After the Scandal (13 page)

He led her up the kitchen stair, and into the quiet but comfortable house. Above stairs she could hear the patter of the light rain that had evolved from the heavy damp of the night.

“It will be light in about an hour.” His voice had lost that rolling, rough cadence of his directives to Jinks, and returned to the blunt formality of the Duke of Fenmore. “We’ll wait only until then. Why don’t you see if you can get some rest?”

Claire was quite determined not to be put off. She felt herself on the verge of something new and, if not exciting, then perhaps better. More adult. More self-determined. But she needed his help to become so.

“I don’t need to rest. I’m quite used to town hours.” For once Claire was thankful that her mama had insisted, as she always did, on Claire taking a nap in the late afternoon, before the evening’s festivities. “In this, at least, I can take care of myself.”

“All right,” he confirmed in his brusque, factual way, before he led her up the main corridor to the elegant stairwell where he lit a branch of candles for light. “My sister still keeps some things here. Although this is my house now—I keep the lease—it was her home first,” he explained. “Why don’t you see if you can find some cleaner and plainer clothing. You look to be of a size—you look like you’d make spare change from a hundredweight. Her clothes may seem worn, but they are all quite clean. Are you all right?”

Claire nearly missed the next step on the stair, and her cheeks had grown hot and uncomfortable at the rather startling idea that His Grace had surreptitiously sized up her body like a tailor. “Yes. Quite. Does your sister live with you at Fenmore House now?”

“No. Sadly—for me, not her—she lives on New Providence Island in the Bahamas, where she is closer to her husband, who is an admiral of the West Indies Station.”

“Oh, I see.” She had never heard anything about any of His Grace’s relations besides his grandmother, the dowager duchess, who was still a fixture in society. She had never heard anything about a sister or an admiral. But she had not heard of an old scandal either.

It had to have been years ago, when he was a young boy, for despite his mention of age, he was clearly a man in the prime of his life, in full command of a rather amazing set of faculties. He looked to be of an age with her oldest brother, who was not yet thirty.

But thirty was still young in a man. She would be ancient when she reached his age.

There it was again—the ashy taste of failure and shame and doubt in her mouth, burning up her throat and heating her eyes, telling her it was her own fault.

Planning to let a man like Rosing
steal
kisses
. She could hear the duke’s scathing set down as if he had just said it. And he was right. She had been stupid and accommodating and desperate. But she would be no more.

She was determined.

She put up her chin and swept past the Duke of Fenmore when he showed her to a lovely, if somewhat spare, room done up in warm cream-colored walls and furnishings.

“My sister’s.” He lit the candle set ready on the table nearest the door and pointed his chin at the large wardrobe. “Her old things will be folded at the bottom, I should think. And there should be writing paper in the little lap desk, there.”

“Thank you. Your coat—” She divested herself of his evening coat and folded the elegant garment to hold it out to him.

He looked at it for such a long, silent moment, Claire thought perhaps he meant not to take it. She was on the verge of asking him if something were wrong—more wrong than finding a dead body and traveling to London, and being alone together—when he finally took the coat from her hands.

Without saying another word, he bowed and disappeared through an adjoining door, presumably into his own room to change clothes.

And Claire was alone again. “Bloody gracious.”

It felt good to swear. It felt good to say what she oughtn’t. It felt good to be alone with her thoughts—to
think
.

That was how she had gotten herself into this awful mess in the first place—not thinking. Not thinking about what she wanted instead of what people asked of her. Not thinking that the worst could happen to her.

But the worst had
not
happened to her—it had happened to Maisy Carter.

His Grace thought that Lord Peter Rosing—Lord bloody, bloody bastard Peter Rosing—was somehow responsible for what had happened to Maisy Carter, as well as to Claire.

And she wanted him to be right. She wanted Lord Peter Rosing to be responsible. And she wanted to help His Grace prove it. She wanted Lord Peter bloody Rosing to be brought to account, and shamed and punished and excoriated in public so no one else
ever
smiled and said yes, and walked out into the dark with him
ever
again.

