A turbulent reunion

The dashing Captain Richard Everard has faced untold dangers at sea. Steering his young cousin through a London season, however, is a truly formidable prospect. The girl needs a sponsor, like lovely widow Lady Claire Winthrop—the woman who coldly jilted Richard years ago.

Claire believed herself sensible in marrying a well-to-do viscount rather than a penniless second son. How deeply she regretted it! Now their fortunes are reversed, and Richard’s plan will help settle her debts and secure his inheritance. Yet it may yield something even more precious: a chance to be courted by the captain once more.

“What an untidy household you keep, sir, that everyone disappears on you.”

“You can see why I need you.”

Richard needed her? Oh, how Claire wanted to be truly needed, a helpmate instead of an ornament to be trotted out to impress but forgotten otherwise. Yet, would it be any different with him? Wasn’t she, even now, just a means to an end for him?

“So you think it’s safe here?” she asked.

“No harm will come to Samantha,” Richard said softly. “Or you. I promise.”

Richard was standing so close, Claire 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.”

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.

REGINA SCOTT

started writing novels in the third grade. Thankfully for literature as we know it, she didn’t actually sell her first novel until she had learned a bit more about writing. Since her first book was published in 1998, her stories have traveled the globe, with translations in many languages including Dutch, German, Italian and Portuguese.

She and her husband of more than twenty years reside in southeast Washington State. Regina Scott is a decent fencer, owns a historical costume collection that takes up over a third of her large closet and she is an active member of the Church of the Nazarene. Her friends and church family know that if you want something organized, you call Regina. You can find her online, blogging at www.nineteenteen.blogspot.com. Learn more about her at www.reginascott.com.

The Captain’s Courtship

Regina Scott

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Do not judge, and you will not be judged.

Do not condemn, and you will not be condemned. Forgive, and you will be forgiven.

Give, and it will be given to you. A good measure, pressed down, shaken together and running over, will be poured into your lap.

—Luke 37–38

To all the captains I know:

Scott Doyle, captain of the Cape; Larry,

captain of my heart; and the Lord, captain of my life

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Dear Reader

Questions for Discussion

Excerpt

Chapter One

London, England, Spring 1805

A man was standing in her mirror. Lady Claire Winthrop didn’t turn to see if he was real. He couldn’t be real. Even with that neat auburn beard and mustache, the face of her dreams was unmistakable. Richard Everard had sailed out of her life ten years ago. He wasn’t likely to return now, just because she’d never needed him more.

She regarded the massive gilt-framed mirror hanging on the wall of the sitting room in the town house that would be hers for a few days more. The reflection gave back a picture of the perfect society widow—every honey-colored curl sleeked back into a bun behind her head, face suitably wane and pale against the black of her silk gown. Nothing about her appearance had changed since the day her husband had died nearly a year ago. All the changes were inside of her.

She turned to regard the portly tradesman standing beside her. “I’m afraid, Mr. Devizes, that ten pounds simply won’t do. Surely you can see that a mirror of this size is worth so much more.”

Mr. Devizes sucked in his chubby cheeks and peered at the glass. Like everything else in Claire’s life, it was elegant and ornate and tarnished around the edges. “M’customers aren’t so much impressed by size as pedigree,” he mused in a rusty voice. “Were it owned by someone famous, then?”

She had no idea. The mirror was one of the last pieces left that had belonged to her late husband. Nearly everything else had been returned to his family seat and the possession of his heir, or sold to pay off debts. The remaining pieces were sadly inferior, which was why she’d had to go to less reputable dealers to find a buyer.

Claire waved a hand. “Well, certainly it was owned by the affluent and powerful. Very likely, kings have regarded themselves in this glass.”

“Or at least those who fancied themselves royalty,” said a warm bass voice.

Words froze on her tongue. Mr. Devizes turned to glance behind them, then took a step back, closer to the mirror. “I thought you said this was to be a private sale. I didn’t come prepared to bid.”

Lord, please help me! Is he truly here? Every muscle in her body protested as she turned to find out. Just one look at that tall, powerful frame, and she felt her knees buckling.

No! She would not faint. Richard Everard already held her in the utmost contempt. She refused to let him see her least weakness. She did what she’d done since the day he’d abandoned her. She smiled—not too effusive, not too sweet—just a gentle upturn of the corners of her mouth, which most people took as approval.

“Good day, sir.” Her voice was equally calm and distant. Excellent. Surely she could do this. “Mr. Everard, isn’t it?”

One russet brow went up, whether in surprise or amusement, she wasn’t sure. Once she’d been able to read every thought in those deep brown eyes, every quirk of that gentle mouth. He had obviously grown skilled at hiding his feelings.

“Captain Everard,” he corrected her, but his nod was for the tradesman beside her. “Forgive the interruption, sir. The footman who answered my knock seemed to think I was expected.”

A logical assumption. Jones knew his mistress was expecting any number of furniture purveyors to make offers on the last items. The footman and her cook were only staying on at the house until they secured other posts. Claire was thankful for their loyalty, especially since she could no longer afford to pay them for their help.

Devizes licked his flabby lips, then glanced between Claire and the towering stranger. “Friend of yours then, your ladyship?”

How could she answer? Once she’d hoped for so much more.

“No,” Richard Everard said, and his gaze hardened. “I have business with the lady.”

“Twenty pounds,” Devizes barked out to Claire. “I was here first. I have rights.”

Claire glanced at Richard. So he would not even claim a friendship. Why did that hurt so much, after such a long time apart? And she certainly couldn’t imagine what business they had, unless he’d come about one of the other pieces. How absurd! What interest could a privateer turned merchant captain have in things like an old walnut secretary and a tarnished mirror?

But she’d also learned in the last few years to make the most of every opportunity, never knowing when another door would close. Richard might not be a friend, but he could be of use to her. Desperation made for strange companions.

“Fifty,” she said to the dealer.

“Fifty?” Devizes fairly sputtered. Then his eyes narrowed. “Thirty.”

Captain Everard was staring at her, but she didn’t care, much. She needed that money. It was the only way she might start over. “Forty-five.”

“Forty.”

“Forty-three, and I shall have it delivered.”

The dealer eyed her a moment more, then inclined his head. “Done. Payment when it is delivered.”

Claire gave him her reasonable smile. “But, sir, surely you don’t malign my character. Payment now will allow me to arrange delivery.”

“You might have her put that in writing,” Richard Everard said.

Why, the nerve! Well, she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of knowing that he’d hurt her yet again. “What an excellent suggestion, Mister…Captain Everard. I have parchment and a quill on the secretary.” She made her way carefully across the nearly empty room, hoping she was the only one who heard the angry footsteps under the whisper of her skirts against the bare wood floor.

“No, no,” Mr. Devizes protested, following her. “No need. I’ll take you at your word. I heard your father was an earl.”

Yes, he had been, though little good that had done her. Earls had expectations about whom their daughters should marry, expectations of how their daughters should comport themselves in society. And earls could not leave their titles or entailed property to anyone female in the line. That was one reason she was in such difficulty at the moment.

She turned once more, and the dealer, with a side glance at Richard, met her in the middle of the room. He took a bag from inside his rumpled brown coat and handed it to her. “That should cover it.”

And she was expected to be a lady and take him at his word as well. After all, ladies did not haggle with tradesmen. Sordid matters like finance were far below them. Unfortunately, too many gentlemen of her acquaintance had failed to live up to their words, and they had claimed to love her. Claire had no one to protect her but herself. And You, Lord. Thank You for never failing me!

“Oh, how kind,” she said to the dealer. “Let me just make sure. We wouldn’t want you to overpay, now, would we?”

Richard Everard crossed his arms over the chest of his black greatcoat as if she was inconveniencing him, and Mr. Devizes fairly danced with impatience. But she counted every coin, made sure the amount added up to the forty-three pounds he’d offered, slipped the money into a corner of the secretary for the moment and returned the bag to the dealer. The gold and silver glowed against the dark wood, but the gleam only reminded her of the future she’d planned, far away from her beloved London.

“I’ll have the mirror to your shop later today,” she promised as she walked Mr. Devizes to the sitting room door and out into the parquet-tiled entryway. Jones was elsewhere, so she opened the front door and watched the dealer descend the short flight of stairs to the Mayfair street. Outside, life went on. Ladies in flowered and ribboned bonnets strolled past, attended by strapping footmen; gentlemen rode by on horses with lineages better than hers. Soon, if things went as planned, she would leave them all behind.

But first she had to get rid of the past that had suddenly loomed up in front of her. She held the lacquered green door open and eyed Richard Everard where he stood in the doorway of the sitting room. That long, straight nose always made him look as if he were leaning forward, ready for anything. She didn’t feel nearly as ready.

“Please don’t let me detain you, Captain Everard,” she said. “Surely you have something more important to do than to accost me.”

He strolled toward her, and she stood taller. There—she’d succeeded in insulting him, and he’d leave as quickly as he’d arrived. She wouldn’t have to learn why he’d shown up at her door, what he thought he could say to her. She wouldn’t have to take the chance that her heart would break all over again. She could go back to dreaming of him and waking in the night wondering what might have been.

He reached up over her head with one large hand, took hold of the door and pulled it easily from her grip. It shut with a click.

“We must talk,” he said.

* * *

Richard watched as Claire’s blue eyes widened. Such a pale blue, as clear and bright as the sky on a winter’s morn. And just as cold, like the heart that beat in that silk-covered chest.

“Fah, sir,” she said with an elegant wave of her long-fingered hand. “I cannot imagine what we have to say to each other.”

Couldn’t she? He’d thought of little else on the long ride from Cumberland. What did you say to the woman who’d jilted you, now that you needed her help? He’d hoped to apply to her husband first, even if he had to clench his fists at his sides to keep from planting the fellow a facer. But the few discreet questions he’d asked to locate Claire had yielded surprising news.

Lord Colton Winthrop was dead and in the ground nearly a year. And that fact made any conversation harder still.

“I came here to seek your help,” he told her. “I’ve a cousin set to make her debut, and she needs a sponsor.”

“I see.” She tilted her chin and gazed up at him. Time had been kind, but he thought she was one of those women who would only grow more beautiful with each passing year. Though how she’d tamed her soft curls into that stern bun was beyond him. The style narrowed her face, called out the line of cheekbone and chin. But her lips were as pink and appealing as they’d been when he’d first longed to steal a kiss.

“You will forgive me, sir,” she said. “I’ve been in mourning, so I am not completely au courant on the social scene. But I don’t recall your having a cousin the proper age, and certainly not a female.”

