Sharon Sobel (30 page)

Claire nodded. “And that is how it should be.”

“You are still trying to civilize me, I see,” he said, turning onto a road less traveled. More people walked along the grassy path and others sat on iron benches, watching the flow of human traffic.

“I believe I have already done all that is possible in that regard.”

“Would a lifetime be enough to finish the task, do you think? For I am prepared to find out,” he said.

Claire thought that this drive in the sunshine would improve his humor, but she sensed his agitation returning. And then she considered the obvious: It was neither the ball nor the painting that was troubling him. It was her own stupid stubbornness.

“Max.”

“Claire,” he said at precisely the same time. She nodded for him to speak first.

“Claire,” he repeated. “I do not know how many different ways I can say this before you condescend to answer. I do not know what more I can do to demonstrate that my love for you is enduring and true. I will do anything if you would only give me reason to hope.”

Claire caught her breath, knowing that the great moment was upon them. Of course she knew he was sincere when he spoke of wedding journeys and rebuilding Brook Hall and all the other things that a man who envisions a future with a woman dares articulate. And she knew he was not Glastonbury, who would betray her before the wedding cake was digested. Max was a man who wanted an answer and, indeed, deserved an answer.

“Of course we will marry, Max. You, who can read my mind on nearly every subject, must have gleaned that at the moment of our first meeting, before I even knew who you were. I love you as I have never loved anyone else and my life would be bereft without you in it.” Claire felt as if a great weight had been lifted by finally putting words to what was already so certain in her heart. She looked at him a little anxiously, hoping he understood how much of her trust was invested into this glorious confession.

Max turned to her, smiling in such a manner that all interested onlookers surely knew what just transpired.

“Max,” Claire said again, leaning towards him.

From his side of the carriage, he did the same, and she closed her eyes, ready to seal the bargain in front of many witnesses. But when her lips met with nothing but the warm breeze coming off the fields, she opened her eyes in dismay.

Indeed, his face was very close to hers, and his lips were parted. But his eyes were not on her, unless he noted something most engaging about something past her left ear.

“Max?”

He moved so quickly, she had no time to ask what he was about or what fascinated him so. He thrust the reins into her hands, tumbled over her legs, and jumped out of the carriage. In a moment he was off at a run towards a stand of trees, leaving surprised strollers and barking dogs in his wake.

Such was the nature of true love.
Claire steadied the horses and followed the figure of her lover until he disappeared behind some flowering shrubs.
It did not necessarily run smooth, but it certainly ran quickly.

Was this the quiet, contemplative man who was hesitant about taking his place in society and preferred books to people? Was this the man who refused to dance with her months before, and most recently complained of an old leg injury? If she had any lingering doubts about his physical prowess, he dispelled them in an instant.

“Claire?” Marissa stood on the path next to the carriage, looking up at her. “What on earth has happened? Have you frightened off yet another beau?”

“It appears I have, dear friend,” Claire said, her casual words belying the difficulty she had in uttering them. “You might as well join me so we may appropriately commiserate.”

Marissa waved off her other companions, and stepped up into the carriage. “What have you done? I hope you did not go on talking about your little fossils and rocks, or ask him if knew by memory Brutus’s speech to the angry Roman mob or something of that sort.” She waved happily at several people, quite as if everything was just as it should be.

“No, indeed, for he takes delight in such conversations. I have found a man who values the company of an intellectually curious woman, and encourages her,” Claire said.

“It is the same with me. Lord Fayreweather encourages my interest in fashion and fashionable people,” Marissa said. “But this conversation is not about me or mine. What did you say to him to make him run off like a lover caught in bed with another man’s wife?”

Claire urged the horses forward, as Max was nowhere in sight. “That is a most unfortunate analogy.”

“And yet one I can envision very well,” Marissa said cheerfully. “Well, what did you say?”

“Only that I would marry him. But I did not get the reaction I anticipated,” said Claire.

