Sharon Sobel

by The Eyes of Lady Claire (v5. 0) (epub)

  She sent him a note on the afternoon of the dinner. His man delivered it to him while he was pouring over sea maps in the library, and must have known the identity of the sender. But there is a great difference between a letter about the business of fabric costs for his sister’s gowns, and a sealed note scented with roses. The subject was that of her housekeeper’s unexpected journey to Margate, where her daughter was to be delivered of a baby. But Max hardly read this, for the red petals that fell to the rug made Claire’s meaning achingly clear. He immediately went to his stable to notify the groom that a horse would be needed in the early hours of the morning.

  A few hours later, Max and Camille traveled to the Longreaves’ mansion, renowned for dwarfing every other house on the elegant square. He tried to describe its impressive size and appearance to his sister, but she seemed impatient with his efforts, telling him she would ask Claire about it instead. Nevertheless, she allowed him to escort her into the grand foyer, and introduce her to their hosts and other guests. Almost immediately, Warren St. Paul, a young man recently returned from France, relieved Max of Camille’s company, and took her off in the direction of the conservatory.

  Max felt he ought follow them there, for he knew the things that could happen when one was surrounded by humid air and flowering flora, but was derailed by the arrival of other guests.

  Lord and Lady Fayreweather came through the door next, and Max spared some attention for the gentleman. For all Claire had to say about her friend Marissa, he did not recall her ever mentioning the lady’s husband. And if she did, he certainly did not imagine this dignified man, who was a solemn crow next to his wife’s brilliance. Fayreweather certainly knew his part, and did nothing to detract any attention from his beautiful wife.

  There was a lesson to be learned here, perhaps about what each partner brings to a marriage. But Max decided he would reflect upon it later, for the large door suddenly opened again, and he forgot everyone but Claire.

  She glanced down as she entered the house, fussing with netting on her gown that looked infused with diamonds. When he took a step closer, he realized the gems were drops of water on the fabric, reflecting in the candlelight, and that it likely started to rain even in the moments since he and Camille entered the mansion. Claire slipped her shawl off her shoulders and looked up just as he came to stand beside her.

  “It is raining,” she said unnecessarily and blinked several times.

  “You are not crying?” he asked as he handed her a linen cloth. “Are those tears in your eyes?”

  “You know they are not,” she said and smiled, but took his cloth, just the same. “Unless you tell me I have something to regret this night.”

  “I cannot think of a thing, unless we find the sherry too dry or the strawberries too tart.”

  “Mrs. Longreaves has an excellent conservatory and has allowed her strawberry plants to flourish there in sweet soil. I am certain they will be delightful,” Claire said.

  “Yes, I believe Mr. Warren St. John is describing those delights to my sister, even now. They have gone off to the conservatory, ignoring the pleasures to be found in this room.”

  Claire nodded and said nothing. And in those moments he took in her elegant costume: the dark blue gown overlaid with netting, sapphire earrings dangling nearly to her chin, and a matching necklace of stones so magnificent that Glastonbury might have started a small war financed by the sale of them. Her hair was pinned in a fashion he had not seen on her before, revealing a good deal of her neck and shoulders, and the neckline of her gown was very low, revealing even more.

  “Lady Claire,” murmured a man as he approached them. He stopped just shy of trampling on her hem. “How wonderful it is to see you again for we have been bereft in your absence. We heard you went north, to assist in some family matters. And yet I saw your brother two weeks ago, and he knew nothing about it.”

  “My dear brother would not have recognized our parents if we did not sit down to breakfast with them each morning, so it is no wonder he is unaware of whom I see, and where I see them. Not all brothers and sisters enjoy a special closeness.” Claire looked at Max even as she answered this gentleman, and she seemed somewhat impatient with this conversation. “Is he in town, did you say?”

  “I did not say,” the man said, and then seemed to notice Max for the first time. “I am Charles Longreaves, my lord. And you are most welcome to my father’s home.”

  “Then I must thank your father for inviting a stranger to your table,” Max said.

  “If you are a friend of Lady Claire, you are no stranger here. Lady Claire and I have known each other forever, or very near forever.” Longreaves laughed, which did nothing for Max’s good humor. “I trust the lady’s judgment in all things, and so you are welcome anytime.”

  His words were artlessly spoken, but Max understood what the man was saying, and appreciated this was the very point of coming here tonight and to all the events following. He glanced at Claire, who nodded thoughtfully, and guessed she thought the same thing. This was to be a mission of redemption, and all the idle talk and late dinners were tokens along the way.

  “Lady Claire, would you be so kind as to come with me to the library? I wish to show you a recent discovery, something I know you would enjoy more than any lady I know.”

  Claire took this man’s elbow, pressing against him familiarly, before nodding to Max and walking off into the shadows towards something only she, apparently, would properly appreciate. Max felt a spurt of something he refused to believe was jealousy, for had he not already secured the lady’s affections? Did they not already have a promise for this very night?

  “He has discovered an odd little bone,” explained a lady at Max’s side. He looked down at her, realizing she might have witnessed the whole conversation without him noticing her presence. “He would like for her to see it, of course.”

