Читать книгу Highland Rogue - Deborah Hale, Deborah Hale - Страница 6

London, 1875

“My stepmother? Oh, bother!” Claire Brancaster Talbot glanced up from her desk, where she sat reviewing some correspondence from the Admiralty.

To the best of her recollection, Lady Lydiard had never before set foot over the threshold of Brancasters’ business office on the Strand. “Did she say what she wants to see me about, Catch-pole?”

The sudden advent of Lady Lydiard appeared to have flustered the hitherto imperturbable Mr. Catchpole. Claire had long suspected her fussy, middle-aged secretary of entertaining a secret reverence for persons of title.

“Her ladyship did not vouch that information, miss.” Catchpole removed his pince-nez, then immediately replaced it. “Should I have made so bold as to inquire?”

“I would scarcely call it bold to ask a caller’s business.” Claire stifled a sigh as she laid aside her paperwork. “However, I doubt her ladyship will keep me in suspense about what she wants. Show her in.”

Rising from her seat, Claire smoothed down the skirt of her checked silk frock, hoping her stepmother would not fuss about the paucity of her crinolines or the complete absence of a corset. Not that Claire’s angular figure truly required the latter to achieve a slender waist. Corsets did help create the illusion of bosoms, but she could happily do without those in the business world.

The door to her office opened and Lady Lydiard cruised in under full sail, her middle-aged waist cinched so tightly Claire marveled the woman could breathe, let alone sit or eat.

Mr. Catchpole trailed behind her ladyship with an unctuous smirk on his face that made Claire want to shake some sense into him. “Lady Lydiard to see you, Miss Brancaster Talbot. Shall I bring tea for you ladies?”

“One name will do, thank you, Catchpole,” said Claire.

Adopting the name of her mother’s family when she’d taken over Brancasters had been an edict of her grandfather’s will. Though she signed both names on business correspondence, she found the pair too cumbersome for social use.

“And don’t bother about tea,” she added, without consulting her stepmother. “I doubt this is a social call.”

Whatever the purpose of Lady Lydiard’s visit, Claire had no wish to prolong it.

“Very good, miss.” Catchpole made a deep bow and backed out of the office.

His obsequious withdrawal was lost on Lady Lydiard, who swept a glance around Claire’s spartan but spacious office, her nose wrinkled slightly as though she could detect the unpleasant odor of trade. “So this is where you spend all your time?”

“Not all of it.” Claire turned to look out her office window, onto the bustle of London’s commercial district. “Just enough to keep your shares from losing their value, and to grow the fortune your grandchildren will inherit one day.”

Lady Lydiard gave a choked little gasp that made Claire repent her veiled threat. For the sake of her dear half sister, she had resolved to improve the cool relations with her stepmother, at least until after Tessa’s wedding.

When she turned back to offer some sort of apology, she found Lady Lydiard with a handkerchief pressed to her quivering lower lip. Claire’s heart sank even as her exasperation rose. It was not fair that a woman she’d never cared pins about could provoke her emotions to such an unpleasant degree.

“Th-that’s what I came to see you about!” Her ladyship promptly burst into tears, much to Claire’s chagrin and impatience.

She had a wholesome horror of the tearful outbursts to which Lady Lydiard was prone.

“Why don’t you…have a seat?” Claire struggled to think what she’d said that could be the reason for her stepmother’s call…or her sudden fit of weeping.

Money trouble? It couldn’t be. Whatever her differences with the woman, Claire had to admit Lady Lydiard lived comfortably within her generous allowance.

“Shall I summon Mr. Catchpole back and tell him we’ll take tea, after all?” she asked, with a hint of desperation in her voice.

She found the ritual of tea drinking often provided a distraction in awkward social situations. This one certainly qualified.

“No tea.” Lady Lydiard made a visible effort to collect herself as she settled onto the chair in front of Claire’s desk. “I don’t wish to keep you long from…whatever it is you do.”

Claire bit back a sharp retort. The work she did for Brancasters Marine Works was at least as important as whatever most women of her class undertook to occupy their time.

“I need your help!” The words burst out of Lady Lydiard like a guilty confession. “It’s Tessa. She’s having second thoughts about marrying Spencer!”

Was that all? Claire gave a chuckle of relief as she resumed her seat behind the desk.

“Tessa is having twenty-second thoughts about marrying poor Spencer. It’s apt to get worse as their wedding day approaches, I warn you. But she will go through with it, all the same. He’s just the steady sort of fellow she needs, bless him. Beneath all her qualms, Tessa knows it, too, I suspect.”

It didn’t hurt matters a whit, in Claire’s opinion, that the match made marvelous business sense, as well. Spencer Stanton’s family owned a large shipping company that was one of Brancasters’ best customers. Besides, Tessa had long passed her debutante days. Her “free-spirited” ways had frightened off less steadfast suitors years ago.

“This is different!” Lady Lydiard insisted. “There’s another man she’s taken a violent fancy to. From…America.” She spoke the word as if it were some sort of profanity. “Gillis is his name…or is it Getty? No matter. I feel certain he’s a fortune hunter of some kind.”

The tension that had begun to ease out of Claire’s body now made her muscles clench tighter than ever.