***

Max circled the large man in the rigid ladder-back chair, having already told his servants he would tolerate no interruptions. He looked for resemblance to the man he once knew, for the face was rounder, the nose more prominent, and the hair gone gray. Part by part there was little to remind him of his father’s cousin, but taken as a whole, the man’s appearance left him in little doubt.

“Where have you been all this time?”

The man shuffled his legs back and forth, as if testing the possibility of making an escape. “I do not know you, my lord, or even understand what you are asking.”

“I think you know me very well, Mr. Mandeville, and know precisely what I mean,” Max said sternly, hoping to call the man’s bluff. He was nearly certain he had his man, and was even more convinced of it when he saw Mandeville in the park. But there were always possibilities for error, as he learned early on in life. People looked like one another for no logical reason at all, or because they had a cousin or a brother or even a twin. The latter was the case for Lady Armadale, who did not even know such a person existed.

“I am Mr. Henry Catton of Surrey,” the man said. “I am the son of Peter Catton and Annalise Beddoes.”

Max hesitated, searching his memory for something familiar in names that might be entirely of the imagination. “Your accent is that of a Yorkshireman,” he said.

John Mandeville squinted up at him. “I have not been in Yorkshire in many years. Like many a man before me, I followed a woman I love and adopted her home as my own. Mrs. Catton and I have lived in Surrey since then.”

Max accepted the man’s reasoning on this, for he believed he would follow Claire to the moon if such a thing were possible. But he did not intend to have a sentimental discussion with this man.

“And has that been your habit, adopting things? It usually describes a generosity in one’s nature.”

“Do you mean, have I adopted children?” Mandeville frowned, and in that briefest unguarded moment, Max glimpsed a man he once knew, an old friend who taught him to fish and swim and deal with the problems of an estate that would one day be his. “I have not. Mrs. Catton and I are without children.”

Max struggled to shake off his first reaction of gratitude that John Mandeville had miraculously survived the fire and was not to be numbered among the victims. But within moments, that gratitude was replaced with the even more aching realization that he and his sister were, in fact, victimized by Mandeville for nearly twenty years. Max cleared his throat. “I meant, rather, other people’s possessions. I am particularly interested in objects of art you sold to a Mr. Dailey on King Street, though you were not entrusted to broker a deal by the owner. Do you deny that you call yourself Mr. Gilbert Doyle, a man who has periodically divested himself of a collection of treasures?”

Mandeville was visibly uncomfortable. He tucked his chin to his chest, making himself smaller, when Max would have guessed he would have been bold and defiant, and resorting to intimidation.

“Well? I have purchased a painting of some interest to me, and have the papers of provenance. I also have received documents from Mr. Longreaves, and two other gentlemen he referred to me, who possess works of art I fondly recollect. In all cases, I was rather surprised to see the name of Gilbert Doyle on the papers,” he said, bending so that his face was close to Mandeville’s, “inasmuch as the painting belongs to me.”

“I occasionally conduct business in the names of other gentlemen, purchasing works of interest on their behalf, and reselling them on the market. As they trust me, so I trust that they are the owners of the property they wish to sell. In this manner, I supplement my own income, and earn their gratitude for providing a necessary service. Acting as middleman to broker a deal is a perfectly respectable practice, something of which you may be unaware,” Mandeville said. His words were uttered in a most superior manner, but he was unable to meet Max’s eyes. Instead, he seemed to be studying his own fingers, nervously twisting and turning them as if he wiped them clean of filth.

“Perhaps I do not understand as well as I ought,” Max said, “for I would have thought one agent was more than sufficient to connect buyer to purchaser, and Mr. Dailey seems to be rather well respected in this business. But perhaps there are opportunities for profit in any negotiations. What is it you do that requires occasional supplement, Mr. Catton?”

He witnessed a succession of expressions cross the man’s face and knew he was about to be delivered another falsehood. But then Mandeville lifted his head and surprised him. “I am a steward on a small estate owned by Lord Hamden. The living is sufficient for most needs, but Mrs. Catton is a woman of expensive tastes.”