Trust her to know. She’d always been fascinated with the lineage of every one of the ten thousand individuals said to make up the bon ton. No doubt her late viscount had a title dating to the conquest. Richard’s family title was far more tenuous. He had to go carefully. His cousin Samantha could ill afford the gossip. “My uncle, Arthur, Lord Everard, has a daughter. She’s sixteen.”

“Indeed,” she replied.

He’d forgotten how she could stop conversation with a single word. If he’d had any doubts as to her feelings on the matter, the narrowing of her crystal gaze would have convinced him of her skepticism.

“But I believe I heard your uncle passed on recently,” she continued. “Surely his daughter must be in mourning.”

She would understand that as well. Her slender figure was swathed in black, from the high lace collar to the ruffled hem of her graceful skirts. And she hadn’t worn a single piece of jewelry, not even a wedding ring. He remembered a time when she’d refused to go out in anything less than pearls. She must have loved her husband a great deal to give up so much to mourn him. The thought brought less comfort than it should have.

“My uncle instructed that she forgo mourning,” he explained. “He believed in living to the fullest.”

“Yes, so I recall.” She refused to take her hand off the brass pull of the door, as if she’d throw it open and order him from the house at any moment.

Her attitude grated on his nerves, already too high for his liking. In fact, his cravat seemed to have tightened since he’d arrived in the house, and he tugged at it now. “Perhaps we could sit down.”

That oh-so-proper smile did not waver. “I fear I’ve nothing to offer you, Captain Everard, by way of seating or assistance. I’m sure you’ll find another lady far more suited to your purpose. You should go.”

So she was throwing him out. Why had he even considered asking her for help? She was more high-handed now than she’d been as a girl. Nothing he’d said back then had mattered. Why should today be any different? If I needed a lesson in humility, Lord, this is it.

“No doubt you’re right, Lady Winthrop,” he said with a bow. “As I recall, you had the annoying habit of always being right. I bid you good-day, madam.” He took the handle from her grip and swung open the door.

She sighed. It was the smallest of sounds, hardly audible, because of her own good breeding and through the noise from the busy street. But the dejected breath cut through his frustration—awakened something inside him he’d thought long dead. His foot on the step, he turned to gaze back at her.

“Are you all right, Claire?”

An emotion flickered across her oval face. Was it because he’d used her given name, or was she truly in trouble? Still, that infuriating smile remained pleasant. “Certainly, Captain Everard. I have all I need. I am quite content.”

Content? The Lady Claire he remembered had never been content. The latest fashion, the fastest carriage—she had to have them all and much sooner than half of London. She had ridden with more skill and danced with more enthusiasm than any other woman he’d ever met. He truly hadn’t been surprised when she’d chosen a wealthy, titled peer over a second son of a second son of a newly minted baron. Just crushed.

She shifted as if eager to have him leave, and he caught a clear view into the entryway. For the first time, he noticed the darker rectangles on the papered walls where paintings must have been removed, the scuffs on the parquet floor where large pieces of furniture had no doubt been scraped as they’d been carried out. A house this size ought to boast a half dozen servants at least, but no maid had attended her during her conversation with the tradesman, and no butler came hurrying to see him out now.

“You don’t have a sofa to sit on, do you?” he asked.

Her smile slipped at last. “That, sir, is none of your concern.”

He put a hand flat on the door, shoved it wide and strode back into the house. “It may not be my concern, madam, but it is to my advantage. I have a proposal for you, and I advise you to listen.”

Chapter Two

A proposal? Claire stared at him, mouth dry. No, he couldn’t mean a proposal of marriage. She’d destroyed any tender feelings he’d had for her. And her own feelings had been folded away like a favorite gown, tucked between sheets of tissue for safety. Some might say that a marriage would solve her problems, but she couldn’t believe that. And marriage to Richard Everard? Never.

But he didn’t wait for her response. He strode to the sitting room door, the slap of his brown boot heels echoing against the wood floor, and glanced inside. Apparently disliking what he saw, he stalked across the space to glare into what had been her husband’s library.

“You really don’t have a sofa,” he declared, as if that was somehow a moral deficiency.

Claire tugged down on her sleeves, careful to keep him from seeing the edge she’d so carefully patched. Her mother would never have imagined the ends to which Claire would have to put the embroidery skills she’d been taught.

“The sofas in this house were shabby pieces,” she told him. “I am well rid of them.”

He returned to her side, dark eyes narrowing. “So you’d have me believe you merely tired of all your furnishings.”

It was close to the truth; she’d tired of any number of things. Claire waved a hand. “I’ve grown weary of the whole, tedious social whirl. The town house has been sold, and I plan to leave London before Easter. I thought perhaps Bath, or Italy. I have yet to decide.”

She had hoped her tone was as breezy as her wave, but he shook his head. “The Claire I knew would have crawled to London over broken glass rather than miss the Season.”

“Then perhaps, sir, I am not the Claire you knew.”

He laughed as if she’d said something remarkably clever. He had no idea how difficult the last ten years had been, how much she’d changed, how much she’d had to mature. At least that much good has come of it, Father.

“We’ll see about that,” he said. “But I can’t keep you standing about like this. Is there nowhere in this house we can sit down?”

She thought about turning him away more forcefully, but truly, did it matter? He would say his piece, she would decline, and he would be gone. If he told anyone about her constrained circumstances, she’d be miles away before the gossip grew to any magnitude.

“We still have a table and chairs in the kitchen,” she told him. “This way.”

She led him down the corridor beside the stairs toward the little kitchen at the rear of the town house. Her right knee twinged just the slightest, protesting all this moving about. Not now, Lord. Please, keep it strong until I’m finished with him. She refused to see pity or, worse, pleasure at her pain. Though, who could blame him for thinking she deserved what she’d gotten from her marriage? She was the one who had broken her promise.

Shoving the memories aside, she pushed through the kitchen door with Richard right behind her. Mrs. Corday looked up from the potatoes she’d been peeling, hand frozen on the knife.

“This is Captain Everard,” Claire said, as if she normally entertained guests in her kitchen. “He wishes to have words with me.”

Her cook blinked bleary blue eyes wreathed in wrinkles. “And would you like me to stay, your ladyship?”

Claire glanced at Richard, who looked surprised she’d think twice about trusting herself alone with him. Claire focused on her cook. “Please go about your duties. Don’t let us disturb you.”

The cook’s snowy brows went up, but she ducked her head and set about whipping the peelings off the crusty vegetables as if her life depended on finishing.

Claire hadn’t spent a lot of time in her kitchen until the furnishings had been taken, but she’d been surprised to find it a dark and dismal place, with a gray stone fireplace that took up one entire wall and oak cabinets painted a lacquered black that had dimmed with time. The only bright spots were the copper tools hanging from the walls around the hearth and what was left of her china, creamy white with rosebuds along the edges, piled haphazardly on the sideboard for packing.

Still, she could remember how to be the proper hostess, even if she had to take the role of servant. “May I take your coat, Captain Everard?”

“Thank you.” He shrugged out of the multicaped greatcoat and folded it over one arm to hand it to her. Under it he wore tan breeches and a tailored brown wool jacket. An emerald-striped satin waistcoat peeked out through the lapels. She could find no fault in his clothing or the elegantly tied cravat at his throat. In fact, he looked every bit the gentleman.

“Please, have a seat,” she said, motioning him to a ladder-back chair farther down the oak worktable. She went to hang his coat on a curved-arm hall tree by the kitchen door. “Would you care for some tea?”

She turned in time to see that he had pursed his lips as if he doubted she could produce the brew. “Certainly, if it’s not too much trouble.”

Meeting Claire’s gaze, Mrs. Corday jerked her head toward the fire. “Kettle’s already on the boil, your ladyship. There’s enough for a few more cups in the caddy.”

“Thank you,” Claire murmured. Fully aware that Richard’s gaze followed her every step, she went to the fireplace and took the kettle off the hook. Carrying it to the sideboard, she set about pouring the steaming water into one of her china cups.

She nearly sighed aloud when she peered into the satinwood tea caddy. This was the last of her bohea. Funny how little things had come to mean so much now. Would she be able to get the mellow tea in the little town where she hoped to retire? For, regardless of what she’d told Richard and a few close friends, her funds would never extend to Bath or Italy. She was considering a two-room cottage in the tiny village of Nether Crawley, a day’s ride from London. Of course, with no carriage or horse, the distance was immaterial. Very likely, she would never see London again.

Help me remember why I made that choice, Lord. It does no good to wish it otherwise now.

She returned with Richard’s tea and set it in front of him. Lifting the cup to his mouth, he took a cautious sip. Now, why did that smile please her so much? She’d have thought she’d played a complicated Mozart sonata in front of the king.

“Are you certain you want to leave London?” he asked as he lowered the cup.

“Quite,” she replied. She turned her back on his frown and went to pour for herself.

“What if I could give you another Season, all expenses paid?”

She could not even reach for the teapot. Stay in London? Enjoy the balls, the parties; reacquaint herself with her friends, with no thought of tomorrow?

Ah, but she’d learned there always came the time to pay the piper. Tomorrow, however much she wished otherwise, would come. He only offered a reprieve. She would have to leave London regardless, before the Season, after the Season, for the same small house at the back of beyond. In the meantime, she would have to continue to pretend that her life was perfect, that she was perfect. No, not that. Lord, You know I am so tired of that.

She poured the last of the brew, the steam curling up to her face. “I fear my mind is made up, sir.”

“Then it’s my duty to change it.”

She turned to find him regarding her, his cup sitting in front of him, his hands braced on either side of it as if he meant to keep it captive.

“Sit down, Claire,” he ordered.

Mrs. Corday’s hands were moving so fast Claire thought the potato might fly across the table and embed itself in Richard Everard’s waistcoat. She left her cup on the sideboard and went to lay a hand on her cook’s shoulder.

“It’s all right, Mrs. Corday. Our guest is a sea captain. He’s no doubt forgotten that it isn’t polite to give orders to people who are not his subordinates.”

Mrs. Corday cast Richard a quick glance. “As you say, your ladyship.”

He had the good grace to incline his head, and the light from the lamps overhead made a halo on the crown of his auburn hair. “Forgive me, Mrs. Corday. You are the captain of your kitchen. I should have asked permission to come aboard.”

The older woman’s rosy lips quirked as if she were fighting a smile. “It’s no trouble, sir. Would you care for a biscuit to go with your tea?”

“If you made it,” he said with a smile, “I’m sure I’d enjoy it.”

She set down the potato and hurried to the pantry.

So, he could be perfectly charming to the staff, but not to Claire. Well, she wasn’t going to allow him to order her about, either. She swept back to the sideboard and busied herself adding sugar to the tea. Normally she preferred three teaspoons, but she had to economize. She took a sip of the flavorful brew, even as she heard Mrs. Corday murmuring to their guest and the clink of porcelain on oak as she set the plate of the last biscuits on the table.

