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