Her heart swelled. An earl was besotted with Grace. She was a countess now. Clara bit into a pastry with a smile. “But why would he sell a cherished painting to begin with?”
“I assume to fund improvements on his property. Or to buy trinkets for Grace. Or food. They’re quite penniless.”
Clara stopped chewing in horror. She narrowed her eyes at her father. “What do you mean, penniless?”
“Exactly that.” Father shrugged. “Grace’s dowry was a respectable thousand pounds—I couldn’t talk your mother into matching the fortune we’d set aside for you—but I’m afraid Carlisle’s debts far exceed that humble sum. They will never be rich with money, but they are certainly rich with love. The painting will be a wedding present.”
Clara frowned in thought. Grace had lived humbly her entire life, so continuing to do so would not be a hardship. However, simple country living was quite different than living in a vast estate and not being able to afford it.
She gazed at her extravagant breakfast tray. If only her mother had been willing to give Grace a larger dowry—however much the earl needed to overcome his debts. Clara’s fingers dug into her palms. She would give the couple her very last penny…if she so much as had one.
Her own future was far from certain.
Her parents hadn’t offered permanent lodging. And the newly married couple had enough responsibilities without adding a widowed dependent to their troubles. Where would she live?
“I’m sure they’ll love your wedding present, Father,” she murmured, wishing she could have also contributed to her daughter’s new home.
Father’s eyes twinkled at her merrily. “I have an even better surprise for you.”
She patted his hand. “I don’t know if I can withstand many more surprises. All I want now is to see Grace. And perhaps to intrude upon your company for a short while, if you and Mother would be so good as to allow me to stay for a few weeks.”
“That will be up to you.”
“Don’t you mean up to Mother?” she bit out, then pressed her lips together. Unlike Clara, her father had spent the last two decades by his wife’s side. Her controlling personality would not come as a shock.
“Up to any woman of independent means.” Father fished a folded parchment from inside his waistcoat and handed it to Clara. “I invested your dowry money. It’s been doubling and tripling for the past twenty years.”
She blinked at him in confusion. “But why would you save my dowry? You hated me. I disappointed you.”
He gazed at her. “We were unquestionably disappointed. But we loved you, Clara. We still do.”
She stared back at him in silence, unwilling to let herself hope. Unable to stop herself from loving him back.
“When you left, we were terrified. Shattered. We didn’t know if you’d gone north, south, east, west…”
“You disowned me,” Clara corrected bitterly. “You didn’t care where I went.”
“Your mother may have disowned you,” he conceded. “But she regretted it almost immediately. By then it was too late. I couldn’t find you. If we would have known where you were, if there had been any hope of bringing you back home…”
“You did know. I sent you a letter as soon as I got to America.” Her throat convulsed. “I promised myself I would never have anything to do with the parents who disowned me, but just in case you did wonder where I had gone… The moment I arrived in New York, I sent the address of my boardinghouse. I sent it twice.”
He nodded. “I wanted to send for you straight away, but your mother thought it best if you had the child abroad before returning home. And I only wanted what was best for you.”
Her blood chilled. “You expected me to give up Grace?”
“We thought it possible,” he admitted. “Your mother would choose Society over anything. It never occurred to her you wouldn’t feel the same.”
“I would never give up Grace,” she said vehemently. “Not for you. Not for anyone.”
“We realized that as soon as she appeared on our doorstep,” he said with a small smile. His eyes grew vacant. “But twenty years ago, we didn’t know much of anything. We couldn’t even find our own daughter. We sent letters. You never wrote again. We sent a solicitor. He discovered the boardinghouse had closed. You’d never received our letters, and you probably never would. There was no trace of a Miss Clara Mayer anywhere in New York City.”
Her throat dried. “You’re right. By then I was Mrs. Clara Halton. And I had moved to Pennsylvania with my daughter and my husband. To make a new home. Our own life.”