“Please sit down, Lady Winthrop,” Richard Everard said quietly. “I have a great deal to explain.”

Claire steeled herself, picked up her cup and turned. His smile was contrite, his face composed. She couldn’t trust what lay beneath that fair surface, but she went to join him at the table. Her cook began cutting the potatoes into a copper pot.

“I should probably start with expressing my condolences on your loss,” he continued in that gentle tone.

“And mine on yours,” she acknowledged. “Though, as I recall, you and your uncle were no longer close.”

He rubbed a long finger along the wood grain of the table. She’d always thought he should play the piano with those hands. Certainly he could have managed the octave-and-a-half reach that still eluded her. And he’d definitely had the fire to play with enthusiasm, once.

“Uncle had changed recently,” he said. “Tried to make amends, to me, my brother and cousin, as well as his daughter.”

“So he really has a daughter?” Claire could not see the pleasure-loving Lord Everard as a doting father. His exploits—from duels at daybreak to wagers at one in the morning—were legendary. “Where has she been all these years?”

“Cumberland, in an old manor house. She was raised to be a lady, Claire. You need have no worries on that score.”

She should protest the way her first name kept coming so easily to his lips, but the sound of it was sweet. With her father and husband dead, no one called her Claire anymore. “You intend to bring her out this year?”

“Right after Easter. She’ll need a coming-out ball or some such, I suppose—clothes, of course—oh, and presentation to the queen.”

So that was why he needed her. He could have found someone to cater an event, issue invitations, and certainly any dressmaker could have gowned the girl. But to be presented to the queen, Richard’s cousin needed someone who had already been presented, a lady of some social standing, a lady like Claire.

Which meant that Richard Everard needed her help, almost as badly as she needed his. Was it possible she could parlay his request into more?

Is this a door You want me to walk through, Lord?

Aloud, she murmured, “I imagine she has her heart set on this Season.”

“She’s actually a bit intimidated by the prospect,” he confessed with a fond smile. “She needs a good example.”

Now, that would be pleasant, serving as an example to a young girl, helping her avoid Claire’s mistakes. But did she really want to relive those mistakes any more than she already had?

“Perhaps you should wait a year, then,” Claire replied. “She’s only sixteen, you said. Plenty of time.”

He shifted on the chair, spine straightening, chin lifting. Sitting beside him, she could see the physical influences of his profession—the golden tan of his skin where the sun had caressed him, the lines at the corners of his eyes where he’d gazed across the horizon.

“It must be this year,” he said.

Interesting. Why was he so insistent? She’d been pushed to do her duty too many times to force it on another, particularly a girl fresh from the schoolroom. “Nonsense, sir. I assure you a maiden needs a certain level of maturity to do well in London. Would you pluck a peach before it had ripened?”

“Lady Everard is hardly a fruit.”

Claire sat taller. “Lady Everard? Then she has the title. Oh, your brother must be beside himself.”

Even with his close beard, she could see the tension in that square jaw. “My brother Jerome is delighted with the turn of events. He was married four days ago and is busy setting up his household.”

“Indeed. I must send him a note in congratulations. Who is the lucky bride?”

He leaned back from the table. Oh, but he didn’t want to give her the information. Claire kept her smile polite. A lady did not gloat in triumph at discomfiting a troublesome guest, however sorely she was tempted.

“Her name is Adele Walcott,” he said.

Claire tapped her chin with one finger. “Adele Walcott. I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure. Is she related to Admiral Walcott?”

“Not that I know of.”

“The Walcotts of Gloucester, then.”

“No.”

“Daniel Walcott, the Parliamentarian from Dover?”

“No. She’s from Cumberland. Until recently she was Lady Everard’s governess.”

The story improved by the moment. But it would do his cousin no good. One could only dine on gossip for so long. Claire took a sip of her tea. “So, your brother married the girl’s governess, and you need another suitable female willing to play tagalong so your cousin can join Society. Naturally you’d think of me.”

“I thought of you,” he gritted out, “because you are the only lady known to the queen and perhaps willing to help my family.”

“My dear Captain Everard,” Claire replied, “I have no idea what gave you that impression.”

As if she’d pushed him too far, he rose, dwarfing the table, dwarfing her. “Oh, you’ll help us, Claire, and I’ll tell you why. You want to stay in London, and I can give you that.”

“Indeed.” Did he truly think it that easy? Richard Everard wanted her in London, therefore in London he expected her to be. Well, London, she had learned to her sorrow, exacted a price from its residents. She wasn’t sure she was willing to pay it any longer. But if she was going to stay, it would be on her terms.

She glared up at him. “Staying in London does not come cheap, sir, and neither do I. I have any number of requirements that must be met before I would even consider changing my plans. And I would need to know that your intentions are serious this time. Just how much are you willing to invest to guarantee your cousin’s success and my goodwill?”

Chapter Three

Why was it only money that made the rose bloom in those fair cheeks? Once Richard would have given anything to be the one who made Claire smile. Now he was tempted to wring her neck.

As if she could see trouble brewing, she raised her chin. “Sit down, Captain Everard,” she said. “We have a great deal to discuss.”

He wasn’t so frustrated that he didn’t recognize she was turning his own words against him. Perhaps he had been too demanding. But the subject was a difficult one, with so many aspects that he could not confide in anyone outside the family, especially not a woman who’d proven particularly unfaithful in the past.

Still, Claire was their only hope. He had a duty to his cousin Samantha, a promise to keep.

Funny. He’d only known of the girl’s existence for a month, after the family solicitor, Benjamin Caruthers, had informed Richard, his brother Jerome and their cousin Vaughn of the contents of their uncle’s will and the fact that his daughter would inherit the bulk of the estate. Jerome had been certain it was all a lie, some game of Uncle’s, even from the grave. But after riding to Cumberland and spending a fortnight in the girl’s company, they were in agreement. Samantha was an Everard through and through.

Richard had never come to care for anyone so quickly, except for Claire. His new cousin deserved his loyalty and his best effort as she embarked on this Season, which would mark the triumph or doom of his family. If humbling himself in front of Claire would help, he’d simply have to do it. They had nowhere else to turn.

Samantha must be presented at court, and only a lady like Claire could sponsor her. Given his uncle’s wild ways, few ladies were willing to risk their reputations by associating themselves with the Everards. But Claire posed an opportunity, and he’d be mad not to take it.

He returned to his seat and made himself pick up the fragile teacup like the polished gentleman he was. “We’re not lacking in funds,” he assured Claire, with a quick glance at Mrs. Corday. The woman had moved to the hearth and was arranging her pot on the fire, her broad back to him, but he had no doubt she could still hear every word that was said across the room. He couldn’t risk any hint of scandal, for Samantha’s sake.

“I’m delighted you’re prepared,” Claire said beside him. She was too proper to show her triumph at his apparent capitulation, but he thought he heard it in her voice. She had a siren’s voice, warm, low, compelling. He’d found it hard not to heed ten years ago, and it wasn’t any easier to ignore now.

She eyed him speculatively, as if calculating just what it would take to break him. “Very likely, your cousin will need an entirely new wardrobe, and that will be pricey.”

“Fripperies,” Richard scoffed.

Her smile grew. “You’d be surprised at the cost of fripperies, sir. You’ll need to refurbish the Everard town house as well.”

Richard frowned. “Why? It’s good enough for the rest of us.”

She sniffed, a mere tightening of her nostrils. “I’m sure it was quite sufficient for your uncle and the three of you, who rarely entertained among your class. For a young girl with a score of suitors and acquaintances coming to call, no.”

She had a point there. He wasn’t sure when a fresh coat of paint had been slapped on the light green walls. And Uncle’s tastes in decor might give some people pause. Some years ago, he had purchased a fifteen-foot-tall marble statue of a naked woman holding out a golden apple. It currently resided in the entry hall. Samantha would no doubt be intrigued by the piece, but he could imagine how any other lady entering the house might take it.

“We can redecorate,” he agreed.

“And increase the staff,” she insisted. “Your uncle was rather famous for plaguing the help. What was the record, four valets in one year?”

She was right there as well. The fourth, Repton, had disappeared the night Uncle had died in what the authorities persisted in calling a duel, even though his opponent was unknown. The other servants had found Uncle’s whimsical approach to life, forever haring off after a new interest, equally frustrating.

“I’ll see that the town house is adequately staffed,” Richard promised.

She picked up her teacup. “If you require a footman or cook, I can give you recommendations.”

Mrs. Corday paused in washing her hands to gaze at her mistress with worshipful eyes. Did the woman need a position, then? The current cook at Everard House had given notice just last week, saying his skills were wasted on men who were so seldom in residence. On the other hand, Claire’s cook seemed competent, and the biscuit had been nicely done.

Richard nodded in her direction. “Consider yourself hired, Mrs. Corday.”

Eyes widening, she bobbed a curtsy. “Oh, God bless you, sir, your ladyship!”

But Claire wasn’t finished. “You’ll need a town carriage, too, I think,” she said, gazing off in the middle distance. “You all go on horseback far too often. And a matched set of horses in black or white. Nothing looks more slovenly than to arrive at a ball with a ragtag set of nags.”

Samantha would be through her inheritance in hours. “And I suppose you’d like several teams to match her gowns.”

She gave him one of her elegant waves. “We needn’t go so far as all that. Though I will expect a respectable coachman and a groom. And a decent riding horse.” She paused to frown. “She does ride, does she not?”

“Like the wind, I’m told,” Richard said with a grin. “She’s an Everard.”

“A matter of considerable concern,” she replied, then continued before he could take umbrage. “Tell me about her other skills. Does she play an instrument?”

“The piano, with enthusiasm.” Richard knew he sounded defensive. Samantha was a darling, no matter what anyone thought of her family name. Any man would be lucky to claim her heart and her hand in marriage.

“Sing?” Claire persisted.

“I haven’t heard her, but her speaking voice is pleasant enough.”

“Paint?”

He raised a brow. “Paint?”

She pursed her lips, and he had to look away as memories flooded in like a high tide. What was wrong with him? Even after ten years, he found it far too easy to remember how soft those lips had felt against his, how easily they could form words that cut him to the quick.

“Well,” she said, blithely unaware, as usual, of the turmoil she was causing inside him. “I suppose painting is optional. She is versed in the latest dances?”

Richard struggled to focus on her questions. “I wouldn’t know.”

Her frown was back. “Has she ever attended a local assembly?”

He hadn’t realized such things would be important. “Not to my knowledge.”

“A party at her own home, then.”

