Читать книгу The Captain's Courtship - Regina Scott - Страница 14

Chapter Six

Claire had barely finished the last touches on her toilette when the knocker sounded again. This time, Mrs. Corday beat her to it. Claire was still descending the stair when the cook opened the door. The white-haired woman stared a moment, then bobbed a curtsy.

“Goodness, Captain Everard, sir. I barely recognized you!”

Claire felt the same way. Richard’s reddish hair had been brushed nearly smooth and pomaded until it shined. His white cravat was spotless and elegantly tied. The black evening coat hugged his shoulders, just as the white satin breeches brushed his thighs. Gone were any vestiges of the eager boy she’d known. This was a gentleman born to command, accustomed to obedience.

But he could not expect hers. She raised her chin, determined not to be easily swayed.

“Even an old sea dog knows how to polish the brass before escorting an admiral, ma’am,” he told Mrs. Corday with a smile.

Claire reached the bottom step. “Hardly an admiral, sir.”

His gaze met hers, and the admiration in it nearly stopped her progress. His smile broadening, he offered her a bow. “My mistake. Clearly royalty.”

His tone was teasing, so she decided to take the statement as a compliment. “And dare I hope you managed some suitable conveyance as well?”

He stepped aside so she could see down to the street. “Will this do?”

Claire was at the door before she remembered moving. “Oh, Richard, she’s a beauty! Where did you find her?”

“She belongs to my cousin Vaughn,” he said, gazing down, with almost as much admiration as he’d shown her, at the sleek blue chariot and its pair of matching white horses. “It appears the Everards have a carriage after all. I’d offer to let you take the reins, but I wasn’t sure you’d want to arrive at the ball in that sort of style.”

And why was she so disappointed by that truth? She hadn’t driven her own carriage since she’d married. Winthrop had always insisted on either driving his phaeton himself or having their coachman drive the larger carriage. At first, she’d thought he was merely being a gentleman, but he’d been aghast the day she’d asked to try her hand at his sporty carriage.

“My wife will not be seen behind a team of horses like some farmworker.”

Even now the remembered contempt on his face cut her. She realized her hands were clenched at her sides and opened them. “Quite right,” she said to Richard. “I’ve outgrown such antics.”

For a moment, she thought she saw a disappointment matching her own flicker in his dark eyes. Then Mrs. Corday stepped forward with Claire’s black velvet evening cloak. “You’ll be needing this, your ladyship.”

“Allow me,” Richard said, and took the cloak from her to drape it over Claire’s shoulders. The brush of his hand against her cheek as he drew back was as soft as a caress.

Claire’s fingers trembled as she fastened the cloak at her neck. She looked up in time to see him erase a frown from his face. The amber cross seemed to press against her skin. But if he’d noticed it before the cape had covered it, he made no mention of the fact as he took her arm and escorted her down to the carriage.

Lord, now what do I say to him? she prayed, as they sat beside each other on the leather seats. No ideas popped into her head, but she was thankful that Richard seemed just as indisposed to talk, as he gazed out the windows at the lighted town houses they passed. She was also thankful the ride to the Widmores’ on Park Lane was mercifully quick, and the coachman was adept at maneuvering the chariot right up to the door.

Climbing out was always a gamble, and Claire prayed that her knee would oblige. But Richard stepped down first and fairly lifted her from the vehicle, his hands strong on her waist. She wasn’t surprised to find all her limbs trembling as he led her to the door.

The Widmore home was large, with a full ballroom on the second story. Soon Claire was in the receiving line with Richard, their cloaks taken by a strapping footman, the finest of London society around them. Music drifted from the ballroom beyond, flowing down the stairs. Already the murmur of voices threatened to drown it out, so numerous were the guests in their satins and velvets.

