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