Calamity Claresta

by Irene Estep

  Maintaining his usual reserve, he barely nodded, making no comment one way or the other to Claresta’s question. Once he'd learned her destination, she could not get out of the house without him. Of course, if Nan hadn't been denouncing her mission so vehemently as they came below stairs, Shipley might never have known where they were going. As it was, the whole household seemed to have been aware of what Claresta had in mind to do. The small staff even followed them out onto the stoop, with varying degrees of anxiety marring their faces, until she assured them all would be well.

  "Innocent, my eye," Nan huffed. "No gentleman entertains a pretty young'un in a tavern without ulterior motives."

  Claresta looked around the room. She hadn't considered how few patrons would be about this early in the morning. The only marital candidate to be seen was the one trying to explain to the proprietor why he couldn't pay his tab. It was the same man who'd been entertaining the 'pretty young'un', as Nan had put it. "I came looking for a husband, Nan, not a gentleman," Claresta said.

  When the dark-haired man offered to flip for the meal with the proprietor's own coin, she thought the innkeeper would have apoplexy, his face grew so red.

  A gambler. Who else would be willing to take a chance on Calamity Claresta? She smiled hopefully and started forward.

  "Claresta Huntington, you stop right there!" Nan grabbed her arm. Her companion could be quite forceful when she set her mind to it. "I don't like the looks of that one, I tell you. The way he's carrying on, he's bound to be nothing but a rapscallion. From the looks of things, he is a freeloader to boot. And look at those clothes he's wearing. They don’t appear to have been tailored for his frame. Stolen right off some unsuspecting gentleman's back, most likely."

  Claresta bit her lower lip and tried to view the man in the same light as Nan did. He stood at least a head taller than the innkeeper. An intriguing strand of dark hair popped back over his forehead regardless of the numerous swipes he made at it with his wide palm. Dark circles etched half-moons beneath his eyes but hardly detracted from the rest of his handsome features. A hawk-like nose, high cheekbones and square jaw adorned his face with such masculine ease Claresta’s breath caught at the sight of the full view when his head swiveled in her direction.

  It was the barmaid he was looking at though. When the woman took his part, a rakish, lopsided grin lifted the corners of his firm lips. A ripple of butterflies danced inside Claresta's stomach--the result of skipping breakfast, she decided.

  The barmaid's entreaty made little impact on the innkeeper. He accused the gel of being loose in the haft, then he turned on the "scaff and raff" and told him he’d best come up with payment for his fare or the magistrate would be sent for straightway.

  Although the man's clothes did hang rather loosely, he still had a rather regal look about him, and his shoulders lifted in a commanding way as he argued his trustworthiness. His skin, though a bit drawn, looked well bronzed as though he'd spent a lot of time outdoors.

  A soldier or sailor perhaps. Neither of which would have much interest in the business world, Claresta deduced. Mayhap he was not so inarticulate as expected from one of the lower orders, for he presented a persuasive story about a pair of urchins picking his pockets. Although, the tavern owner still seemed unimpressed with the man's drawling speech.

  Claresta would hold her own judgment until she spoke to the man. She didn't care about looks, even if she did find him very pleasant to gaze upon. If clothes were what made a man, she could deck him out in the finest money could buy. Right now, he was in trouble, obviously without funds, and that could work well to her advantage.

  No matter Nan's objections, Claresta was determined to get her situation settled before the noon hour. She still had columns of figures to tally, merchandise to inventory, and a meeting with a buyer to attend.

  "He's perfect," she declared and marched across the room.

  Nan lifted her eyes toward heaven and gave a silent prayer, then followed helplessly. The only way she could restrain Claresta now would be to tie her down with a rope. Oh, but had she only thought to snatch the tassels off the bed hangings before leaving Gilbert House.

  Shipley trailed sedately after them.

  As Claresta approached the arguing pair she pulled her change purse from her reticule. "My dear, how fortunate I caught up with you so soon."

  The proprietor and Drake turned abruptly toward the feminine intrusion.