Claire wasn’t sure what to say about her escort to her friend Lavinia Devary, Lady Widmore, who stood with her husband and daughter outside the ballroom doors. All three were dressed in velvet, from the white of young Lady Imogene to the raisin-colored gown of her mother and the black coat of her father. As Claire and Richard approached, however, Lord Widmore spoke first. “Ah, Everard. I’m glad you sent that note about attending. You remember my dear wife and daughter?”

Richard bowed to the tall, slender, gray-haired woman standing on the lord’s left and the curvaceous young lady with short-cropped curls beside her. “Ladies, a pleasure. I believe you all know Lady Claire.”

Lady Widmore’s blue eyes widened, but Claire groaned inwardly. As the daughter of an earl, Claire was entitled to style herself by her first name, but as a married woman, even now widowed, she should be using her husband’s title. The Widmores had to know that, yet they murmured greetings like polite hosts, and only the marchioness’s look told Claire that her friend expected a full accounting soon.

This would never do. Claire and Richard would be a seven-days wonder before she even introduced the idea that Lord Everard had a secret daughter.

“We must talk,” Claire said to Richard, as he led her into the ballroom. Pale blue walls rose all around her, adorned by Grecian columns and potted palms in marble urns. Already the golden light from the twin crystal chandeliers was warming the air. She tugged on Richard’s arm, and he followed her to a set of gilded chairs along one wall.

“A problem so soon?” he asked.

Claire smiled to an elderly couple who were promenading past. “We must decide what to tell people about this situation with your cousin if we are to use the gossip to our advantage.”

He frowned. “What gossip?”

“The gossip that will start the moment everyone realizes that your brother did not assume the title.” Claire leaned back in her chair, spreading her skirts around her. “I planned my strategy for this ball, but I can see that your being here complicates matters.”

“Strategy?” he asked, but a man drew up beside them just then. She recognized Sir Geoffrey Plantier’s lanky frame and artfully tousled blond hair.

“Lady Winthrop!” he cried, fairly prancing in his dark evening clothes. “What a pleasure to see you! Dare I hope for the honor of a dance later?”

Claire knew what her response must be. “I regret that I am not quite out of mourning yet, Sir Geoffrey. But I’d be delighted to hear of your latest triumph on the Thames. Beat The Falcon by a full length, I hear.”

“If you don’t count the bow spit,” he agreed with an embarrassed smile, slender cheeks flushing. “I’ll return for you shortly, then.”

“The Falcon?” Richard asked, as the baronet toddled away.

“A rival yacht,” Claire assured him. “Sir Geoffrey was ecstatic about the win, according to The Times. Now, sir, our strategy. I came here tonight with an express purpose.”

His look darkened. “I surmised as much. Who is he?”

Claire frowned. “I have no idea what you’re talking about. Will you pay attention, please? We must make sure to meet as many people as possible and share the story of your cousin’s tragic circumstances.”

“Tragic circumstances? She just inherited a barony!”

Claire laid a hand on his arm. “And that will be enough to shock most people. Do you know how few lines can descend from a daughter, sir?” She released him. “Now then, I suggest we paint Samantha as an innocent, kept pure from the scandals your family so enjoys.”

She thought he might choke, his look was so choleric. “My uncle didn’t think of the consequences and didn’t seem to mind the scandal that resulted. I assure you, the rest of the family has more restraint.”

“Lady Winthrop!” The ton’s favorite dandy, Horace Hapheart, stood in front of them, hands on the hips of his pink-satin breeches. “What a surprise! We must have a nice, long coz!”

“We certainly must,” Claire agreed with a ready smile. “I’ll look for you at supper, shall I?”

He nodded so vigorously he nearly smashed his high, pointed collar. “Of a certainty! And I hear they’re serving those lobster puffs you so enjoy.”

“I shall look forward to sharing them with you, sir.” As he dashed off to meet another friend, white coattails flapping behind him, she turned to Richard, only to find that his frown had turned to a scowl. “Your family is not at all in the common way,” she told him, “and you know it. Your cousin Vaughn writes poetry that sets the town ablaze, and you were a privateer.”

