But now Claire doubted the value of such endeavors. Yes, she could justify the mission of giving Camille some basis for comparison between men and hope she would make a good choice; she had told herself this even before they left for London. However, it appeared she was overly successful at her task, for Camille seemed rather too engaged with several entirely worthy gentlemen, whose only flaw was that they were not Jamie Cosgrove.
Claire decided she liked Jamie very much. She wanted him to succeed with Camille, and take her back to Middlebury, where she would lead a perfectly comfortable life and have perfectly lovely children. Jamie’s home was large and gracious, much more so than a single gentleman truly needed. Claire suspected he had both prospects and advantages, even if he was the fourth son of a duke. And if not, he was even more to be commended, for he successfully made his own way.
Though she told herself she only wanted to see Camille happy, Claire was coming into a keener sense of her own place in a family. Hers had always been aloof and anxious to be rid of her. Glastonbury’s family always eyed her with some suspicion, rarely having anything to do with her after his death. Perhaps they were worried she would reveal how brutal the man had been during their marriage.
But the weeks in Yorkshire had bestowed upon her several gifts: the love of a good man, the joys of a quiet life filled with passion, and the pleasure of family. Inasmuch as she spent nearly every hour of the day thinking about the good man and the passion, she thought it fair enough now to think about family.
Perhaps she was a selfish woman, but she preferred James Cosgrove as a brother-in-law to every man with whom Camille dallied. And of course, he could never be her brother if she did not also marry the man she preferred to any other in the whole wide world.
But she would marry Maxwell Brooks. Unless he fell off a wharf and killed himself first.
“Lady Glastonbury? Lord Wentworth and Lady Camille have arrived. Shall I show them to the parlour?” Leeds, her manservant, looked decidedly amused. “They are at the front door,” he added.
“I cannot imagine how else they would arrive at my home,” Claire said firmly. “Have their carriage brought around to the back, for they plan to spend the day here.”
As Claire descended the stairs, she heard Max and Camille arguing in the parlour, and nearly lost her footing. When had they ever argued before? Camille had always been sweet and compliant, and Max was nothing less than doting. This, too, was her work, she realized. She had changed them, and not necessarily in a good way.
“Good morning,” Claire said. “Or is it already afternoon?”
“It might as well be midnight, for all my brother wishes is to have me hide away where no one could see me,” Camille pouted, and held out her hand to Claire.
Claire walked towards her but exchanged a glance with Max. He looked more bemused than angry, and Claire attempted to look contrite. She had a feeling this concerned her somehow.
She caught Camille’s hand, and guided her to a chaise near the window. Though Camille rarely said anything about it, Claire was certain her friend could see shadows or shapes when the sun was bright. “Whatever is the problem? Do sit down, Lord Wentworth, and stop glaring at us.”
He was not glaring, of course, but if Camille was upset with him, Claire did not want her to know that her brother thought her concerns frivolous. Nevertheless, he sat down at a safe distance, and picked up a book on a nearby table.
“I have asked Maxwell if I might join him when he travels to the Continent again,” Camille said. “Before this splendid sojourn in London, I had scarcely been out of Yorkshire, and now I have a great desire to experience more of the world. You must admit, I have successfully acquitted myself in society and am convinced I could manage very well in foreign places.”
“I daresay you could and you shall, Camille,” said Claire, watching Max. He rubbed his injured leg, but she did not require his subtle reminder that his business was not an experience to be shared with any lady, blind or sighted. “But your brother will not be a suitable guide for the places you most desire to visit.”
Camille shrugged. “I do not see why not. Brothers and sisters travel together all the time.”
“Oh, yes, but where is the fun in it? I hope you achieve your dream of making a grand tour, but that you will journey with a husband instead. Your brother spends his time in wine caverns and dealing with ship captains and the like. I prefer to imagine you in the sun, examining the tiles of a Roman mosaic with your fingers, or plucking olives from the tree, to be served with your dinner.” Claire stopped before she went too far in what, in fact, were her dreams as well.
Camille looked surprised. “You speak so knowingly, Lady Claire. Yet in all these weeks, you have never spoken of your travels.”
“I have traveled only through books and in my mind, as you have. Indeed, Lady Fayreweather often asks me to visit her at her villa in Marbella, but I have not yet made the journey. But perhaps, with a husband, I might be more adventurous.”
Max stopped massaging his leg, and smiled, his expression full of anticipation and promise. He was that husband, Claire knew. He was the man with whom every day would be an adventure, no matter where they were.
“And yet you did not travel with Lord Glastonbury,” Camille pointed out.
“My husband saw any sort of travel as an inconvenience. But the man for you will be one who is not inconvenienced by anything that will give you pleasure, nor deny you what you most desire.” Claire’s voice caught on a sob, and she was embarrassed by emotions she did not fully understand.
Camille’s face turned from Claire to Max and back to Claire. Her experiences of the past months had transformed her from a girl into a woman, and she certainly guessed what unspoken understandings passed between her friend and her brother.