  "Here," the pretty woman said and pushed a small pouch at Drake. The article may conceivably have been taken as a masculine article had it not been made of pink silk and lace. He cast a quizzing glance from the purse to the lady. She, however, offered no explanation but bespoke a close acquaintanceship by saying sweetly, "Really, dear, you're not usually so careless. You went off this morning without your pocket change."

  Drake couldn't help starring at the female who clearly needed spectacles. But he duly noted the innkeeper suddenly changed from a screaming banshee to a grinning possum. Drake wasn't certain whether the man's brightened expression was achieved by the prospect of being paid, or from seeing a grown man who dared carry his money about in such a frilly geegaw.

  Drake knew his mouth was still hanging at half-mast, but he couldn't seem to come up with anything to counter the lady's claim without placing them both in a worse predicament than he already found himself. He had no choice but to go along with her ridiculous claim and accept the purse.

  As he did so, the older woman standing beside her snorted, and an imperceptible gleam flashed from the narrowed eyes of the tall, white-haired gentleman flanking her other side.

  "Pay the man, dear," the pretty urged. "We'll be late for our appointment if we don't hurry."

  Drake yanked open the purse and paid the man.

  CHAPTER TWO

  What sort of God-forsaken country had he stepped into? Drake wondered. Only here for two hours and already he'd been fleeced by children and rescued by a damsel who had cobwebs on the brain.

  He'd been left no choice but to step into the enclosed carriage with the two women, for the proprietor had followed and stood in front of the inn with his eyes trained on them until they drove away. Perhaps the befuddled man couldn't believe what had just happened any more than Drake could.

  The stoical old gent who accompanied the women had climbed atop the coach with the driver, leaving Drake feeling like a freak at a Raree Show under the steady stare of the pair of women seated across from him. The older one obviously had some sort of malady with her nose. She kept lifting it obtrusively and emitting a less than subtle sound.

  The young lady, although a trifle odd, seemed the essence of prim. Only a few wayward strands of hair the color of fading firelight were visible. The rest were tucked beneath her gray bonnet trimmed in ruching the palest of pink--possibly lavender, he realized upon closer examination--the same shade as that of the change purse and that which beribboned her reticule. Her dress of a somber gray hue held no adornment, except the black Norwich shawl that lay loosely across her shoulders.

  It was the amber eyes that radiated more warmth, more friendliness and maybe even a mite more spark than he would ever have expected from a lady of proper English upbringing. She hadn't stopped smiling at him since he first laid eyes on her. Which only proved his original theory that the lady was a trifle odd.

  However, he knew he ought to show his gratitude for her timely intervention. The tavern owner had been about to send for the magistrate when she stepped forward and gave him the purse to pay his tab. But thank yous were words that never came easy to the son of a tyrant.

  Lord Norwood cleared his throat and handed over the ridiculous feminine purse. "If you would not mind instructing your coachman to take me to my solicitor on Lombard Street, ma'am, I'll see that you're reimbursed for your troubles."

  The old lady snorted again, and the young one leaned forward and patted his hand condescendingly. "Do not trouble yourself so for it, sir. Once we have you settled into comfortable quarters, we'll discuss
repayment."

  To this the old lady said, "Rubbish. You might as well tell him what you want and be done with it."

  Drake frowned. How would he ever get on in a place where everyone talked in circles? "There's no need for that, ma'am--er, Miss--"

  "I believe introductions are in order," the young one said cheerfully. "My name is Miss Claresta Huntington and this is my third cousin and devoted companion, Miss Nancy Edwards."

  "Drake Lockwood, ma'am." He did the pretty as best he could in the confines of the squab seating with skirts flanking him on each side of his knees.

  "Why, you're an American, aren't you?" Claresta couldn't be happier. She had heard about the bumpkins and spendthrifts that abounded in the Colonies. Well, she understood it was called the United States of America now, but her grandpapa had never allowed any of his family to acknowledge that fact. Her lips curved in remembrance of the old reprobate. He would find it quite amusing how she intended to make use of a descendant of England's former nemesis.

