Lord St.Claire's Angel

by Donna Simpson

  Also in favor of the invitation was the opportunity to renew her friendship with Elizabeth, her bosom bow from their years at Miss Lillian's Fine Academy for Young La­dies. While she was with her husband, she and Elizabeth had seen each other regularly during the social whirl of the London Season.

  But Emily had retired from that life when she and her husband had gone their separate ways five years before, and Elizabeth had long been busy with her children. Ex­changing letters was not the same as sharing a nice long coze, curled up with a cup of tea in some secluded nook. That was what they had done as girls, and she hoped they would have the chance for a few such conversations over the Christmas season. Her visit was to be at least three weeks long.

  But mostly there was the chance to see her niece, Ce­lestine Simons. When she had heard of Celestine's pre­dicament after her father's death, the absolute poverty she had been reduced to since her father's income was entailed to a male cousin, she had offered the girl a home. But Celestine had a stubborn, independent streak and would not hear of inflicting herself on dear Aunt Emily, as she had written back. Instead she had asked for help in finding a governess position with a good family, which Emily had been glad to do.

  Luckily, she had still been in correspondence with Elizabeth and had asked about the possibility of a gov­erness's post, either with them or with someone of their acquaintance. A letter of regret from Elizabeth, stating that she had no open position nor did she know of one, had been swiftly followed by a letter outlining the affair of the unfortunate Chambly girl at Christmas and Eliza­beth's determination to end the governess's employ at Ladymead. Of course Justin, an acquaintance from many years ago, had acted the part of a complete cad, but, according to Lady St. Claire, the young governess was full of ideas above her station and had set her cap at the nobleman. Elizabeth, in need of someone immediately, decided to hire Celestine on Emily's recommendation.

  The carriage turned a corner and Emily let down the window, letting in a blast of cold, crisp air.

  "How much farther, Gorse?" she called to her coach­man.

  "We've made the turn into the estate, milady. An-other mile or two, mayhap, accordin' to the directions."

  "Good! On we go, then." Emily glanced around her curiously. There was a long row of trees on one side of the drive, bare and dark in the fading half-light of a mid-December afternoon. It wouldn't be long before sunset, as they were only a few weeks away from the shortest day of the year. In the distance, she could see a copse and a lake, probably frozen or close to it already, and in the distance, the fells. They had already traveled through the Pennines, a trip Emily had never made before, and she was thrilled by the new scenery.

  "Are you intending to freeze us to death before we get there, my dear?" a querulous voice muttered.

  "Of course not, dear Dodo," Emily laughed. She put up the window and sat back, smoothing her wine-colored, fur-trimmed cape down over her ample figure. She threw her dark fur muff over to her aunt. "Use this if your hands are cold. It is deliciously warm—too warm for my plump hands."

  Soon after that they pulled up to the house and Emily eagerly stepped down with the aid of her groom's hand. She gazed up at Ladymead with pleasure. "What a lovely house!"

  It was more modern than her own gloomy home in Yorkshire, but the appellation of "house" was far too modest for it. It had been built in the last century to replace the ancient pile, as Elizabeth called the old house, now a picturesque ruin, and was constructed of a large central section of three stories built of gray stone, with two similar wings, one all windows, clearly a conservatory. The top was castellated, looking for all the world like a crown.

  Emily and Dodo moved up the steps and into a huge hall with chandeliers gleaming against the day's gloomi­ness. Welcoming warmth enfolded them, and a tall, good-looking footman took their wraps. Their maidservant followed a few hours behind in another carriage, along with their baggage.

  "Emmy!" Elizabeth St. Claire swept into the hall, a vi­sion in dark green silk. She wrapped Emily in a perfumed embrace and then held her away from her, eyeing her up and down. "Put on a few pounds, my dear?" Her tone was arch.

  Emily's cheeks, pink from the chill air, burned to a deeper color. "I would say we all put a little weight on over the years, but you, my dear, are impossibly slim, and after four children!"