“I am about to be married myself, Mr. Catton, and would appreciate some words of advice,” Max said congenially, trying another tactic. “I suppose such expectations start at the very onset of a marriage, and endure through its duration. My lady, for example, knows she will be the wife of a marquis, and that certain properties come along with the title. Your wife must have expected a good deal as well.”

“My wife sought elevation in her status, but has been reasonably satisfied these twenty years.”

“Except for when you desire additional income, to satisfy your appetites,” Max pointed out.

Mandeville nearly smiled at that. “My wife is an excellent cook,” he said simply, and shrugged.

Max took a step back, having the odd sensation that a great stonewall was collapsing in front of him. With perfect clarity he recalled the last night in Brook Hall, when he came upon John Mandeville drinking with Janet Kent in the late hours of the evening. He did not expect to see anyone in the kitchen at that time, and they certainly did not expect to see him. On the long table, beneath Mandeville’s nervous fingers, was something that Max thought was a wrapped tray. It certainly did not matter at the time, but now he knew otherwise.

“John Mandeville,” Max said, finally certain of the truth. “You robbed my father even before the fire, and robbed me in its aftermath. You and Mrs. Kent set fire to the home you were entrusted to keep secure and have lived off the profits of goods stolen from the estate all these years. You murdered your cousin and his wife, and a host of innocents. Other people were injured, including a young girl who is blind to this day. And you let a boy take the blame for all of it, allowing him to be branded a murderer.”

“You are out of your mind, Lord Wentworth. It is as everyone says: You are a madman and a blind fool,” Mandeville spat out.

Max raised his hand, more as a threat than a prelude to action. Whatever else was determined here, he did not intend to pummel the man in the parlour, no matter how much he was tempted to do so. But then he heard the barest scrape at the door, and the turning of the latch.

“I requested privacy,” Max said over his shoulder.

“I am sure he returned not a half hour ago,” Camille said. “You need not be concerned for him.”

“I am concerned when any man abandons me in a public park and disappears without a word of explanation,” said Claire, and caught her breath. “But it now appears he is quite safe, and enjoying the pleasure of someone else’s company. Please forgive our intrusion, Lord Wentworth. We will leave you now and reserve explanations for a later time.”

Max turned in time to see the two ladies most beloved to him move in opposite directions. Claire, who certainly had the right to demand answers of him, backed away, clearly embarrassed to walk in on him. But Camille came forward, sure in step and certain of purpose.

“Camille, I politely request you leave me with my guest,” Max said, and for once his sternness was genuine.

“But it is Mandy, is it not? Mr. Mandeville? Have you returned to us at last?” She put out her hand as she came close, waiting for the grasp of someone she was certain would want to greet her.

Max edged between his sister and a man who only wished them harm, and Mandeville rose ready to defy him. But the man surprised him.

“Lady Camille,” said Mandeville softly, and bowed his head. There was silence for several moments and when he spoke again Max struggled to hear his words. But he had no doubt Camille heard him perfectly. “You have grown into a lovely young lady.”

“But I cannot see, you understand,” Camille said unnecessarily.

“And yet you knew me,” he said, shaking his head.

Max glanced to Claire, who found this reunion as extraordinary as did he.

Camille laughed. “But I always remember how you played with me when I was a little girl, hiding so that I might find you. I could sense you were near, as I guessed at the Assembly in Middlebury. It was you; I am now certain of it.”

“How clever you are, Lady Camille. Indeed, I was in Middlebury, as I had some business at the time. I still have some connections in the neighborhood.”

Max recalled the afternoon Claire urged him to confront the shades of Brook Hall, and they thought someone moved among the ruins. After all these years, was it possible Mandeville still mined the grounds for treasure, hoping to find things of some value while knowing he would not be challenged?

And on that memorable afternoon, did he happen to see anything in addition to a half-buried statue or something of that sort? Max looked again at Claire, whose face flushed red.

“But why would you not come forward and announce yourself to us?” Camille persisted. “We did not know all these years whether you were dead or alive, and wanted nothing more than that you were safe. The losses we suffered would have been somewhat more bearable. You could have lived with us, helped Maxwell with the burdens of the estate. You would have watched me grow into a lady.”