Sharon Sobel

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

  Max thought about this as he passed left shoulders with Lady Fayreweather, who winked at him.

  “That seems inconsistent,” he said to Claire. “I should think the new earl would be delighted to buy your continued comfort and good will in exchange for the fact that he has no inconvenient stepbrothers.”

  “Of course it is inconsistent. And utterly foolish. But no more than convincing a child who has seen inappropriate behavior to pay the price of blackmail for it.”

  “I have already admitted my blindness in that regard,” Max said. “But I do have a question about your behavior.”

  “I am not at all surprised,” Claire said, pulling her hand out of his.

  “If your late husband’s family has treated you so abominably, why were you speaking to Mrs. Marchant? Are you not concerned she will tell all the rest of the Marchants that you are suddenly interested in acquiring paintings, and therefore they will consider your allowance to be too generous?”

  Claire turned her back on him, which was not quite consistent with the dance steps.

  “It is possible to purchase the work of some artists for very little money,” she said when she faced him again.

  “And is that what you have in mind? To take a ride down to Dover and choose some pretty watercolors of the setting sun, or the gulls on an overturned rowboat?”

  “Perhaps I shall,” she said.

  Aware that they might be attracting attention that would do neither of them credit, Max decided to remain silent. His leg bothered him, but not nearly as much as did Lady Claire.

  “Or perhaps I shall call upon one of the several dealers to be found along King Street. I have received a recommendation for a Mr. Horace Dailey, who quietly handles business arrangements between buyers and sellers.”

  “And profits generously from those arrangements, I suppose,” Max said.

  “If he earns those commissions, I have no quarrel with him. There is nothing disreputable about a man’s business that provides a service,” said Claire.

  “If those with whom he deals are honest as well. If the man negotiates with villains and thieves, then there is nothing more to be said.”

  Claire moved towards him and looked like she would like to trample on his toes.

  “He did business with your mother,” she murmured. “So there is a good deal to be said.”

  ***

  She ignored the gossips and walked with him off the dance floor, knowing she added pain and uncertainty to his understanding, and now was sorry for it. She knew very little, truly, but Marissa had already determined that the late Lady Wentworth acquired many of her paintings in town and that Mr. Dailey was an agent with whom she did business. When the Marchants arrived at the ball, Claire used the pretext of their old and frayed relationship to discuss matters with Evelyn Marchant, and thus discover that Dailey was still an active purveyor of the arts. Most recently, she revealed, he acquired several bronze quatrefoils from Italy for the Prince’s collection in Brighton. But he had been dealing in landscape paintings for many years.

  “You will tell me what you know,” Max said. “And I will take the lead from there.”

  “You cannot lock me up in the Tower, Max. I will speak to anyone I wish and if it happens we speak of paintings and such, then I will not close my ears.” She started towards a servant holding a large tray of drinks, but he pulled her in the opposite direction.

  “I prefer to find a seat,” he said tersely.

  She turned to him and realized his gait was stiff and irregular.

  Here, at least, she would not argue. “At once,” she said, and gestured to the servant to bring them lemonade in the adjacent room, where small tables were set but scarcely occupied. They would be able to talk.

  “What is wrong, Max?” she asked.

  “There is nothing wrong with my leg that comes unexpected. I still bear the pain of old injuries,” he said. “There is something wrong, however, with your digging around the roots of an old mystery.”

  “For all you say, I do not see anything wrong if I happen to find some bits of treasure and objects of interest. What have you determined, by the way?”

  Max sucked in his breath. “Very little on the subject, thus far. I met with Charles Longreaves at his club and he informed me that the painting came into their household about fifteen years ago. I told him I was interested in the scene, and he promised to talk to his father and let me know more of the particulars.”

  “Well, that is not very much,” Claire agreed, trying to hide her pleasure in knowing she was more successful than he. “But you speak as if there were several subjects. What else did you and Charles discuss?”

  “I do not see that it is any business of yours to know about the conversations of gentlemen in private clubs. But if you promise to leave me in peace about it, I will tell you that he let me know that he has no claim on you, other than friendship.”

  Max must realize she promised nothing, but Claire decided there were better opportunities to torment him into revealing what else of her private affairs they discussed.

  “How very generous of him to give his approval,” she said. “If that was indeed his intent. But of course I need no one’s approval to do as I please.”

  “So you have made abundantly clear, my dear.” Max looked through the arch to the dance floor, narrowing his eyes. “Inasmuch as my sister looks to you for example, kindly refrain from pronouncing that in her company. She has neither your experience nor society’s approbation.”

  Claire followed his gaze. “Inasmuch as she comes now with Charles, I think you can consider her quite safe.”

  Camille approached them, guided by Charles’s careful movements. Max rose as soon as they came to the table, and Claire saw it was painful for him. Apparently, Camille was able to see this as well.

  “What has happened, Brother?” she asked, as Charles placed her hand on Max’s arm. “Surely you have not injured yourself?”

