Anne Barbour (12 page)

Claudia gave a little shriek. “Oh, my goodness, look at the time! I must dress for dinner. What will Thomas think if I am late?” She endeavored to remove her hand from his rather damp grasp, but Mr. Botsford was not to be deterred. He brought his other arm about her waist, and despite her concerted effort to the contrary, he pulled her to him.

“Mrs. Carstairs,” he said, by now panting a little with exertion. “Claudia,” he amended firmly, “about my long standing feeling for you—your brother-in-law has advised me that you stand in need of a husband, and I wish to offer myself to you in—in that position.”

Claudia tried once more to wrest herself from Fletcher Botsford’s grip, but he proved to be surprisingly strong. “Mr. Botsford, please!”

But the gentleman was well and truly in the throes of passion, and instead of releasing her, went so far as to press a moist kiss on her cheek. He uttered a disgruntled sound, for he had been aiming at another target. He made another try.

“Mr. Botsford, you must let me go this instant!” Claudia wriggled in his embrace, but this served merely to inflame her would-be suitor. He wrapped both arms around her and proceeded to rain kisses upon her face.

Claudia was beginning to feel somewhat alarmed. She was not afraid of the wretch, but the situation was becoming severely embarrassing. She flexed her leg in preparation for a well-placed thrust of her knee.

“You rang, madam?”

Such was Claudia’s relief at the sound of the familiar voice, that she nearly crumpled as Mr. Botsford, jerking spasmodically, released her.

“What the devil... ?” he began, turning on Jem in outrage.

“January!” gasped Claudia, attempting to smooth a strand of hair into place.

“Nobody rang for you, you looby,” blustered the thwarted lover. “Go about your business.”

“No!” The word burst from Claudia. “That is,” she continued in a quieter, albeit breathless tone, “We were just about to leave to dress for dinner. Thank you.”

Fletcher opened his mouth as though to expostulate, but catching January’s bland, unwavering stare, he turned to Claudia, only to find her expression no more promising. With a muttered oath, he wheeled about and strode from the room.

There was a moment’s silence.

“Will there be anything else, ma’am?”

Claudia searched January’s face, but his imperturbable features showed no recollection of the intimacy of several nights ago. Had that kiss meant nothing to him? Not that she cared, of course. He meant nothing to her except as an enemy to be vanquished. What had happened in the throbbing silence of the library was best forgotten.

She inclined her head, and said coolly, “Thank you, no, January.” Gathering her skirts, she swept past him, her eyes lowered, knowing that if she were to raise them to his, she would find that amused twinkle that made her go weak.

How had he known where to find her, she mused as she hurried along the corridor. How had he known that she needed him just then? How foolish she must have looked struggling in the arms of that ridiculous twit  A thought struck her suddenly, almost causing her to stumble. Surely January did not think she had been encouraging Fletcher Botsford in his misplaced ardor? Immediately she chided herself for once again allowing herself to be concerned over what January thought of her.

Upon reaching her room, she moved straight to her wardrobe, where she selected another of the gowns she had not worn since early in her marriage. She attempted to ignore the uncomfortable truth that waggled for attention in the back of her mind—that she was not garbing herself in her most becoming gowns for the edification of Thomas and Rose, and certainly not for Fletcher Botsford.

Entering the emerald saloon some minutes later, she found that she had indeed put in an appearance behind Thomas and Rose. Taking advantage of the fact that Fletcher had not yet arrived, she advanced on Thomas, who stood before the fireplace, sipping gustily at a glass of port.

“A word with you, brother-in-law,” she said, her eyes glittering. Rose scuttled to a chair some distance away, where she plunged into some embroidery and became apparently oblivious to all else.

“I wish you to stop giving Mr. Botsford to believe that I am amenable to his suit. For I am not, Thomas, and never shall be.”

Thomas shifted uncomfortably. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Claudia.” He coughed as though something had stuck in his throat. “Oh, well,” he continued after a moment, “perhaps I have encouraged him—a little. And what’s wrong with that?” His voice held more than a hint of bluster. “You are my responsibility, after all.”

