Sharon Sobel

by The Eyes of Lady Claire (v5. 0) (epub)

  “Have a care, my dear,” he called out. “The structure might no longer be sound.”

  She looked up at the great stones that had been in place since the time of Elizabeth and smiled over her shoulder.

  “I am going in, Max. If anything should happen, I am sure you will rescue me.” She stepped inside, and was lost in shadow.

  Indeed, she could tease and torment him, for she knew precisely where to hit the mark. He ran up the stairs behind her, but they remained poised at the entrance.

  “I do not know much about it, Max, but I believe you can rebuild your beautiful home. My dear friend Lady Fayreweather inherited a pile of bricks from her first husband, but had it entirely restored. It requires some good sense, perhaps a builder or two to demonstrate what is possible, and . . .”

  “Are you about to say, ‘a wife’?” he asked. He was already thinking along those lines.

  “A wife?” Claire asked, and frowned. “Lady Fayreweather did not require a wife, and she managed it most admirably. I was going to say, ‘sufficient wealth.’ I am sorry if that is very crass.”

  “It is an honest inquiry.” Max wondered at her own resources and if this was a subtle way of determining his. He would not have imagined her to be a fortune hunter, but he still doubted if she would have him for his character or his good looks. Perhaps Adelaide already told her that he was a catch in another significant way. He hoped not. “I have sufficient resources,” he said.

  She leaned towards her reflection in a cracked pane of glass and examined something on the tip of her nose. He did not understand why she looked so concerned, for he believed her nose to be the image of perfection, even with its broken line.

  “It is not my business, I know. I only wondered if your cousin Armadale sought to help by hiring you to take care of matters of his business. It is concerned with wine importing, did you say?” She watched him in the dull surface of the glass.

  “Do you have reason to doubt it?” he asked, coming closer.

  “No, not at all, for you have a very fine cellar. Camille and I enjoyed it improvidently while you were away from here.” She turned quickly and waited until he was less than a foot away from her. “Are you a spy?”

  He took a step back. What did she know? And if she knew nothing, why did she want to know this?

  He conjured up a laugh, knowing it sounded utterly false. “Why ask such a thing?”

  “I am not sure,” she said, and sighed. “It is only in the way you spoke of what you saw in the billiards room. And everyone hears rumors about the Armadales, of course. He saved her life, you know. Or perhaps she saved his; I cannot recall. They both speak Portuguese quite fluently and she certainly has the look of an Iberian lady.”

  “Lady Armadale certainly does, minho beleza.” In the dim light, he saw her look of surprise. “You see, that sort of fluency runs in the family, for we are somewhere descended from Henry the Navigator. I would not make much of it, however.”

  She wanted to, he could see that quite clearly. For Lady Claire Glastonbury wanted to know everything about everyone. There was danger in that, for it was bound to lead to frustration. And yet, with him, she was managing quite successfully.

  “Shall we go within?” she asked, beckoning towards the entrance.

  “I think I have had enough for this day. It has taken me almost twenty years to come to the front door, so surely we can defer any more exploration for a few more days?”

  “I thought you were descended from the Navigator. And yet you are so unwilling to explore?” she asked.

  All thoughts of espionage and Armadale and Brook Hall slipped from his mind. He ignored invitations all his life, but was not about to do so now.

  “What have I missed, my lady?” he asked, pulling her close and catching a few pins as they slipped from her hair. “I thought I was fairly thorough, but clearly there is more. I already know about that sweet beauty mark on your knee. But perhaps there is another I missed? And what is this? Do I detect the odor of bay rum? Are you indulging in my Caribbean soap?

  For the second time this day, Claire started pulling at his cravat. “Oh no, my lord. I am indulging myself in you,” she said.

  Chapter 6

  What had she done? She, who had the reputation of respectability, had abandoned it all in one glorious moment. Well, yes. There was the time she danced in her stockinged feet around those large stones on Salisbury Plain, but one ought to excuse that little episode for she had had quite too much to drink. Today, in the brilliant sunshine and with nothing more potent in her system than a few slices of buttered bread and a wafer of chocolate, she seduced a vulnerable man into making absolutely uninhibited love to her in a field of wildflowers.

  Claire sat on her bed, watching two of the maids pour pitchers of steaming water into the copper tub near the window. Arista, who managed to avoid anything even closely resembling hard work, handed her a wrapped package with something squarish within, and then waited until she opened it.

  Though Claire knew what it must contain, she guessed that her maid would never leave until she opened it. She untied a waxy string and the paper parted to reveal a bar of soap.

  “Well,” said Arista, and crossed her arms. “I suppose this means your lilac soap is not good enough for his lordship. Does he want everyone at his table to smell like a band of pirates?”

  “I have never given a moment’s thought to the personal habits of pirates, Arista, and it is none of our business. Perhaps his lordship gives it to all the guests in his home, as an expression of welcome.”

  “Very good, though you have been here a spot longer than he. And as long as that is the only thing he gives you.”

