Amy Lake (4 page)

I don’t–

Do you really want to take Jody back to Uncle’s estate?  Could marrying this harmless peacock be worse than that?

No, thought Claire. She supposed not. She smiled at Sir Clarence.

“I would prefer that my brother remain, sir,” she said. “You may say what you wish to me in front of him.”

“Ah, of course, of course.”  The baronet smiled hesitantly at Jody, then turned his attention back to Claire. “Well, my dear, I am not accomplished in fancy speech, so I hope you will forgive my abruptness. Vooz etts ler trez belle, ler tres–”

Jody choked and started to cough. Claire didn’t dare turn away from Sir Clarence to glare at her brother, but fortunately–or unfortunately?–the baronet was unperturbed.

“I have admired you for some time,” he continued, “and I would be most honored if you would consent to be my wife.”

“Oh, sir–” began Claire.

“I think we should suit very well. I believe you are fond of the country, and you know I make no pretense to being a lord about town. We would make our home at my estate, and of course  your brother–”

Claire could see that Jody was about to speak. “I am honored,” she said quickly, not trusting what her brother might have in mind to say. “But I must have some time to think on this. It is a great decision, after all.”

“Of course, of course.”  Sir Clarence nodded. He didn’t seem terribly put out, thought Claire with relief. If she could have but another day or two, just to think things over, she was sure she could reconcile herself to marriage with the baronet. A few days more–then she would say yes.

* * * *

Baronet Aubley was a very minor member of London society and of little interest to anyone outside his immediate circle, but he was also talkative. And since weddings were ever a worthy topic of conversation, within a day or two his offer for Claire de Lancie was remarked upon by at least a few of the
ton
gossips. The Duke of Midlands was having a coming-out ball for yet another of his dreary daughters that week, and it was there that Lady Pamela Sinclair heard the news.

“What a horrid squeeze, darling,” said Amanda Detweiler, Pam’s good friend and confidante in all matters
de coeur
.  “The poor duke has two more of the silly creatures in the schoolroom–I suppose he’s desperate to marry this one off.”

“They’re good-natured girls,” said Lady Pam.

“Oh, too true,” admitted Lady Detweiler,  “but I imagine they’ve had no choice.” 

She and Pamela were well situated to see through the doorway of the dining salon, and they watched as two footmen added a few meager offerings to the banquet table. The duke was a notorious pinch-purse when it came to meals, although profligate with his wine cellar. 

“Do you think we will be fed this time, or only watered?” asked Pam.

“I believe it is too soon to tell. My dear, do you remember that amusing little Yorkshire baronet at the Palmers’?  The one who spoke atrocious French?”

“Hmm,” said Pam. “Oh, yes. Clarence Aubley. He had the most shocking taste in waistcoats, too, as I recall.”

“The very one. Caroline says that he has offered for Claire de Lancie–you know, the tall, black-haired chit, the one with the sickly aunt no one ever sees.”

“Aunt Sophie,” said Lady Pamela.

“Is that her name?   I’d forgotten. Well, Miss de Lancie’s given him no answer as yet, I understand, but Sir Clarence seems to have high hopes. He told Caroline she would soon be wishing him happy.”

“Indeed,” said Lady Pam.

?

Chapter Three

Jody sat in the kitchen and inhaled deeply. No aroma on earth could match that of Mrs. McLeevy’s cinnamon rolls, and his mouth watered as she covered them with swirls of orange glaze.

Mrs. McLeevy looked at him sternly. “Mind you wait a few minutes before you eat half the pan,” she warned. “‘Twill make you sick, eating hot bread.”

“Mmm,” he said.

She shook a finger at him, smiling.

Mrs. McLeevy and her husband, as far as Jody understood it, had come attached to the house on Jermyn Street when his sister rented it for the season, and it had been a serendipitous association from the start. The couple’s only child had died in infancy long years before, and Mrs. McLeevy was apt to refer to brother and sister as “our poor orphans.”   She doted especially on the motherless, fifteen-year-old Jody, and cinnamon rolls, fruit tarts, sweet biscuits and savory meat buns poured forth from the kitchen in profusion for “the young master.”

Jody took his first bite of a warm roll and thought unhappily of the conversation he and Claire had engaged in the night before. His sister was going to marry the baronet, and none of Jody’s arguments would change her mind. The only bright spot was that he had extracted a promise that she wouldn’t tell Sir Clarence of her decision for at least two days. Two days–it was a small reprieve.