Claudia went rigid. “No, Thomas.” She spoke quietly, but her balled fists were pressed tight against her sides. “You are not responsible for me. I am accountable to no one, least of all you. You have nothing to say to my affairs. I do not wish to marry again, and, rest assured, even if I did, Fletcher Botsford is probably the last person in the world I would choose.”

“Now, see here, my girl...” Thomas began, while in her corner Rose twittered agitatedly. “Dearest sister—” she breathed, but was cut off as Thomas plowed ahead. “You are becoming entirely too hot at hand. You are a woman living alone, and I am your nearest male relative. You must see that gives me some say-so in the ordering of your affairs.”

“I see nothing of the kind,” snapped Claudia. “I am of age, and I am the sole owner of a prosperous estate—or at least it will be so in a few years. As
you
must see, I am managing quite nicely on my own, thank you.”

Thomas stood for a long moment, his feet planted wide apart, staring speculatively at her. When he spoke again, it was in a quieter tone, but it seemed to Claudia that it held a note of menace she had not heard before.

“You delude yourself, my dear child, if you think you do not need the guidance of someone older and wiser. You believe yourself to be an astute businesswoman, but how many clients will flock to your stables if it becomes known that the proprietor is naught but a flighty young girl who flies in the face of custom? Or worse. There are those who might think you mentally and emotionally incompetent to handle such an operation.”

Claudia stared at her brother-in-law unbelievingly. “Are you threatening me?” she gasped.

For an instant there flashed in Thomas’s eyes a look of such naked hostility that Claudia found herself momentarily breathless. It vanished so quickly, however, that she thought she must have imagined it, and in the next instant, he waved an impatient hand.

“Of course I’m not threatening you,” he said pettishly. “I am merely looking out for your interests.”

“For no doubt you believe them to be yours as well, but let me tell you, Thomas...”

She broke off as Fletcher Botsford entered the room, followed closely by Aunt Augusta. Claudia bade a distant good evening to Mr. Botsford, who was still looking somewhat disgruntled. After greeting Thomas and Rose, he began edging toward his prey once more, but Claudia was spared further incursions on her patience by the entrance of January. Through happenstance, he paused only a few paces from Botsford, and Claudia was struck by the contrast between the two. January, in his plain servant’s garb stood slender and elegant and every inch the gentleman, while poor Fletcher had a stretch merely to appear adequate. As though she were the only person in the room, January directed his dark gaze toward her and announced in mellifluous tones that dinner was served. Unsuccessfully attempting to quell the sudden and unwelcome increase in her pulse rate, Claudia followed him sedately.

As might be expected, the meal was not a happy occasion. Its only redeeming feature, at least to Claudia’s mind, was the fact that Thomas had relinquished whatever rights he considered were his to the head of the table, obviously feeling it was beneath his dignity to race the butler to the table. He settled himself in the chair to her right and proceeded to complain over every dish that was set before him. In this, he was ably seconded by his wife. She whined consistently about everything from the soup, which she said was too salty, to the custard, which was declared watery. In between, the lamb chops were pronounced to be underdone, the asparagus stringy, and the pigeon pie too spicy. Even Aunt Augusta, who had earlier chided Claudia on her inability to keep her tongue between her teeth, took umbrage.

“We consider ourselves extremely fortunate in our cook,” she informed Rose austerely, her curls almost rattling in her displeasure. “It is unfortunate that you do not share our appreciation, but how nice it is that you are able to overcome your sensibilities,” she finished, casting a pointed glance at Thomas’s plate, which had been wiped clean of his third helping of the maligned pigeon pie.

Fletcher Botsford tittered into his napkin, subsiding quickly as Thomas shot him a minatory glare.

Claudia scarcely followed this exchange, so conscious was she of January’s presence behind her chair. Why, she fumed silently, when she was in his presence, did she always feel as though she were attached to him with invisible, silken cords? As he helped her to one dish after another, small shocks sizzled through her body at his every casual touch. It did no good to tell herself she was behaving like the veriest schoolgirl. Firm reminders that this man was her enemy were useless.

No sooner had the final drop of wine been sipped and the last crumb of pastry been nibbled than Claudia pushed her chair back and rose abruptly. She accompanied Rose and Aunt Augusta to the music room, but, pleading a headache, she soon fled to the sanctuary of her bedchamber.