  “Thank you, Arista. I prefer to bathe myself today. Only leave his soap next to mine, and I shall no longer require your assistance.” Claire paused, thinking how intimate those words sounded. She glanced at Arista, who seemed to be thinking the same thing, and smiled. “Perhaps you would enjoy a book? Lady Camille and I have assembled a nice collection of novels for ladies.”

  “Begging your pardon, my lady, but if I want a good story, I’ll drop down to the kitchen. Those women don’t miss much that goes on around here.”

  “Well, do enjoy your time together. We will be returning to London within days, I daresay.”

  Arista looked as if she rather doubted it, and gave a perfunctory curtsey before leaving. Goodness, that woman was a chore. But, really, no one styled hair quite as she did.

  Claire wondered what her maid thought about the look of her lady’s hair when she entered the house about ten minutes ahead of an equally rumpled Lord Wentworth. Undoubtedly she would learn everything she wished to know whilst in the kitchen. If that is where all the good stories were told, Claire guessed the events of this day were already in their third or fourth retelling.

  She slipped off her smooth silk dressing gown and studied her body as she had not done for many years. Certainly, Glastonbury had not cared very much for it, complaining that her breasts were unremarkable and her hips not large enough to beget an heir. Though truly, if he really made any sort of reasonable connection between size and begetting an heir, he should not have looked to his wife.

  Claire flicked a few blades of grass from her unremarkable breast, and looked for other evidence of her afternoon adventure. There was none visible, though Claire was acutely aware of some soreness in places. Unlike her husband, Max did not need to bully and bruise her to claim mastery, and behaved in a manner that was truly quite the opposite and hitherto unknown to her, even in her dreams. It was not that he was a gentle lover. But he treated each little part of her with a reverence that seemed to match, part by part, with what she felt towards him.

  At the same time, he thought his body hideous and deformed, but it was neither. The scars he bore did nothing to diminish his strength or his control, and remained as
witness to the great tragedy of his life. But as was true for other men who were harmed by war or accident, that which initially struck them down became the source of some strength and a rare appreciation for other things.

  Yet Lord Wentworth, Maxwell Brooks, was a man like no other.

  Claire walked across the hand-hooked rug to the copper tub. While the polished metal was still hot, the water already cooled and was a balm to her weary body as she carefully stepped in and sat down. She was a woman much distracted if the simple sensations of warm water and spicy soap would transport her to a place of peace.

  Now Brook Hall was also a place of peace. So long abandoned to sad memory and secretive liaisons, it drew two haunted people out into the bold and honest sunlight and offered them redemption. They each followed their own journey from despair and pain to the bed they made for themselves among the grasses and wildflowers. It was remarkable, truly.

  Claire leaned against the backboard of the well-polished copper tub. She thought her brief episodes of lovemaking with Glastonbury had made her worldly, perhaps more experienced than a man known to be a recluse and seemingly indifferent to the company of eligible ladies. But she now suspected he did more than was actually required by Armadale on his forays away from home.

  Max knew how to make love to a woman. He had had his share of experience; that much was certain. There was nothing hurried in his style, and he made lovemaking seem like a feast to be savored. But never before had the table been set so, nor as replete with delicacies.

  If she was not careful, she would come to love him.

  ***

  Camille sat near him while they awaited their guests, and Max wondered who was more apprehensive. Camille chattered a little too cheerfully about a shawl or something she ordered from France and he did little but murmur false notes of appreciation. James Cosgrove was to dine with them tonight and now Max knew what the man meant to his sister. Judging by the footsteps he heard above, Lady Claire would soon join them. And he wondered if Camille knew what the lady now meant to him.

  He did not deserve such happiness, nor did he come to expect it. He vowed to take care of his sister for all his life and never expected the story to change. It was right and just.

  But here was another man, just arriving at their door, who did not seem to think anything particularly out of the ordinary about dancing with a blind lady or accepting her as a dinner companion. Max was not stupid. A man interested in a beautiful lady and able to consider her limitations did not instantly a husband make. But now there was the possibility of others; indeed, there might be men more eligible than a solicitor in a small town. Lady Camille was the sister of a marquis, with all the advantages that afforded her hitherto disadvantaged life.

  “Brother, I am certain you are not listening. I just asked if you wished for Lady Claire to organize a party for us while in London,” Camille said, and hit the seat of the chaise for emphasis.

  Max straightened and looked at her with some concern. He should have been listening to her; when had they agreed to a party? And in their little-used house in London? When he passed through some weeks before he vaguely noticed furniture in several of the rooms completely enveloped in Holland cloths. The servants would need weeks to restore some luster to the place.

  “Lady Claire will know what is needed,” Camille said, turning her head towards him. Her blind eyes focused on his, and he had the disconcerting thought that she saw everything.

  “Lady Claire has not entertained for years, I daresay,” Max said cautiously, nodding his head from side to side to see if his sister’s gaze followed him. It seemed to do so, but he knew her well enough to consider that she might be shifting to the sound of his voice. “Widows do not make many parties.”

  “Max, you make her sound as if she were a lady of eighty. She is younger than you are, you know.”

  “I have seen the lady for myself.” Indeed, he had seen a good deal more than his sister could guess. “She is energetic, but that does not make her knowledgeable about planning parties.”