Mr. McLeevy opened the outside door and entered the kitchen, his eyebrows raised in amused exasperation.

“What’re you feeding the boy now, Mrs. McLeevy?  One more pan of cinnamon rolls, and we’ll be having to roll him down the hall.” 

Jody laughed. Where Mrs. McLeevy was all roundness and dimples, her husband was wiry and sharp. In Jody’s eyes the man could do everything and fix anything, and most days he spent as much time tagging along to help Finn McLeevy as he did sampling Aggie McLeevy’s cooking.

“Don’t you be complaining to me, Mr. McLeevy. The lad’s been stayin’ up half the night. He’s skin and bones.”

“Ach, you’re a silly woman. Mr. Jody, I’ve a letter for you.” 

“For me?” 

“Aye.”  Mr. McLeevy held it out to him. Jody took the thick vellum envelope and looked curiously at the beautiful script flowing across the front.

              Monsieur Jodrel de Lancie

              27 Jermyn Street

Claire received letters on occasion from admirers, and flowers, too, but who in London would know that he even existed?  Jody tore open the heavy paper. He caught a whiff of perfume– so faint that Jody thought he might have imagined the fragrance–but the message was real enough.

             
Monsieur de Lancie

              My dear friend, Lord Tremayne, Earl of Ketrick,

              will be riding in Green Park this day at four.

              I believe he wishes to see your sister again,

              even though he hesitates to call on her at home.

             
Believe, cher monsieur, that my sentiments

              in this matter are most cordial for both your sister

             
and Lord Tremayne.

It was signed Lady Pamela Sinclair.

The McLeevys were watching him with concern.

“No trouble is there, young sir?” asked Finn.

Jody looked up, thoughtful. “No,” he said. “There’s no trouble at all.” 

* * * *

It was a beautiful afternoon, thought Pam. She and the earl were riding in the dappled sunlight of oak and beech, the smells and clamor of the London streets left behind in the fresh breezes of Green Park.

Achilles, Edward’s horse, was restive, prancing sideways at the least sound and twice threatening to bolt.  The earl kept him well in hand, of course, but Pamela liked to think that the stallion was simply reacting to his rider’s mood.  She didn’t wish to see the earl too comfortable.

She had received no reply from Jodrel de Lancie, but she had expected none. She had no way of knowing whether or not he and his sister would be in Green Park, though she had chosen it as closest to their house on Jermyn Street.  All would not be lost if they failed to appear, of course. There were always other possibilities, other roads to her goal; this one had simply seemed the most straightforward. She rode serenely at Edward’s side, her eyes searching the paths and meadows around her.

* * * *

Claire was glad Jody had suggested she wear the apple-green muslin. It was her most attractive walking dress, and her spirits needed a lift. Now that her marital options had dwindled to one gentleman–even though that gentleman had offered for her–she was regretting the loss of Major Trevor.

Lady Aubley?  She seemed incapable of thinking of herself with that name.

Claire glanced at her brother. Despite their ongoing argument over her marriage, Jody seemed in a cheerful mood today. He was whistling as he walked at her side through a meadow of grass and late daffodils.  She loved the parks of London. Some days it was almost possible to forget you were in the middle of a city. The reservoir fountain sparkled in the sunlight, and the sound of splashing water made a pleasant change from the usual din of the streets.

She turned her head as a breeze rustled through the nearby oaks, and caught a glimpse of a man’s figure in the shadow of the trees.

Who–?

An iron fist slammed into her right shoulder, throwing Claire to the ground. Utter silence followed, although her ears rang. Then–a voice nearby, yelling. Jody’s–   More voices, farther off. Something warm dripped down her arm. That was all.

* * * *

Pam knew from Edward’s stiffened posture that he had seen the de Lancies. Things couldn’t be working out better.  She turned towards him, saying, “Edward, look, isn’t that–”

She heard something then, a sharp report. Both horses pricked their ears.

The earl shouted and dug his heels into Achilles’ sides. The big stallion leaped forward, and Pam’s mount, startled, reared. In the few seconds it took her to bring the mare under control, Edward was yards away in the direction of the de Lancies. Lady Pamela galloped after him, her hat fluttering off into the dirt. What on earth had happened?  She could see the brother, but where was Claire? 