Claire was grateful to be such a friend, but Max undoubtedly was uncomfortable with a sister who knew something about his private affairs.
“How have you been keeping yourself busy, Lady Claire, now that you have returned to London?” Max said artlessly.
Claire turned to him, amused. “Do you mean, when I am not reading to my girls, shopping with Camille, planning a ball with your aunt, or dancing with you at various balls and parties, my lord?”
“Yes,” Max said.
“As a matter of fact, I have been doing a bit of housecleaning,” Claire said.
Camille laughed. “Surely not! I cannot imagine you polishing the silver or doing something of that sort.”
“No, indeed. I am doing a task that I cannot entrust to anyone else, and I am happy to relegate the polishing to my maids.” Claire looked down at her dress, and noticed a small stain on the fabric. She doubted any amount of effort would remove it. “I am sorting through my garments, deciding what I shall keep and what I shall give away to others.”
“Do you have many garments, Lady Claire?” Max asked. She looked up at him, trying to gauge if this was yet another idle bit of conversation, or if he was being practical by assessing his future expenses.
“I do. Your sister and I have enjoyed our shopping excursions so much, I need to find room to shelve my purchases.” But there was more, and Max might as well hear it. “But I also have a rather extensive collection of black gowns and veils, and no longer wish to have them in my house. I am done with the trappings of mourning. But others are not, and cannot purchase such gloomy finery for themselves. I intend to donate part of my wardrobe to the Widows’ and Children’s Society.”
“That is very generous of you,” Max said, and nodded as if in agreement with what he already assumed to be true. “You are a very generous person.”
Claire, who was accustomed to compliments of all sorts, thought this was the most splendid praise of all.
“Perhaps you can replace them all with emerald green gowns instead,” Camille said, moving the conversation in quite a differe
nt direction. “By all reports, you are most magnificent in that color.”
Claire glanced at Max, who she hoped was the author of that report.
“Nevertheless, I will save one black dress. One never knows when it will be useful.”
“I hope your brother is in good health?” Max asked.
“I have no idea,” Claire answered truthfully. “But I have an errand in the near future, and I prefer to remain most discrete. When I was a new widow, and so attired, I slipped in and out of places without anyone noticing me at all, so I thought such a costume would be most useful for what I intend.”
“And what do you intend, Lady Claire?” asked Max, leaning forward.
“I intend to perform an errand.”
They said nothing for some time, during which Claire heard the floor clock chime in the next room, and a door open and close somewhere in the house. In such moments, she wondered what Camille heard, and would not have been surprised to learn it was an entire conversation between two people half a street away.
“So you will do as Max does, I suppose,” Camille said, and sighed. “He always goes off somewhere as my brother, and returns as someone nearly unrecognizable, attempting to fool me.”
“Yes, he has already demonstrated his talents in that regard. I am certain it is also amusing to those engaged in the importation of wine,” Claire said, enjoying Max’s discomfort.
“Did you say you wished to read this afternoon?” he asked pleasantly. “Why do we not sit next to each other, Lady Claire, and read as if we were actors in a play? Such skills might serve as a rehearsal for you so that you might perform in your widow’s weeds.”
Camille rose. “Sit in my place and I will in yours, Maxwell. You and Lady Claire can easily share a book in this position.”
Claire watched Max guide his sister to the rather stiff chair he had at first selected for himself, and then return to her. Even if he intended to observe the proprieties, it was nearly impossible on the chaise, for he was much larger than Camille, and took more than his share of the seat.
“Ah, this is quite comfortable,” he said, and turned his head to kiss Claire’s ear. She swatted him away. “What do we have to read today? Sir Walter Scott? I wonder that you ladies do not tire of romance in the Highlands. Or is it the swordplay and intrigue you enjoy?”
“We enjoy both, Lord Wentworth,” Claire said formally, and pressed her knee against his leg.
“Perhaps we could travel to Edinburgh, Maxwell. That would not qualify as a grand tour,” Camille mused. “I shall wear the Buchanan plaid, as they are our only Scottish relations. And do you not think you would enjoy a kilt?”
“No,” Max said emphatically, and Claire laughed out loud.
“I suspect that this seating arrangement may be a bad idea,” Camille said, “if you are to make fun of my suggestions.”
Max put his arm around Claire’s waist and pulled her nearly into his lap. “No,” he said again. “It is an excellent idea.”
***
James Cosgrove arrived as planned, in time for dinner, and seemed surprised there were to be no additional guests to their party. Max was relieved to see him, both for the purpose of restoring Camille’s good humor, and also for the opportunity to speak in private to Claire. He wanted to know more about her errand and why it required she do her business veiled in black. The opportunity came sooner than expected, for Camille and Cosgrove walked off to explore Claire’s small garden and undoubtedly advise her gardener what to do about his roses.
“I am delighted that she wishes to travel, Max. It is the natural consequence of all that you have shared with her through the years, the descriptions of the sites of classical antiquity, and places where you have been,” Claire said.
“But the courage to act upon her inclinations has come from you,” he conceded. “I suppose I am grateful for that.”
