Amy Lake (8 page)

Madame Gaultier had been insistent on the subject of nightdresses. Claire protested that she had plenty of
habillements
and wraps for the bedroom, but the
modiste
had simply said that she would select the necessary articles for mademoiselle and have them sent directly to Wrensmoor. There would be a number of smaller items sent in as well–slippers, shawls, underthings in ribbon and lace– but mademoiselle was not to concern herself with those, either. The woman was more stubborn than
she
was, Claire decided, and she gave up all attempts at protest.

* * * *

Justin MacKenzie had served the Earl of Ketrick for close to five years and had proved himself to be a reliable and efficient man-of-affairs. Lord Tremayne had not doubted that he would eventually locate Sandrick Rutherford, but even the earl was surprised that it took MacKenzie less than forty-eight hours.

Sandrick Rutherford currently resides at Cheltdown Manor in the borough of Lewisham, read the note delivered to Edward as he sat down to Thursday’s breakfast. I have been unable as yet to discover whether he also keeps a place in town, but Mr. Rutherford spends a great proportion of his time in country. You will find him there at present. JM

Reaching Lewisham borough before afternoon would be no great effort for Achilles, and Edward was saddled up and off within the hour.

* * * *

Claire watched  from her window as the earl rode off eastwards, towards Belgrave Square. She wondered what had caused him to leave Tremayne House in such a tearing hurry. She wondered if Lady Pamela Sinclair’s home lay anywhere in that direction.

* * * *

Later in the day Claire endured a final, exhausting session with Madame Gaultier, after which she and Jody sought refuge in the library. They had just finished a game of piquet when the door swung open and they heard an elderly female voice.

“Oh, a pox on your fussing, Boggs. I’m quite capable of introducing myself.”      

A diminutive lady bustled in, followed by the earl’s butler. Claire thought she seemed rather oddly dressed, only discovering later that the gown was in the first stare of fashion for the 1750s. The lady was using a cane, thumping it loudly on the floor with each step.

“And I suppose this is the brainless little chit that my idiot nephew has decided to marry?”

Thump, thump
went the cane, followed by a stammered reply from Boggs that Claire didn’t catch. Her brother was staring at the butler in amazement, having never before seen the man look anything but imperturbable. Why, his face was actually red.

Jody had started to stand as the lady–Lord Tremayne’s aunt?–advanced into the room,  but she waved him irritably back down. Claire found herself the subject of close scrutiny by a pair of piercing blue eyes. She gasped as the woman grabbed her chin.

“Come on gel, open up and show us your teeth. I can see what Edward wants from you– that boy was always led around by what’s in his breeches. If you’ll be breeding every year, you’ll need to be healthy.”                                    

Fortunately for Claire’s composure, the butler did not hear this, as Boggs had already fled the room. But Jody heard, and her brother was on his feet immediately.

“Leave my sister alone!”

“Jody–”

“And who the devil are you?” asked the lady, brandishing the cane in Jody’s direction. “The chit’s brother, you say?
  I
didn’t hear about any brother.”      

That was enough. Claire had not spent several months among the tabbies of London society without learning to control her temper, and she was loath to show rudeness to a person who– however odd–was apparently a member of Lord Tremayne’s family. Nevertheless, it was time to remove both her brother and herself from the field of battle.

She stood. “Your pardon, ma’am. I shall hope to make your acquaintance when Lord Tremayne returns, but in the meantime, my brother and I are needed elsewhere.” 

“Oh, don’t cut up snappish with me, gel,” said the aunt, pounding her cane on the floor for emphasis. “I’m Lady Gastonby.” 
Thump
. “You are a little nobody–” 
Thump
. “–and this is the Earl of Ketrick you’re marrying, not some viscount’s third son.”

“Good afternoon to you, ma’am,” said Claire, dropping a quick curtsey.  She and Jody managed to leave the room without breaking into a run.

* * * *

The earl was ushered into the library at Cheltdown Manor to wait for Sandrick Rutherford. The room looked comfortable and well-tended, with thick carpets on the gleaming wood floor, and a fire crackling in the hearth. From this and from what he had seen as he and Achilles made their way through the grounds of the estate, Edward had deduced that Lord Rutherford’s finances were in good order. He wondered if this would prove to be a problem or an advantage in the discussion to come.

