Amy Lake

The Earl’s Wife

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Amy Lake

Chapter One

The bell on the draper’s shop door tinkled, and Claire glanced behind her. A well-dressed man and equally well turned-out woman walked in, laughing.  The man’s head was inclined towards his companion, and the rich brown of his hair–Claire couldn’t help but notice it–was in startling contrast to the almost white-gold of hers. Claire raised her eyebrows fractionally at the low
décolletage
of the woman’s gown. A bit daring for an afternoon’s shopping expedition, but she did look beautiful.

He
was very tall.

Claire turned around before she could be accused of staring and returned to her careful examination of the basket of Haraldson’s less expensive lace remnants. She allowed herself a small smile. The portly shopkeeper had spent the last ten minutes hovering over her, obviously anxious that she make a selection, but at the entry of
monseigneur et madame
he breathed, “Heavens, the Earl of Ketrick,” and at once forgot that Claire existed. He hurried towards the newcomers as the woman with white-gold hair laughed, a throaty, musical sound.

“Edward, the one thing I
don’t
need is another hat.”

“Nonsense,” came the man’s voice in reply. “I know of not a single woman in London who believes she is the owner of an adequate number of hats.”

“Oh,
hopeless
,” said the woman, and laughed again.

“Here milady, this one surely cries out for a gentlewoman of your rank,” said the shopkeeper, almost tripping in his haste to lift an enormous confection of turquoise satin and ostrich feathers out of its perch in the window. Claire caught a glimpse of the hat out of the corner of her eye. Good heavens, could that possibly be a
bird’s egg
nestled among the explosion of feathers?  Claire decided that indeed, it could, and she barely repressed a snort. What a toady the man was!  And with poor taste, as well.

“Oh, no, my dear,” the woman said, addressing herself to the shopkeeper. “That’s much too grand for me.”

It was the man who laughed this time.  “Indeed.”

“I should think . . . ”  The woman hesitated, and Claire felt rather than heard her soft, gliding steps as she moved around the shop.

“That young lady’s hat is very fine don’t you think, Pam?”

Startled, Claire looked around again. The man was staring at her, his deep blue eyes amused and speculative.

The nerve!  Did he take her for a shop’s model?  Claire favored him with her coolest glance before returning once more to the remnants basket. She was uncomfortably aware of the sudden pounding of her heart. He was quite the handsomest man she’d ever seen. A strong nose and chin, with cheekbones that looked chiseled out of stone. His chestnut hair wasn’t styled into any of the current fashions–“the Brutus” or “the Chevalier”–but was pulled back and held with a simple black velvet ribbon at the nape of his neck.

She told herself not to look at him again, feeling strangely uneasy. Perhaps it was time to move on to a different shop. The woman’s voice stopped her as she started towards the door.

“Edward, my love, you are right as usual.”

Claire glanced up to see an exquisite face, framed in white-gold curls and smiling reassuringly at her. 

“That cloche is beautiful on you,” the woman said. “Wherever did you find something so perfectly elegant?” 

Claire had heard enough insincere compliments in the last few months to recognize a genuine one. But the feeling of unease returned as she considered the dangers inherent in any casual acquaintance with a member of the
ton
.

“Forgive me, ma’am,” she said to the woman, surprised that her voice sounded strong and clear. “It was a gift from
mon frère
–my brother.”  She hesitated, then added,  “He loves to keep secrets when it comes to hats.
Bonjour
.”   Claire nodded to the lady and swept confidently through the door.

Once safely outside she forced herself to walk slowly away and to look straight ahead rather than back at the shop.  So she missed the eyes of the man as they followed her exit, and the eyes of the lady, as they followed the man.

* * * *

Edward Tremayne, the twelfth Earl of Ketrick, stared thoughtfully out the shop window.

“Who is she?” he asked. He was surprised to hear Lady Pamela reply, scarcely realizing that he’d spoken out loud.

“I don’t know,” said Lady Pam. It was an unusual admission for her.  “Her French seemed impeccable, but then, we only heard a few words.”

“Hmm,” said the earl. He had turned back to the shopkeeper’s latest effort when another thought struck him. “Her hat–it would have looked marvelous on Melissa, don’t you think?”

“Hmm,” echoed Lady Pam. Edward didn’t see her roll her eyes.

  * * * *

“Pooh,” thought Claire, ducking down the nearest alley and making her way home in zigs and zags. “Telling fibs about a hat.”  Well, it wasn’t all a lie, she reassured herself. Jody
had
found the feathers, and had helped her drag Grandmama Isabelle’s old court dress out of a musty attic trunk. The heavy gold satin of the underskirt had been perfect for the  simple silk-lined hat.

