Читать книгу The Wallflowers To Wives Collection - Bronwyn Scott - Страница 20

Chapter Eleven

Jonathon rose the instant she entered the room and came to her, his hands gripping hers, his face tight, devoid of his usual smile. She searched his face for a clue. Something had happened if he’d made the effort to follow her here.

‘Claire, I apologise for the intrusion, but I must speak with you right away.’ She felt the hard pressure of his hands where they covered hers. Her mind slowed down over that one thought, repeating the idea once more: Something had happened and when it had, he’d come to her. Another sort of woman might have taken a vindictive sort of pleasure in knowing that he’d rushed to her and not to Cecilia. But Claire was far more concerned about Jonathon to spare thought for a petty girlish rivalry.

He glanced towards the door, indicating he’d rather not talk here. She understood at once. He wanted privacy. ‘We can walk in the key garden just across the square.’

* * *

Claire was all efficiency, calling for her maid and her pelisse. Within moments she and Jonathon were out of the house. The key garden was quiet, frequented only by nannies and prams and a few small children who were too busy to notice them. ‘Now, tell me what’s happened.’

‘We have to step up the French lessons. I have to get my fluency back faster.’ Get it back? That was an odd word. She’d been unaware he had any fluency to ‘get back’.

‘All right.’ Claire hoped she sounded patient, sounded calm. Her mind was reeling with questions. What had sparked such urgency? She assumed it must be the Vienna position. ‘We can meet twice a day or for a longer period of time.’ The idea that the Vienna position had been moved up would also mean her time with Jonathon had been shortened as well.

‘No, that’s not enough,’ Jonathon said hastily, his own impatience showing in the roughness of his tone. ‘I think I need a more immersive experience,’ Jonathon argued.

She knew what he meant, but it would be more difficult to arrange. Claire nodded. ‘I’ve been thinking about that, too, only I had thought to wait just a bit longer. But you’re right. You need to be able to speak French without the safety net of English in order to truly test how much you can do. There are eating houses in Soho that are French and other small businesses that cater to the expatriates. We should go there.’ There was an entire French émigré society living in London. They could make use of that, but he still hadn’t told her why.

‘Yes, we could go to a restaurant or two, a bookshop perhaps.’ Jonathon paused, perhaps realising the implications. A man could go anywhere he liked any day of the week, but a woman had limitations. Gently bred girls seldom left Mayfair. ‘Would you be able to get away?’

She ought to say no. It wasn’t just the getting away part that created difficulties. What he proposed was more than slightly scandalous, especially if she did it without her maid in tow. Unmarried women weren’t allowed alone in a room at home with an unmarried man without a door wide open or chaperon present. To go out in public was, well, frankly unheard of, but she found herself saying, ‘I can manage something.’

Already, plans started to form in her head. It would be easy enough to tell her parents she was going to one of her friends.

‘Good. We can go tomorrow. I’ll come for lessons as usual and we can plan then.’ Jonathon smiled, looking relieved. ‘Thank you, Claire.’

They had made a complete circuit of the garden and had reached the gate. He opened the gate for her and gestured she should go through, but Claire held back. If she left the garden she might not get the answers she wanted. ‘You still haven’t told me why. Where has all the sudden urgency come from?’

He hesitated just a fraction. ‘I may have need of it sooner than expected.’

‘Has the Vienna post been decided then?’ She pushed forward her earlier hypothesis. There were people behind them now, waiting to exit.

‘Something like that,’ Jonathon muttered. It wasn’t an answer, but it was the best she was going to get, a reminder perhaps that while he’d been willing to run to her in his time of need, he wasn’t ready yet to fully confide in her. A reminder, too, that the man she saw in London’s ballrooms was far more than the sum of his smile. Jonathon Lashley was a man with secrets.

They walked the short distance to Evie’s in silence, their time taken up with the effort to cross the street, avoiding mud from last night’s rain and late-afternoon carriages. Too soon, it was time to let him go. It wasn’t until he’d driven away that she realised his tactic of omission had worked in another sense as well, although perhaps unintentionally so. Her mind had been so focused on what he wasn’t telling her, she’d not realised the one thing she thought they would talk about hadn’t been addressed at all. He hadn’t mentioned the kiss once. Claire supposed she ought to be glad. After all, what was there to discuss? But it was still lowering to realise it had been so inconsequential as to not merit comment. Surely, if the kiss had meant something, if it had been intended to alter the nature of their relationship, he would have addressed it? By not mentioning it, they were politely, tacitly, admitting it was a mistake that ought to be put behind them. At least it seemed that Jonathon certainly had. She might have to settle for being Jonathon’s friend, as hard as that might be.

