Lord St. Claire's Angel

by Donna Lea Simpson

  “Infant,” Augustus said, turning away in disgust. “Just as stupid as she was when I went away to Michaelmas term.”

  Celestine gasped and was speechless. She longed to deliver a set down to the young man, but Lady Langlow had made very clear to her that the heir of the household was not her responsibility.

  “I think you should apologize to your little sister, Gus, old man,” a steely voice said from the door.

  Celestine whirled to see the boy’s uncle, one booted foot resting negligently over the other. He was elegant and assured, as always, his buff breeches immaculate and his bottle-green coat perfectly fitted. He glanced at her and a half smile played over his lips, as though he was remembering the little scene between them just minutes before.

  “Uncle St. Claire!” Gus cried and ran to him.

  St. Claire’s expression became stern, though, and he crossed his arms over his chest in an uncompromising attitude of disapproval. “I said, you should apologize to your little sister. She is a small child and a female, and a gentleman is always courteous to children and women.”

  Gus swallowed, clearly wounded by the mild reprimand from his hero. He returned to his sisters, knelt down by Gwen and said, “I am sorry, little one. Forgive me?”

  Gwen nodded and ran into his arms, planting a wet kiss on his smooth cheek. He got up looking sheepish and wiping the moisture from his face with his sleeve, then looked hesitantly toward his uncle.

  “Now I am glad to see you,” Lord St. Claire said, and stepped forward with his arms held open, ready to hug his nephew. He took another look at him, though, as the boy stood eye to eye with him, and stuck out his hand instead.

  Gus flushed and pumped his hand enthusiastically.

  Celestine was impressed by the nobleman’s handling of the situation. Young Augustus had been corrected without the bluster of his father or the waspishness of his mother. There was definitely more to the man than met the eye. What a puzzle he was! She would swear one minute that there was nothing more going on in his brain than the question of whether to wear the green jacket or the blue, and then he would surprise her with his thoughtfulness or wit. She quietly guided the two girls from the room to turn them over to Elise for their luncheon. She started up the stairs behind them.

  “Miss Simons.”

  Lord St. Claire’s cool, amused voice followed her up the stairs, making her pause and turn, reluctantly.

  “Shall I consider our conversation in the schoolroom to have ended affirmatively? Shall I undertake that little commission? I would so like to be of service to you.”

  Celestine gazed down at his handsome face and sparkling eyes. “I expect you will please yourself, my lord,” she said with a faint smile.

  “I always do,” he chuckled. “I always do.”

  • • •

  Lady Emily, Marchioness of Sedgely, traveled in her stylish equipage with her companion and maiden aunt-by-marriage, Lady Dodo Delafont. From Yorkshire to the Lake District through the Pennines was quite a trip, but the weather had held so far and it was preferable to being alone for Christmas yet again.

  Not that she would have been absolutely alone. Of course there was Dodo. She looked across the carriage, dim in the dull December light, at her attenuated aunt, whose long lankiness was so completely opposite to her own short pudginess.

  Dodo was very like her nephew, Emily’s estranged husband Baxter, Marquess of Sedgely, at least in looks. Baxter was tall and lean, with dark wings of black hair and an eternally sardonic expression on his handsome face. However, Dodo was completely unlike him in character, hiding a romantic, warm heart under a gruff exterior. Emily sighed. She was grateful to Dodo for her support since her five-year separation from her husband of fifteen years, but life was beginning to take on a stultifying sameness that was very much like being trapped in amber. Her life was in suspension to be resumed at some later, unspecified date.

  It would be nice to see Elizabeth again. It had been years since they had seen each other, she realized with a start, though they corresponded regularly. The invitation to share Christmas at Langlow had been a complete surprise, but a welcome one in oh, so many ways.

  There was the relief from boredom it would offer. Life in Yorkshire in the winter could be deadly dull, though she loved it in all its seasons. It was a harsh area in many ways, and there had been difficulties in recent years with Luddites and loom-breakers, and hard years of poverty for many people. But it was beautiful too, in a wild, untamed way, and she did what she could for the people of her village. They had been good to her, in return.

