonder.
&nb
sp; “Lady Everard,” Claire said, “I advise you to go through every inch of this house and take back what is rightfully yours.”
Mrs. Dallsten Walcott dropped her handkerchief and scrambled to her feet. “Never! And who are you to talk of rights? You know nothing about me or my family.”
Claire met her outraged gaze straight on. “And you know nothing of me, madam, if you think I would allow you to take advantage of an innocent girl.”
“Innocent!” Mrs. Dallsten Walcott put her long nose in the air. “She may be innocent, but her father was far from it. He took advantage of me, when I was at my lowest.”
“That’s not true,” Samantha protested, stepping forward, quilted pelisse catching on the thick carpets. “Your daughter told me my father had no interest in Dallsten Manor until my mother begged him to purchase it to rescue you and Adele from penury. And Father always said he’d bought it because the Marquess of Widmore fancied it.”
Claire frowned. The Marquess of Widmore had wanted Dallsten Manor? But that made no sense. He had any number of properties all over England, and he seemed to have sufficient funds to easily purchase another, had it pleased him.
Mrs. Dallsten Walcott must have thought the same, for she sniffed. “As if that powerful gentleman needed a baron to secure his way. You see what a villain he was, lying to his own daughter!”
“My father never lied to me!” Samantha cried.
Richard pushed forward, towering over all of them. “Strike your colors!”
Samantha visibly gulped, and Mrs. Dallsten Walcott fell back into her chair, skirts fluttering like leaves.
Claire refused to stand down. She swiveled to meet his gaze. “You are quite right, Captain Everard. Things have gotten entirely out of hand.”
She turned to Mrs. Dallsten Walcott, whose lower lip was starting to tremble and this time, Claire thought, in earnest. While she felt for the woman, she still could not see allowing her to continue in this manner. Her need to clutch her past close served no one.
“Madam,” Claire said, keeping her tone civil, “I can see why you would feel the need to protect your family’s history. My father has passed away as well, and I have had to watch his treasured possessions go to a distant cousin who has no appreciation of their true value.”
The woman nodded, though she did not meet Claire’s gaze. “It is painful in the extreme.”
“I knew you would understand,” Claire continued carefully, “given your difficult experience with such matters. That’s why I’m certain you will agree that Lady Everard has an equal right to remember her mother and father.”
Mrs. Dallsten Walcott nodded again, but this time she looked at Samantha with a sad smile. “Poor dear.”
Samantha frowned as if she wasn’t sure she wanted to be pitied, but Claire seized the moment. She picked up the Bible, which was bound in black leather with crimson detailing.
“This was a gift from her father, and it will give her comfort to have it with her in London. I’m sure you won’t begrudge her that.”
Mrs. Dallsten Walcott sniffed. “Take it, then, if it means so much to you.”
Samantha scampered forward and plucked the Bible from Claire’s hand, then retreated to the doorway as if afraid it might still be taken from her.
Across the room, Richard was watching Claire, and she couldn’t be sure of the emotions behind those deep-set eyes. Was he pleased by the way she was handling the situation? Or did he still think her high-handed?
Help me, Lord! Give me the words!
The next part would be harder, but Claire forged ahead. “I have lost nearly everything of value, so what remains is precious to me.” She threaded her way through the tables to the fireplace, lifted the cross from the brass and cradled it in her hand. “This belongs to me. It was in my trunk the last time I saw it. I will ask you to respect my privacy in the future.”
“It’s only a common cross,” Mrs. Dallsten Walcott protested, shifting in the chair as if finding the seat suddenly too hard. “I fail to see why you should make such a fuss over it.”
“The lady’s request is reasonable,” Richard said, crossing his arms over the chest of his paisley waistcoat. “You will honor it.”
Though the words were spoken with his usual command, Claire could hear the kindness underlying it. Still, she thought their hostess would argue. Instead, Mrs. Dallsten Walcott visibly deflated.
“Oh, very well. Now, if you don’t mind, I’ll have that girl show you to the door. I find myself quite fatigued.”
Samantha ventured closer. “Do you still think we should search the house?” she murmured to Claire, watching Mrs. Dallsten Walcott as if expecting her to leap up and take back her treasures.
“Not today,” Claire replied, voice equally soft. “I’m not sure she can take parting with so many of her things all at once.” She dropped a curtsy to honor the lady. “Good day, Mrs. Dallsten Walcott. We hope to see you at dinner this evening.”