  “Of course,” Max said, wondering where on the man’s damned body this bone was discovered, and why it could not be revealed in the company of others. Inasmuch as Longreaves and Claire were old friends, they might very well have been showing each other bones, and muscles, and flesh for years.

  “I am Lady Grenville, Wentworth. I knew your mother when we were just girls.”

  There was something in her soft tone, her gentle reassurance, that affected Max most painfully. His feeling was visceral, but in his briefest moment of consideration, it seemed to him he was connected to another who remembered his mother with an affection that endured through all the years of insinuation and guilt.

  “I still miss her, Lady Grenville, and would take great pleasure in hearing any stories you may have to share. Even more, it would be valuable for my younger sister to know something of a mother she scarcely remembers,” Max said.

  “It would be an honor, my lord. In fact, I intended to speak to you about it.”

  “It is very considerate of you to ask permission to do so, though Lady Camille is nearly grown and is able to decide for herself if she would like to hear such things, or if they might be too painful,” Max said. “And I have only recently learned that ladies have a vocabulary all their own and talk about things that gentlemen would never discuss.”

  “I assume you now know this because you have been witness to Lady Camille’s conversations with Lady Claire, who has been a visitor in your home?”

  “And I assume you now know this because my dear aunt has made this fact known to all her acquaintances?” Max said tersely.

  “Do not blame Mrs. Brooks, for she only means you well. But, indeed, she may have mentioned it to one or two people,” said Lady Grenville. She paused, nodding briefly to a gentleman who looked familiar to Max. “And do not believe that what ladies discuss can generally be dismissed as gossip.”

  Embarrassed, Max took a step back in dismay.

  “It is not all about gowns and feathers and Belgian la
ce and such, you know,” Lady Grenville said, pointing her finger at him like a stern tutor. Max was glad he already put some distance between them. “Lady Claire, for example, is a great reader and might surprise many men with her knowledge.”

  She certainly had surprised him, and not in a way that suggested scholarly reading. For the first time, Max wondered what one could find in the ladies’ novels Claire and Camille seemed to enjoy so much.

  “Of course, Charles Longreaves would not be surprised,” Lady Grenville continued, and Max sensed there was more to her meaning than the simple words suggested. Perhaps everyone in this company understood but him. Claire was intended for Longreaves, who probably approved of her mission of mercy at Brooks Cottage. And if he somehow knew about the rendezvous this evening, he was a most generous and forgiving soul. Damn him.

  James Cosgrove joined the guests just then, and Max begrudgingly noted that the man looked rather splendid in his town clothes. Max glanced down at his own jacket, and thought he might stop by his cousin’s tailor in Saville Row, and do something about his own wardrobe as well. He supposed his worsted jacket was good enough for Middlebury but might be a bit shabby in this fashionable company. And for once, he realized with some surprise, he was not all that concerned with what a tailor thought about his scars and puckered flesh and whom he might tell about it. It simply no longer mattered.

  “My Lord Wentworth,” Cosgrove greeted him and bowed.

  “Mr. Cosgrove.” Max turned to present him to Lady Grenville, but the tiny lady was already gone.

  “Is your sister not with you tonight?”

  “Oh, indeed she is. She spent about five minutes in my company before she went off with a Mr. Warren St. John to bask in the warmth of the conservatory,” Max said, feeling sorry for Cosgrove.

  “I see. And Lady Claire? Has she already arrived?”

  “She has, and to great effect. The son of the house, Mr. Charles Longreaves, has carried her off to his library to show her his bone or something of that sort. It sounds rather suspect to me.” Max felt sorry for himself as well.

  “Well, then, my lord. It seems we have only each other for company, and have to be content with that.”

  “Oh, do not despair, Cosgrove. There are several pleasing ladies here, I see. Some of them are already looking at you with a predatory eye.”

  Cosgrove did not look amused. “I believe their glances are all for you, my lord, for a marquis, even if we meet one who is bowlegged and missing all his teeth, is infinitely more attractive than a poor solicitor. But that is just as well for me, for I am not interested in any lady but your sister.”

  Max respected the man’s honesty, even as he was put off by the sentiments. Having just broken off the emotional yoke of his own deformities, he was not so very pleased to hear that a woman would have him, no matter how dreadful his appearance. And if he was worthy enough for any woman, why would he allow his own sister to settle for the fourth son of a duke?

  “Then you are in luck, Mr. Cosgrove,” Max said quietly. “For here she comes. You need only pry Mr. St. John off her elbow.”

  But, in fact, Cosgrove needed to do no such thing. Camille came back into the room clearly alert to the presence of her old friend, and pulled her companion in Cosgrove’s direction. She stretched out one arm, which Cosgrove secured in his, just as Camille pulled away from Warren St. John.

  “Your sister is rather admirable,” St. John said to Max, speaking in a low voice and leaning close. “She is capable of nearly anything at all.”

  “Including hearing every word you speak, Mr. St. John. You would do well to remember that.”