As expected, within moments he heard the sound of quick steps approaching the library door. Sandrick Rutherford had never met Lord Tremayne, but he was the Earl of Ketrick, after all. The man would hardly have the nerve to keep him waiting long.

“My lord,” said Rutherford, entering the room and extending his hand to Edward.

“Lord Rutherford,” said the earl.

“Please, please, be seated. I have sent for brandy, and I am, of course, at your service.”  Sandrick Rutherford was a thin, almost emaciated man with lank blond hair and poor color. He’s had the pox for years, decided Edward, thinking he would be glad to leave Cheltdown Manor as quickly as possible. The thought of Claire living with this dissipated wreck made his skin crawl. And as for Jody–

The man’s smile was a bit forced, and Edward knew he was nervously wondering what business Lord Tremayne might have with a minor lord of rather doubtful reputation. The earl smiled at him blandly and sat down. He leaned back in the chair and stretched out his legs as if he had all the time in the world to come to the purpose of his visit. He saw his host flinch.

“Forgive me, Lord Tremayne,” began Rutherford, “but I am, regretfully, unaware of how I might be of assistance to you.”

A weak-minded toady. It was just as well, thought the earl. He didn’t have time for arguments today.

“You are, I believe, the uncle and guardian of Claire and Jodrel de Lancie?” he said, deciding to come straight to the point. He was rewarded by a look of consternation on Rutherford’s face.

“Ah. Ah, yes. My niece and nephew are not currently making their home with me, but–”

The earl continued as if Rutherford hadn’t even spoken. “Miss de Lancie and I are to be married tomorrow.”

The look on the man’s face told Edward everything he needed to know. Rutherford  was horrified, furious–and scared out of his wits. He’s been using Claire’s money, thought the earl. Probably Jody’s, too. Good.

“You can’t!  I mean, my lord, this is an honor, of course, but my niece is underage–she cannot marry without my permission. Claire is young, not in the least mature, you know. It will be years,
years
before she–”

The earl interrupted him again, his voice cold and harsh. “Your permission?  You haven’t seen your niece or nephew in months and, in fact, you have no idea where they are. They could be rotting in the gutters of London for all you’ve searched for them.”  This last was conjecture on Edward’s part, but it obviously hit home. Rutherford stared at him, unable to reply. You’ve been making free with the de Lancie money, haven’t you?  thought Edward.  And if Claire and Jody aren’t about to require any part of it, so much the better.

And wouldn’t things be even easier for Sandrick Rutherford if Claire and Jody were dead?  Edward felt a chill run down his spine as he considered that the de Lancies’ uncle might, at this point, have very little to lose.

“My lord, this is infamous!”  Rutherford was on his feet, waving his arms in agitation.

“I think not.”  The earl brushed an imaginary piece of lint off his coat and yawned.

 “You obviously know where my niece is. I demand that you return her at once!  I will have you arrested for . . . for–”

“Shut up.”

Rutherford’s mouth closed with a snap.

“Let me explain what you are going to do, and I suggest you listen carefully, because I have neither the time nor the patience to repeat myself.” 

Rutherford sat down hard in a chair.

The earl opened the leather portfolio he had carried with him and extracted a sheaf of papers. “I very much doubt that anyone will question my right to marry Claire de Lancie. Nevertheless, as her guardian, you will sign papers giving your permission. As soon as we are married, of course, your involvement with Miss de Lancie will be at an end.”

Rutherford was breathing heavily, infuriated but not daring to speak.

“You will also sign papers turning over the guardianship of Jodrel de Lancie to me, effective this day.”

“My lord, I will do no such thing!”

The earl stood. “This becomes tiresome. You will do exactly that. In return”–Rutherford went abruptly silent–“you may retain Miss de Lancie’s fortune, or what you’ve left of it. I will, of course, require Jodrel de Lancie’s full portion to be put into my keeping.”

“Ah, well, my lord,” began Lord Rutherford, licking his lips. “Perhaps, with some adjustment, we could come to a manageable arrangement.”

“No. The arrangement is as I have outlined. Otherwise,” said the earl, standing directly over Rutherford’s chair,  “I will extract Miss de Lancie’s legacy–every last ha’penny–from what is left of your miserable hide.” 

