Sharon Sobel (27 page)

“It is a very lovely name.”

“Please tell me I am not to be Odysseus? I can tolerate all of this, but I am not sure I can handle that.”

Claire nodded. “That is just the thing. I thought it a bit unlikely, but Ulysses is preferable. There are several men of my acquaintance with that name.”

“Lucky lads,” Max said.

“And you have not yet told me what you will wear, Max. I think I deserve to know this.”

“You have given me some fine inspiration, Lady Claire. I think I would have been quite decided if I were a Greek Odysseus. But now that I am to be a Roman Ulysses, it is altogether a different thing.”

“I do not see why,” Claire said.

“Then prepare to be surprised. Tomorrow, a stranger shall appear at your door and you will be quite astonished to know it is me.”

Claire accepted this news with a great deal of gravity. But she already knew, like Camille, she would recognize Maxwell Brooks in an instant, even if he were standing in a crowd of a thousand men.

***

Early the following afternoon, a very odd gentleman was ushered into her drawing room. He wore a brocaded vest under a green jacket and his trousers were baggy at the knees and a trifle too short. His ascot was loosely tied and secured with a gold stickpin. But nothing was as remarkable as his beard, which had the look of a sheep not fully sheared.

“You really look quite dreadful, Max,” Claire said, as she tied the bow to her black straw bonnet. “Surely you do not think I would marry someone who looks as you do.”

“If you had not already given me reason to hope, I would point out that Mr. Ulysses Ithaca is a much more admirable specimen than the wretched Lord Wentworth. Do you not like my beard?” Max tugged on it, and it seemed quite secure.

“With what did you attach it?” Claire asked, coming closer. She touched it, and remembered the fateful afternoon when she dared to reach out to him, and explore his face as he allowed his sister to do. “It will be removed, I hope, before we attend the theatre this evening?”

“If not, then I shall take my place upon the stage, where my presence will not attract undue attention.” Max walked over to the mirror and looked quite satisfied with himself. He turned to her and held out his arms. “Come, my dear. Kiss your husband to demonstrate how happy you are to see him.”

Claire followed him, smiling and shaking her head. This was not the same Maxwell Brooks as the man she met months ago. She slipped into his arms, and sighed against his chest. When he bent his head to kiss her, she sneezed.

“Oh dear,” she said, and sneezed again. “Your beard is tickling my nose.”

“Then we must remember not to kiss at Mr. Dailey’s establishment, for he will then know that we are frauds.”

Claire pulled away, and dropped her veil over her eyes. “If our costumes do not already reveal us to be so.”

Though the day was warm, they walked to King Street so there would be nothing to announce their real identities to the businessman. Along the way they attracted some notice, for they made a most unlikely pair: she in severe mourning and he a rakish Continental. But although they passed several people already known to Claire, no one gave any indication she was recognized.

“I rather enjoy this,” she said to Max. “I do not remember a time when I could travel about London without interference.”

“This is not the first time you have been in mourning, however,” he pointed out.

“Of course. But then, people knew I was in mourning and I was accustomed to wearing veils in any case. Glastonbury insisted on it.”

He glanced down at her. “That sounds a bit medieval. Was he afraid other men would be seduced by your beauty? I fully understand why he would be so concerned.”

Claire patted his arm. “I wore a veil to disguise bruises and the occasional black eye. As irrational as Glastonbury often was, he realized that no one would believe I walked into that many doors and wall hooks.”

She felt his arm muscles tighten under her hand.

“I wish I knew you then. Before then, rather. I would have saved you from Glastonbury.”

“It is noble of you to say so Max, but I am not the same lady I was then, when a handsome face and a title was all that mattered and I thought that was enough to pass for love. I have weathered many seasons, and understand things somewhat differently.”

“Is this your way of telling me that you would not have spared me a second glance then, even if I announced my undying devotion to you?”

“Oh, I daresay I would have spared you a second glance, and perhaps even a third and fourth. But I would have been as silly and flirtatious as the young ladies who circle about you at every event you attend.” She looked up at him and saw the thin white lines of his scars near his hairline. “I do not live in a fairy tale, like one of Perrault’s heroines. And I am not relying on a hero. But I now know what it is to love, and to be loved.”