“Mercy, Miz Carstairs,” cried Phoebe Dodge, one of the girls from the village, who was temporarily filling in as lady’s maid “You had a bad day? You look strung up like my Uncle Fred’s fiddle. Here,” She bustled about the room, disrobing her mistress and enveloping her in another cotton night rail. “Let me brush your hair. That’ll take your kinks out”

Claudia accepted these ministrations with silent gratitude, but it was not until the little maid had finished with the brushing and had scurried from the room that she finally took a deep breath and began to relax.

She felt utterly exhausted, but it was too early to go to bed. Outside, the late summer sun had not quite set, and Claudia stared from the window at lawns and gardens turned to flame in its rays.

Turning, at last, she moved to a small shelf near her bed and began to peruse the books that lay near. She had brought them up from the library some weeks ago, but, since her evenings were usually long and work-filled, she ordinarily fell asleep almost immediately after retiring; thus she had not opened even one of the little horde.

Yawning, she selected a small volume of Milton’s pastoral odes. Feeling that this was just the soothing sort of reading matter she needed, she placed it on her bedside table along with a candle. Settling herself among the pillows, she reached for the book and as she opened it, an odd, crackling noise came to her ears. What in the world... ? She opened and closed the book a few times. Yes, there was something ... Drawing closer to the candlelight, she probed into the space between the spine of the book and the page bindings, and in a moment drew out two crumpled sheets of paper.

She smoothed them out on the coverlet, and her breath caught as she noted that the sheets were covered with a familiar handwriting. Why, it looked like one of Emanuel’s lists... Yes, there was his name scrawled at the bottom of one of the pieces of paper. But, who would have stuck such a thing inside a book? She scanned the first page rapidly, and suddenly went rigid. Dear God, what
was
this? “Look at G. signat. for copying ... must at night... Glenraven—cards Tuesday ... D. must finish his work that night . . . forged title in my hands by morning . . . must put Glen. In his cups

...”

Her hands were shaking so badly by now that she was barely able to maintain her grip on the papers. After she had read every word of the scrawl that covered both sides of each page, she fell back against the pillows. She felt as though the floor had opened beneath her, sending her plunging into a terrifying abyss. The meaning of the scraps of paper was damningly clear. Emanuel Carstairs had stolen Ravencroft by the wickedest piece of deception imaginable and had killed its owner. The estate belonged by right to the murdered Lord Glenraven’s heir—and Emanuel Carstairs’s widow had no claim to it.

Chapter Nine

For a long moment, Claudia sat still and cold as the implications of her discovery rolled over her in great, icy waves. Ravencroft did not belong to her! It was not her home—it was that of the man who had taken up residence in her servants’ quarters. No—not
her
servants’ quarters, for it was she who was the interloper, not the gray-eyed stranger who was in all probability Lord Glenraven.

She pressed her fingertips to her temples, trying to think, but she could not seem to get past the appalling words, “Ravencroft is not mine. I do not belong here.” The thought grew and swelled in a great, throbbing ache until it seemed to fill her entire being, pressing down on her until she thought she might simply fall to the floor under its weight, unable to rise.

“Oh, God!” Her anguished cry echoed through the room as she put her head in her hands and sobbed.

She looked again at the pieces of paper still crumpled in her hand. Her eyes followed the progression of events, detailed in Emanuel’s heavy, untidy hand, that had led to the unseating of the previous Lord Glenraven and his eventual death. Emanuel and his everlasting lists, she thought grimly. The habit that she had always considered merely an irritating eccentricity had proven her undoing.

Everything she had worked so hard for was gone. The pride she had taken in the revitalizing of Ravencroft—the horses, the sheep, the reacquisition of land and tenantry—all blown away on the bitter wind of loss.

Emanuel, she reflected numbly, had been an evil man—but never stupid. Why had he not destroyed this proof of his villainy? What reason could he have had for concealing it—where anyone might later find it? She shook her head dazedly and turned the pages of the list over in her hand, noting that the edges were partially charred. Had he begun to burn them and then changed his mind? But why? None of it made any sense.