* * * *

Claire had an absolutely awful headache. No. No, it wasn’t her head. Her shoulder throbbed; that was why her head hurt. And the park seemed to be terribly noisy today, which only made the pain worse. She wished everyone would be quiet.

“Somebody
shot
her!”  It was a familiar voice.

Yes, realized Claire. That’s right. Somebody shot me.

It was a strange thought.

“Did you see anyone?  Did you hear any other shots?”  Another voice, deeper and oddly  comforting. She strained to hear it again.

“What happened?  Oh, good Lord!”  It was a woman’s voice this time, and Claire–the fuzziness in her head clearing slightly–remembered to whom that voice belonged. Lady Pamela Sinclair. How extraordinary that she would be nearby. Claire tried to open her eyes.

“Lie still,” commanded the deep voice. She heard the sound of fabric ripping, and sudden pain shot through her shoulder.

Claire moaned.

“What are you doing?  Leave her alone!”

“It’s all right. He’s just–”

“Ah. This is fortunate,” said the comforting baritone.

“What are you talking about?  It looks dreadful.”

“Yes, but a flesh wound only–not too deep. We need to get her home quickly so it can be cleaned. Pam, hold the cloth just there while I get Achilles.”

“What–”

Claire decided it was time she became a participant in this conversation. Her head was clearing a bit more, and the pain, which had at first come in disorienting waves, was now clearly centered in her right shoulder. She felt cold and wet from lying in the meadow grass, and, she thought dispiritedly, she had undoubtedly ruined her beautiful apple-green muslin walking dress.

Claire opened her eyes to see Jody looking anxiously down at her. “Help me up,” she murmured. 

“Lie still.”  This was Lady Pamela’s voice.      

“No, I–”

Strong hands slipped beneath her shoulders, setting off a fresh round of pain.

“Hold on, this will hurt,” said the earl as he lifted her up.

The pain was exceptional, but she closed her eyes and refused to cry out. When the worst was over, she found herself cradled in Lord Tremayne’s arms, staring at a fine white linen shirt spoiled by dark smears.

“You’re bleeding,” said Claire.

“Mr. de Lancie,” said the earl, “perhaps you could assist me. It will be much easier if we can get her onto Achilles for the ride back to Tremayne House.”

“I want to go home,” said Claire, mumbling into the earl’s chest. She was feeling a little woozy, but this lord wasn’t going to start ordering her about.

“Of course,” said the earl. “As soon as the doctor has seen to your injuries. Mr. de Lancie?”

Claire found herself being placed onto the back of an enormous black horse. Fresh pain lanced through her shoulder and her only memory of the rest of the trip was of strong arms surrounding her and holding her quiet.

* * * *

“She should recover nicely,” said the doctor, “unless there is any impurity of the wound. Now, I could cup her–"

“No!” said Edward and Lady Pamela in unison.

“–but I see you concur that bleeding is unnecessary in these cases.”

“It’s barbaric nonsense,” said the earl. The doctor looked at him over the top of his spectacles, evidently having taken no offense.

“I quite agree, actually. Now, here are some willow-bark powders.”  He handed Lady Pamela several small glassine packets. “See that she takes one each morning and evening. It seems to control the swelling as well as the pain. I’ll show myself out, thank you.”

The doctor was at the library door before he turned back to the earl. “And see that she doesn’t become overly excited, my lord, if you please.”

* * * *

The rest of that day and all the next passed in a fog of pain. Occasionally Claire would wake up, dizzy and disoriented. Nothing about the room or the bed she slept in was familiar. At other times she would open her eyes to find herself back in Green Park, but the man bending over her wasn’t Lord Tremayne.  It was . . . It was . . .

She couldn’t see his face, but she was terribly afraid. She cried out–

“Claire?”

At the sound of her brother’s voice she relaxed and drifted back to sleep.

Later she heard another voice–a woman’s voice, urging Claire to drink a glass of something bitter and awful. She felt better afterward, for a while.

* * * *

Claire woke in the middle of the night to find that the haze in her mind had finally cleared. Her right shoulder ached badly, but the sensation was almost welcome, because it let her know that this time she was truly awake. She started to push herself up in the unfamiliar bed and was startled by a voice nearby.