“Claire!” Lord Peter Eustace seized both her hands and bowed over them, every line of coat and breeches perfection. “My word, but I’m glad to see you out and about again. Say you’ll partner me at whist. I so long to give Thurston and his set a drubbing like we did last year.”

“She’s taken,” Richard snapped, rising and glaring down at the fellow. Lord Eustace dropped Claire’s hands and scuttled away with a squeak of apology.

Claire patted the seat beside her. “And that is precisely why we must talk. You cannot go around pretending you own me. Like it or not, I am Lady Winthrop.”

“He called you Claire.”

He sounded like a little boy annoyed his older brother had been given a treat. “He is related to my late husband,” Claire explained, “and I’ve known him for years.”

“You’ve known me for years, too.”

“I knew you years ago. There’s a difference. And any number of people here will remember that tale if we give them cause. I prefer that they forget.”

“I haven’t.”

The words were soft and sad. Something inside her wanted to cry over the matter as well. But she couldn’t sit here, letting near strangers see her sob. Lord, lend me Your strength. She put on her polite smile.

“Be that as it may, Captain Everard, you have charged me with a task, and I intend to do it to the best of my ability. For now, I suggest you find some other lady and ask her to dance. Our hostess is bearing down on us, and I need to plant the seeds that will bring your cousin Samantha a rich harvest.”

She was afraid he’d argue, but one look at Lady Widmore’s determined face, and he stood and headed toward the opposite side of the room, for a group of older gentlemen who were, no doubt, discussing politics.

Lavinia dropped onto the chair he had vacated. She and Claire had met socially and, despite the differences in their ages, had taken to each other at once. “I cannot tarry, dearest,” she said now. “I have too many duties as hostess. Quickly, tell me all! Why are you here with Everard? I thought you loathed the fellow!”

“Nonsense,” Claire said with an airy wave, hoping to brush aside her past as easily. She went on to explain about Samantha. Lavinia was quickly in sympathy for the poor child, raised alone in the wilderness. So were any number of ladies with whom Claire shared the story as the night progressed. And of course, the gentlemen were ready to believe anything she said as she chatted and played whist and supped. Everything would have gone quite to her satisfaction, except for two gentlemen who did not behave as she expected.

The first was the Marquess of Widmore himself. Claire had known him through Winthrop, who had had visions of rising to a more prominent place in society. She’d wondered whether marriage to her might have been part of his plan. However, shortly before his death, her husband had refused to have anything to do with the marquess, saying that Widmore had odd notions for a nobleman. She wasn’t sure what that meant, given what her husband considered normal.

She’d been raised by a father with strict propriety, and she’d certainly grown up trying to please him. But nothing had prepared her for her husband’s lengthy list of requirements. Some she found easy to manage, like his desire for her to be a leader in fashion and a welcoming hostess. Others made her chafe. Lord Winthrop’s wife was not supposed to have an opinion, it seemed, on politics. She wasn’t even supposed to have an opinion on the opera or the latest book everyone was discussing, and certainly never an opinion that varied from his. Lord Winthrop’s wife, in short, was supposed to have the character and usefulness of a pretty porcelain vase. Small wonder she’d nearly shattered under the weight of her marriage.

Lord Widmore was a refreshing change. He always treated her with respect and raised topics of conversation as if assuming she had every right to take part in the discussion.

“You’re heading for Cumberland, I hear,” he said now, falling into step with her as she returned to the ballroom from the card room, where she had helped Lord Eustace trump Lord Thurston. “With Everard, no less.”

Claire nodded to a passing acquaintance. “A gentlemanly escort is useful when traversing the wilds.”

“Or navigating the ton,” the marquess acknowledged. “I should hate to see your generous nature put to the test.”

Claire smiled at him. “Thank you for your concern, my lord, but I’m certain I will be fine.”