  Also in favor of the invitation, there was the opportunity to renew her friendship with Elizabeth, her bosom bow from their years at Miss Lillian’s Fine Academy for Young Ladies. While she was with her husband, she and Elizabeth had seen each other regularly during the social whirl of the London season.

  But Emily had retired from that life when she and her husband had gone their separate ways five years before, and Elizabeth had long been busy with her children. Exchanging letters was not the same as sharing a nice long coze, curled up with a cup of tea in some secluded nook. That was what they had done as girls, and she hoped they would have the chance for a few such conversations over the season. Her visit was to be at least three weeks long.

  But mostly there was the chance to see her niece, Celestine Simons. When she had heard of Celestine’s predicament after her father’s death, the absolute poverty she had been reduced to since her father’s income was entailed to a male cousin, she had offered the girl a home, but Celestine had a stubborn, independent streak and would not hear of “inflicting herself on dear Aunt Emily,” as she had written back. Instead she had asked for help in finding a governess position with a good family, which Emily had been glad to do.

  Luckily, she had still been in correspondence with Elizabeth and had asked about the possibility of a governess’s post, either with them or with someone of their acquaintance. A letter of regret from Elizabeth, stating that she had no open position, nor did she know of one, had been swiftly followed by a letter outlining the affair of the unfortunate Chambly girl at Christmas and Elizabeth’s determination to end her employ at Langlow. Of course St. Claire, an acquaintance from many years ago, had acted the part of a complete cad, but according to Elizabeth the young governess was full of ideas above her station and had set her cap at the nobleman. In need of someone immediately, the marchioness decided to hire Celestine on Emily’s recommendation.

  The carriage turned a corner and Emily let down the window, letting in a blast of cold, crisp air.

  “How much farther, Gorse?” she called to her coachman.

  “We’ve made the turn into the estate, milady. Another mile or two, mayhap, accordin’ to the directions.”

  “Good! On we go, then.” Emily glanced around her curiously. There was a long row of trees on one side of the drive, bare and dark in the fading half-light of a mid-December afternoon. It wouldn’t be long before it was sunset, as they were only a couple of weeks away from the shortest day of the year. In the distance she could see a wooded copse and a lake, probably frozen or close to it already, and beyond that, the fells. They had already traveled through the Pennines, a trip Emily had never made before, and she was thrilled by the new scenery.

  “Are you intending to freeze us to death before we get there, my dear?” a querulous voice muttered.

  “Of course not, dear Dodo.” Emily laughed. She put up the window and sat back, smoothing her wine-colored, fur-trimmed cape down over her ample figure. She threw her dark fur muff over to her aunt. “Use this if your hands are cold. It is deliciously warm—too warm for my plump hands.”

  Soon after that they pulled up to the house and Emily eagerly stepped down with the aid of her groom’s hand. She gazed up at Langlow with pleasure.

  “What a lovely house!”

  It was more modern than her own gloomy home in Yorkshire, but the appellation of “house” was far too modest for it. It had been built in the
last century to replace the “ancient pile,” as Elizabeth called the old house, now a picturesque ruin, and was constructed of a large central section of three stories, built of gray stone, with two similar wings, one all windows, clearly a conservatory. The top was castellated, looking for all the world like a crown on top of the building.

  Emily and Dodo moved up the steps and into the house, into a huge hall with chandeliers gleaming against the day’s gloominess. Welcoming warmth enfolded them, and a tall, good-looking footman took their wraps in lieu of their maidservant, who followed a few hours behind in another carriage, along with their baggage.

  “Emmy!” Elizabeth swept into the hall, a vision in dark green silk. She wrapped Emily in a perfumed embrace and then held her away from her, eyeing her up and down. “Put on a few pounds, my dear?” Her tone was arch.

