Sharon Sobel

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

  ***

  “As much as I dislike the wearing of a widow’s veil, there is something to be said for the ability to make faces without anyone noticing,” Claire said, pulling off her bonnet. She walked over to a mirror and saw that the starched netting had abraded her cheeks.

  “I noticed,” Max said and started to tug on his beard. “But that is only because I know you so well.”

  “As I do you, Max. You could scarcely conceal your excitement back there, and it was not simply because of the painting. With the Longreaves’ painting already accounted, you could not have been overly surprised to gaze upon Brook House as once it was.” Claire reviewed the conversation with Mr. Dailey for at least the twentieth time, and finally found what she sought. “It was the mention of Mr. Doyle, was it not? It is not so very unusual a name, and yet I believe I have heard it recently mentioned.”

  “You did, indeed. There was a Mr. Doyle at the Assembly Ball in Middlebury. My sister was bothered by the fact that he was anxious to escape her company, because she sensed that they had met before. I dismissed the notion, though perhaps too quickly,” Max said. He picked up a letter opener, which looked frighteningly like a weapon, but applied it to the false hair on his chin.

  “I thought you did not wish for her to dwell on her life as it once was, for she started to speak about Brook Hall. Her sad thoughts settled on Mr. Mandeville, the Brook Hall steward who is long dead,” Claire recalled. “The very man you saw in the kitchen before you went to sleep on the dreadful night of the fire.”

  “It has always been believed John Mandeville perished that night.”

  Suddenly Claire understood the reason for Max’s excitement. He seemed to be waiting for her to catch up with him, and smiled approvingly when she did so. “The same is true for the treasures of your mother’s collection of paintings.”

  “And yet, both the paintings and Mr. Doyle have been showing up in London—and perhaps elsewhere—through the years,” Max said.

  “We shall have to meet with this Mr. Doyle,” Claire said, rubbing her hands.

  “We . . . I shall meet with him as soon as I can locate him. There is good reason for haste, for the man might be going anywhere at any time.”

  Claire did not miss Max’s correction in his speech, and knew he was motivated by some chivalrous notion of protecting her. But she felt compelled to confront this villain as well and demand justice for all the damage he caused in the lives of people she had come to love. There was also chivalry in justice.

  But she knew Max would not allow her to have a part in it, and it was best to leave the subject alone. He studied her, undoubtedly knowing precisely what she was thinking.

  “Very well. It is an excellent plan,” she said and smiled so brightly, she thought her face would crack. “Do you require help with that fur muff on your face?”

  When he didn’t answer, she walked over to the large desk piled with books and papers and a pot of something that looked like wax. Some of it had hardened on the well-polished veneer, and Mrs. Belden would surely have heart palpitations over it. It was so much easier to oversee the management of a house where no one lived, and Mrs. Clark, in her turn, was undoubtedly enjoying a much-deserved respite just now.

  Max thrust his chin forward and left Claire to the task. “I thought it looked rather convincing, very Italianate and hearty. Dailey certainly bought it.”

  “No, my dear, Mr. Dailey was only interested in what you would buy. He would have overlooked any peculiarity to make a sale, until you decided to sound like an English gentleman, and quite forgot you walked into the shop with your wife. Dailey might have been justly concerned you intended to leave me there as if I was part of the deal,” Claire said. She slowly pulled off the first few inches of his beard, removing his natural facial hair and some of his flesh in the bargain.

  “You are torturing me, Lady Claire.”

  “That is your punishment for bartering me off to a shopkeeper. Though, truly, I think I might never be bored working in such a place. Perhaps I will consider it.” She gently pressed a cool finger against his reddened cheek. “I think this would go better if I just ripped it off quickly.”

  Max closed his eyes and fiercely nodded, and Claire flicked her wrist in one quick motion. The beard was gone in an instant, but he looked like he had been attended by a savage valet. However, she thought her pain on seeing him might be even greater than his. She gazed upon his face until he squinted and finally opened his eyes. They said nothing to each other for several moments.

  “If you do venture outdoors again today, perhaps you would like to borrow my veil,” she said, not entirely to humor him. He truly looked awful.

  He rubbed his chin. “A wash with cold water is all I need. The wax did the job too thoroughly, but it is not what I usually use.”

  Claire was coming to regard such comments with a mixture of curiosity and fear. Though she generally made it her concern to understand everything she could about the people and events that shaped her life, she supposed she knew all she truly wished to know about his clandestine errands for Armadale. Yet, increasingly, it was impossible to think of them without concern for the risks he took and the very real possibility she could lose him before he was truly hers.

  She looked away, unable to bear the thought, when he caught her by the chin and gently turned her back to him.

  “I promise I will not leave you, either in a shop or at home whilst I venture off to places where I must speak another language and dress like a native. I have already discussed this with Armadale and he is naturally displeased.” Max pulled her into his arms, and held her as if he had no intention of letting her go.

  “I should not like to be the cause of unhappiness between you and your family,” Claire said against his burning cheek.

  “I will let his lady be my advocate, for she knows how it is with me.”