The party his uncle had held every year came to mind. Samantha and her governess, Adele Walcott, who had married his brother Jerome last week, spoke of an event each summer, when his uncle entertained all his neighbors, great and small, on the grounds of Dallsten Manor in Cumberland. While the locals toasted his health, he’d met with other men inside the manor, and no one knew what they had discussed or who had been invited, except for his uncle’s closest friend, the Marquess of Widmore. But Adele had made it sound as if Samantha had always been sent inside in the evening, when the locals held a dance.

“I suspect she’s never danced with a partner,” Richard told Claire.

She shook her head at such a ramshackle upbringing, and one of her curls came free from her bun. It hung between her ear and cheek, a strand of silky sunlight in the dark kitchen. He grabbed his cup of tea and made himself take a sip of the cooling brew rather than reach out to touch the gleaming gold.

“Then she must have a dance master, before she reaches London,” she declared. “I’ll write to Monsieur Chevalier immediately.”

“Chevalier?” Richard asked, setting down the cup but keeping his fingers anchored to the handle.

“Henri Chevalier, a dance master of some note. He’s trained any number of young ladies the last few years, including a foreign princess.”

Just what he needed, a swell-headed fop teaching Samantha to take on airs. “We can put an ad in the Carlisle paper and find someone in Cumberland.”

She raised a delicate brow. “Certainly we could do that, if Lady Everard was coming out in the wilds of Cumberland. As she is making her debut in London, under my tutelage, only a London master will do. Chevalier is the best, the son of a deposed French count. I’m sure you wouldn’t want your cousin to make do with less.”

And how was he to answer that? Of course he wanted the best for Samantha. That was one of the reasons he hoped Claire would sponsor her. “Very well,” he conceded. “See if your fancy London fellow is available to come with me to Cumberland. I planned to leave tomorrow morning.”

“That,” she said, “we shall discuss in a moment.”

“So you even intend to dictate my travel, madam?” Richard challenged.

She tsked. “Come now, sir. If you wish to bargain, you must be willing to put everything on the counter.”

“Bargain, madam?” What more did she want? Ready for the worst, he braced his hands on the hard wood of the table.

“A turn of phrase, sir,” she assured him, but she straightened in her ladder-back chair as if making a decision. “Allow me to sum up our discussion for you. You wish me to sponsor an untried girl of indeterminate skills, a girl I have never met, and shepherd her through her first Season, including being presented to Her Royal Majesty.”

“And be welcomed everywhere,” Richard added, remembering the requirements of his uncle’s will, which his cousin Samantha was trying so hard to fulfill. “And garner at least three offers of marriage from suitable gentlemen.”

She trilled a laugh. “Why stop at three, sir? Why not a dozen?”

Richard gritted his teeth. “Three will be sufficient. Then you’ll do it?”

She held up a hand. “Perhaps you should hear my requirements first.”

“I heard them—a new wardrobe for Samantha; a carriage and team with coachman, groom and riding horse; the town house refurbished and staffed; and the services of a dance master.”

“The services of Monsieur Chevalier,” she corrected him. “And all that you will need for your cousin regardless of who sponsors her. I’m sure you’ll agree that I deserve something for my struggles.”

So she truly would bargain with him, just as she’d done with the tradesman. He wasn’t sure why that so disappointed him. She was right. He was asking her to change her plans, risk her reputation. Yet he couldn’t help thinking that Claire was the one who had gone back on her word ten years ago. It seemed only fair she do him this favor now.

“What struggles?” he protested. “Samantha is a beauty. Your work will not be onerous.”

“You, sir, have never been a girl on her first London Season. Besides, beauties often require the most effort from their sponsors. I will need a new wardrobe.”

Richard eyed her black dress. “What you’re wearing ought to scare off obnoxious suitors.”

Her smile remained polite, though he thought he saw her eyes narrow just the slightest. “Doubtless. But I’m certain you’d like me to reflect well on Lady Everard in public. You did say I was to be an example. Or do you intend to gown her in black as well?”

Neither his uncle nor his cousin would have stood for it. “My uncle insisted that she enjoy her Season,” he told Claire.

She inclined her head. “And I shall see that she enjoys it thoroughly. I will also require a maid. French, I think.”

Richard gaped. “What possible good can that do?”

She tapped her finger on the table by his cup. “Think, Captain Everard. Your cousin has been raised in the wilderness. Her personal maid cannot possibly be versed in the latest styles.”

“As far as I know, she doesn’t even require a maid!”

She shook her head. “Every lady requires a maid. You, sir, have never had to pull on a ball gown alone. Having a maid to serve your cousin and me will solve that problem, won’t it?”

He hated it when she sounded so reasonable about such a triviality. “Very well.”

She nodded as if pleased by his answer. “And when the Season is over, you will set me up in a house, anywhere I want to go.”

A house? She had to know what she asked. Any lady who took such an offer from a gentleman would no longer be welcomed by the ton. Besides, he couldn’t believe she truly wanted to leave London, or that she lacked the funds to do so herself.

“That’s a tall order,” he returned. “Who knows where you’ll wish to settle? Shipping a household to Italy can cost a fortune.”

“Which you claim to have,” she pointed out.

More than he’d ever dreamed, if Samantha managed her Season as planned. But he was no longer so willing to lay that fortune at Claire’s feet. “My cousin inherited a great deal of the legacy,” he said. “I can’t in good conscience make promises against it without her approval.”

She gazed at him in obvious wonder. “An Everard taking orders from a slip of a girl. That must have cost you a great deal to admit.”

“Not as much as once.” He pushed the tea away. “If it’s a new house you fancy, I’ll agree to setting you up somewhere in England, Claire. No more. And your reputation will take a beating if our agreement ever becomes public knowledge.”

“Then we will keep it private,” she said. “I’m a longtime friend of the family, who is delighted to sponsor the new Lady Everard. That is all anyone need know.”

He hoped it would be so easy. “So, we’re agreed. A new wardrobe, a French maid and relocation in England at the end. Anything else?”

Her smile broadened. “Yes. If you’d be so good as to deliver the mirror in the sitting room to Mr. Devizes, I think I might be ready to journey to Cumberland to meet your cousin by this time tomorrow.”

Richard blinked. “Cumberland? Why would you go to Cumberland?”

“To meet your cousin, of course. To make sure she’s ready.”

“I planned to bring her to you after Easter.”

Claire’s smile was kind. “Nonsense. I’ve already sold the town house, and you just hired my cook. Where did you expect me to live until Easter, sir?”

He could only stare at her as she rose and collected the cup. “Now, then, go about your business. I shall see you on the morrow, and we will have several days to discuss matters on our way north.”

Several days with Claire? Some part of him brightened at the thought, and he immediately squashed it. What was wrong with him? Lady Claire Winthrop was entirely too good at manipulating his feelings. If she could get him to agree to a new wardrobe, a French maid and a new house in the space of a quarter hour, what more would he end up conceding after several days in Claire’s company?

And he still couldn’t entirely believe she had agreed to help him, constrained circumstances or not. Besides, how had her circumstances become so constrained? Her father had been wealthy; he’d been the one to insist that Richard find a way to care for Claire in style. Richard had always assumed her late husband was wealthy, otherwise, why not fulfill her promise to marry Richard? Surely her father and husband had provided for her in their wills or arranged some marriage portion. Had she gone through the money in a year’s time? Given their conversation, he could almost believe it.

But worse was the idea of what she might do to his purpose and plans. Over the last ten years, he’d navigated through waves as high as mountains, defended his cargo from bloodthirsty pirates and steered a convoy of merchant ships safely through treacherous passages. Yet, thrilling as those adventures had been, the idea of being with Claire the next few days thrilled him more.

And that fact concerned him greatly.

Chapter Four

Richard had little time to consider his feelings as he left Claire’s town house. He stopped at Everard House only long enough to leave his greatcoat and issue instructions about their plans to journey to Cumberland. He’d have to deal with Claire’s requirements later. Right now, he had another commission to complete before he left London.

His older brother Jerome and younger cousin Vaughn, who with him stood to inherit a fortune from their late uncle once Samantha successfully navigated her first Season, had pressed him to contact the Marquess of Widmore.

“The last note from Uncle said the marquess would know why he fought that duel the night he died,” Vaughn had insisted when the three met in the library of Dallsten Manor before Richard headed south. “Widmore can help us track Uncle’s killer.”

“And determine who else knows our secrets,” Jerome had reminded Richard. There was a new light in his brother’s blue eyes, a new surety in his step, now that he’d married his Adele. Richard envied him that.

“I cannot feel comfortable sending Samantha to London,” Jerome had added, “until I know what she’s facing.”

Richard had agreed. Ever since their uncle’s death, when the three of them had learned about Samantha’s existence, more and more secrets had come to light, like a flotilla of ships appearing out of a fog, and he didn’t think they had faced the last.

His uncle, Arthur, Lord Everard, had lived by his own rules and only late in life had realized the importance of family and faith. He had attempted to make up for his previous misdeeds by leaving the considerable Everard legacy—which included lands in six counties, sizeable investments in the Exchange and a fleet of sailing ships—to his daughter Samantha, with generous bequests to Jerome, Richard and Vaughn, which they could receive only when they had helped their new cousin enter Society.

Launching a lass wouldn’t be so daunting in other circumstances, Richard was sure. But the rumors surrounding Samantha’s birth and upbringing would be enough to set tongues wagging. The way his uncle had hidden her and her mother away, in the north of England, would raise questions about Samantha’s legitimacy. Yet Jerome had found a marriage certificate from Gretna Green in Scotland that indicated that her mother and Uncle had legally wed.

Still, questions remained. Why had his uncle kept his daughter a secret from the rest of the family and Society until his death? Why had he fought a duel the last night of his life without having one of his nephews act as his second, as was customary as well as his habit? And why had one of Samantha’s servants recently endangered Jerome’s life to steal a porcelain box that had been emptied of its contents?

All roads of inquiry had eventually led back to the Marquess of Widmore. But Richard wasn’t even sure the powerful lord would see him. Though the marquess had been a good friend of the family, he and Lord Everard had seen little of each other of late, according to Vaughn, as if their uncle had distanced himself from the fellow in the last months of his life. And Richard hadn’t seen the man since starting on his most recent sea voyage two years ago.

Besides, the marquess’s schedule would be full of appointments and social events. He wasn’t likely to find time for a sea captain he hadn’t seen for years. But at least Richard could leave his card.

He glanced at the pearly rectangle as he climbed to the door of the ornate stone house set off from the street. Captain Richard Everard, the card read, the letters embossed. Like the marquess, Richard was the ruler of all he surveyed, but his power extended only to his ship. There, he was used to relaying orders, having them followed without question. Funny how one look from Claire made him feel like a schoolboy again, staring across a crowded ballroom at the most beautiful girl in all of London and hoping she might notice him.