  Elizabeth laughed, delightedly. "Now I remember why I loved you so well at school. Such a well-turned compli­ment, and after my discourtesy! You are far too kind." She took her friend's arm and led her into the drawing room.

  Once there, Emily turned and said, "Do you know my aunt, Lady Dianne Delafont?"

  Elizabeth put out her hand and took the older woman's, holding it for a moment. She glanced over at Emily. "Very like Baxter, is she not?"

  Emily shook her head. "In some ways, but in many more ways not."

  Plainspoken Elizabeth! She had often offended in their girlhood days, and many thought plain, shy, country girl Emily befriended her only because of her elevated rank, for Elizabeth was the daughter of an earl and the be­trothed, from the cradle, of the then-future Marquess of Ladymead.

  But for some reason she and Elizabeth had gotten along from the beginning. Perhaps it was the very dis­similarity of their characters. Elizabeth was tart and as­tringent, outspoken and bold, while Emily was quiet and shy, with a sweetness that overlooked many faults. Her shyness had dissipated over the years, and she was less likely to suffer fools gladly, but because of the age of her attachment to Elizabeth she still disregarded the woman's acrimonious character.

  "You must be absolutely perishing for refreshment," Elizabeth said. "Andrew, tea," she told the hovering foot­man. "And please tell Miss Simons I would like to see her here. Elise can look after the children for a while." She turned back to her guests and made sure they were comfortably ensconced in chairs, then seated herself.

  "I hope my niece is working out." Emily sighed as she settled into a comfortable chair. It was such a relief after days in a carriage. She looked forward to a warm, com­fortable bed that night, too. Inn beds were just not the same, no matter how competent the landlord. "From the letters I have received, I would say she likes her position very much."

  "Oh, my darling, she is absolutely perfect. I would not say so to her face, of course, for I would not have her get puffed up, but I bless the day that little chit Chambly threw her cap at Justin. She did me a favor by being so presumptuous.''

  Emily sighed. "Was not some of the fault your brother-in-law's?"

  "Men!" the marchioness said dismissively, waving one elegant hand. "They have no control where a pretty face is concerned, and a wise woman uses that to her benefit. I do not blame the chit for trying to better her position. Who would want to work as a governess when one could be the wife of a lord, especially one as rich and handsome as Justin? However, not in my house and not with my brother-in-law! Justin will marry, and it will be to a girl who can bring something to the marriage other than a lot of blond hair and a simper."

  "Still, Lord St. Claire has quite a reputation in town for raising a lady's expectations, only to dash them at the very last possible minute."

  "He is a scamp," Elizabeth admitted, "and I have told him he must mend his ways. I have invited a few eligibles for the Christmas season to see if I can fire him off into holy wedlock. August wishes it, and I have promised to do my best."

  "Unless you are willing to court them and give them a ring, I do not see how you can force the issue." Emily was amused, as always, by Elizabeth's forthright manner, and was eager to see her friend's brother-in-law again af­ter a number of years, to see how he looked and behaved. He would be—she counted in her head—all of thirty-two now, and had been breaking hearts for twelve of those years.

  "I have done my part in hiring Miss Simons. I knew she was perfect the moment I saw her. I would have hired her anyway, just for your sake, my dear, but she is so plain and shy—and, my dear, those hands! Impossibly ugly! Justin is particular about those kin
ds of things." She stretched her own elegant, slim ones out in front of her.

  Emily stiffened. "Lizbet, you go too far," she said qui­etly, using her friend's pet name to soften her words.

  The marchioness reddened in an unusual display of chagrin. "Oh, my darling, I am sorry. I know she is your kin, but you must see . . . with Justin the way he is . . ."

  They were interrupted by a cry of pleasure from the door and Celestine's soft voice. "Aunt Emily!" She raced across the room as her aunt rose, and they embraced. "Oh, Aunt, it is so good to see you!"