  "As I was about to say, Miss Huntington, I have a room reserved at the Clarendon--"

  "The Clarendon?"

  "Yep," Drake said, wondering what he'd done to wipe that smile off her lovely face..

  "And you have a solicitor?"

  "A Mr. Denton on Lombard Street, ma'am."

  "Perhaps, sir," the older woman said, waving at his attire, "you should tell us how you came to such low circumstance."

  Drake felt heat rise along his neck. Suddenly conscious of his less than dapper appearance, he rubbed a hand over his bearded chin. Too weary to care before leaving the Black Eagle, he'd not shaved. His clothes looked as if he'd slept in them, which he recalled he had, and he knew after a quick glance in a mirror this morning that he still carried a rather gaunt look about him. He'd intended to check into the Clarendon and make himself more presentable before seeing the solicitor, but that couldn't be helped now.

  Not since the day Druscilla arrived at Oakcrest when he was little more than Charlie's age had Drake cause to be embarrassed by an unkempt appearance. He wasn't the sort to make excuses, however, nor did he feel he owed any now.

  "Driver, stop the carriage!" Then to the startle-faced young miss, he said, "I've imposed on your kindness long enough. If you will give me your address, ma'am, I shall send around a voucher."

  "You cannot leave--I mean . . ." Claresta tried to think of a way to detain him. Obviously, even derelicts had a proud streak. He seemed to want her to believe in his respectability. Perhaps if she allowed him to carry out his farce to the end, he'd be more susceptible to her offer when she made it. "I see no reason we should not see you to your destination. Lombard Street, you say?"

  Claresta relaxed when he eased back into his seat and nodded. His eyes narrowed on her, and she noted their breathtaking blue color.

  Drake was unable to avert his gaze. Her eyes, an unusual amber hue, reflected tiny yellow sparks when she smiled.

  They must have been perusing each other for some time, for the old lady leaned forward and slapped him on the wrist. Having effectively broken the mysterious spell, she sat back and made that disdainful sound with her nose again. "If someone doesn't instruct poor Waverly soon, I fear we'll be sitting here all day."

  "Waverly," Miss Huntington said, as a pretty pink flush crept up her neck, "set the carriage about to Lombard Street. A Mr. Denton's office, if you please."

  As they got underway, Drake found it impossible to avert his gaze from Miss Huntington. She was the vibrant sort one did not ignore easily. Her amber eyes glowed with tiny sparks of gold, and her lips were parted slightly with Mona Lisa secretiveness. What man could resist such a lovely picture?

  If he were enraptured, she seemed captivated, possibly out of a curiosity she was too polite to indulge. Her companion had questioned Drake’s lowered circumstance, but although, Miss Huntington must have a hundred questions about him, she kept them to herself. Or had she already made up her mind that he was nothing more than the scaff and raff the innkeeper had called him?

  Drake could think of no way to defend his appearance, or his financial setback, without making things worse. Tossing one’s accounts over the side of the Black Eagle for three weeks, and being outwitted by a pair of urchins could only make him sound like a infirm cluck. He looked forward to proving himself worthy of her regard. It was an effort he’d not had to make in a very long time. Taking visual measure of each other, they rode in silence until they reached Lombard.

  The companion’s snuffling announcement, "We're here," brought Drake out of his reverie.

  "I-I shall go with you." Miss Huntington snapped her fan open and waved it rapidly before her face. "Uh, the carriage is a bit confining, is it not?"

  "As you wish." Drake suspected her wish to accompany him was due to her worry he might not pay the debt he owed her. He reasoned that the English were a suspicious lot and remembered the incredulous look the innkeeper had given him when he’d promised to return later with money for his breakfast tab. Back home a man's word was his bond.

  When he asked if Miss Edwards wished to escape the confining coach, the lady snorted. Drake took that as a no and escorted Miss Huntington inside the brownstone building without her companion.

  They approached a bespectacled man sitting at the front desk, and Drake said for the first time with pride, "I'm the heir of Norwood, here to speak to Mr. John F. Denton."

  He reveled in the shocked gasp from Miss Huntington.