“And so you should be. But Camille has not lacked for courage; she has only needed a friend.”
“Like James Cosgrove?” Max asked, looking out the window to the garden. He quickly turned away.
“I hope he will always remain her truest friend, but she will have my affection as well. And yours, of course, though I am not quite sure I can put into words what you must mean to her.”
He laughed, a little ruefully. “Right now, she sees me as a hindrance to her happiness, a gatekeeper.”
“She knows very well that you only wish to protect her from hurt and harm.” Claire looked troubled. “And yet, for all the many challenges she has faced, and through which you have guided her, your task must have been made easier by the fact she is unable to set out on her own. She has been a captive of her own limitations.”
Max looked down at the floor and his toe trifled with the fringe on a rug. “You are right, of course. But I think I would take anything—even mischievous behavior—if my sister could lead a life like other young ladies.”
“In most ways she does, Max. We all pay some price for the experience of living, and she seems to be quite satisfied with her lot. She will soon forget about this business of traveling with her in our preparations for her own ball.”
“Oh, yes. I do my best to forget about that, but Camille mentions it in every other sentence. Just this morning, she asked for my opinion on the color dress she should wear.”
“And what did you tell her? I do hope you said she should wear the blue,” Claire said. “I intend to wear green, and it would not do for us to appear in the same color.”
“I think you should wear green, as I understand it is your most complementary color.” Max paused, and then seized the moment. “Therefore, I wonder why you should decide a black gown might suddenly be useful, and where you intend to wear it.”
She did not want to answer; that much was obvious. She looked to the door, perhaps hopeful that Camille and Cosgrove would return, and backed away from him when they did not.
“Do you think you will be a widow again, and soon?” he asked, matching her step for step. “I would not do that to you. I would never leave you.”
“I suspect no husband intends to die and leave his wife with his fortune and as the object of desire of every eligible gentleman in town, Max, and yet it happens all the same. I know this much from sad experience, and will hear no promises that cannot be kept.” She looked solemn enough to make some promises herself, but suddenly brightened. “Enough with all that. I have an excellent plan. I am going to call on Mr. Dailey, in his shop, and make some enquiries.”
“You are not.”
“We have tripped along this path before, Max, and you cannot forbid or dissuade me. I will disguise myself as a lady still in mourning, and wear a black veil, and call myself by another name. I will ask to see certain paintings, and ask how they are acquired. You see, I have reasoned it all out.”
Max took several deep breaths, trying to calm himself. This, then, was the bargain he would make for all the rest of his life: He would promise to never leave his beloved, and his beloved would drive him to distraction with her clever, willful schemes. In this case, however, there was just the slightest part of merit in what she proposed.
“You have forgotten one important thing,” he said. “I believe it is your husband who will accompany you to Dailey’s shop, and it is your father’s property you seek to unload. The poor fellow died of consumption only weeks ago, leaving you with his great collection of paintings and his even greater collection of bills. You must sell them all, and have come to Dailey to see how one goes about it.”
“You have forgotten one important thing,” Claire echoed, her voice rising. “I do not care how the man chooses to sell his canvases, I only wish to know where he acquired one particular one.”
Leeds came through the door just then, delivering a very full tray of tea and sandwiches.
“And you forget another thing,” Clair
e said softly. “What will you do for a costume? You cannot appear in broad daylight in a domino you might wear to a masquerade, or dressed as a gypsy. If you are my husband, you must look very respectable and nothing at all like Lord Wentworth.”
He looked down and trifled with the rug fringe again, so she would not see his smile.
“Only weeks ago, I believe you could come and go in London without anyone recognizing you, but that is quite impossible now,” she continued. “You have been too much about.”
He looked up, entirely justified in his smile. “Was that not your intent? I recall you saying that I was to meet everyone and go everywhere. I have been your obedient servant in this, and other things.”
Claire was not amused. “I did not intend to have you mobbed by flirtatious young ladies at every event. I am sure they have asked you to sample whatever it is they are prepared to offer you.”
She was right, and yet so wrong about his tastes.
“They offer me sweet naïveté and innocence. They offer me the possibility of long evenings during which we will have nothing to say to each other. And they present me with the fear that I will repel them if they ever should have the chance to know the things that you already know about me.”
“Max, please. I do not trifle with you when I say your burns and scars are nothing to me, truly.”
“That is precisely the point, dear lady. You do not see things as do other people; your eyes find grace where none exists and redemption where none is deserved. In short, I believe you are the only lady who would have me.”
“As to that, I cannot say. But I know I am a lady who wants you.”
“There are other gentlemen who want you. You surely are not unaware of their intentions,” Max said, though the very words gave him pain.
“Here you must grant me more experience than is yours. While you were busy reading in your secluded library in Yorkshire, I was dodging gentlemen with the confidence of a Penelope,” she said. “I am entirely aware of their intentions and have managed to put them off all these years. Of course, I knew what Odysseus’ wife did not; my husband was never returning. Thank goodness.”
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