Rutherford looked up at the earl with impotent loathing. “I see,” he muttered, examining the papers Edward had put in front of him. He hesitated, then began quickly scrawling his signature on the various sheets.

“Good. And one last thing, Rutherford,” said Edward. “My fiancée has recently been shot at–twice–in the parks of London. I do not like it. Should any further attempt be made to harm her or her brother, I will be back to question you about it personally–and at length.”  The earl gathered the papers, turned on his heel, and walked out.

Edward was mounted on Achilles, ready and thankful to leave Cheltdown, when he heard someone calling his name.

“Lord Tremayne!”

The earl turned around. Sandrick Rutherford stood there, a pensive look in his sunken, watery eyes.

“You may have no reason to believe me,” said the man, for once looking directly at Edward,  “but I did not shoot at my niece. I have done many things the
ton
delights to accuse me of, my lord, but I would not attempt to murder my own kin.”  He turned and walked back into the house.

Edward stared after him for a moment, then gave heel to Achilles.

* * * *

Claire sat on her bed, watching the door. Where was Lord Tremayne?  Perhaps he was taking his pleasure with Lady Pamela–the night before his wedding, no less!–while she sat captive in her room, afraid to leave for fear of running into his dreadful aunt. Jody was probably safely ensconced in the kitchen–she doubted that even Lady Gastonby was capable of intimidating Mrs. Huppins–but Claire would be easy prey at the dinner table.

“Send the brainless little chit away,” she imagined the woman saying to Boggs.  “I won’t dine with the likes of her!”

Maybe she could ring for Flora and have the girl bring supper up on a tray. But the thought of backing down from a threat didn’t appeal to Claire  She had stood up to her uncle, and if she was to have any kind of marriage at all, she would certainly need to stand up to her husband as well. Perhaps she could practice with the aunt.

Claire gathered her challis wrap around her shoulders and took a last look in the mirror. She had dressed carefully, in the belief that–Lady Gastonby or no–she would surely be dining with the earl on the night before their wedding. The gown was one of Madame Gaultier’s new creations, a rose sarcenet with lace cap sleeves, and the close-fitted bodice–Madame seemed much in favor of the fitted bodice–clung to her form like a second skin. The dress showed more
décolletage
than was her habit, but Claire believed that Lord Tremayne could survive the shock of seeing a fair amount of her bosom.

Her black curls were piled high on her head, threaded through with a delicate gold chain. She wore no other jewelry and this, Claire knew, would be her one major defect in dress. She did not have the bracelets and rings, the necklaces, stomachers, and brooches, to make much of an impression as a countess. He’ll have to be content with my silver-grey eyes, thought Claire, laughing to herself. Romantic nonsense!

* * * *

Edward leaped down from Achilles and handed the reins to the waiting stableboy. He should be just in time for dinner, and–after being away from the house on one piece of business or another for the best part of the week–he was inexplicably eager to see Claire again. She was remarkably pretty, he reminded himself, so–of course–any male would look forward to seeing her. If a man had to marry, at least his wife could be decorative, and Claire de Lancie was that.

Boggs was waiting for him on the top step of the entryway, his expression one of

long-suffering martyrdom.

Edward grinned at him. “What is it, Boggs?  Don’t tell me Mrs. Huppins has sacked the last three parlormaids again.” 

“Lady Gastonby arrived at noon, my lord.”  The butler’s tone suggested that this occurrence  was a disaster on par with Tremayne House burning to the ground.

Edward groaned. “Blast and damn!  I
told
her–”

“She has introduced herself to Miss de Lancie.”

The earl’s reaction to this piece of news was unrepeatable.

* * * *

Claire took another spoonful of Mrs. Huppins’s roast carrot soup and wondered if time itself was contriving to torment her. The mantel clock seemed unusually slow, and for the past half of an hour she had heard its every single tick. She mentally cursed both Edward Tremayne and her own brother for leaving her to eat dinner alone with this rude, interfering, insulting old–

“Aunt Penelope, how delightful to see you.”  The earl strode in and, to Claire’s surprise,  stopped to give her a quick kiss on the cheek. Claire blushed and hoped no one noticed.  “My love,” Edward said to Claire, “please forgive my tardy arrival.”