She stared at her father in disbelief and sadness. All those years, wasted. Both sides believing the other had forgot them.
Her fingers shook. She was finally home. Now that they were part of her life again, she would never let them go.
“Your mother and I won’t live forever. Which is why…” Father motioned toward the document he’d given her. “That’s a mere portion of your inheritance. But it’s a start. I’ve already solicited it be transferred to your name.”
She unfolded the document with shaking fingers and gasped at the listed sum. “Father—”
“’Twas your dowry, daughter. It’s yours again. You’re free to live the life you choose.”
She stared at him in disbelief, then clasped the paper to her chest. It was enough money to buy an island. A castle. An armada. They did love her.
They always had.
“I love you, too.” She wrapped her arms about her father in a heartfelt embrace. To him, the sum might be tuppence…but to her, it meant the world.
She straightened as her heart burst with excitement. She wouldn’t simply be able to buy her daughter a wedding present—she’d be able to settle their debts herself. And still have plenty left over.
“Write your solicitor.” She shoved the document back into her father’s hands. “Have him reserve ten percent for me, and to put the rest in Grace’s name. How soon can it be done?”
“By tomorrow.” Father folded the parchment and slipped it back into his waistcoat, his smile pleased. “Anything else?”
“Yes.” Clara pushed her tray to the side and threw back the covers. “Please take me to my daughter.”
Chapter 9
Clara and her parents stepped out of their carriage and onto the Earl of Carlisle’s front lawn. The house was massive and beautiful, and shrouded with a lush expanse of woods, giving the estate the illusion of a country home despite its proximity to the city.
The front door swung open and a slender, dark-haired girl burst out of the house with her arms wide open.
Grace. Clara gathered her daughter in her arms and held on tight, breathing in the scent of her hair. The four months since she’d last seen her daughter seemed like an eternity. Due to her long illness, Clara had certainly felt like she’d aged years. Now that she was much healthier, and had Grace back in her life—back in her arms!—she felt young and carefree again. Grace would be fine. They all would be. Clara would see to it.
“I was so afraid for so long,” her daughter whispered.
Clara stroked her child’s hair. “So was I. When Blackheart showed up—”
Grace jerked out of her arms. “Who?”
“The ship’s captain.” Clara’s cheeks flushed. Why on earth had she used his nom de plume? Perhaps because of his typical Blackheart swashbuckling display at her parents’ house. “That isn’t his given name, of course. It’s difficult to think of a rogue like that as a ‘Mister’ anything. He’s just so…”
“‘Piratey’, I imagine.” Grace’s brow furrowed. “The name alone is infamous. Did he find you a doctor? I doubt a man like Blackheart is often called upon to play nursemaid.”
“You wouldn’t be wrong.” But he was very good at it. Steele might be ruthless to his enemies, but he’d been nothing short of tender with Clara. Until that last night, when she’d been so certain he might… Clara cleared her throat. “Yes, it was quite an adventure. But I was so weak, I slept through
most of it.”
A tall, handsome gentleman exited the house and came to put his arm about Grace. The Earl of Carlisle, Clara presumed. He did indeed look infatuated with her daughter. And he was the reason Clara was here. She owed him everything.
Grace shot her husband a dark look—likely for having recruited a pirate. Clara could not have been happier that he had done so.
“Please don’t blame your husband for his wonderful actions. He sent explicit instructions that I not be moved if I were not able. As you can see, I’m very able. I was ill, but not mortally. So of course I came. There isn’t much difference between convalescing in my home and convalescing in a cabin.”
“On a pirate ship,” Grace said flatly. “In the middle of the ocean. With a man named Blackheart. No difference at all.”
Memories Clara would cherish forever. She clutched her daughter’s hands. “I’m just sorry I missed your wedding. I arrived ill and exhausted, and when I awoke it was too late. We hurried to the church, but the ceremony was long over.” Her voice caught and she released Grace’s hands. “My baby…married. I cannot credit it.”