  Emily hugged her fiercely for a moment, then held her niece away from her and looked her over. Celestine was Emily's older sister's only child. Pansy, a dozen years Emily's senior, had married a scholarly older gentleman, and Celestine had been the light of his life. Since her mother had died when the child was very young, father and daughter had been unusually close, and when the old gentleman finally died after a long, debilitating ill­ness, Celestine had suffered. The pain was compounded by the abrupt realization she had no place to live, as the estate was entailed and she had little money of her own.

  Emily was only seven years older than her niece and felt a kinship with her, a solid bond that would have en­couraged her to offer her niece anything. She had offered Celestine a home or an independent income, but Ce­lestine begged to be allowed to make her own way. She had no expectations of having children of her own, she said. Failing that, she wished to work with children. Thus, after spending the previous Christmas with Emily and Dodo, she had traveled straight to her new governess po­sition.

  Her letters since then had been very cheerful, but look­ing her over now Emily thought Celestine looked paler than normal, and surely she had lost weight. Was some­thing troubling her? Or was her pallor just the result of the season and too little outdoor exercise? And her hands were swollen again with arthritis, a painful condition that must make her work all the more difficult.

  Conversation took a general turn, with Elizabeth doing much of the talking concerning her plans for the holidays and who else would make up the house party. She had invited a widowed friend with a daughter who had made her comeout several Seasons previously. An older couple, acquaintances of the marquess, would also spend much of the season at Ladymead. They had two daughters, both of marriageable age, one just out of the schoolroom and headed to London for her first Season in the spring.

  Emily saw Elizabeth's hand in all of that, and was amused, as she ate cream buns and drank tea, with won­dering how her machinations would work. Would Justin St. Claire be caught in parson's mousetrap at last, or would he escape once again to wreak havoc the next Sea­son on young girls' hearts and widows' reputations? She rather thought she would wager on Justin.

  He strolled in as they enjoyed their tea. He was an old acquaintance of Emily's and came over to kiss her hand gallantly.

  "You look positively radiant, my lady. Ravishing! That deep wine color suits your complexion." He threw a side glance at Celestine, whose eyes were deter-minedly study­ing the floor, and his eyebrows pulled down in puzzle­ment.

  "Celestine is my niece," Emily said, answering his un­asked question. "Elizabeth was kind enough to send for her when I arrived so we could visit."

  The nobleman nodded, but his gaze stayed on the gov­erness. Was that the trouble, Emily wondered. Despite Elizabeth's best precautions, was the rascal pestering Ce­lestine? The girl had little experience with how to handle a roué, and if he had determined to set her up as his flirt, or worse, she would not know how to react. But that was ridiculous. Though overly blunt, Elizabeth had been quite right. Celestine was plain and not very socially adept—not at all St. Claire's usual type.

  He actually favored two types in his annual prowl of London—beautiful young girls in their first or second Season, and mature, sophisticated widows or wives ready for a little flirtation. The first type he seemed to enjoy making fall in love with him. The second type was pure dalliance.

  Celestine was neither. She was twenty-eight, long past the first blush of youth. But still, she was an innocent, her youthful years taken up in caring for an invalid father in a small village. If she ever fell in love, Emily suspected it would have all the fervor of a first attachment and the strength of a more mature love and could possibly be devastating to her. She watched as Justin St. Claire charmed Dodo while sitting beside Celestine. The girl's face had turned rosy at the feel of his leg accidentally brushing hers or his solicitousness in handing her her tea.

  He murmured things to her sometimes that no one else could hear, causing her blush to deepen, and he watched her constantly. It was deeply troubling to Emily, and she was glad she had come, if only to help her niece out of any bind she found herself in as a result of her inexperience with hardened flirts.

  Also aware of the byplay was Elizabeth. Her lovely face was pulled into a frown, the purse-string wrinkles around her mouth evidencing her displeasure. Justin laughed and talked, but there was an undercurrent in everything he said and did. Emily decided it was a good thing she was there. Perhaps she could be of some use to her niece, or perhaps she could find a way to deflect the man's atten­tions. At the very least, she could figure out what his game was—and stop it, if at all possible.