“Sir?” the footman asked, brows drawn down under his powdered wig. Richard hadn’t even heard the door open, much less remembered knocking.

He straightened to his full height, looking down at the black-clad fellow, and boomed in his most commanding tone, “Captain Richard Everard to see the Marquess of Widmore.”

The footman accepted his card with a respectful bow. “Please wait inside, Captain Everard, while I determine whether his lordship is at home to visitors.”

Richard followed him into the house and glanced about as the footman made his stately way up the stairs. The entry hall was tall, with pale blue walls rising to a veined dome of glass in the ceiling. Already the light was fading with the afternoon. On one wall hung a massive oil painting of sailing ships in the middle of a battle, cannons coughing smoke.

Richard shook his head. The artist was clearly in love with the idea of the sea but had never sailed. No captain would waste powder on the air, the target already past. And the flying flags should be pointed in the same direction as the sails. But then, he’d seen sailing as just as romantic when he’d headed out as a youth.

He clasped his hands behind the back of his brown wool coat and balanced on the balls of his booted feet. Standing about, riding in carriages, felt odd after so many days at sea. At times he missed the order of things; at others he was glad for the good food, a company that included women. Even the sounds of London were different from the roll of the sea, the calls of his crew at work. Here in the house, someone was playing the piano, with a great deal more precision than his cousin. The scent of a woman’s cologne, sweet and flowery, hung in the still air.

Claire hadn’t been wearing any cologne. He snorted at how easily his mind returned to thoughts of her. She’d always smelled of roses before. The scent had reminded him of the formal gardens his mother had enjoyed at Four Oaks in Derby, the estate where he’d been born. But then, perhaps he’d always wanted to associate Claire with thoughts of home.

“Everard,” the marquess called, descending the stairs with a lively step, as if he’d kept the prince waiting and not the nephew of an old friend. “Good to see you.”

Richard shook the hand the lord offered as he drew near. He was a little surprised to find that the marquess’s hair had gone all white, kept back in a queue like Vaughn’s. He looked a little leaner than Richard remembered as well, in his dove-gray coat and black breeches, as if the weight of his responsibilities had worn him thin.

But his grip remained firm and strong as his gray eyes regarded Richard solemnly. “A shame about your uncle. A bit of color left the world the day he died.”

“Thank you, my lord,” Richard replied, releasing his hand. “And that’s what brought me to your door. Do you have a moment for private conversation?”

The marquess frowned. “Certainly. This way.”

He led Richard down the silk-draped corridor. As they passed the open door to what was obviously a music room, Richard caught sight of a young lady with close-cropped chestnut curls and a scowl of determination on her lovely face.

“My daughter, Lady Imogene,” the marquess offered as if he’d noticed Richard’s look. He made no move to introduce them formally. “Join me in the library, if you please.”

Richard followed him into the next room. The library was paneled in satinwood; built-in bookcases with leaded-glass fronts lined opposite walls. Oriental carpets ablaze with color lay across the polished-wood floor. The marquess went to a straight-backed settee by a wood-wrapped fireplace and took a seat, nodding to Richard to sit on one of the Egyptian-style chairs across from him.

“Now then,” he said, “what can I do for you, Everard?”

Richard braced both hands on the thighs of his tan breeches. “My uncle left us a letter, apparently written the night he died.”

“Oh?” the marquess said. He leaned back as if making himself comfortable, but Richard could see the tension in him, like a sail stretched against the wind. Had he known about the letter?

“In it,” Richard continued, watching him, “he advised that if we questioned anything about his death, we should apply to you for answers.”

His lordship raised his silvery brows. “How extraordinary. But I would assume you would know more than I would. Which of you seconded him that night?”

“That’s one of the things we find questionable, my lord. He didn’t ask any of us to second him. The first we knew of the duel was the physician returning with his body.”

He leaned forward, eyes narrowing. “And did this physician have nothing to report?”

“Nothing of use to us. He claimed he’d been retained by my uncle’s valet to oversee the duel, but he didn’t even know the name of the fellow Uncle fought. And Uncle’s valet has never returned to the house.”

“Naturally you’ve made inquiries.”

Richard inclined his head. “Naturally. But the fellow’s gone to ground. We had business in the north, so we haven’t been able to investigate further until now.”

A smile thinned the marquess’s lips. “In the north? Then I suppose you’ve finally met your cousin Samantha.”

Richard nodded. “I understand you knew about her long before we did.”

He spread his hands before his tastefully embroidered waistcoat. “Your uncle and I were once closer than brothers. I knew all about his marriage to that Cumberland girl, and why he chose to keep her daughter a secret.”

“Oh?” Richard cocked his head. “Then tell me, for I confess, the need for it eludes me.”

His smile softened. “Oh, come now, Captain Everard. You know how many adventures your uncle survived by the skin of his teeth. Having a daughter watching would have made life far messier.”

That he could not deny. “He could have told us.”

“He could have. He chose not to. Only you can determine the reason.”

Richard didn’t like the implication that he, his brother and Vaughn were somehow a threat to Samantha. “Then you know nothing of the duel itself.”

“Alas, your uncle ceased confiding in me a while ago. I suspect he was converted to that evangelical nonsense Wesley used to preach.”

Richard had heard of the minister who had at times fought the established Church of England to ensure that all who wished to know Christ might be saved, but he found it difficult to associate the devoted preacher with his uncle.

“Uncle wasn’t known for his piety,” he replied.

“It seems you’ve been at sea too long, Everard. Things change.” He rose. “Now, if you have no other questions, I have more pressing matters to address.”

Richard rose as well. “Only one question, my lord. Have you ever employed a servant with the last name of Todd?”

The marquess frowned. “Todd? The name doesn’t sound familiar, but he may have worked on one of my estates. Why do you ask?”

“He recently left our employ and took something of value along with him. His letter of reference said you’d been his previous employer.”

“A liar as well as a thief, it seems,” the marquess replied with a sad smile. “I’ll mention the fellow to my steward, but I doubt anything will come of it. Give my regards to your brother and the new Lady Everard.” He started for the door.

“I will,” Richard promised, following him, “but you’ll likely see them yourself soon enough. Samantha is coming to London for her Season.”

He stilled and glanced back at Richard, gray eyes thoughtful. “Is she indeed? Do you think that advisable? After all, I imagine she’s grieving the loss of her father.”

“Of course she is,” Richard acknowledged, choosing his words with care. He didn’t dare trust anyone, not Claire, not even the marquess, with their family secrets. “But you know Uncle. He couldn’t abide any sadness. He intended her to come out this Season, and she’s determined to honor his wishes.”

Widmore shook his head as if doubting the wisdom of the approach. “Surely you could dissuade her, Everard. I cannot think it seemly.”

Richard imagined the marquess was used to instant obedience, too, but he obviously didn’t know Samantha well. And he couldn’t appreciate how much depended on her meeting the requirements of the will.

“I fear she has her heart set on it,” Richard replied, with a shrug to show the matter was out of his hands.

The marquess’s lean face tightened, but his manners were too good to allow him to show his pique otherwise. “I certainly hope you’ve found someone to sponsor her properly, then. Imogene is about to start her second Season, with a ball tonight, and I don’t know how her mother manages. You have no such lady, if I remember correctly.”

“You’re right,” Richard said, “but an old friend has agreed to help.”

He cocked his head. “Anyone I know?”

“Lady Claire Winthrop.” Odd that the name felt easier to say than it had earlier.

The marquess straightened. “Excellent choice. She’s an exceptional female. I knew her husband. But isn’t she still in mourning, or do you plan to challenge that, too?”

Richard wasn’t sure what he was asking or how much he remembered of Richard’s courtship ten years ago, but he wasn’t about to claim a courtship now. “I understand her mourning will end just before the Season starts in earnest.”

“Ah,” he said, “well, I wish you all the best of luck.”

Richard somehow thought they’d need it.

The marquess excused himself, and Richard followed the footman waiting outside the library toward the front door, passing the music room again as they went. Lady Imogene had evidently finished practicing; she was arranging her music neatly on the stand. She must have heard his boots on the floor, for she glanced up and offered him a kind smile.

Now, why couldn’t he be interested in a woman like that? True, she was some years his junior, perhaps nineteen years old, if memory served. But she was lovely and talented and seemed to have a pleasant disposition with no sign of pretensions, if her smile was any indication. Considering her father’s affection for the Everard family, Richard might even be able to convince him to allow Richard to court her. There was only one problem.

She wasn’t Claire.

As he left the town house, he sighed. The weather was fair, his tasks nearly accomplished, but his spirits remained dismal.

Lord, I thought I’d put this behind me. I thought I’d forgiven and forgotten. Now a short time in her company, and all the old emotions come back to plague me.

The peace he’d hoped would flow from his prayer eluded him. Perhaps he was meant to act instead. He’d swept Claire from his mind before; he could do so again. They had a bargain, nothing more. He wasn’t offering her his heart this time. The only promise between them was to see Samantha safely through her Season. That was where his duty lay.

He ran several more errands, including commissioning an interior decorator, before returning to Everard House to learn that the mirror had been delivered. But that information wasn’t the only thing waiting for him.

“What’s this?” he asked, as their most recent butler handed him a piece of paper. Mr. Marshall had only been working for them a few months. He was tall but thin, with thick, graying hair. He reminded Richard of the mops his crew used to swab down the deck, except for that hook nose and a disapproving mouth.

“I believe that is a receipt from a dressmaker, Captain Everard,” he replied now, as they stood in the wide entryway of the Everard town house.

“So it would seem,” Richard replied, glancing at it again and feeling staggered by the sum. “But somehow I don’t see you in apricot silk.”

“Certainly not, sir.” That formidable nose was in the air. “I believe the gowns are for a certain person of the female persuasion.” He wiggled his bushy gray brows up and down.

Richard attempted to hand the bill back to him. “If Uncle arranged this before he died, I fail to see how it’s my problem. Send the bill to our solicitor. If Caruthers refuses to pay it, Uncle’s lady friend is out of luck.”

Mr. Marshall cleared his throat. “I believe, sir, that the lady is a particular friend of yours.”

Claire.

All his good intentions sailed out to sea. They’d had a bargain, true, but somehow he’d thought he’d be the one to manage the funds. She would suggest items to be purchased; he’d graciously agree or send her out for more reasonable alternatives. Yet, once again, Claire had taken matters into her own hands without waiting for him.

Richard stared at the bill. “Five hundred pounds! She spent five hundred pounds in one afternoon?”

“Actually, sir, I believe that’s just the first installment. See the note?” His finger, looking boney even through his white gloves, pointed to words at the base of the bill. “The other half will be due in a fortnight when the dresses are delivered.”