* * *

No one would ever mistake Cecilia Northam for a soft woman. She made sure of it. She was beautiful the way a diamond was beautiful: multi-faceted, sparkling, a dazzling treat to the eyes that came with sharp edges. She was not afraid to cut with words or actions. A lady had to know how to defend herself among the ton. It was an important skill to hone as a debutante as much as the art of flirting or dancing. Some day, the successful flirt would have a husband to defend against the cats of the ton and later children to launch. The fight to protect and to establish would be a successful lady’s lifelong career. Every other woman posed a threat to that success unless they were taken down.

The bloodthirstiness of Cecilia Northam’s outlook would definitely have surprised the girls seated around her as she tried on her new ball gown for a final fitting at the dressmaker. Cecilia took a twirl, liking the feel of the skirt against her ankles. ‘What do you think?’

‘I think it will be just the thing to bring Lashley back to your side.’ One of the girls, Anne, fanned herself languidly as if she hadn’t let drop a juicy piece of news. A few others held their breaths and shot Anne a warning look. Cecilia looked at the girls’ responses and knew she had to address the issue immediately. This was touchy ground indeed if they were trying to censor Anne.

She stepped down from the dressmaker’s dais and faced the offender. ‘I was unaware Lashley had to be brought back,’ she said coolly. Of course that was a lie. Lashley’s behaviour had been somewhat troublesome this past week. In a Season comprised of three months, where matches were made in a matter of weeks, a week of erratic behaviour was worrisome indeed. It was hardly something she talked about though. However, hearing the words made the concern real. She was on the verge of reeling Lashley in. She didn’t need anyone smelling blood here at the last.

‘He’s dancing with Claire Welton out of the blue.’ Anne didn’t back down. ‘It seems odd to me that he’s had years to dance with her and hasn’t. But now...’ Her voice trailed off in implication.

Cecilia narrowed her eyes. Was that all? She would enjoy taking Anne down. ‘Claire Welton is nothing. He danced with her out of pity. He’s friends with the brother of one of her friends. It was probably arranged.’ She paused. ‘I forgot you weren’t with us that night, Anne.’

‘Perhaps dancing with her once might be explained as friendly charity, but twice?’ Anne tossed her dark hair with a competitive smirk. ‘They did more than dance at the Rosedale ball last night. He took her out to the garden.’ She paused. ‘Oh, I forgot, you weren’t there,’ she mimicked.

‘Fresh air is not a marriage proposal,’ Cecilia replied in her most unconcerned tone. ‘Heavens, Anne, you’re such a prude. A gentleman and a lady can walk in a garden without it meaning something. Didn’t Viscount Downing take you out to the garden last week?’ The others laughed nervously. Good. She was putting the rebellion down.

‘And kissing?’ Anne shot back with feigned innocence. ‘I suppose that’s of no consequence either?’

Cecilia shot her a thunderous look, but Anne was unrepentant.

‘Don’t kill the messenger, Cece. I’m just telling you what I saw.’

Cecilia relented. She was smart enough to know she couldn’t fight a war on two fronts. Maybe Anne meant well and maybe she meant something more predatory with her remarks, but that would have to wait. The immediate concern was Claire Welton. Anne posed no threat to Lashley, but apparently Claire did—that blue-stocking mouse who’d come out of nowhere this Season with her new dresses. She’d guessed there was a man involved when she’d first seen the gowns. But she’d never guessed those attentions were for Lashley. Claire Welton overstepped herself when she knew Lashley belonged to her. Nor had Cecilia guessed Lashley might be so easily swayed from her side.

She stepped back on to the dais, taking a final spin in the pale ice-pink silk. Anne was right about one thing. This was the perfect gown for getting Lashley back. It was time to defend what was hers. Better yet, it was time to claim it. ‘I think,’ she said out loud to the girls. ‘It is time for Lashley to come up to scratch.’ She would compromise him to the altar if she had to. She was going to be the future Countess Oakdale. Claire Welton and her four languages were not going to stand in her way.