  Emily’s cheeks, pink from the chill air, burned to a deeper color. “I would say that we all put a little weight on over the years, but you, my dear, are impossibly slim, and after four children!”

  Elizabeth laughed, delightedly. “Now I remember why I loved you so well at school. Such a well-turned compliment, and after my discourtesy! You are far too kind.” She took her friend’s arm and led her into the drawing room.

  Once there, Emily turned and said, “Do you know my aunt, Lady Dianne Delafont?”

  Elizabeth put out her hand and took the older woman’s, holding it for a moment. She glanced over at Emily. “Very like Baxter, is she not?”

  Emily shook her head. “In some ways, but in many more ways not.”

  Plainspoken Elizabeth! She had often offended in their girlhood days, and many thought that plain, shy country-girl Emily only became friends with her because of her elevated rank, for Elizabeth was the daughter of an earl and the betrothed, from the cradle, of the then-future Marquess of Langlow.

  But for some reason she and Elizabeth had gotten along from the beginning. Perhaps it was the very dissimilarity of their characters. Elizabeth was tart and astringent, outspoken and bold, while Emily was quiet and shy, with a sweetness that overlooked many faults. Her shyness had dissipated over the years, and she was less likely to suffer fools gladly, but because of the age of her attachment to Elizabeth she still disregarded the woman’s acrimonious character.

  “You must be absolutely perishing for refreshment,” Elizabeth said. “Andrew, tea,” she said to the hovering footman. “And please tell Miss Simons that I would like to see her here. Elise can look after the children for a while.” She turned back to her guests and made sure they were comfortably ensconced in chairs, and then she seated herself.

  “I hope my niece is working out,” Emily said, sighing as she settled into a comfortable chair. It was such a relief after days in a carriage. She looked forward to a warm, comfortable bed that night, too, after inn beds, which were just not the same no matter how competent the landlord. “From letters I have received I would say she likes her position very much.”

  “Oh, my darling, she is absolutely perfect. I would not say so to her face of course, for I would not have her get puffed up, but I bless the day that little chit Chambly threw her cap at my brother. She did me a favor by being so presumptuous.”

  Emily sighed. “Was not some of the fault your brother-in-law’s?”

  “Men!” the marchioness said dismissively, waving one elegant hand. “They have no control where a pretty face is concerned and a wise woman uses that to her benefit. I do not blame the chit for trying to better her position. Who would want to work as a governess when one could be wife of a lord, especially one as rich and handsome as Lord St. Claire Richmond? However, St. Claire will marry, but it will be to a girl who can bring something to the marriage other than a lot of blonde hair and a simper.”

  “Still, Lord St. Claire has quite a reputation in town for raising a lady’s expectations, only to dash them at the very last possible minute.”

  “He is a scamp!” Elizabeth admitted. “And I have told him he must mend his ways. I have invited a few eligibles for the Christmas season to see if I can fire him off into holy wedlock. August wishes it, and I have promised to do my best.”

  “Unless you are willing to court them and give them a ring, I do not see how you can force the issue.” Emily was amused, as always, by Elizabeth’s forthright manner, and was eager to see her friend’s brother-in-law again after a number of years, to see how he looked and behaved. He would be—she counted in her head—all of thirty-two now, and had been breaking hearts for twelve of those years.

  “I have done my part in hiring Miss Simons. I knew she was perfect the moment I saw her. I would have hired her anyway, just for your sake, my dear, but she is so plain and shy, and my dear, those hands! Impossibly ugly! And St. Claire is particular about those kinds of things.” She stretched her own elegant, slim ones out in front of her.

  Emily stiffened. “Lizbet, you go too far,” she said quietly, using her friend’s pet name to soften her words.

  The marchioness reddened in an unusual display of chagrin. “Oh, my darling, I am sorry. I know that she is your kin, but you must see . . . with St. Claire the way he is—”

  They were interrupted by a cry of pleasure from the door and Celestine’s soft voice. “Aunt Emily!” She raced across the room as her aunt rose and they embraced. “Oh, Aunt, it is so good to see you!”