Propriety be damned—Claire wanted justice.

She wanted it so badly she could almost taste it—and it tasted a good great deal more palatable than the chalky, bitter bile of fear and humiliation.

Let Lord Peter taste
that
. Let him choke on it.

She would help His Grace, and help herself and Maisy, even if she had to force herself past her own faltering limitations.

But she wouldn’t falter anymore. She wouldn’t.

Claire followed His Grace’s instructions and found a set of clothing—a simple round gown of some faded dark greenish color, plain practical undergarments and stockings, and a soft shawl—on the shelves of the lavender-scented wardrobe. And again, she was reminded of how privileged, how spoiled, she had been. She had never been dressed in anything that hadn’t been handmade expressly for her. She had never worn a stitch of clothing that wasn’t in the absolute first stare of fashion. She had never worn such a shapeless, rough garment in all her life.

But it seemed to be a night of firsts.

Yet the moment she decided to take action, and put it on she did falter. She had no means of putting the clothing on, because she had no method for getting herself out of her current dress. Indeed, she had never, not once in the entire course of her life, gotten herself in or out of a gown on her own. She had always had some assistance, some nursemaid, or lady’s maid, or borrowed attendant like Maisy Carter to lace and unlace her as the need should arise.

Bloody, bloody useless.

Claire wasted more than a few moments trying in vain to reach the laces at the center of her back, but try as she might, it was impossible. And impossible to ring for assistance—she was sure there was no one else in the house but the two of them, the surgeon, and the man Jinks.

She searched the wardrobe and then tried the drawers of the dressing table, in case there were a scissors or some other thing she might use to cut herself free. But the dressing table also had a mirror, in which could she herself clearly for the first time.

Despite the cool bath of river water and the cold compress and the beefsteak, her face was clearly already starting to bruise. Her left cheek, where the scratches sliced across the skin as if a cat had raked her, was already pink and slightly swollen, and puffy to the touch. There was no way she could conceal her attack. Not from her parents—not from anyone.

Not unless she didn’t go home.

The thought was as frightening as it was liberating.

She had never been off on her own. Never before tonight, when His Grace the Duke of Fenmore had laid a man out like an undertaker and shown her how to row a boat and fire a gun, and had reminded her that she could climb a wall. He had shown her that there was another world out there, where balls and gowns and polite, perfect manners didn’t matter.

And he had pledged to help her. Justice he had called it, being a duke and a gentleman. But revenge was what it would be, for herself and for Maisy Carter.

He would give her what she wanted, even if she was afraid. Afraid of death. Afraid of dark, dangerous places like the Almonry. Afraid to be useless.

But His Grace would never let her be hurt. And he would get her out of this damned dress.

Before she could change her mind, Claire went to the connecting door and rapped soundly, though she did try out different excuses and explanations on her tongue. But before she could come up with the most efficacious way of explaining herself, His Grace opened the door.

He frowned at her in his oblique way. “You haven’t changed. Are you having second thoughts?”

At that moment she was having third thoughts. About him.

He had changed into worn, but clean, linen. He had turned the cuffs of his shirtsleeves back from his bared forearms, which, along with his face and dark hair, bore the glistening remains of a recent washing.

The hair at his temples was damp with beads of water, and the knowledge that she had interrupted his washing seemed almost too intimate somehow, even as she stood there about to ask for help with her lacing. Claire felt heat blossom across her cheeks and down her neck. Which no doubt made her unattractive and splotchy. Which was ridiculous—the strange awkwardness was all on her part.

“No.” She firmed her thready voice. “I’m afraid I require some assistance. I can’t get myself out of this gown.”

It took no more than a moment for His Grace’s changeable eyes to reflect his understanding of her predicament. “Ah. Your laces?”

“Yes.” She cleared her throat again, and made herself speak louder than a whisper. “If you would do me the service.”

He made another one of those silently elegant gestures of his—twirling his finger slowly in the air—so that she would spin around, and give him her back.

