Regina Scott - The Captain's Courtship

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.