  Emily hugged her fiercely for a moment and then held her away from her and looked her over. Celestine was Emily’s older sister’s only child. Pansy, a dozen years Emily’s senior, had married a scholarly older gentleman, and Celestine had been the light of his life. Since her mother had died when the child was very young, father and daughter had been unusually close, and when the old gentleman finally died, after a long, debilitating illness, Celestine had suffered. The pain was compounded by the abrupt realization that she had no place to live, as the estate was entailed and she had little money of her own.

  Emily was only seven years older than her niece and felt a kinship with her, a solid bond that would have encouraged her to offer her niece anything. She had offered Celestine a home, or an independent income, but Celestine begged to be allowed to make her own way. She had no expectations of having children of her own, she said, and failing that, she wished to work with children. Thus, after spending the previous Christmas with Emily and Dodo, she had traveled straight to her new governess position.

  Letters since then had been very cheerful, but looking her over now Emily thought Celestine looked paler than normal, and surely she had lost weight. Was something troubling her? Or was her pallor just the result of the season and too little outdoor exercise? And her hands were swollen again with the arthritis, a painful condition that must make her work all the more difficult.

  Conversation took a general turn, with Elizabeth doing much of the talking concerning her plans for the holidays and who else would make up the house party. She had invited a widowed friend and her daughter, who had made her come-out a couple of seasons previously. Also there was an older couple, acquaintances of the marquess, who would be spending much of the season at Langlow. They had two daughters, both of marriageable age, one just out of the schoolroom and headed to London for her first season in the spring.

  Emily saw Elizabeth’s hand in all of that and was amused as she ate cream buns and drank tea with wondering how her machinations would work. Would St. Claire be caught in parson’s mousetrap at last, or would he escape once again to wreak havoc the next season on young girls’ hearts and widows’ reputations? She rather thought she would wager on St. Claire.

  He strolled in as they enjoyed their tea. He was an old acquaintance of Emily’s and came over to kiss her hand gallantly.

  “You look positively radiant, my lady. Ravishing! That deep wine color suits your complexion.” He threw a side glance at Celestine, whose eyes were determinedly studying the floor, and his eyebrows pulled down in puzzlement.

  “Celestine is my niece,” Emily said, answering his unasked question. “Elizabeth was kind eno
ugh to send for her when I arrived so we could visit.”

  The nobleman nodded, but his gaze stayed on the governess. Was that the trouble? Emily wondered. Despite Elizabeth’s best precautions, was the rascal pestering Celestine? The girl had little experience with how to handle a roué, and if he had determined to set her up as his flirt, or worse, she would not know how to react. But that was ridiculous, for though overly blunt, Elizabeth had been quite right. Celestine was plain and not very socially adept, not at all St. Claire’s usual type.

  He actually favored two types in his annual prowl of London: beautiful young girls in their first or second season, and mature, sophisticated widows or wives ready for a little flirtation. The first type he seemed to enjoy making fall in love with him and the second type were pure dalliance.

  Celestine was neither. She was twenty-eight, long past the first blush of youth. But still, she was an innocent, her youthful years taken up in caring for her invalid father in a small village. If she ever fell in love, Emily suspected it would have all the fervor of a first attachment and the strength of a more mature love, and could possibly be devastating to her. She watched as St. Claire charmed Dodo while sitting beside Celestine. The girl’s face had turned rosy at the feel of his leg accidentally brushing hers, or his solicitousness in handing her tea.

  He murmured things to her sometimes that no one else could hear, causing her blush to deepen. And he watched her constantly. It was deeply troubling to Emily, and she was glad she had come, if just to help her niece out of any bind she found herself in as a result of her inexperience with hardened flirts.

  Also aware of the byplay was Elizabeth. Her lovely face was pulled into a frown, the purse-string wrinkles around her mouth evident in her displeasure. St. Claire laughed and talked, but there was an undercurrent in everything he said and did. Emily would figure out what his game was and stop it, if at all possible.