The Captain's Courtship

by Regina Scott

  He needed her? She gazed up at him. In the darkness, he was only a tall shape, yet memory painted in his warm grin, his dreamy eyes. Oh, how she wanted to be truly needed, a helpmate instead of an ornament to be trotted out to impress, but forgotten or abused otherwise. Yet, would it be any different with him? Wasn’t she even now just a means to an end?

  “Claire?” he asked. “What is it? I told you—we have matters in hand. I’ve commissioned a Bow Street Runner to look into things in London. He may already have found Todd.”

  “So you think it’s safe here?” she asked, wrapping her arms about her waist.

  He reached out and touched her cheek, and the sweetness of it made her catch her breath. “No harm will come to Samantha,” he said softly. “Or you. I promise.”

  She had more she needed to say to him, to determine why he was so intent on having Samantha go to London this year. But he was standing so close, his breath caressing the hair at her temple, and she found herself longing to lean against him, let his arms come around her, sheltering her. Instead, she took a step back.

  “I shall hold you to that promise, Captain Everard. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I should check on your cousin before retiring.”

  His hand fell, and Claire turned for the stairs.

  “Good night, Claire,” he called. “Pleasant dreams.”

  Dreams? Once he’d embodied her dreams of the future. Now she didn’t know what to think. For, no matter his promise, she was very much afraid she was in danger at Dallsten Manor—in danger of losing her heart.

  Chapter Twelve

  Richard knew exactly what it took to prepare his ship to sail, from inspecting every line to securing his cargo and supplies safely in the hold. He had a far hazier idea of what it would take to prepare Samantha to go to London, so he was a little surprised to find the house in turmoil when he returned from his morning ride the next day.

  “An inventory she wants,” Mrs. Linton complained to him, catching him as he passed the kitchen from the stable yard. “Of the linen, of the china and cutlery. When am I to find time for that? We’re already running short staffed!”

  Richard didn’t have to ask who “she” was. Samantha would hardly have ordered an inventory, and Mrs. Dallsten Walcott likely knew every item in the house, down to the last brass tack. “Have the maids make a list,” he ordered the housekeeper.

  She drew herself up, which only brought her snowy head to his breastbone. “And since when could either Maisy or Daisy read or write? Besides, she has them busy with packing.”

  “I’ll speak to her,” Richard promised, and managed to escape the outraged housekeeper.

  After changing from his riding clothes to a green coat and tan breeches, he tracked Claire down to the withdrawing room. He’d expected to see her with an apron around her, perhaps a baton in hand, directing her unwilling minions.

  But Claire did not appear to be busy packing. She seemed to be presiding over tea. Her dress, though black, had enough lace at the throat and cuffs and flounces at the hem to make her look like a member of the royal family. And the silver-edged saucer didn’t so much as tremble as she handed it and the attendant teacup to the fellow seated across from her.

  Mr. Toby Giles had attempted to dress like a gentleman, with a brown double-breasted coast and fawn breeches. His cravat, however, was already wilting, a cowlick at the back of his head was making a piece of his carrot-colored hair stand at attention, and he squirmed in the little gilded chair as if he were a boy brought before a tutor for a scold.

  Richard thought Vaughn’s presence might have something to do with the lad’s discomfort. Though his chair near Claire’s was just as hard, Richard knew from experience, Vaughn managed to appear as if he were lounging. His lean legs stretched across the rose-patterned carpet; his teacup was perfectly balanced in front of his crimson coat. And his smile was far too satisfied.

  Claire must have noticed Richard in the doorway, for she smiled in his direction. “There you are, Captain Everard. Come greet our guest.”

  Richard inclined his head in her direction, then moved into the room. “Giles. Good to see you again.”

  Toby leaped to his feet with a clatter of his cup against the saucer. “Captain Everard, sir. Good day.”

  Richard waved him back into his seat and pulled up a chair next to his cousin. Vaughn tipped up his chin in greeting.

  “Tea?” Claire asked Richard, as Toby managed to sit without spilling his.