  “The movements were more rigorous than I expected, that is all. Lady Claire leads one on a merry dance, to be sure.”

  Both Camille and Charles laughed, but Claire knew Max did not really intend to be amusing. “Do join us,” she said. “And tell us if you are both enjoying yourselves.”

  Camille needed no further prompting. Max led her to one of the seats and Claire took her hand from there.

  “I am having a marvelous time, Lady Claire,” Camille said in a hushed voice. “There are so many people who wish to be introduced, and they all are so very kind and helpful.”

  “I hope you will always consider them so,” Claire said, and when she saw the doubt in Camille’s expression, added, “for first impressions are the strongest and most lasting.”

  “I do hope so. I shall also need to convince my brother to come to London much more often, for there are wonderful people here.”

  Claire thought of Shakespeare’s Miranda who, upon spying the first young man she has ever seen in her life, rhapsodizes about the “brave new world.” She spared a thought for casting Max as Prospero in the drama, but as she was presently annoyed with him, rather thought him closer to Caliban.

  “And what of Mr. Cosgrove?” she asked. “Will he not miss you each time you come to London?”

  Camille looked troubled. “Could he not join us here? His family is well settled.”

  “But he is not, of course. His work is in Middlebury, and I daresay there are reasons why he prefers to remain in the country.”

  “I confess, Claire, I miss our gentle woods and streams very much. I miss the quiet evenings, and Mrs. Clark’s excellent cooking. I know it is fashionable to dine on French foods and it is a very fine thing. But I so enjoy meat pies and potatoes.”

  “I know just the thing. Why should we not beg off from our engagements for the morrow, and spend the day quite in the mann
er to which we were accustomed in Yorkshire? I shall ask my cook to prepare everything we desire, and we shall spend the evening doing nothing more than reading from Mr. Walter Scott’s latest book.”

  “That sounds simply grand,” Camille said.

  “Ah, no, my friend. The point is that it is not very grand at all.”

  Camille laughed. “You know what I mean, of course. However, I hesitate to ignore my appointment with Madame Lamartine. She fusses so about the time, and I should like my gown in time for the ball.”

  “Of course. I forgot, but I might take advantage of Madame’s services as well. I find I am in need of several new garments. We shall start our day early on Curzon Street and then happily retire from sight.”

  “But of course Jamie can join us once we are at Eton Square,” Camille said.

  “Of course. His presence is necessary if we are to pretend we are back in Yorkshire.”

  “And Maxwell.”

  Claire looked to the lady’s brother and was momentarily surprised to see him thick in conversation with Charles. She could not say why she would be surprised, for Camille’s and her conversation could have been of little interest to either of the men. But it was not so much they chattered, but rather their heads were close together as they conversed in deep undertones. Max nodded thoughtfully several times and edged his chair closer.

  Claire could not hear a thing, but she imagined Camille heard every word.

  “What are they saying?” she asked Camille softly.

  “They are talking about chestnut trees, though I cannot imagine why. I have just eaten oysters for the first time in my life, and they are far superior to nuts that one gathers from the ground.”

  Claire asked about other foods Camille had eaten, and nodded at the appropriate moments, but she strained to hear what the men were saying and what news Charles brought from home.

  “Lady Glastonbury. Have you promised this dance to another?” said a man whose shadow fell across the table. Charles and Max barely glanced up, but Camille clapped her hands, enjoying the show.

  It was that oaf, Lord Cheviot.

  “Good evening, Lord Cheviot. I have so looked forward to resuming our conversation about oversized fish and monsters of other sorts. And we have not danced since Lord and Lady Armadale’s ball, many months ago.” Claire smiled broadly, more for Max’s benefit than for Cheviot’s.

  Cheviot bowed and held out his hand for Claire’s.

  “Excuse me, my friends. I can resist neither a waltz nor Lord Cheviot,” she said. “Lord Wentworth? Did you say something? Surely I did not promise this dance to you?”

  “No, you did not,” Max ground out. “But be assured I will see you sometime later this night.”

  ***

  Claire knew what he meant, of course, and left the ball a little earlier than was strictly polite in order to prepare for his visit. It was not simply the bedtime ablutions to which she paid particular care. She also wished to rehearse her own words in order to persuade him of a very clever plan she concocted. And, of course, she wanted to know what Charles reported to him but did not want her to hear.

  Somewhat sooner than she expected, she heard his uneven gait echoing through the wall of her townhouse. She had noticed this difficulty on several other occasions, but at no time was it as pronounced as it was this evening. Surely she had not trod on his toes during their dance together, nor were the steps so rigorous he might harm himself.

  “What have you done to yourself?” she asked when she opened the door and pulled him into the room.

  “So sweet a greeting I have never received upon entering a lady’s bedchamber.”

  “Truly?” Claire slipped off her dressing gown. “Your behavior this evening was so imperious that you are fortunate I did not greet you with a knife in hand. I do keep one under the mattress, you know.”

  His eyes widened. “I did not know. Have you ever had occasion to use it? Against robbers, perhaps, or amorous intruders?”