  The man smiled broadly, and Max realized he just gave his assent for the man to continue to see her. This should have been a very fine thing, but Max suddenly realized he was somewhat partial to Cosgrove, no matter his status. And if that was so, why had they bothered to come to London at all? Their new acquaintances had motives that were likely suspect, their conversation seemed to be delivered in code, and nothing was more engaging a topic for discussion than the lives of other people. And aside from anything else, he would have been perfectly happy to wear this worsted suit for the rest of his life.

  He heard Claire laugh and turned to see her enter the large room on Longreaves’ arm. Apparently, the man was not only handsome, but a great wit.

  “Dear Lord Wentworth,” Claire said, sounding very formal when all she may have intended was to be discrete. “I have just seen wonderful things in Mr. Longreaves’ library.”

  “Did you indeed?” Max asked coolly. “And are they unlike anything you have previously seen?”

  Claire straightened her back and nodded her head at him. “Oh, indeed they are, and really quite extraordinary.”

  ***

  This conversation did nothing to improve Max’s disposition, though he was seated between two beautiful and witty ladies at dinner and they flattered him by competing for his attention. Before long, his neck was stiff for repeatedly turning back and forth, and he forgot which lady was who. One was the daughter of the Duke of Belgreen and was named either Priscilla or Prudence. The other was the widow of Piers Goodson, and knew a great deal about the weather and its effect on the size of cantaloupe melons. Both were blond and slender and of age. After a while, Max realized it did not matter so very much.

  Claire sat not so far away, but on the opposite side of the table. She continued to enjoy herself with the blighter Charles Longreaves, who had avid competition from a gentleman directly across from her. That man, Lord Wallace, seemed very concerned that Claire consume her meal heartily, as if he doubted she had been fed for all the time she was in Yorkshire.

  Camille sat next to Claire, breaking the seating pattern so that Claire might be helpful to her. Without saying a word, Claire knew when to give her friend a fork or pass her the dinner breads, or lead her hand to the wine goblet. Camille was silent through dinner, undoubtedly absorbing all the sensations of the party around her.

  At the other end of the long table, James Cosgrove was also silent, interested only in watching Camille.

  It was all rather boring, and somewhat predictable. Max realized he did not miss so very much by not mingling in society all these years, though judging by Priscilla and Prudence and Mrs. Goodson, they missed him. It was wonderful flattery, though not sufficient to keep him engaged.

  As the two ladies spoke, Max leaned back in his chair so they might talk to each other across his chest. He studied the elegant brocaded walls opposite him, the bright candles in the sconces, and the fine paintings hung with wire from the moldings. The Longreaves had a very fine eye for light and color, he decided, as was evident by the art they selected for the most public part of their home.

  One painting in particular caught his attention, and his eyes returned to it again and again. It was of a woodland, with shafts of bright light breaking through the heavy canopy of leaves and branches. It reminded him of his own property and how sun and shadow added unexpected color to the landscape. An accomplished artist, such as the one who painted this, would see the contrasts at once.

  But Max was reminded of more than his property when he studied the painting, for memories of his mother became suddenly vivid and he could imagine her voice discussing such a scene.

  It was quite odd and unexpected and not altogether a welcomed moment. If one intended to visit one’s lover for the first time in over a week, it would not do to be thinking about one’s mother.

  ***

  Claire heard his horse arrive at the stable behind her house, and caught the sound of men talking in hushed tones. After years of doing nothing that would even vaguely compromise her respectability, she was cashing in all her coins for this night, and perhaps more to follow. Her butler already knew to expect Lord Wentworth, the groom awaited the arrival of his horse, and the servants were instructed not to enter their lady’s bed
chamber in the morning; if Arista had not already told the staff about the affair in Yorkshire, they certainly would be well aware of it after this night.

  But what did it matter? Claire only endeavored to do good all her life, and her exemplary behavior brought her a marriage forged in blind obedience and tarnished by brutality, and a widowhood of pleasant dinner conversations. No man managed to turn her head as did Maxwell Brooks, and make her forget all the others. For the first time in years she looked forward to each day. For the first time in all her life, she truly loved someone and could convince herself that he loved her as well.

  The servants would certainly talk, as would the servants of her neighbors. Several friends of the family would express disappointment in her behavior. Marissa would be perfectly delighted for her.

  Claire heard Max enter the back door reserved for tradespeople and servants, and the sound of his footsteps echoing on the uncarpeted stairway cut away behind the more gracious corridors of her home. She opened her door so that he would not need to wander about the hall, and he nearly fell in upon her.

  “I was listening for you,” he said softly, pulling her close.

  “And I heard you stomping about like a farmer with mud on your boots,” she said, before his lips closed on hers. It is said that absence makes love grow stronger, but once they were together, it seemed like they had never been apart. Max closed the door behind them, and gently waltzed her closer to her bed, pausing only so they could breathe.

  “Max, what are you wearing?” Claire said, pushing slightly away. He was dressed much as he had been at their first meeting in the woods, when she thought him a rogue and he played along with her scheme to direct him away from Brookside Cottage. “I suppose I should be grateful you no longer have that wretched beard.”