Richard snatched his tricorne off the hall table and clapped it on his head. “Then perhaps those dresses won’t be delivered. I’ll have words with the lady immediately. Don’t expect me until late, Mr. Marshall. And there had better not be a bill waiting for a new carriage!”

Chapter Five

Claire could not help but feel pleased with her afternoon. Not too many Society ladies, she was sure, could have accomplished so much in so little time. Already she’d written to Monsieur Chevalier to ask him to travel to Cumberland to teach Lady Everard to dance. He had returned a note with his regrets, explaining that he was already committed elsewhere, but she was certain she could find a way to change his mind. She’d also interviewed two maids and accepted a young lady, who would return this evening to start her position and pack Claire’s things for the trip to Cumberland.

Sadly, the current dresses were black, but Claire took heart that her new wardrobe was on its way, courtesy of one of the most coveted dressmakers in London. Madame Duvall took commissions by appointment only. That she’d cleared her schedule to see Claire this afternoon was a mark of Claire’s continued standing on the ton.

“And the apricot silk,” Claire had said as she wandered through the shop, “for the day dress.” She ran her finger along a counter covered with frothy laces and shiny satin ribbons. Madame Duvall’s establishment was designed to appeal to elegance, with walls papered in pale pink and white, dainty white chairs for customers, and the largest standing looking glass in London, strategically positioned in one corner. The room always smelled of lavender.

“Your ladyship has exceptional taste,” the plump modiste murmured, making notes in pencil in a little clothbound book. Her shrewd brown eyes glanced up. “May I recommend the emerald satin as well?”

Claire eyed the expensive fabric draping the nearest dressmaker’s form. “Too dark. I am quite tired of darkness. The sprigged muslin for the morning dress.”

“Exquisite,” she agreed, making another notation. Her bronze skirts rustled as she followed Claire toward the drawers holding buttons and embroidery floss. “I cannot tell you how pleased I am that you will be staying with us in London this Season, Lady Winthrop. You were planning to leave for Italy, were you not?”

Claire kept her smile hidden as she fingered a poppy-colored skein of floss. She’d long ago learned that the French émigrée charged outrageous sums for her creations, all the while conducting a lucrative side business feeding tidbits of her clients’ lives to the gossip sheets. “Well, of course I had to stay,” she told the woman. “I couldn’t disappoint dear Lady Everard.”

She recognized the sharp light in Madame’s brown eyes. “Oh, non, non,” the dressmaker said, as if she hadn’t just heard the Everard title used for a woman for the first time in thirty years. She licked her coral-colored lips. “I do hope I shall have the pleasure of gowning her ladyship.”

Oh, but she was good at fishing. “My dear Madame Duvall,” Claire said, turning to her with a gracious smile, “would I take the girl I am sponsoring anywhere else? I’ll bring her to see you as soon as we return from her winter home in Cumberland. What do you have for Brussels lace?”

Claire smiled now as she hung her pelisse in the closet under the stairs. By this time tomorrow, half of London would know a new lady was coming to town, and Claire would be bringing her out in style. Richard should be quite pleased.

Someone slammed the knocker into her front door. Claire stiffened. Not another dun! How many more of those bill collectors would she have to bear? She’d been stunned when the first fellow had arrived, bills in hand, oily smile on his narrow face.

“Your husband promised payment but, sadly, was unable to provide remuneration before his untimely death. And your solicitor seemed to think there were no funds to be had.” His smile had broadened, revealing crooked, yellowing teeth. “I was sure you’d see reason.”

Of course she’d seen reason. She’d always found the aristocracy’s willingness to ignore bills appalling. God had blessed them with resources. They should not withhold such resources from people who had given service. Besides, what would her neighbors and acquaintances think if men like this kept showing up at her door? She’d paid the first few bills out of her pin money, what was left of it. But as the debts mounted, she’d been forced to take other measures.

She squared her shoulders and marched to the door. She’d let Jones go this afternoon, with a glowing recommendation she could only hope would help the footman find other employment. She had nothing left to pay this new challenge but her mourning clothes, and she was ready to give them away.

She pulled open the door, and Richard barreled into her house. It had begun to rain, and the drops clung to his greatcoat, peppered his russet beard with silver. She had to clench her fists to keep from reaching up to brush them away.

“Did you even wait until I was down the street before spending my money?” he demanded.

How rude! Claire shut the door with shaking hands. “Moderate your tone, if you please. I’m certain you would not want my neighbors to think you had me under your protection.”

He turned to face her. “I will moderate my tone, madam, when you offer me an explanation.”

Claire raised her chin. “I believe you are referring to the gowns I commissioned this afternoon. Clothing takes time, sir. I thought you’d prefer that I make the most of yours. Surely you wouldn’t want Lady Everard sitting at home for her first two weeks in London, waiting on me.”

“Perhaps not,” he allowed, though the stiffness in those broad shoulders told her that he was not mollified. “But a thousand pounds, Claire!”

She spread her hands. “I told you fripperies do not come cheap. If it makes you feel better, know that I plan to spend twice that on your cousin.”

“Twice!” He yanked his hat from his head, disheveling his hair. “Madam, strike your colors!”

Claire raised her brows. “I will not pretend I know that expression. But I stand by my plans. If you want the girl to be a success, you must do things correctly. I can explain the entire process on our trip north tomorrow. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to change. My carriage will be here shortly.”

He stared at her. “I knew it! You did buy a carriage!”

“Certainly not. I meant the carriage I hired to take me out this evening. I must keep a promise to a friend.”

His eyes narrowed, and he took a step toward her, glaring down at her. She imagined the sailors on his ship would quake at the sight. “Friend?” he asked, voice low and deceptively calm. “What friend?”

She felt the polite face slipping into place again. Habit. It had seen her through Winthrop’s drunken tirades, his denials the day after that he could ever be less than a gentleman. For ten years, she’d been at one man’s beck and call; for seventeen years before that, she had done her father’s bidding. She was not about to let herself be put in that position ever again.

She tilted back her head to meet his gaze, so dark, like the sky on a stormy night. “You did not purchase a slave, Captain Everard. I promised to bring out your cousin for a reasonable compensation. I did not give you permission to question my acquaintances.”

“We have an agreement, madam. I have the right to know whose company you keep. I will not have your behavior reflecting poorly on Samantha.”

Another woman might have felt slapped by his words, but she’d taken harder blows. Claire turned and reached for the door. “I believe you’ve made a mistake,” she said. “If you leave now, you might find another lady to serve as sponsor. I suggest you treat her with considerably more respect.”

He frowned as if not understanding. “You’re throwing me out?”

“Certainly not, Captain Everard,” she said, opening the door. “I hope I am a better hostess than that. But London is rather thin of company as yet. If you want to find another sponsor, you’ll have to start looking this very moment.”

He sighed, shoulders coming down. “I don’t want another sponsor. I want you.” He swept her a bow. “Forgive me, Claire. I’m a jealous fool.”

Jealous? He was jealous? She should take no pleasure in that ugly emotion, yet some part of her trembled with the knowledge that he might actually still care a bit for her. Immediately she chided herself. He couldn’t care for her. Very likely he was only jealous of the time any friendship might take away from her attentions to his cousin. He knew nothing of what she’d become. Perhaps he was right to wonder about her associations.

“I will do my duty as sponsor,” she promised. “Please trust that I have your cousin’s best interests at heart.”

He inclined his head. “Very well. I will hold you to your word.”

He did not add this time, but she heard it nonetheless. “Good,” she replied. “Now, I bid you good-night, sir.”

He made no movement toward the door, where the sound of rain rose louder. Cool air rushed into the entry, chilling her.

“May I ask where you are going this evening?” His tone was considerably kinder, but she still could not like his interference.

“You may not.”

“Cut line, Claire,” he said with a sigh. “I’m only trying to determine whether I can join you.”

Claire raised her brows. “Join me? You mean, you want to escort me to the ball?”

He made a face. “A ball, is it? Ah, well, I suppose I’d better get used to it, for Samantha’s sake. Yes, if you’ll have me. I’d be honored to escort you.”

Did he have any idea of the ramifications of what he had suggested? A gentleman generally escorted a lady to a ball if he was considered a member of the family or intent on courting. Some in London would remember how she’d jilted him ten years ago. She knew what they would assume now that she was widowed, and he was still unmarried, from the gossip she’d heard. But she wasn’t ready to be the object of the captain’s courtship, even if that courtship was only a fiction in the minds of her friends.

“I’m attending Lady Widmore’s ball,” she told him. “If you don’t already have an invitation, I sincerely doubt you will endear yourself to her by showing up at the door.”

A light came to his eyes. “Widmore, eh? That shouldn’t be a problem. Give me a few minutes to go home and change, then I’ll return for you.”

She peered closer, and he arranged his face in a charming smile that did not fool her. “She will expect you to dance, you know,” Claire warned him. “A presentable gentleman cannot stand along the wall like a girl fresh from the country.”

He laughed, and the sound warmed her. “Then I’ll be fine. No one ever considered me a presentable gentleman.” He bowed again. “I’ll be back shortly.” He dashed out into the rain.

Claire shut the door behind him and leaned against it. Feelings swirled around her like pigeons on the steps of Saint Paul’s. A handsome gentleman wanted to escort her to a ball. She should be in alt. But having Richard beside her all night was a sure way to go raving mad.

How would she achieve her purpose when all she could think about were other balls, other nights when he’d refused to leave her side? The only thing that had mattered then was being together—listening to him talk of his dreams for glory, sharing her wishes to marry for love rather than position or wealth. How young she’d been! She felt as if she’d aged a lifetime.

And why was it men never saw the difficulties in their sweeping statements? So the Widmores would be no problem, eh? She knew his uncle had been a particular friend of the marquess, but one did not attempt to enter a ball uninvited. Perhaps she needn’t worry after all; perhaps they’d simply refuse him entrance.

Claire shook her head as she made her way carefully up the stairs. Even after three years, the first turning still made her body clench in memory and set her knee to throbbing. She did her best to ignore it, continuing on up the marble flight for the chamber story, where Mrs. Corday was waiting to help her.

The cook curtsied as Claire entered the bedchamber that had been hers since her marriage. Stripped of most of its furnishings, save the great bed and her dressing table, the pale blue room felt no more welcoming than it had when it had been stuffed with fine woods, costly fabrics and delicate porcelain.

“I know more about baking than buttons,” her cook murmured, as she helped Claire into the black evening gown she hoped would be suitable for the ball. The bodice was covered in black lace, and the back was gathered to spill from her shoulders in graceful folds. Had it been any other color, she might have delighted in it. Still, she was lucky Lady Widmore was an old friend and had been gracious about Claire’s last-minute decision to attend, sent only this afternoon.