  Richard declined, and her hand fell gracefully into her lap. Like everything else about Claire, her fingers were elegant, almost fragile looking. Yet he knew how impressively they could play the piano, how easily they could direct a gelding and how softly they could caress his cheek.

  Perhaps he needed that tea after all. His mouth felt oddly dry all of a sudden.

  Before he could ask for a cup, Samantha hurried into the room, creamy muslin gown fluttering about her ankles. The damp curl escaping her hair band told of a recent encounter with the washbasin. Toby scrambled to his feet again, sloshing tea on the carpet. Vaughn rose more languidly, and Richard stood, as custom required.

  She made a respectful curtsy to Claire, then went to take a seat on the settee next to her. Toby plunked down on the chair and moved one boot to cover the stain on the carpet.

  “Forgive me for usurping your place, dear,” Claire said smoothly to Samantha, taking up her own cup. “Mr. Giles is here to see you, after all.” She busied herself with drinking the tea.

  Samantha’s gaze darted around the room, from Claire to Vaughn to Richard and Toby. She visibly swallowed. “Yes, well, good day, to—Mr. Giles.”

  Toby waited, clearly hoping she might say something further that would help him conjure up the appropriate reply. Samantha merely clasped her hands tightly in her lap.

  “Good day, Sam—Lady Everard,” he finally returned.

  “Scintillating conversation,” Vaughn drawled. “Sure you don’t want to jump in, Captain?”

  Toby turned redder than his hair.

  Claire must have taken pity on the lad, for she aimed her smile in his direction. “You mustn’t mind Mr. Everard, Mr. Giles. He has a great deal on his mind, as he’ll be heading for London shortly.”

  Toby grinned, gaze turned to Vaughn. “Leaving for London, eh? That’s good news.”

  “Lovely,” Samantha said with a sad sigh.

  Vaughn raised a pale brow. “Good news, Giles? Why do you consider my imminent departure a stroke of good fortune?”

  Toby took a hasty sip of his tea, but if he had hoped Vaughn might turn to another, he was disappointed. The poet’s dark gaze never wavered.

  Richard caught Claire glancing in his direction. The tip of her head told him she expected him to rescue the poor boy this time. He slapped Vaughn on the back, forcing his cousin to break eye contact with Giles.

  “It’s good news for us,” Richard declared. “You’re preparing the way for Samantha to go.”

  Samantha slumped in her seat.

  “Surely you require an appropriate setting for your brilliance, cousin,” Vaughn said, with a lift of his chin in Samantha’s direction. “It shouldn’t take long. And then we’ll be reunited.”

  Samantha blushed, but Richard thought Toby looked a bit green.

  “Will you be coming to London for the Season, Mr. Giles?” Claire asked, after a smile of thanks to Richard.

  Samantha’s gaze jerked back to her friend’s.

  “I’ve never thought all that highly of London,” he answered, though his look was all for Samantha. “But I might go there, if I had a reason.”

  Samantha’s smile was tremulous. Vaughn crossed his booted feet. “A sprig of your renown would be bored within a fortnight, Giles. I advise you not to waste your time.”

  Toby deflated, but Samantha frowned at her
pale-haired cousin. “Lady Winthrop doesn’t make London sound boring at all. I think Toby would have a fine time.”

  What exactly had Claire been telling the girl? Richard knew Claire thought Samantha wasn’t ready, yet it seemed she’d tried to be encouraging. He appreciated that, even if Claire couldn’t know what was at stake for the Everards.

  Toby set his teacup aside as if making up his mind. “Then I’ll go to London. Count on it.”

  Samantha beamed, but Vaughn rose. With his crimson coat and platinum hair, he was easily the most striking feature in the room, and Richard was certain he knew it. Samantha couldn’t seem to take her eyes off him.

  “And I’ll be there to meet you, Giles,” he said. “For now, I suggest we pretend we are gentlemen and take our leaves. I know my cousin has a great deal to do to be ready. We wouldn’t want to delay her.”

  Put that way, Toby had no choice but to decamp. Samantha insisted on walking him to the door, and Vaughn insisted on joining them.