“And leaving with empty hands,” Samantha muttered, turning for the door once more. Claire turned as well to follow her on the narrow path to the doorway. An exclamation behind her made her stop and look back.
She thought at first that Richard had caught himself on one of the tables, for the little pie-shaped stand was still quaking. Then she noticed that his face was growing red as he lifted a long brass tube from the mahogany.
“This is my spyglass!”
“Nonsense,” Mrs. Dallsten Walcott said, fussing with the hem on her sleeve. “It is a treasured family possession. My father used it to gaze about the estate from the south tower.”
Richard tilted the telescope to expose the brass plaque screwed to the worn wooden barrel. “And were his initials also RHE?”
She waved a hand. “Oh, take it! You three have already robbed me blind. At times I quite bemoan my generous nature.”
“I’m certain it is a great trial to you, madam,” Claire said, trying not to smile. “Now, come along, Captain Everard. Let us go congratulate ourselves on our ill-gotten gains.” She managed to hold her laughter until they’d quit the house.
Out on the graveled drive, Samantha giggled as well. “I’m glad you knew what to do, Lady Winthrop. I’m obviously not much of a dragon fighter.”
Richard was shaking his head as they walked past the trees edging the bottom of the drive. “Nor am I, I’m afraid. Forgive me for not taking your side immediately, Claire. I had no idea she’d brought so much of the manor home with her. I wonder if Jerome knows what his mother-in-law is up to.”
“I bet he doesn’t,” Samantha said, Bible swinging in her grip, “or he’d have put a stop to it.”
Claire held tightly to her cross as well. “It’s not that easy, I’m afraid. I thought at first she was just grasping, but she seems to be trying to recapture her family’s glory. She doesn’t realize the harm she’s causing, to herself or others.”
“But you did,” Richard said. “You handled that brilliantly, Claire.”
Why did she persist in feeling so pleased when he praised her? She focused on the problem instead. “It is a difficult situation. I was so angry with her at first, until I realized why she was stealing our things.”
Richard nodded to the cross Claire held in one gloved hand. “You kept it.”
So he had recognized it. Her grip tightened on the chain. “Yes. It’s a lovely piece.”
“May I see it?” Samantha asked.
For one moment, Claire wanted to hold it to her heart. How silly! She refused to end up like Mrs. Dallsten Walcott, clinging to the past. Claire opened her stiff fingers and offered the cross to the girl. “It’s amber, from the Baltic.”
Richard chuckled. “I actually bought it from a naval midshipman before my first voyage.”
Samantha glanced between the two of them. “You gave this to Lady Winthrop?�
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“A great many years ago,” Claire said, accepting it back from her and sliding it around her neck for safekeeping. She felt Richard’s gaze on her and tried not to show it.
“I thought a lady never admitted to being a great many years old,” Samantha teased.
“Nonsense,” Claire replied, facing forward. “As a widow, I’m entirely over such things.”
Richard winked at Samantha. “So very set in her ways that she rushed out to purchase a new wardrobe the moment she knew she was sponsoring you.”
“Purely to reflect well on you,” Claire assured Samantha.
“Well, certainly,” Samantha said, so seriously that Richard laughed. “But I still wish I knew what to do about Mrs. Dallsten Walcott.”
“We must find a way to wean her off her treasures,” Claire insisted.
“And wrest them from her grip,” Samantha agreed, cheerfully bloodthirsty now that she no longer had to face the lady.
“And return them gently to their places,” Claire countered. “She truly is lonely, and she has a right to our respect and our care.”
“But not our Bibles,” Samantha said, hugging hers to her chest.
Richard chuckled. “Or the tools of our trade.” He tucked the spyglass under his arm. “I’ll have need of this in the near future.”
“Oh,” Samantha said, “are you going back to sea?”
A cold wind blew down from the mountains, a reminder of winter’s passing. Claire hugged her pelisse closer.
“Only when you’re safely in harbor,” Richard promised Samantha with a smile. “My ship’s in dry dock for repairs right now, but I have an agent lining up cargo. Once the Season is over, I mean to set sail for Jamaica.”
Claire’s steps seemed to drag, her skirts to hang heavily. She kept her head up and her smile pleasant, but something inside her seemed to be crumbling, and she feared it was her heart.