  “Do you mean you have told her you wish to marry?” Claire asked.

  “I have told her very little, but she sees things with a clarity to envy your own vision. She witnessed Armadale’s destructive habits before they were married, and understands how and why he has changed since that time. He was an agent for the Crown in Portugal, at the time she assisted her ailing father in the translation of papers of a highly sensitive nature. They met when Armadale returned to England, wondering why some of the codes were misinterpreted, and the adventures during their courtship nearly killed them both. Since then, I have done some of his work, but no longer have the heart for it. Cassandra, Lady Armadale, knows this, without my saying so.”

  Claire rather thought her own vision might have been somewhat obscured. Even guessing at his missions, she still thought him a quiet and reclusive soul, damaged by his past and reluctant to mingle in any class of society. She frowned, thinking Maxwell Brooks proved so much more complicated than she suspected.

  “Lady Armadale already knows the truth of it, and I believe you do as well, but I must make it plain,” Max said, resting his chin on the top of her head. “Never before have I had so much to live for. Now I have you. I love you.”

  Claire closed her eyes, savoring the moment. He did indeed have her, and he must know that for all she gently danced around his protestations of love and his assumption they would marry, she was forever his. She loved—nay, adored—him. She loved his deep intellect and his concern for others and his scarred and bruised body. She loved his interest in all things, and his understanding that a wedding trip throughout the Continent would be her idea of heaven, so long as he was with her. They must marry, for though she once vowed she would not do so again, she never dreamed she would meet a man such as this.

  “It seems very poor compensation for a life of adventure,” Claire said softly. “But I love you, too.”

  “Then it is settled, and just as I hoped. The adventure, you see, is just beginning.”

 
“I am an old widow of twenty-eight.”

  “I shall remember that when I am pulling you up the steps towards the Parthenon in Athens. If necessary, I shall carry you.” He lifted her onto the desk. “If I can still manage it. I am three years older, after all.”

  “And what of your sister?”

  “Camille?” Max frowned and looked as if he hadn’t thought of her in ages. Claire knew that was impossible, but it was likely he no longer spared every second thought for a lady who was quite able to manage for herself. “She has half a dozen beaux in town, and yet I am certain she will choose James Cosgrove.”

  “Did I not tell you so weeks ago?”

  “So you did, but I suppose I was not yet ready to hear it. I could have saved myself a great deal of trouble and expense if I accepted your words then. They are well suited to each other, in all ways.” Max twisted around and shifted some papers on the large desk. Claire guessed what wickedness he had in mind. “Perhaps they would like to live in Brookside Cottage, where she is already quite comfortable and knows her way about.”

  “Jamie has an excellent house in Middlebury where, I daresay, she is also quite comfortable and knows her way about,” said Claire. “But where will you live, if not in Brookside Cottage?”

  “We,” he said, correcting her with emphasis, “shall rebuild Brook Hall. And furnish it as once it was, even if it means I must bargain with every art dealer in England.”

  “And find this fellow Doyle, with whom you may get a good deal more than for which you bargained.”

  Max grinned, not with humor but with a look of wicked satisfaction. For the first time, Claire understood something of what his unnamed adversaries must face when he confronted them.

  “Yes, indeed. Let us examine these papers to see what we can uncover.” Max slipped off the desk, leaving Claire poised with her feet dangling off the floor. Whatever delicious mischief she had anticipated was to be deferred in the name of detection.

  ***

  The ghosts of Brook Hall followed Max to London, but did not punish him with the bitter accusations to which he was long accustomed. Perhaps they, too, needed a respite from the damaged ruins of their old home. Or perhaps they merely were weary of tormenting him, and would allow him to finally be free of them. But they were still with him, to be sure, demanding he remember them.

  His parents were never far from him nor would he truly wish for them to be so. But there were the others, the innocent victims of a dreadful accident, who perished for no greater reason but that they happened to be employed by the family. The young maids and the amorous manservant visited him in his thoughts, and he could taste the shortbread that was the pride of the cook in her well-appointed kitchen. He saw her that last night; he arrived long after dinner had been served to his parents’ guests, thinking he might remain awake to do his task if he had hot chocolate to drink.

  John Mandeville was there with her, enjoying something stronger than hot chocolate. They both were unusually cheerful and red-faced, and the poor woman could barely rise from her chair to serve him.

  Mandeville asked Max if he wished to share their drink, looking over the rim of his glass with a speculative gaze and tapping on a tray wrapped in linen and bound by rope.

  Weeks later, Max was told about his parents and the others newly buried in the Middlebury churchyard. And he learned of those whose bodies were not found, but who were believed to have perished in the heat of the blaze. John Mandeville and the cook were among them.

  Those who were unaccounted for might well have returned to their homes, or sought employment elsewhere. Perhaps they also had some sense of guilt about their own survival, or believed they might be accused of the deed, and preferred to lose themselves with new identities. But Mandeville was a relation, and had a position of great responsibility on the estate. And yet he was gone, unable or unwilling to guide a very young cousin who was the new Marquis Wentworth. If alive, he had much to gain by remaining in his home at Brookside Cottage, guiding the decisions of a child.