  Richard shifted seats so that he was nearer to Claire. “I see why you thought a male escort might be necessary with callers. Do they ever come to blows?”

  “Not if you handle them properly,” she said, but he could tell she was troubled. “I’m glad you were here, Richard. Surely you can see why I wondered about her maturity.”

  Richard raised a brow. “Because she had difficulty coming between Giles and Vaughn? Who wouldn’t?”

  “You or I or any number of others. And it was more than that. She couldn’t even start a conversation, and the boy is well known to her, isn’t he?”

  “They’ve grown up together,” Richard acknowledged.

  Claire set her tea aside and absently smoothed down her dark skirts. She seemed genuinely worried about his cousin, and he wanted to take her hands and assure her the seas ahead would be calm.

  Unfortunately, he was starting to think she was right. The hesitant, tongue-tied Samantha he’d just seen was not the spirited girl he knew. She might not be ready for London. Yet, if he knew his cousin, she would go anyway. How could he help her, and, more importantly, help Claire understand why he couldn’t honor her wishes?

  * * *

  Richard saw Vaughn off for the city early the next morning. “Are you certain about this?” he asked, as his cousin waited for Nate Turner, the groom, to finish saddling his horse. “You could come with us after Easter—make sure Toby Giles doesn’t run off with Samantha.”

  Vaughn grinned as he mounted. “I’m not worried about Giles. Besides, you know what business I have in London.”

  Knew it and feared the results. But he couldn’t say that with Nate standing nearby. “It could wait a few more days. Today is Sunday. Come with us to church.”

  “I think not,” Vaughn said, settling himself in the saddle. “But be sure to say a prayer for heathens like me.”

  Richard tilted his head to look up at the poet. “It wouldn’t hurt to say a prayer yourself.”

  Vaughn’s smile lifted only the right side of his mouth. “I’m a lost cause, I fear. Take care of Samantha for me.”

  “I will,” Richard promised. “Take care of yourself.”

  “That’s what I do best.” With a call to the gray, he cantered out of the stable yard. Richard raised a hand in farewell, but his cousin never looked back.

  He sighed as he started for the house. When he was younger, he’d felt the same way as Vaughn. Oh, his father and mother had been firm in their faith—attending services, caring for the poor near their estate, praying before mealtimes and before bidding Richard and Jerome good-night. He’d never felt his heart stir at the devotions. When Uncle had offered more interesting pastimes that summer, Richard had returned to London from school, all too ready to try them. The vices had come easily—he never lost at cards, and he was never jug bitten in the morning after drinking heavily. Yet, still a voice had whispered inside him, urging that he was made for more.

  He’d ignored that whisper until the night he’d learned that Claire was forever beyond his reach. “Why?” he’d raged at the sky, after storming out of her father’s house. “Why did you have to take her away from me, too? Wasn’t it enough that Mother and Father died?”

  And we know that all things work together for good to them that love God, to them who are called according to His purpose.

  The remembered verse had sobered him, stilled his grieving spirit. In that moment, he’d realized that God hadn’t been the one to abandon him, to hurt him. Richard had walked away; to be brutally honest, he’d run, only too happy to take what the world offered. He had to accept responsibility for the choices he’d made, to leave England after fortune, instead of staying and fighting for Claire’s hand.

  He’d found a place then, a presence too precious ever to forswear again. He only prayed his cousin would find that peace before some tragedy brought him to his knees.

  Richard sent word upstairs that Samantha should be ready to leave for services promptly at nine. He didn’t ask anyone to wake Claire; he fully expected her to ignore church. But she came down the great stair at five minutes to nine, pulling on her gloves, Samantha right behind her. Her head was high, her tread slow and regal, black skirts brushing the stairs.

  Richard leaned against the banister with a grin. “I thought you’d be still asleep.”

  “Good morning to you, too, Captain Everard,” she returned, sailing past him for the door. “Do try to keep up. I will not have Lady Everard arriving late.”

  With a bemused shake of his head, Richard straightened and followed.