  Six

  Despicable, damnable man, Celestine thought as she rummaged through the scraps of fabric the draper had given her. Justin St. Claire had thoroughly thrown her out of countenance when all she wanted to do was talk to her Aunt Emily. He said not a word out of turn, but if she would reach for something, he would hand it to her before she got to it, allowing his fingers to brush hers. She could feel his steady gaze on her face as she spoke, and she lost the thread of the conversation. His thigh pressed against hers, and then he would apologize sotto voce when he 'noticed' it.

  Lady St. Claire had looked like a thunder cloud by the end of tea, and she feared she was for it, but time passed and Celestine escaped upstairs with her aunt. Now she was in the blessed quiet of the schoolroom with the two girls. Soon Elise would come to take them off for their baths and bed, but right now Lottie and Gwen were curled up together in a big chair by the fire examining a fairy-tale book, their blond curly heads nodding as they got drowsy and murmured together, while she went through fabrics trying to get ideas for costumes for the puppets they were making.

  It was difficult now because Lord St. Claire was creating the story. She had no inkling what it would be and what characters she would need to clothe—if he meant to fol­low through on his offer. It was entirely possible he would get bored before finishing, or never meant to do it at all—in which case she had better prepare something, rather than depend on the mercurial nobleman.

  He was a puzzle. He lived up to his reputation as a rakish tease most of the time. He was adept at conveying his flirtation without saying a word, so her blushes and consciousness must appear to be all on her own side.

  But there were times ... as in the carriage on the way back from choir practice. She had felt a quiet strength emanating from him as her own composure crumbled from the emotionalism of the music she had been a part of. When she sang with the choir in St. George's, she felt she became one with the church and the organ music. Parting from it was painful.

  In the darkness of the carriage, she had felt he under­stood. She had wanted nothing more than to lay her head against his shoulder and cling to him while she regained her control. What would it be like, for once, to lay down her burdens and let someone take care of her? She had always had to be the strong one, for her father had been sick the whole of her adult life.

  She didn't regret the necessity that had forced her to be strong, but, oh, the bliss of letting someone else make her decisions for her or carry the load of responsibility she had always assumed. Was that what it would be like to have a husband? If she married the vicar, would she feel a weight ease from her shoulders? Somehow, she thought not. He would expect her, with a perfect right, to assume her share of the duties in the parish.

  And she m
ust not fantasize that life with a man like Lord St. Claire would be any different. His light-heartedness would inevitably have its reverse in additional cares and worries for any woman who married him. She, no doubt, would be expected to assume the bulk of the work of managing the household and possibly his estate.

  For a moment in the carriage, she had felt there was a well of strength within him that had perhaps gone un­appreciated because it remained untapped. In the light of day and with the resumption of his teasing flirtation, she wondered if she had imagined that side of him. Was it her own need she projected on him, or did she really feel the wave of kindness and caring that had rolled over her and soothed her as she held his handkerchief to her eyes in the darkness, inhaling his scent and letting the comfort of it fill her?

  She probably would never figure him out. If she could get to the end of his visit without some kind of incident, she would be happy.

  But how lovely it had been for those few minutes to feel his quiet strength beside her and imagine what it would be like to have someone to lean on when the world seemed too much. Celestine had no illusions about her­self. She knew her own strength had kept her father alive as long as he lived, but she had sacrificed something of herself.

  Her body was weak, and sometimes the future fright­ened her. What would happen if she became crippled from the rheumatism that wracked her body? She'd had little pleasure in the world except her father's company and knowing herself to be all-important to him, and now she had to make her own way. For all that her post was a good one and she came to love the little girls more every day, it was unremitting labor. How marvelous it would be to lay down her burdens and rest, knowing someone else was there to care for her.