  Camille did not say anything for several moments, and Max assumed his point was well made. But something had changed in his sweet, compliant sister since he went to Portugal, and he should have realized the argument would not stop there. And he knew fell well what caused that change.

  “Energetic?” Camille laughed. “Is that the best you can do? The lady is a reputed beauty, an excellent wit, has considerable wealth, and is welcomed into all the best houses in London. And you will only comment on her physical prowess? I assume you are about to tell me that she is a great walker or something of that sort?”

  Max felt his heart tumble. “Something of that sort.”

  The door opened and Mr. Clark stepped within, not a moment too soon. “My lord, Lady Camille, Mr. James Cosgrove has arrived.”

  Cosgrove entered, bringing with him the sweet smell of roses. He bowed politely and walked directly to Camille, where he took her hand and placed a large bouquet of yellow blossoms in it, pressing her fingers around. “Have a care, Lady Camille. I endeavored to remove all the thorns, but may have missed one or two.”

  Max felt a twinge of regret. This was his part, surely, forever removing the thorns from Camille’s way, and watchful of any he might have missed? Now here was another man, who somehow knew precisely what to do, and how it would be best appreciated.

  Max had never given flowers to a lady in his life, unless one counted weedy wildflowers gathered and eagerly handed over to his mother when he was a child. Now he realized what pleasure he might have sought; Camille, as did his mother all those years ago, looked like she had been given a kingdom.

  “Thank you, Mr. Cosgrove,” was all Camille said, and Max thought he heard echoes of other words, other promises those simple words conveyed.

  “It is my pleasure, Lady Camille. I went to Mrs. Lester’s garden and begged her to give me the most beautiful of her blooms. She hates to part with them, and would only be appeased when I told her they were for you.”

  Oh, very pretty, Mr. Cosgrove. Max never heard such blatantly false praise.

  But Camille seemed to know better.

  “Then these must be her yellow babies. I thought as much by their scent. Are her gladioli doing as well?”

  Max was right about other words and promises. Had this man given his sister a grand garden tour of the countryside? And where had he been while all this happened? Damn Armadale for sending him to Lisbon!

  “I did not realize you were a gardener, Mr. Cosgrove,” Max said tersely.

  Camille and Cosgrove paused and turned to him, though Camille’s face was barely visible over the yellow blossoms. Really, those roses were so lush they were surely in very poor taste. Claire would come down soon and undoubtedly say something about it.

  “I am not, Lord Wentworth. It is why I must appeal to Mrs. Lester’s good nature. I also settled some business for her on a small inheritance,” Cosgrove said, amused. Max did not know if the man laughed at him or at Mrs. Lester’s prospects. “But, in fact, everything I know about flowers, I learned from your sister, who has been so kind to instruct me. Though I suppose I have always known the difference between fine English roses and a stand of ragweed.”

  Camille laughed as if they were the cleverest words ever uttered, and stopped only when someone else entered the room.

  “Oh, goodness. Those are the most splendid flowers I have ever seen! Mr. Cosgrove, how much did you have to bribe Annie Lester to give them to you? Did you promise her another dance at the ball? Or did you come in the dark of night with your machete and abscond with the whole bouquet?”

  James Cosgrove laughed as he rose to greet Lady Claire Glastonbury. Max got to his feet somewhat more reluctantly and did not laugh. Claire pointedly ignored him as she walked to Camille, who still sat beside him.

  “They are magnificent,” she uttered, and
buried her face in the yellow cloud in Camille’s hands. The two ladies whispered something to each other.

  “Have a care. There are thorns there,” Max said, a little too loudly.

  Claire breathed in the sweet scent of the roses and did not look at him when she answered. “I am a lady who appreciates nature and will take the bad with the good.” She lifted her head and looked over her shoulder. “Even today, I sat on an elegant lawn, only slightly neglected, and was attached by a thistle.”

  “Just so long as it is only plants attacking you.”

  “Which is why I never fear roses, my lord. They are only plants.” She sat on a chair opposite, prompting Max and Cosgrove to take their seats as well.

  She jumped up before Max could even rest his hands in his lap. “Shall I take the roses, Lady Camille? They will need water if they are to last.” Max and Cosgrove dutifully stood.

  “They will last forever,” Camille said. “For who can forget such a gift?”

  Claire sat down, and Max and Cosgrove did the same. Max’s knee began to ache.

  “It is clear to me why roses have ever represented true love,” Camille went on, artlessly. “One might be seduced by the beauty of the blooms, but there are thorns throughout, suggesting the hazards. And here and there might be a spider, ready to do harm.”

  “Spiders do much good, Sister. They munch on aphids and other small pests, and are likely more fearful of you than you are of them.”

  “Thank you, Brother. You can always be relied upon to lecture us on the natural world.”

  “Some people find it quite instructive,” Max said testily. “Lady Claire has just spoken of her appreciation.”

  “Of your instruction?” Camille asked, pulling out one stem and affixing a rose behind her ear, in the Portuguese fashion.

  “Of the natural world,” Max ground out. “Lady Claire, do you not think my sister’s wearing of a rose to be rather Latin?”