  As had been their wont, he had the carriage stop at the foot of the drive for Adele’s mother. Today, Mrs. Dallsten Walcott was dressed in a blue gown that reminded him of the waters of Jamaica. As she entered the coach, she eyed Samantha, who was sitting next to Claire in the front-facing seat. Samantha raised her chin, straw bonnet bumping into the seat back, as if refusing to give way.

  Richard was certain Claire would refuse to move as well. After all, both her married title and her courtesy birth title gave her precedence of place to the lady. To his surprise, Claire stood and shifted to sit next to him.

  The older woman sat beside Samantha and inclined her head. “Lady Winthrop.”

  “Mrs. Walcott,” Claire said with equal coolness.

  “Dallsten Walcott,” she snapped.

  So, obviously the animosity continued. Richard still wasn’t entirely sure what had started it. “Ladies,” he interjected, “shouldn’t we be on our best behavior, particularly on the Lord’s day?”

  Mrs. Dallsten Walcott sniffed. “Certainly. Though I believe I should have been notified when Lady Winthrop arrived at the manor. Things were not run in such a ramshackle fashion when my daughter was in residence.”

  “Very likely not,” Claire agreed, nose equally high. “I’ve never visited a house where strangers were allowed to wander the corridors at will.”

  “Strangers!” Mrs. Dallsten Walcott sputtered. “Do you intend to allow her to speak to me this way, Captain Everard?”

  Oh, no. He was not about to enter this fight. He leaned back and crossed his arms over his chest. “I’m afraid I’ve never been good at advising Lady Winthrop, ma’am. I wish you better luck.”

  They both humphed in unison and spent the rest of the trip staring stoically out opposite windows.

  Richard was afraid they’d carry their anger into the chapel, but Claire at least seemed to have forgotten it. He could see why. There was something about the little country church, set on the edge of the Kendrick estate. Reddish stone walls enclosed them in warmth; stained glass windows in jewel tones cast rainbows across the oak pews and the worshiping congregation. Being here raised his spirits, made him think the future could only be brighter.

  Today, however, he was encouraged for another reason. Though he entered into the readings and songs wi
th his usual focus, always he was aware of Claire beside him. Her hand touched his as they shared the Book of Common Prayer. Her skirts brushed his calves as the congregation rose to sing. When the vicar said something profound, Richard caught her nodding in agreement.

  The Claire he’d known at a callow seventeen had been no more interested in communing with her Lord than he’d been. Could it be that she, too, had found a better way? And did that mean they might have a chance of finding their way back to each other?

  Show me Your will in this situation, Lord. You know I am Your man now. I’m finding it difficult to trust her, and I don’t dare trust my feelings, but I know I can trust You.

  As they rose to leave, he felt a surety inside. Something was going to happen; he could feel it as he felt a shift in the wind. But whether it was Claire or his own heart that was changing, he wasn’t sure.

  Chapter Thirteen

  What a lovely service! Claire sighed in contentment as she walked beside Richard down the center aisle for the door. Oak arches soared over their heads; the dark stone floor was solid beneath her feet. Around them, people nodded in greeting, whispered to their neighbors. They were eager to know the name of the black-clad woman with the Everards. She clung to the joy she’d felt in the chapel.

  Funny how attending church meant so much more to her now than when she was a girl. She’d always gone with her parents, but the lessons from the vicar had never transferred to her home. Her mother had spent her days with her friends, her nights at balls that did not always include her husband. She had died when Claire was thirteen. Claire’s father had always been busy, with his estate, with matters of government. If he prayed, she’d never seen it. Neither had she seen it in Winthrop. And her husband was often too ill from Saturday night’s activities to attend service with her on a Sunday.

  So, she’d gone alone, head high, smile pleasant, as if everything in her life was perfect. She’d been so intent on maintaining the fiction of perfection that she seldom remembered what was read or the intent of the sermon. But then, one day, the readings seemed to be meant just for her, the vicar’s sermon to speak to her troubled heart, and she’d realized there was more to devotion than mere appearance.