Grace entwined her hand with the earl’s. He kissed the top of her head. Clara’s heart warmed.
“Mama, it is my deepest pleasure to present to you my husband. Oliver York, Earl of Carlisle. Oliver, this is my mother, Mrs. Clara Halton.”
The earl released Grace’s hand only long enough to sketch a courtly bow.
Clara’s mother rapped her on the foot with her walking stick. “See that? That is how a gentleman is supposed to greet a lady. Not growling and waving about pistols like a wild animal.”
Grace raised a brow. “I collect the pirate made an impression on Grandmother.”
Clara couldn’t help but smile. When she’d first met Blackheart, she had been the one growling and waving about a pistol like a wild animal. Perhaps they had more in common than one might think. “Best we don’t talk about that.”
“Please,” said the earl. “Come inside. I haven’t much, but I can at least offer fire to warm you from the cold, and a nice hot cup of tea with milk and honey.”
At the sound of the word tea, Clara’s mother turned toward the estate.
“Just a moment,” Father interrupted her. “Aren’t you forgetting something?”
The earl’s wedding gift! Clara clasped her hands together. Her mother might not be the sensitive sort, but Clara’s father had always been sentimental at heart.
Before he could so much as open the carriage door, the tiger jumped down from his perch and wrested an enormous, paper-wrapped rectangle from inside the coach.
“This is purely your grandfather’s gift,” she murmured to her daughter. “I’ve a different one. This is for your husband.”
To Clara’s surprise, the earl’s hands trembled as he took possession of the large, paper-wrapped painting. “You purchased the Black Prince? For me?”
Clara’s mother jabbed her walking stick in her husband’s direction. “That was Mr. Mayer’s doing. Try as I might, he’s always been a soft heart. Clara was still asleep when he wrapped it. She didn’t even know she was rich yet.”
Grace’s eyes blinked in confusion. “You’re…rich?”
It wasn’t how Clara had wished to break the news and she floundered to explain the extraordinary turn of events. “I knew I was disowned when I ran away to America. But unbeknownst to me—”
“Or to me,” her mother interrupted with a harrumph.
“—your grandfather invested my very generous dowry in the event of my return. It’s been collecting an exorbitant amount of interest for twenty-three years. You should see the bank statement. I couldn’t possibly spend that much in a lifetime.” She took a deep breath and smiled. “So I’m giving the majority to you. Happy wedding day, daughter.”
Grace’s mouth fell open. “T-to me?”
“It’s mine to give, and I want you to have it. Both of you.” Clara’s heart warmed at the earl’s possessive hold about her daughter’s waist. “’Tis my understanding you lovebirds have a bit of refurbishing to do.”
The earl looked thunderstruck for a moment, then grinned. “I believe the first improvement to be made is proper dowager quarters. Do say you’ll be living with us as part of our family. We dreamed of it even when we hadn’t a farthing.”
Clara grinned back at him. “I would love to.”
Joy flooded her. And trepidation.
Now that she was no longer on death’s door and had been reunited with her beloved daughter, was playing third wheel to a newly wed couple truly the right way to make a fresh start?
Chapter 10
Clara stared out of her bedchamber window at the gray sea of winter trees and wished they were the ocean.
Was the Dark Crystal off sailing to distant shores? Were Steele and his crew busy plundering treasure? Rescuing some other damsel? Had he forgotten her already?
Try as she might, she had not yet managed to put him completely out of her mind. She was alone too much with her thoughts. And her thoughts often turned to him.
Clara sighed. She’d been living in the dower quarters for weeks now. She was thrilled to be reunited with her daughter, and the Earl of Carlisle was a lovely man and a wonderful catch for Grace, but Clara couldn’t help but feel like she was in the way.
Even after settling debts, the earl and his new countess had enough projects and responsibilities to make anyone’s head spin. They barely had time for each other, much less for Clara—not that they wouldn’t give it! Both of them would do anything within their power to ensure Clara’s comfort and happiness. But an extra worry was the last thing either of them needed.