She would never forget her father’s words to her one painful night, ten years ago. My dear, you are too wealthy, too clever and too plain for any man to wed, except for your fortune.

She hadn’t wanted to believe him. What girl her age would? The suitors who’d pursued her over the years had convinced her that her father’s harsh assessment was correct.

So she’d packed away her few, modest romantic illusions, along with the wistful yearning for a family. Over the years, she had given Brancasters all the time and devoted attention she might have lavished on a husband and children. In turn, the company had rewarded her dedication with growth and prosperity.

Damned if she would let it fall prey to that most loathsome of creatures—a fortune hunter! Especially one trying to sneak in the back door using her half sister.

“I’ll talk to Tessa.” Claire spoke in a tone of grave finality, as if her intervention was bound to settle everything.

This would not be the first time she’d provided the voice of calm reason to counter her sister’s capricious impulses. Tessa was always grateful afterward. Sometimes she seemed strangely anxious for Claire to bring her back to earth, even while she was in the grip of some dizzying new enthusiasm.

“I have talked to her.” Lady Lydiard wrung her handkerchief. “It’s no use. She won’t listen. She’s smitten with this creature, I tell you. Thank heaven Spencer is out of town on business. He’s been terribly patient with her all these years, but I fear this might be the last straw.”

Claire wasn’t so sure. Tessa’s fancies never lasted long. The hotter the flame, the more quickly it tended to burn itself out. Still, with so much at stake for Brancasters, she could not afford to take any chances.

Resting her forefinger against her lower lip for a moment, Claire pondered the most effective course of action.

“I should like to meet this man for myself,” she said at last. “In the meantime I’ll make some inquiries about him, and we can proceed from there.”

Lady Lydiard gave a final sniff, but otherwise seemed to brighten considerably. “Thank you, Claire. You’ve always been such a sensible, detached sort of person. Almost as good as talking to a man, really.”

“Thank you…” murmured Claire. “…I suppose.”

“Lord and Lady Fortescue are hosting a ball this evening,” Lady Lydiard said. “I feel certain he will be there. The scoundrel’s gotten himself invited to every social event Tessa has attended for the past fortnight. And what with Sylvia Fortescue being an American…”

Claire nodded. Marriages of indebted British noblemen to American heiresses had become something of an epidemic of late.

She thought for a moment. “I do believe I received an invitation from Lady Fortescue. Since I didn’t send my regrets, I suppose I am at liberty to attend if I wish, with a suitable escort.”

“You never bother to send your regrets.” Lady Lydiard clucked her tongue over such social negligence. “Then you fail to arrive, putting out the table of any hostess foolish enough to expect you. And what manner of suitable escort are you planning to bring?”

“A private agent, if you must know. I’ve used him before, to procure information. He’s proven himself extremely discreet and reliable. I’d like him to get a close look at this new admirer of Tessa’s.”

Claire pulled open the top drawer of her desk and swept the Admiralty papers into it. There would be no more time for regular business today, if she was to contact Mr. Hutt and secure his services, then get herself suitably gowned and groomed for the Fortescues’ ball.

There was no help for it, though. Thwarting the aims of this fortune hunter might prove as vital to the continued prosperity of Brancasters as any navy contract. Besides, Claire felt a duty to protect Tessa from her own foolishness.

Dancing had already begun by the time Claire and her escort arrived at the Fortescues’ Grosvenor Square town house that evening.

“Miss Talbot, what a pleasant surprise.” Lady Fortescue did not look or sound pleased. “Lady Lydiard sent word that you might be able to come tonight, after all.”

“That was good of her.” Claire returned her hostess’s brittle, insincere smile with one of her own. “May I present my escort? Mr. Obadiah Hutt, a business associate of mine.”

Lady Fortescue gave a cool but gracious welcome to Mr. Hutt, who looked surprisingly distinguished in evening clothes. Claire wondered if their hostess would have been quite as hospitable if she’d known the precise nature of their association.

Once they were out of earshot of Lady Fortescue, Mr. Hutt leaned toward Claire and murmured, “I’ll just go have a look ’round, and a listen, if that suits you, miss?”

“By all means.” Claire swept a quick glance around the ballroom, but saw no sign of Tessa or Lady Lydiard. “I always approve of people getting on with the job they’re being paid to do.”

Her agent cast a professional eye over the other guests. “If this fellow’s been showing up frequently in society the past week or two, someone’s bound to know something about him.”

The more information Mr. Hutt could uncover, the better, even if it was not especially incriminating, thought Claire as he slipped away to begin his work. Tessa was apt to be attracted by a mystery.

“Why, Miss Talbot!” A familiar, velvety masculine voice rang out behind her. “Is that truly you, or have I had too much to drink already?”

She turned to find Major Maxwell Hamilton-Smythe watching her. As always, he looked impeccably tailored in his dress uniform. And as always, he had a glass in his hand and a roguish gleam in his eye.

In spite of herself, Claire returned his smile. “Nobody who knows you would discount the latter possibility, my dear Max.”