“Any fingers strong enough to knead bread are strong enough to fasten these infernal tapes,” Claire replied. “And I thank you, so much, for all your help. I don’t know what I would have done without you.”

“There’s strength, and then there’s strength,” Mrs. Corday said, stepping back to smile at Claire. “And you’ve strength aplenty, your ladyship, if you don’t mind my saying. I’ve seen it.”

She had indeed, but Claire didn’t want to remember that dark day when her cook had had to intercede for Claire’s life. “We’ve been through a lot together. And I appreciate everything.”

Mrs. Corday’s eyes were bright with unshed tears. “That captain’s a better man, your ladyship. I’d bet my life on it.”

Claire merely smiled. She’d already bet her life on a man’s character, and she’d nearly lost. She thanked Mrs. Corday again and sent the woman back to her other duties.

Claire’s standing looking glass was long gone, so she bent to peer at herself in the glass on her dressing table. The square-cut neck of the gown demanded a necklace. A shame that in the last months she’d had to quietly sell every piece Winthrop had given her, just to pay bills. Even the jewelry box was gone. There was only one piece left, one she hadn’t worn in ten years.

She slid open the little drawer on her dressing table and reached far to the back. The amber cross came out in her hand, its sterling chain turning dark with age. No more than an inch long, the stone glowed in her hand. She should have returned it when she’d accepted Winthrop’s offer. But, like her memories, she simply couldn’t part with it. Did she dare wear it now that Richard Everard had returned to her life? Would he see it as an admission that she still cared for him?

Very likely, he wouldn’t notice or even care. He hadn’t returned to her, not really. He was here merely because his cousin needed someone like her. If he’d known any other suitable lady, he would never have come knocking on Claire’s door. When the Season was over, he would leave her life as quickly as he’d entered it. And she would be left with memories again.

Memories, and a chance for a future. She was certain he’d keep his word. If she brought his cousin out in style, she could lay claim to a house, some place snug and safe, anywhere in England. The bit she’d managed to save to purchase a cottage could go instead to keeping her clothed and fed. With a little garden, she might be able to eke out an existence. True, she’d forfeit her standing on the ton, but she’d gain security. She had to focus on that hope.

She fastened the chain around her neck, feeling the cool weight of the stone against her skin. She’d had a purpose for attending this ball tonight; she must look like a proper lady to achieve it, and the necklace would help. If Richard remembered the day he had given the cross to her, she would simply have to deal with his reaction.

And pretend her own didn’t eclipse it.

Chapter Six

Claire had barely finished the last touches on her toilette when the knocker sounded again. This time, Mrs. Corday beat her to it. Claire was still descending the stair when the cook opened the door. The white-haired woman stared a moment, then bobbed a curtsy.

“Goodness, Captain Everard, sir. I barely recognized you!”

Claire felt the same way. Richard’s reddish hair had been brushed nearly smooth and pomaded until it shined. His white cravat was spotless and elegantly tied. The black evening coat hugged his shoulders, just as the white satin breeches brushed his thighs. Gone were any vestiges of the eager boy she’d known. This was a gentleman born to command, accustomed to obedience.

But he could not expect hers. She raised her chin, determined not to be easily swayed.

“Even an old sea dog knows how to polish the brass before escorting an admiral, ma’am,” he told Mrs. Corday with a smile.

Claire reached the bottom step. “Hardly an admiral, sir.”

His gaze met hers, and the admiration in it nearly stopped her progress. His smile broadening, he offered her a bow. “My mistake. Clearly royalty.”

His tone was teasing, so she decided to take the statement as a compliment. “And dare I hope you managed some suitable conveyance as well?”

He stepped aside so she could see down to the street. “Will this do?”

Claire was at the door before she remembered moving. “Oh, Richard, she’s a beauty! Where did you find her?”

“She belongs to my cousin Vaughn,” he said, gazing down, with almost as much admiration as he’d shown her, at the sleek blue chariot and its pair of matching white horses. “It appears the Everards have a carriage after all. I’d offer to let you take the reins, but I wasn’t sure you’d want to arrive at the ball in that sort of style.”

And why was she so disappointed by that truth? She hadn’t driven her own carriage since she’d married. Winthrop had always insisted on either driving his phaeton himself or having their coachman drive the larger carriage. At first, she’d thought he was merely being a gentleman, but he’d been aghast the day she’d asked to try her hand at his sporty carriage.

“My wife will not be seen behind a team of horses like some farmworker.”

Even now the remembered contempt on his face cut her. She realized her hands were clenched at her sides and opened them. “Quite right,” she said to Richard. “I’ve outgrown such antics.”

For a moment, she thought she saw a disappointment matching her own flicker in his dark eyes. Then Mrs. Corday stepped forward with Claire’s black velvet evening cloak. “You’ll be needing this, your ladyship.”

“Allow me,” Richard said, and took the cloak from her to drape it over Claire’s shoulders. The brush of his hand against her cheek as he drew back was as soft as a caress.

Claire’s fingers trembled as she fastened the cloak at her neck. She looked up in time to see him erase a frown from his face. The amber cross seemed to press against her skin. But if he’d noticed it before the cape had covered it, he made no mention of the fact as he took her arm and escorted her down to the carriage.

Lord, now what do I say to him? she prayed, as they sat beside each other on the leather seats. No ideas popped into her head, but she was thankful that Richard seemed just as indisposed to talk, as he gazed out the windows at the lighted town houses they passed. She was also thankful the ride to the Widmores’ on Park Lane was mercifully quick, and the coachman was adept at maneuvering the chariot right up to the door.

Climbing out was always a gamble, and Claire prayed that her knee would oblige. But Richard stepped down first and fairly lifted her from the vehicle, his hands strong on her waist. She wasn’t surprised to find all her limbs trembling as he led her to the door.

The Widmore home was large, with a full ballroom on the second story. Soon Claire was in the receiving line with Richard, their cloaks taken by a strapping footman, the finest of London society around them. Music drifted from the ballroom beyond, flowing down the stairs. Already the murmur of voices threatened to drown it out, so numerous were the guests in their satins and velvets.

Claire wasn’t sure what to say about her escort to her friend Lavinia Devary, Lady Widmore, who stood with her husband and daughter outside the ballroom doors. All three were dressed in velvet, from the white of young Lady Imogene to the raisin-colored gown of her mother and the black coat of her father. As Claire and Richard approached, however, Lord Widmore spoke first. “Ah, Everard. I’m glad you sent that note about attending. You remember my dear wife and daughter?”

Richard bowed to the tall, slender, gray-haired woman standing on the lord’s left and the curvaceous young lady with short-cropped curls beside her. “Ladies, a pleasure. I believe you all know Lady Claire.”

Lady Widmore’s blue eyes widened, but Claire groaned inwardly. As the daughter of an earl, Claire was entitled to style herself by her first name, but as a married woman, even now widowed, she should be using her husband’s title. The Widmores had to know that, yet they murmured greetings like polite hosts, and only the marchioness’s look told Claire that her friend expected a full accounting soon.

This would never do. Claire and Richard would be a seven-days wonder before she even introduced the idea that Lord Everard had a secret daughter.

“We must talk,” Claire said to Richard, as he led her into the ballroom. Pale blue walls rose all around her, adorned by Grecian columns and potted palms in marble urns. Already the golden light from the twin crystal chandeliers was warming the air. She tugged on Richard’s arm, and he followed her to a set of gilded chairs along one wall.

“A problem so soon?” he asked.

Claire smiled to an elderly couple who were promenading past. “We must decide what to tell people about this situation with your cousin if we are to use the gossip to our advantage.”

He frowned. “What gossip?”

“The gossip that will start the moment everyone realizes that your brother did not assume the title.” Claire leaned back in her chair, spreading her skirts around her. “I planned my strategy for this ball, but I can see that your being here complicates matters.”

“Strategy?” he asked, but a man drew up beside them just then. She recognized Sir Geoffrey Plantier’s lanky frame and artfully tousled blond hair.

“Lady Winthrop!” he cried, fairly prancing in his dark evening clothes. “What a pleasure to see you! Dare I hope for the honor of a dance later?”

Claire knew what her response must be. “I regret that I am not quite out of mourning yet, Sir Geoffrey. But I’d be delighted to hear of your latest triumph on the Thames. Beat The Falcon by a full length, I hear.”

“If you don’t count the bow spit,” he agreed with an embarrassed smile, slender cheeks flushing. “I’ll return for you shortly, then.”

“The Falcon?” Richard asked, as the baronet toddled away.

“A rival yacht,” Claire assured him. “Sir Geoffrey was ecstatic about the win, according to The Times. Now, sir, our strategy. I came here tonight with an express purpose.”

His look darkened. “I surmised as much. Who is he?”

Claire frowned. “I have no idea what you’re talking about. Will you pay attention, please? We must make sure to meet as many people as possible and share the story of your cousin’s tragic circumstances.”

“Tragic circumstances? She just inherited a barony!”

Claire laid a hand on his arm. “And that will be enough to shock most people. Do you know how few lines can descend from a daughter, sir?” She released him. “Now then, I suggest we paint Samantha as an innocent, kept pure from the scandals your family so enjoys.”

She thought he might choke, his look was so choleric. “My uncle didn’t think of the consequences and didn’t seem to mind the scandal that resulted. I assure you, the rest of the family has more restraint.”

“Lady Winthrop!” The ton’s favorite dandy, Horace Hapheart, stood in front of them, hands on the hips of his pink-satin breeches. “What a surprise! We must have a nice, long coz!”

“We certainly must,” Claire agreed with a ready smile. “I’ll look for you at supper, shall I?”

He nodded so vigorously he nearly smashed his high, pointed collar. “Of a certainty! And I hear they’re serving those lobster puffs you so enjoy.”

“I shall look forward to sharing them with you, sir.” As he dashed off to meet another friend, white coattails flapping behind him, she turned to Richard, only to find that his frown had turned to a scowl. “Your family is not at all in the common way,” she told him, “and you know it. Your cousin Vaughn writes poetry that sets the town ablaze, and you were a privateer.”

“Claire!” Lord Peter Eustace seized both her hands and bowed over them, every line of coat and breeches perfection. “My word, but I’m glad to see you out and about again. Say you’ll partner me at whist. I so long to give Thurston and his set a drubbing like we did last year.”

“She’s taken,” Richard snapped, rising and glaring down at the fellow. Lord Eustace dropped Claire’s hands and scuttled away with a squeak of apology.

Claire patted the seat beside her. “And that is precisely why we must talk. You cannot go around pretending you own me. Like it or not, I am Lady Winthrop.”

“He called you Claire.”

He sounded like a little boy annoyed his older brother had been given a treat. “He is related to my late husband,” Claire explained, “and I’ve known him for years.”