  “Against husbands,” Claire said. “One never knows when it should prove useful.”

  “I shall have to remember it.” He shrugged off his jacket as Claire tugged on his cravat, which was knotted far more elaborately than he typically wore. Such was another price they paid for joining society in London, but Claire decided not to mention it.

  “But you have not answered me. What is wrong with your leg and how did it happen?”

  “There is nothing too exciting to reveal. I enjoyed a brisk walk following a gentleman along the wharf, and dropped onto a barge. I hit my knee, which has already had its share of too many injuries.” Max leaned heavily on her bedpost as he removed his breeches, and Claire saw his leg bound in thick strips of linen.

  “And the gentleman? Did he not assist you?”

  “I did not expect his assistance, as he is the one who pushed me off the wharf.”

  “Are you going to tell me that this business is about imported wines?”

  “I am going to tell you that,” Max said, standing naked but for his bandages. “But you are not going to believe me.”

  Claire looked at him, realizing how little his scars and reddened, damaged skin mattered to her now. When they first made love, in the bright light of the open field, he allowed her to explore the injuries of his past and she did so unflinchingly. But she was never repelled, only upset for the pain he had endured. But now that was a distant memory as well, for so much of the pain had been replaced by pleasure, for both of them.

  “Prospero,” she said suddenly.

  “Prospero? I believe you have the wrong man, my lady. Please refrain from using your knife on me while I very quickly dress myself.”

  “You are the right man. Your sister said something today that made me think her a modern Miranda, and thus you are her Prospero,” Claire explained.

  “Do I understand that you think me a tired man whose life is spent? I warn you, I value my books too much to drown them.”

  “I thought of you as someone who has had the wisdom to raise a sister into a confident lady. That is Camille’s Prospero,” Claire explained. “My Prospero is someone altogether different.”

  “And how is that, my lady Claire?” Max asked.

  “I should think it fairly obvious,” she answered. “I expect you to work your magic.”

  Chapter 9

  There was little time to talk during the stolen interlude in Claire’s bedroom, and for that Max was very grateful. Aside from the luxury of spending every minute exploring her perfect body, he did not have to answer the questions he already knew she had formed and would have articulated had he given her the briefest opportunity. And so, he told himself, in the name of her well-being and safety he kept her mouth too busy to hold an inquisition.

  But he could not keep her distracted every time they met, and when his Camille informed him over breakfast that they were going to spend the entire day in Claire’s company, just as if they were back in Yorkshire, he knew he was doomed. He looked up from his French omelette.

  “Do you not like it here in London?” he asked.

  “Oh, I like it very well, Maxwell. But we thought it would be very diverting to spend a quiet evening in Claire’s house, and eat the foods we most enjoy.”

  He looked at his omelette again, and decided it was overly rich. The notion of Mrs. Clark’s simple breads and preserves suddenly seemed very appealing.

  “Is this what the two of you discussed at the ball last night?” he asked, praying it was so. If they made such plans, they could not have heard very much of what Longreaves told him.

  “Yes. Is it not an excellent plan? I am looking forward to this day, but its pleasures must be deferred for a few hours while Claire and I go to Madame Lamartine.”

  “Is she a mystic or something of that sort? She certainly sounds like one.”r />
  Camille laughed in such a way that made her sound both superior and gracious.

  “Madame Lamartine is the finest dressmaker in London. I daresay you will become more familiar with her name once she sends her bills.”

  “I can scarcely wait. And of course Lady Claire has managed to arrange an appointment for you while other poor ladies must settle for sackcloth and rags,” he said.

  “Indeed she has. She tells me you approve of her wardrobe.”

  He did, particularly of her ball gowns that revealed her generous curves and lovely arms. But that did not mean he wished his sister to dress in such a manner.

  “I do have a question, Maxwell.”

  “Is it about Lady Claire?”

  “Oh no. I assume you will tell me about Lady Claire when you are quite ready to do so,” Camille said confidently, knowingly. “It is about me.”

  Max’s mind touched on matters of settlements, their mother’s missing jewels, his other properties. Camille deserved to know what was hers, and what she might take into a marriage. He did not think they would have this talk so soon after their arrival in London, but his sister seemed to do very well wherever they went.

  “What would you like to know?” he asked, and cleared his throat.

  “Do you think blue suits me better than green?” she asked. “I cannot tell, of course, and must rely on the opinions of others.”

  Oh, yes. They had arrived in London.

  ***

  James Cosgrove seemed delighted to receive Claire’s invitation to dinner, which is precisely what she hoped. Though he was never out of their orbit of social events, Claire wished to bring him closer so that he and Camille could revolve about each other in the manner to which they were so long accustomed.

  While in Yorkshire, she endeavored to prepare her new friend for a season in London, where Camille might experience new things and meet stylish and worldly gentlemen. It was the only sort of life she, herself, had ever known, and it seemed perfectly reasonable to allow another young and eligible lady to do the same.