The man was a snake. Claire had decided that long ago, when he’d pursued her so relentlessly. But he was the most handsome snake she’d ever set eyes on. There had been a time, when she was younger and not yet reconciled to a lifetime of spinsterhood, when Max Hamilton-Smythe had made her question whether buying a husband would be so terrible, provided she knew that’s what she was doing, and she got good value for her money.

“As a matter of fact,” she added with mock gravity, “I am a look-alike Miss Talbot has employed to stand in for her at dreary social gatherings she cannot otherwise avoid.”

The wry jest had barely left Claire’s lips when all thought of levity abruptly deserted her. What if Max was Tessa’s fortune hunter?

With a giddy surge of relief, she remembered that Tessa’s suitor was an American. Besides, Max had recently married some poor creature whose fortune exceeded both her beauty and her good sense.

Max bolted the last of his drink, then handed the empty glass to a passing footman. “Well, whoever you are, will you do me the honor of a dance?” He offered Claire his arm. “For old times’ sake?”

“I’m not certain old times merit it.” She took his arm just the same, and let him lead her to the dance floor. “Besides, shouldn’t you be squiring your wife this evening?”

“She’s not here.” Max gave a cheerful shrug, as though her absence did not trouble him vastly. “Indisposed, the poor darling.”

As Max whirled her around the ballroom, Claire tried to decide whether she pitied Mrs. Hamilton-Smythe her husband’s callous neglect more than she envied the woman for being with child.

After two waltzes and a further exchange of good-natured barbs, Claire took her leave of the major, more convinced than ever that she’d been wise to keep out of his attractive clutches.

“It’s been amusing to see you again, Max. But I mustn’t keep you from your mission to deplete Lord and Lady Fortescue’s wine cellar. Do tell your wife I hope she’s feeling better soon.”

“About my wife…” Max maneuvred Claire into a corner near the musicians’ dias and lowered his voice. “Just because I’m married now doesn’t mean you and I couldn’t—”

“It most certainly does, Max, you reptile.”

He gazed at her as if the word were some kind of endearment, and added in a coaxing murmur, “Barbara and I have an understanding.”

“Ah.” Claire fought the urge to slap his face. “Then perhaps you and I should have one, as well.”

Max’s sea-green eyes glittered with lust…or perhaps it was avarice. Claire had never succeeded in telling the two apart.

“I understand that you are as monstrous a cad as ever.” By the tone of her voice, anyone overhearing them might have thought she was paying him a compliment. “And you understand that I would not dally with you if you were the last man on earth. Now, do we understand one another?”

If she’d hoped to goad the major into losing his temper, Claire would have been disappointed.

Instead, he clucked his tongue at her while looking intolerably smug. “I promise, you don’t know what you’re missing. If you ever change your mind, you know where to find me.”

On the underside of a rock!

Claire turned away from Max, intending to toss the insult over her shoulder.

Instead, she found her slippers glued to the floor as she watched Tessa waltz past in the arms of a man.

Tessa’s partner was not quite as tall as the major, and most women might have deemed him not half so handsome. But Claire could not take her eyes off him, for he danced the way he walked, with a jaunty, athletic grace that made people turn and stare whenever he passed.

His hair, a rich dark brown, clung to his head in crisp, close-cropped locks. He had a high-bridged, aquiline nose and a wide, bowed mouth that managed to suggest both good humor and unswerving determination. Alert, roving gray eyes nestled beneath forceful dark brows. For the moment, they fastened on Tessa with an intensity that took Claire’s breath away.

“Miss Talbot?”

“Go away, Max!” she snapped. “I don’t want you for a lover any more than I wanted you for a husband.”

“Begging your pardon, Miss Talbot, it’s only me—Hutt.”

A searing blush suffused Claire’s face as she turned toward the agent. For an instant, she forgot about Tessa and her partner. “I’m sorry, Mr. Hutt! I thought you were…someone else.”

“No harm done, miss.” Not even the faintest suggestion of a smirk twitched at the corner of the agent’s thin lips.

Once again, Claire congratulated herself on having secured his services.

“My inquiries have yielded some information about the gentleman, Miss Talbot.” Though he’d succeeded in hiding his amusement over her gaffe, Mr. Hutt could not conceal his satisfaction over his own quick work. “I thought you’d want to know straightaway.”

Tessa’s fortune hunter!

Claire spun around again, her gaze combing the room in search of him.

Behind her, Obadiah Hutt began to rattle off his report in an eager voice. “I have discovered the gentleman’s name, miss. And I’ve discovered he is not an American, as Lady Lydiard supposed.”

Not an American. No.

From across the ballroom his voice drifted, mellow and musical, with the distinctive lilting burr of the Highland glens. Claire steeled herself to resist its enchantment, but failed.

When Mr. Hutt began to speak again, she held up her hand for silence.

“But, miss, don’t you want to hear the gentleman’s name?”

Across the ballroom, Ewan Geddes glanced up and caught her watching him. For an instant, puzzlement knit his full dark brows together.

Then it cleared.

His bow mouth stretched into a wide, devilish grin, and he winked at her.

“I know his name, Mr. Hutt.” The hand Claire had held aloft balled into a tight fist, as did the one by her side. “Furthermore, I know he is no gentleman.”