“I see,” he said in an odd voice. “Do I credit your sophisticated philosophy with my sister’s perspective on her own future?”

Claire sighed, wondering how he could not realize she only spoke of him. “Oh, no. I believe her dice were already cast before we ever met. Before long I realized my avowed purpose in coming to Yorkshire would be in vain, for she was clearly settled on James Cosgrove. The only wonder is that you and your Aunt Adelaide did not see it, though it was right in front of you.”

“I may be somewhat shortsighted on certain matters,” he said. “This is clearly one of them. But did you say your trip to Brookside Cottage proved to be in vain?”

“Poor Max; you are both shortsighted and a little hard of hearing. I said I had an avowed purpose, which had nothing to do with you. But now, you see, I have managed to discover something else altogether, and admit it is rather remarkable.”

They walked along in silence and Claire regretted wearing black garments on this warm day.

“You are quite content to abandon the illusions of a fairy tale?” he asked, though she thought she already made it quite clear.

“One wonders about the prospect of happiness after the last page is turned on a fairy tale. Will the hero be kind to her? Will she become bored in her little castle? What if they do not suit, after all?” Claire smiled, reflecting that there were certain advantages to be had when one was thoroughly compromised. “It is much better to have one’s eyes wide open, I believe.”

“I shall rely on you to do the same in Mr. Dailey’s shop, for here we are,” Max said, quite unromantically. They stopped in front of a large window in which a large portrait was displayed. It was of a homely lady who looked severe enough to cool down the hot streets of London. “One never knows what information one could discern from evidence in plain sight. Have a care on the step, for there is a loose brick.”

Claire was more interested in Max’s words than in a brick she did not notice until he revealed it to her. She rather thought she was the one experienced in cozening out mysteries and wondered what he knew about it, after all. Did he refer to himself when he spoke of evidence in plain sight?

They entered the shop, and in the time it took for their eyes to adjust to the dim light, a neatly attired man came up to greet them.

“Good afternoon sir, madam. I am Mr. Patrick Dailey and am here to serve you.” He bowed deferentially, revealing a cap of long white hair. “This is my establishment, as it was my father’s before me.”

Claire was anxious to begin the inquisition and get to the heart of the matter, but would not speak in advance of her husband if, indeed, she would hardly be allowed to speak at all. But Max appeared in no great hurry and looked at the walls of the shop, covered with paintings of all sorts.

“Your reputation does you credit, Mr. Dailey, for you appear to have an admirable collection. Our friends in London recommended you most highly as a man of discernment and impeccable honesty,” Max said, in what Claire thought was a Roman accent.

Dailey bowed again. “I prefer to believe so, Mister . . .”

“Ithaca,” Max said with a distinct flourish, and Claire looked at him in amazement. His speech was as extraordinary as their story. “I am Mr. Ulysses Ithaca, lately of Cornwall, and this lady is my wife.”

“It is a very fine name, and one of distinction,” Dailey said generously.

“You have heard of the Ithacas, then? Does our reputation precede us as well?” Max asked pompously. Claire guessed he was trying to expose the man in a lie.

But Dailey gave the right answer, one that revealed his knowledge and his honesty. “I have not heard of the family, and feel sure I would remember it if I had. I only meant your parents were more thoughtful than most in your naming.”

Max gave a little laugh, and Dailey relaxed. Claire suspected Max relaxed a bit as well.

“It is quite all right, Mr. Dailey, but you must admit it is quite a mouthful to pronounce, even in my own country. Fortunately, I have found my Penelope, and she would have me despite my unfortunate attributes.”

Dailey turned to her, undoubtedly wondering if, beneath her veil, Mrs. Ithaca had a few unfortunate attributes of her own. Claire stared silently back at him, wondering if he could see anything at all through the netting.

“She is a most gracious lady,” Dailey said. “I hope I do not presume too much when I say I am sorry for your loss.”

Claire opened her lips to speak, but Max intercepted. “We both miss my late uncle very much, and it precisely due to his largesse that we have come to you today.”