  But, as Max considered as he walked down the hallway of Middlebrook House, he might have gained more by leaving it all behind him.

  Not all. Someone named Gilbert Doyle obtained Benjamin West’s painting of “Brook Hall, from the South” and sold it to Mr. Horace Dailey in 1803, four years after the burning of Brook Hall. At the same time, Doyle also offered four other paintings for sale, which Dailey bought, and several small statues, which he did not.

  Several years later, Mr. Doyle sold five more paintings to Dailey, one of which was purchased by Mr. Longreaves, and the others undoubtedly graced the rooms of elegant houses throughout London.

  Who was Gilbert Doyle, other than a man who sold paintings when he seemed to be in need of funds? Where did he acquire the paintings, if not from the ruins of Brook Hall or someone else who absconded with them? There were possibilities at the heart of this mystery, but they ranged from the improbable to the impossible. And yet, things he thought impossible only a few months ago had already come to pass—and wonderfully so.

  Not for the first time, Max lamented his own foolishness. By refusing to revisit his home or think too deeply about the events of twenty years before, he allowed even greater damage to be done. While running off to do Armadale’s bidding, he ignored every other voice that called out to him.

  And so the ghosts remained with him, pushing him forward, demanding redemption. And now he had someone else to push him forward, demanding he open his eyes to every truth. He needed to speak to Claire.

  Max walked past the open door of the ballroom, stopped, and turned back.

  Claire and Camille stood on the white marble floor, now perilously polished to a sheen. They were clearly excited about something, and Claire was using her hands to guide Camille’s. One of the servants appeared in the frame and shared something that made them all laugh. Claire placed Camille’s hands into those of the maid and hummed while the two started a very shaky waltz. He heard his aunt’s voice call from some distance and the three young women looked up to the gallery in answer.

  This was not a place for a man—at least, not until the musicians arrived and gentlemen were needed to dance with the ladies—but Max could scarcely resist.

  He walked into the room, barely recognizable as their afternoon parlour. It would have been a fine thing to surprise the ladies, but his boots tapped a loud tattoo as he approached them.

  “How very unexpected that my brother should appear now, when all the work has been done,” Camille said, in that new London manner of hers. She smiled at him. Max loved his sister, but realized he already looked forward to the day when James Cosgrove or any other good man took this clever woman off his hands. He would have his hands full with his own clever woman.

  “You must not blame him, Lady Camille,” Claire said, also smiling but in quite a different way. “He has been quite busy investigating the provenance of his new painting.”

  “Oh yes, that is all I hear about,” Camille complained.

  Max could hardly blame her for her complaint because he knew that of all things, a painting was least likely to interest a blind person.

  “I shall have to purchase a sculpture, which might prove of greater interest,” he said.

  “Yes, of course, Maxwell. But I much prefer people to statues and music to the words of the old Romans.”

  He looked at Claire, who seemed quite satisfied with the new sensibilities of her student. He supposed the peaceful days of sitting down to studying the works of the old Roman philosophers were now over.

  “It is admirable when our interests are diverse,” Claire said, standing between brother and sister. “Perhaps we can discuss how we balance them at some time in the future, for we have much to do before the ball.”

  Aunt Adelaide called down from the gallery and Max saw she was wearing a cloth over her hair, like one of the hous
emaids. Whatever his intent, he did not expect his uncle’s wife to polish the musicians’ chairs, or whatever it was she was doing up there.

  “Aunt Adelaide!” he said, astonished and dismayed.

  Claire placed a steadying hand on his forearm. “She is sorting through the music in a cabinet there, some of which has not been touched since your parents’ day. It is not for a servant to handle.”

  “Aunt Adelaide is looking for music that might have been played on the night our parents met, in this very room,” Camille said wistfully. “Do you not think it would be a lovely remembrance?”

  It would. He had no idea where his parents met, or how, but somehow it did not surprise him that two young ladies with a rather marked romantic inclination could cozen that information out of his aunt. Camille looked radiant, hopeful, joyous. If the ghosts ever bothered her at all, it was clear she already shrugged them off.

  “Lord Wentworth,” said Claire, fully aware they had an audience. “We think it would be most appropriate for you to lead your sister out for the first dance.”

  “Are there not many young men who will be falling over themselves for such an honor? To dance with Lady Camille, that is, not with me,” Max said.

  Camille laughed out loud and the poor maid could scarcely contain herself. But Claire looked a bit severe.

  “It is your place to do so, Lord Wentworth. You are presenting your sister to London society. But even more, you are presenting yourself, and this lovely house that has been scarcely used in so many years.”

  “And what if I wish to dance with another?” Max asked, thinking how easy it was to tease her.

  On the other hand, she always had a well-turned retort.

  “There will be time enough for that,” she said softly. “If there are as many men as you say vying for a chance to dance with Lady Camille, the two of you might never have an opportunity to partner each other again.”