“They are Everards, you know.” When she looked him askance, he merely shrugged. “Much as I enjoyed Lord Everard’s company, I know some consider his family a bit on the scandalous side. And there is, of course, the question about the girl’s paternity.”

Claire motioned him aside, closer to the pale blue wall and away from any other guests. “My lord, surely you don’t malign an innocent child.”

His eyes searched hers, as if trying to gauge her inner strength. “It is not her innocence that concerns me. There are issues here you cannot know, secrets the Everards are hiding from you. Are you certain you wish to associate yourself with that group?”

Secrets? Issues? Had Richard withheld information to gain her trust? Oh, those doubts were too easy to blossom, yet she could not risk all she’d tried to accomplish by giving in to them, especially not in front of the marquess, of all people.

“I am an old friend of the family,” she said dutifully. “It’s my pleasure to sponsor Lady Everard for her Season.”

He looked less mollified than anyone to whom she had peddled the tale. “Then you are intent on helping them.”

“Quite.”

He surprised her by laying a hand on her arm, his long face serious. “If you need anything, if the girl needs anything, let me know. I can do that much for her father.”

Claire swallowed as he withdrew his touch. “Thank you, my lord.” She very nearly let him go, then realized she did need help, in one area. “There is something, a triviality.”

His face was still as serious. “Name it.”

“I want Monsieur Chevalier to teach her dancing. I believe your daughter benefited from his instruction.”

He smiled then, as if he’d found the answer to his concerns. “Indeed she did. I’m sure I can offer incentive to send the fellow to you. Consider the matter settled.”

The other gentleman, however, was not so easily appeased. Everywhere she went, whatever she was doing, Richard was watching. Her husband had always abandoned her the moment he could, preferring the card room or the company of his friends to hers. But tonight she was constantly aware that Richard stood nearby, never interrupting, never threatening, but always ready to do her a service. If he was hiding some dark secret, he didn’t show it. His smile remained pleasant, his carriage confident.

He was the one who brought her a fan when the room proved heated. He was the one who found her and Horace Hapheart a table in the crowded supper room. And he was the one who sat at her side when she plopped down on a chair near the end of the night, exhausted.

“Ready to leave?” he asked.

Claire nodded with a sigh. “My task is accomplished.”

“Is it?” He cocked his head. “I thought you had one more duty tonight—to dance with me.”

Dread fell like a rock into her stomach, but she kept her smile in place. “But you haven’t danced all evening.”

His mouth turned up on one corner, as if he was pleased at the thought that she might have been watching him as well. “Perhaps I was waiting for the most beautiful woman in the room.”

Claire made a show of glancing about. “Ah, I believe you are in luck. Lady Imogene is just releasing her current partner, and no one else has rushed forward yet, for once.”

“Lady Imogene can dance with a monkey for all I care,” he said with charming conviction. “Partner me, Claire.”

She couldn’t. Oh, she couldn’t! She’d longed to dance, to move with the music, to smile at her partner across the way in the pure joy of the moment. But she didn’t dare trust herself, especially with Richard.

“I regret that I do not feel it proper for a lady in mourning to dance,” she told him.

His smile was melting into a frown. “And aren’t you planning to give up mourning when we return to London?”

“For your cousin’s sake, certainly. I can’t go about looking like an old crow if I’m sponsoring her.”

“You don’t even resemble a young crow,” Richard said. “I’ve been patient. One dance is not too much to ask, madam.”

Her mouth was dry. Father, please! Make him give this up. You know why I can’t dance. Guilt poked at her for fending him off. “Unfortunately, I am quite fatigued. Will you be a dear and call for the carriage?”

He rose, and she nearly sighed with relief. But his puzzled look down at her told her he wasn’t satisfied by her answer. “Very well, Lady Winthrop, I’ll strike my colors and fetch you the carriage. But you’re hiding something, and we have three long days ahead of us for me to discover what that might be. I only hope I can convince you to trust me enough to tell me the truth.”