“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