“I understand,” said Dailey. “Please come to my office, where we can discuss matters in private.”

As he led the way through the aisles of paintings and sculpture and the occasional porcelain serving bowl, Claire realized there were other people about. At first she thought they were mere servants, dusting and polishing the merchandise, but then realized they took notes on the items they handled, and scrutinized them for every detail of their craftsmanship. Curiously, there were nearly as many women at work in the shop as men. Dailey seemed not only to run a respectable establishment, but an enlightened one as well.

The man’s office was as tidy as a gentleman’s library, but with a good many more objects of art. On one end of his desk was an ancient gold mask; indeed, Odysseus might have looked like the man it represented. And on the other was an exquisite fossil of a prehistoric bird, its feathers spread and revealed in great detail. Claire sat on her hands as she settled herself not two feet from it, finding it absolutely irresistible. She looked up, and caught Max watching her, surely understanding how much she longed to run her fingers over its surface. He shook his head just slightly.

“You have a very impressive and eclectic collection of art and artifacts, Mr. Dailey,” Max said as the two men took their seats.

“That is entirely because I have a very impressive and eclectic collection of clients, Mr. Ithaca. Whereas most dealers in London cater exclusively to those who require nothing more than to sell off decaying portraits of ancestors, and those who wish, in turn, to purchase such paintings to display them as ancestors of their own, I seek out the collectors of the arcane, the exotic and the rare. And yes, indeed, I acquire a few dull ancestors as well.” He laughed at his own wit. “Have you come to me to sell your uncle’s collection? You spoke of his largesse a few minutes ago.”

Now Max laughed, and leaned forward. “It is quite the opposite. I have inherited a great monstrosity of a home in Cornwall, replete with artifacts that do not appeal to my wife or me. I doubt anything on the walls or displayed on the old oak tables are of much value, but we are interested in acquiring things that please us. Cost is of little objection if we find the things we want.”

Mr. Dailey could scarcely disguise his delight. “I am honored to serve you. But do tell me: What does, in fact, please you?”

“I have a particular affection for landscape paintings that remind me of my home. If we are to take up residence along the bleak coast of the Atlantic, it would be a fine thing to be surrounded by visions of warmth and sunshine.”

“You are from Rome, of course,” Mr. Dailey said. “I recognize the insignia of the city on your stickpin.”

“Of course,” Max said, patting it and looking very pleased with himself. He murmured something in Latin, which Dailey recognized and Claire did not. If this interview was to be between two men in a language she did not understand, and if she was to have nothing to do but study a fossil she much desired but could not own, she wondered why she bothered to come at all.

“And are you a citizen of Rome as well, Mrs. Ithaca?” Dailey asked, perhaps sensing her restlessness.

“I have lived in several places, Mr. Dailey,” she said, trying to mimic Max’s Yorkshire pronunciation, but thinking she came off sounding Scottish. “And I do not mind fog and rain nearly as much as my dear husband.”

“Ah, I recognize Yorkshire in your words, madam,” Mr. Dailey said. “I have items in my collection that will be of interest to either or both of you.”

As he excused himself and walked to the door, Max looked at Claire and hissed. “If that is your attempt to imitate my speech you must think I sound like a lisping drunk.”

“Well, I certainly prefer that to someone who sounds like he has spent too much time at the opera. Are you truly speaking Italian, or is Dailey humoring you?” she shot back.

“There is no reason to humor me, as I speak Italian quite fluently. As I do Portuguese, Spanish, French, and Dutch,” Max said.

“Did you forget German?” Claire asked.

“No, I never forget my German,” he replied, looking smug. “But I am not nearly as conversant in that language.”

Claire said something under her breath in plain English, which Max heard perfectly well. This man managed to intrigue her from her first glimpse of him in Armadale’s ballroom, and it appeared she still had a lot to learn about him. The damaged recluse was but a memory now, if, indeed, he ever existed.

She quickly amended her thinking. Indeed, he had been troubled and as blind in his own way as was Camille. And yet, as was also true of his sister, he made his way through the world with extraordinary competence. Claire sat back in her seat and stared at him, wondering of what else he was perfectly capable and she was unaware.