  "Lord Norwood. We've been expecting you for several . . ." The man's voice slowed as he lifted his wire-rimmed frames up his nose and eyed Drake with disbelief.

  Claresta didn't know which befuddled her most, the fact Drake Lockwood claimed to be a titled gentleman, or that the clerk staring at him with such scorn happened to be her father's former warehouse manager. She'd fired the man just over a year ago after he could not explain the discrepancies in the company ledgers. All forthcoming applicants for the position gave the same dire prophecy for the company that Baines had the day she'd discharged him and he’d stomped out of her library in a huff. She'd taken over the reins herself and proved them all wrong.

  "I had a bit of a delay. Rough weather, you know." Drake wasn't about to admit he'd been holed up on the Black Eagle for the previous day and night recovering from the ill effects of his sea voyage.

  He smiled down at Miss Huntington when she squeezed his arm. She said to the clerk, "Well, do not keep Lord Norwood waiting, sir."

  "Of course, er," the long-necked man squinted at her. "Miss Huntington. I thought I recognized you."

  "I should think so, Mr. Baines. A year hence you were in my father's employ. How fortunate for you to have found another clerking position."

  "'Tis temporary, I assure you," he said, clearly happy to relate his good fortune. "I'm eating my terms with the King's Counsel in the Court of Chancery. In a short time I shall be called to the bar and afterwards will enter partnership with Mr. Denton."

  "Well, one would wonder how one comes into such a fortunate circumstance." Claresta knew he understood her meaning when a ruddy cast lit his narrow cheekbones. She could not prove Baines had embezzled from Gilbert and Huntington, but she would lay a month's profit it were so.

  "Should I say his lordship is accompanied by his, er, fiancée?" Baines asked pungently.

  How humiliating, Claresta thought. The miscreant apparently knew of her current plight. No doubt she was being pointed out on street corners as the disparate ape-leader without the good sense to accept her fate.

  When Viscount Langley, her escort to Vauxhall last week, refused her proposal, she’d suddenly realized the most impoverished rake of London had been her last hope of finding a husband among the gentry.

  Now, if things didn't work out with the American, perhaps she would have to accept Westhaven’s proposal or lose all. She pulled her shawl about her shoulders to ward off the sudden chill that ran through her.

  Lord Norwood noticed a paleness seep into the young lady's lovely face. He
wondered if the clerk caused it. He caught the fellow peering over the thin wire rim of his spectacles and raking Miss Huntington with a gimlet eye. It was enough to tempt Drake to take a poke at Baines. And how did the lout jump to such ridiculous conclusions about the lady? Fiancée, indeed!

  Drake drew his six feet plus frame straight and glared down at the rude rascal. Even in his deteriorated condition, he stood a head taller and outweighed Baines by at least forty or fifty pounds. "You may say," Drake said, measuring the words in an even slower drawl than was normal, "the heir to Norwood Estates is here, and be quick about it. We don't have all day to dawdle."

  The lank fellow, perceiving the air of menace in the American's voice, nearly stumbled over his own feet in his haste to present Lord Norwood to his employer. Within moments he reappeared and said nervously, "R-right this way, my lord."

  Claresta began to have some doubts about the man she'd befriended. Could he really be the heir to an earldom that everyone in London knew had gone unclaimed for the past five years? If she were not so curious, she'd return to her carriage and renew her search for another marital prospect without delay.

  Denton rose hesitantly from his chair and circled his overflowing desk. A short man, quite round in the middle, he appeared rather frivolous wearing a black coat with a garish yellow waistcoat beneath. His cravat had been starched so stiffly the points stuck out like armor around his cheekbones. His dove gray stockings had large clock designs on them. He greeted Claresta with a negligible bow before extending his flaccid hand to Drake.

  Drake wasn't used to doing business with such fops, but he would withhold judgment of Denton’s abilities until he knew him better.

  "So glad you arrived safely, my lord," Denton said. "I did not know you had friends in London." His attention returning to Claresta he added, "We haven't met before, Miss Huntington, but your reputation has become quite well known in the, er, district."