She did so but put a hand to the bodice of her dress in the front to hold it securely to her. Through the material she could feel the erratic tattoo of her heartbeat, throttling against her ribs. But it was silly to be nervous with His Grace. He was not like other men. He was strange and aloof, and wholly and completely a gentleman.

She spoke again to cover her ridiculous sensibilities. “The laces are tucked in, I believe. Carter—Maisy Carter—was quite particular that the ties not show. If you would just pull them out and untie them, I can do the rest.”

She had expected that he would make short work of it, his fingers as efficient and capable with this task as he had been with all the others—the handling of the skiff, and his detached examination of Maisy Carter. But he wasn’t.

He was all closeness and slow, almost-fumbling care, as if he were making an examination of how a lady’s laces were tied—as if he were taking mental notes of how it had been done, and how he might improve upon the style of lacing or knot Maisy Carter had made.

He moved closer to Claire’s back—so close she could feel the heat emanating from his body. So close she could feel each gentle tug as he pulled the laces slowly free, drawing them one by one through the eyelets, pulling the fabric so that the material of the bodice hugged tight against her chest. Her chest, which she now noticed was rising and falling rapidly, as if she were frightened again. But she wasn’t. She was something else.

Something new and different in an altogether personal way.

Something light and suspended and breathless, like a dream where she didn’t have to breathe.

And then he touched her. She felt the pressure of a single finger tracing the line of her spine, from the base of her neck downward to a spot low between her shoulder blades, leaving a trail of tingling heat and sensation that burrowed beneath her skin, and nestled deep into her bones, and stopped her from speaking. It all but stopped her from breathing. She closed her eyes to try to shut out the feeling, but beneath the layers of smooth lawn fabric Claire felt her breasts tighten into peaks.

Another shock of heat suffused her face and neck and spread downward, melting into her. Turning her bones liquid and light. Claire had to put her hand against her bodice to assure herself it was still in place, and preserve her modesty. Beneath her hand, her pulse battered against her palm.

She stepped away, putting distance between them. What was wrong with her?

His Grace remained his usual cool, reserved self—as practical and kind and unaffected as he had ever seemed. Everything a duke ought to be.

He cleared his throat and said, “I hope that is satisfactory.”

“Thank you. Yes.” Claire kept her back turned to him. Not that the posture did much to preserve her modesty, as the gown was gaping open in the back, exposing her underclothes to the man. “I think I can manage now.”

“Yes. Then. Yes. I’ll go.”

“Thank you. But—” She called to him over her shoulder, “I was wondering if perhaps you also had—or there was somewhere—some rice powder. For my face. I shouldn’t want to appear in public looking like this.”

She didn’t want everyone to see her shame.

He looked at her damaged face and then stepped closer, as if he would examine her in the same close way he had Maisy Carter. But he didn’t. He looked grave and solemn, especially when he turned down his mouth with a sort of small, ironic smile. “You won’t need it where we’re going. Better maybe if you do look a bit roughed up.”

“Better? But what will people think?”

Then he did come closer and reached out with one careful hand to take her chin and turn her cheek to the light. “They’ll think I’m a brute,” he muttered under his breath, as if she couldn’t hear him. As if she weren’t right there watching his eyes turn dark sea green in the candlelight. “But it will serve our disguise, and even help. If people think I’m such a reprobate as would hurt a beautiful young woman, they’ll know I’ve no compunctions whatsoever about giving a thorough basting to anyone else.”

“But you are not a brute. You are a true, perfect gentleman.” He had
chosen
to be so.

But he stepped back from her abruptly. “I am sorry.”

Claire wasn’t entirely sure what he was apologizing for until he said, “I never should have let him get near you. I’ll make him pay for this, Lady Claire. So help me God I will.”

His vehemence no longer astonished her. It comforted her to know that he understood. “Thank you, Your Grace.”

“You are welcome.” And with that, he bowed and removed himself and quietly closed the door behind him.