“You’ve known me for years, too.”

“I knew you years ago. There’s a difference. And any number of people here will remember that tale if we give them cause. I prefer that they forget.”

“I haven’t.”

The words were soft and sad. Something inside her wanted to cry over the matter as well. But she couldn’t sit here, letting near strangers see her sob. Lord, lend me Your strength. She put on her polite smile.

“Be that as it may, Captain Everard, you have charged me with a task, and I intend to do it to the best of my ability. For now, I suggest you find some other lady and ask her to dance. Our hostess is bearing down on us, and I need to plant the seeds that will bring your cousin Samantha a rich harvest.”

She was afraid he’d argue, but one look at Lady Widmore’s determined face, and he stood and headed toward the opposite side of the room, for a group of older gentlemen who were, no doubt, discussing politics.

Lavinia dropped onto the chair he had vacated. She and Claire had met socially and, despite the differences in their ages, had taken to each other at once. “I cannot tarry, dearest,” she said now. “I have too many duties as hostess. Quickly, tell me all! Why are you here with Everard? I thought you loathed the fellow!”

“Nonsense,” Claire said with an airy wave, hoping to brush aside her past as easily. She went on to explain about Samantha. Lavinia was quickly in sympathy for the poor child, raised alone in the wilderness. So were any number of ladies with whom Claire shared the story as the night progressed. And of course, the gentlemen were ready to believe anything she said as she chatted and played whist and supped. Everything would have gone quite to her satisfaction, except for two gentlemen who did not behave as she expected.

The first was the Marquess of Widmore himself. Claire had known him through Winthrop, who had had visions of rising to a more prominent place in society. She’d wondered whether marriage to her might have been part of his plan. However, shortly before his death, her husband had refused to have anything to do with the marquess, saying that Widmore had odd notions for a nobleman. She wasn’t sure what that meant, given what her husband considered normal.

She’d been raised by a father with strict propriety, and she’d certainly grown up trying to please him. But nothing had prepared her for her husband’s lengthy list of requirements. Some she found easy to manage, like his desire for her to be a leader in fashion and a welcoming hostess. Others made her chafe. Lord Winthrop’s wife was not supposed to have an opinion, it seemed, on politics. She wasn’t even supposed to have an opinion on the opera or the latest book everyone was discussing, and certainly never an opinion that varied from his. Lord Winthrop’s wife, in short, was supposed to have the character and usefulness of a pretty porcelain vase. Small wonder she’d nearly shattered under the weight of her marriage.

Lord Widmore was a refreshing change. He always treated her with respect and raised topics of conversation as if assuming she had every right to take part in the discussion.

“You’re heading for Cumberland, I hear,” he said now, falling into step with her as she returned to the ballroom from the card room, where she had helped Lord Eustace trump Lord Thurston. “With Everard, no less.”

Claire nodded to a passing acquaintance. “A gentlemanly escort is useful when traversing the wilds.”

“Or navigating the ton,” the marquess acknowledged. “I should hate to see your generous nature put to the test.”

Claire smiled at him. “Thank you for your concern, my lord, but I’m certain I will be fine.”

“They are Everards, you know.” When she looked him askance, he merely shrugged. “Much as I enjoyed Lord Everard’s company, I know some consider his family a bit on the scandalous side. And there is, of course, the question about the girl’s paternity.”

Claire motioned him aside, closer to the pale blue wall and away from any other guests. “My lord, surely you don’t malign an innocent child.”

His eyes searched hers, as if trying to gauge her inner strength. “It is not her innocence that concerns me. There are issues here you cannot know, secrets the Everards are hiding from you. Are you certain you wish to associate yourself with that group?”

Secrets? Issues? Had Richard withheld information to gain her trust? Oh, those doubts were too easy to blossom, yet she could not risk all she’d tried to accomplish by giving in to them, especially not in front of the marquess, of all people.

“I am an old friend of the family,” she said dutifully. “It’s my pleasure to sponsor Lady Everard for her Season.”

He looked less mollified than anyone to whom she had peddled the tale. “Then you are intent on helping them.”

“Quite.”

He surprised her by laying a hand on her arm, his long face serious. “If you need anything, if the girl needs anything, let me know. I can do that much for her father.”

Claire swallowed as he withdrew his touch. “Thank you, my lord.” She very nearly let him go, then realized she did need help, in one area. “There is something, a triviality.”

His face was still as serious. “Name it.”

“I want Monsieur Chevalier to teach her dancing. I believe your daughter benefited from his instruction.”

He smiled then, as if he’d found the answer to his concerns. “Indeed she did. I’m sure I can offer incentive to send the fellow to you. Consider the matter settled.”

The other gentleman, however, was not so easily appeased. Everywhere she went, whatever she was doing, Richard was watching. Her husband had always abandoned her the moment he could, preferring the card room or the company of his friends to hers. But tonight she was constantly aware that Richard stood nearby, never interrupting, never threatening, but always ready to do her a service. If he was hiding some dark secret, he didn’t show it. His smile remained pleasant, his carriage confident.

He was the one who brought her a fan when the room proved heated. He was the one who found her and Horace Hapheart a table in the crowded supper room. And he was the one who sat at her side when she plopped down on a chair near the end of the night, exhausted.

“Ready to leave?” he asked.

Claire nodded with a sigh. “My task is accomplished.”

“Is it?” He cocked his head. “I thought you had one more duty tonight—to dance with me.”

Dread fell like a rock into her stomach, but she kept her smile in place. “But you haven’t danced all evening.”

His mouth turned up on one corner, as if he was pleased at the thought that she might have been watching him as well. “Perhaps I was waiting for the most beautiful woman in the room.”

Claire made a show of glancing about. “Ah, I believe you are in luck. Lady Imogene is just releasing her current partner, and no one else has rushed forward yet, for once.”

“Lady Imogene can dance with a monkey for all I care,” he said with charming conviction. “Partner me, Claire.”

She couldn’t. Oh, she couldn’t! She’d longed to dance, to move with the music, to smile at her partner across the way in the pure joy of the moment. But she didn’t dare trust herself, especially with Richard.

“I regret that I do not feel it proper for a lady in mourning to dance,” she told him.

His smile was melting into a frown. “And aren’t you planning to give up mourning when we return to London?”

“For your cousin’s sake, certainly. I can’t go about looking like an old crow if I’m sponsoring her.”

“You don’t even resemble a young crow,” Richard said. “I’ve been patient. One dance is not too much to ask, madam.”

Her mouth was dry. Father, please! Make him give this up. You know why I can’t dance. Guilt poked at her for fending him off. “Unfortunately, I am quite fatigued. Will you be a dear and call for the carriage?”

He rose, and she nearly sighed with relief. But his puzzled look down at her told her he wasn’t satisfied by her answer. “Very well, Lady Winthrop, I’ll strike my colors and fetch you the carriage. But you’re hiding something, and we have three long days ahead of us for me to discover what that might be. I only hope I can convince you to trust me enough to tell me the truth.”

Chapter Seven

She’s changed.

The thought kept running through Richard’s mind as he saw Claire home and returned to Everard House for his own bed. Claire had always been popular; when he’d been courting her, at some balls he’d had to wade through suitors six deep to reach her side. Then she’d seemed entirely too aware of the power she held over them all; as little as a frown from her would take the wind from their sails. Tonight, she’d been gracious to everyone, from Widmore to the feckless Horace Hapheart. Was it all part of her plan to win them to Samantha’s side, or had her proud heart truly softened?

Then there was the matter of her dancing. Claire had danced with a rare combination of joy and grace. He’d found it hard to take his eyes off her as she swung around him, and he’d never known her to sit out a set. Yet tonight she hadn’t stepped onto the floor once. He simply couldn’t believe she’d forgo the pleasure just to complete her so-called strategy. So, why refuse to dance with him? Was he still so repugnant to her?

He was still thinking about the ball when he left the house the next morning to complete his preparations for the trip north. Mr. Marshall, the butler, had agreed, uncommon gleam in his eyes, to hire more staff and prepare the house for Samantha’s arrival, with the help of the decorator Richard had commissioned. Now Richard just had to see that Samantha reached London as planned.

He’d ridden from Cumberland, but he couldn’t see Claire making the return journey that way. And Vaughn’s chariot, though sporty, wasn’t built for travel over long distances. So he hired a post chaise and postilion and made arrangements for changes of horses along the way.

His second task was more grim. At his brother’s suggestion, he’d enlisted the aid of a Bow Street Runner to look into the disappearance of Repton, his uncle’s valet, and the treacherous footman Todd, who had stolen from them and threatened Jerome and his wife. Richard had no reason to think the footman had returned to London, but the famed thief-takers associated with the Bow Street magistrate’s office could travel anywhere in England, on request.

“I’ve found nothing on your valet,” the runner reported that morning, when Richard met him at a public house near the office. A slight, older man with graying, curly hair and a lined face, he wore his red waistcoat, the badge of office, proudly. “But a fellow matching the description of your footman turned up.”

“Oh?” Richard leaned closer across the top of the scarred wooden table. “Where?”

The runner cocked a grin. “He was found dead in a rooming house in St. Giles last night, shot through the heart. The constables felt it was a falling-out among thieves.”

Richard could see why they’d make that assumption. The St. Giles area of London was rumored to be a cesspool of crime. Though Todd had stolen from them, Richard found it hard to imagine the footman falling so low. And why stay in the rookeries? With a priceless porcelain box to sell, he could have gone anywhere, in far better style.

“Confirm his identity and keep looking for Repton,” Richard instructed, passing the fellow another twenty pounds for his efforts. “I’m heading to Cumberland this afternoon. Send word to me at Dallsten Manor in Evendale.”

The runner had agreed, and they’d parted company. Richard was returning home via Piccadilly when he saw the man Claire had called Lord Eustace from the evening’s ball strolling in his direction.

“Everard, isn’t it?” the young lord asked, positioning himself so that Richard could not easily pass him. The way he swung his ebony cane told Richard the fellow was actually considering using it as a weapon.

“Captain Everard,” Richard said, widening his stance.

Eustace nodded. “You seem a decent chap. See that you marry her this time. I’d hate to have to call you out.” With a tip of his top hat, he passed and left Richard standing there.

What was that all about? Did the fellow actually think Richard was courting Claire? If so, then Eustace was dimmer than he looked. With a shake of his head, Richard continued on his way, but he’d hadn’t even reached Hyde Park before he found Horace Hapheart blocking his path.

Today the dandy was dressed in a checked coat of red-and-white material that surely would have looked better draping the back of a horse. His shirt points were so high Richard wondered the fellow didn’t poke himself in the eye. He had a sheet of newsprint in one paw and an eager look on his flabby face.

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