What they really needed was each other.
Despite their hectic schedules, Clara couldn’t help but notice the soft looks and fleeting touches the couple exchanged whenever one of them entered a room or passed the other in a corridor. Their love was pure and always present in every moment they shared. This was their chance to truly bond.
Or, at least, it would be if the mother-in-law with absolutely nothing better to do didn’t keep tripping over them at every turn.
Carlisle and Grace made room for their new guest in everything they did. Cozy dinners, romantic picnics, candlelit evenings at the opera. But despite all that—or, perhaps, because of it—Clara felt lonelier in their presence than she had in the middle of the ocean.
She felt superfluous every time they were together. Loved, wanted, very much cherished—and unceasingly in the way. Clara wanted to do something with her life besides clutter up theirs. Which meant what?
Returning to her parents’ house was out of the question. For her sanity and for theirs. She no longer had enough money to buy an island or an armada, but her bank account was more than ample enough to afford a nice cottage or even a reasonably well-situated apartment.
But “well-situated” where?
Somewhere close, of course. Never more than a few hours’ travel away. By land.
With her husband long dead and her daughter an English countess, Clara had no wish to return to America. But nor did she wish to languish at Carlisle Manor for the rest of her days, shuttering herself in the library to re-read tomes for weeks on end just to grant her daughter and her new son-in-law a breath of privacy.
Oh, who was she fooling? Clara turned away from the frost-covered window and retrieved her book from beside the fire. Of course she would stay here in the dowager quarters of Carlisle Manor. What choice did she have? Even if she purchased a little country cottage or flashy Mayfair apartment, it wouldn’t give her what she suddenly craved more than anything.
Adventure.
Chapter 11
Steele opened the secretary drawer in the office of the old vicarage and withdrew a wickedly sharp knife.
He’d dulled countless blades over the past several weeks as he’d tried to fill his long days with constructive action. Like slicing up chunks of wood. And marrying off his headstrong ward who cared more about giving to charities than s
he did about securing her own future.
It had been a hellish month and a half, but he’d done the impossible. In a matter of hours, his cousin Daphne would wed her childhood flame, and be out of his hair forever.
No more land-locked vicarage. No more servants and responsibilities and post-boys confused by his ward’s numerous pseudonyms. Just Captain Blackheart and the open sea.
And his crew, of course. His fingers itched to send them all notice that they’d be sailing on the morrow, but he hadn’t become a Naval captain or commander of a pirate ship by being a hasty man. He would summon all hands to deck once his ward was truly leg-shackled, and not a moment before.
Thus, the knives. Part of it was to keep his hands busy, but the other part was pure enjoyment. Slicing away bits of wood to create something else relaxed him even more than a quality glass of port.
He had one of those, too, of course. Both vices helped to pass the time.
He kicked his feet up onto the desk and slouched comfortably in the wingback chair. In less than a week, the Dark Crystal would not only set sail—she’d be setting course for the Crimson Corsair’s secret lair. Steele would catch him, hogtie him, and either deliver him to the authorities…or let the sea swallow him whole.
Ribbons of wood fluttered to the ground as Steele’s knife flashed. He was so focused on where the map might lead that his block of wood was now little more than a splinter. He set it aside and picked up his glass of port instead.
Weeks ago, he’d laughed when innocent Clara Halton had asked how many treasure maps he’d come across. Pirates didn’t hoard treasure, or bury it, or draw clever little maps so any numbskull with eyes could follow X to the spot.
Except for the Crimson Corsair.
Steele lifted his glass to the empty room and wished Mrs. Halton were there to share the moment—and the irony. If she felt like giving him a hearty Told you so, well, he deserved it. The Corsair’s men had been forced to abandon a payload in order to avoid being caught red-handed, and they’d sent their captain a coded message with the direction of the temporarily hidden treasure.
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