Jody’s feathers, tucked into the satin at a graceful angle, bobbed up and down as Claire moved quickly through another alleyway. She held her skirts as high as she dared and wrinkled her nose at a particularly noxious odor coming from one of the doorways. A large rat scurried across her path, and Claire sidestepped it neatly. Their house, rented for the season, was in a respectable neighborhood, but it wouldn’t do to tarry on some of the side streets nearby. The rent consumed almost every pound she had been able to scrape together, even at that. Claire heard the clip-clop of a hackney cab on St. James’s Square and knew she was almost home. A few hours of rest would be welcome, and then it would be time to dress for Lady Pemberton’s ball.

* * * *

“I don’t like it,” said Jody.

Claire sighed. She and her brother had been having the same argument for days. It was remarkable how stubborn a fifteen-year-old boy could be.

“Major Trevor is too old for you. And that baronet is
much
too old. Besides, he’s fat.”

“We’ve been over this before,” said Claire, patiently.

“
Je sais
. I know.”  Jody screwed up his face and did a passable imitation of his sister’s voice. “An older man will be more likely to marry for his own pleasure”–Claire winced at the word–“and less likely to have family scrutinizing every particular of his prospective bride.”

“The major and the baronet are both kind, respectable men. I wouldn’t marry a cad or a drunk–you know that, Jodrel.”

It was Jody’s turn to sigh.

“And it’s not as if I’m planning to make a fool of my husband, either. I’d work hard to be a good wife, and he would never have cause to regret offering for me.”

“I know that, too!  Either one of them should consider himself incredibly fortunate to have you.”

Claire smiled at her brother’s loyal declaration.

“But,” Jody added, “you don’t love the major, and you
certainly
don’t love the baronet.”

Pah, thought Claire, it must be the French blood. They were both sitting cross-legged on the old four-poster in her bedchamber. The fireplace here had a decent draw, making it the coziest room in the house. She threw a pillow at her brother, resulting in a small explosion of feathers. Jody sneezed.

“
L’amour!
” she exclaimed. “
Quelle bêtise! 
You’re fifteen years old, what do you know about love?”

“I know as much as you do!” retorted Jody.

“Ha!” said Claire. “Well, it’s a highly overrated commodity, I’m quite sure.”

“Perhaps Sir Clarence doesn’t think so.”  Jody, hand over heart, puffed out his cheeks in imitation of the baronet’s ample jowls. “‘Oh, Mamselle Claire,’” he intoned dramatically, in an execrable Yorkshire-accented French, “‘vooz etts ler ploo belle, ler ploo magnifick.’”

Claire grabbed another pillow as Jody dove for a defensive position underneath the duvet.

“‘Ler ploo splendeed,’” came his voice faintly.

They both collapsed in laughter.

* * * *

Jody considered the possible outcomes from the Pembertons’ ball that night, thinking that he was far from happy about their present situation. His sister believed that the baronet,  Sir Clarence Aubley, was
sur le point
of offering for her, and the major not far behind. The boy didn’t doubt Claire’s instincts in these matters. She wasn’t given to exaggeration.

Jody felt it acutely that his beautiful sister was being forced to marry to secure their future.
He
ought to be working to support them, but Claire– with a stubbornness that could only have come from
grand-maman
Isabelle–refused to allow it. His sister said that the employment opportunities available to fifteen-year-old boys in London were not to be discussed. Jody knew she was right, but still–

He checked his pockets, making sure he had enough coins to hire a hackney, but not so many that the household would suffer greatly if he was robbed. Jody had been careful never to mention anything to Claire about the footpads he occasionally spotted while he waited for her. His sister  was not at all missish, but she could still be naive about some things. He slipped a knife into one boot, trusting that the blade would provide security enough.

* * * *

Claire looked into the mirror, satisfied. There wasn’t much she could do about the raven black of her hair–blondes were much more in style this season–but the cascade of ringlets framing her face set off her grey eyes and glowing skin to advantage. She pinched her cheeks and adjusted the
décolletage
of her gown. Nothing too daring–she was an unmarried woman, after all–but this wasn’t the gown of a young miss just out of the  schoolroom, either.  The sky-blue satin became her coloring, and the nipped-in waist showed just enough of her figure. She had been at some pains to convince both her suitors that she was an adult used to some independence in the world and that they needn’t worry overmuch about her family situation.

Such as it was.

Claire took a last quick look in the mirror. She knew she was beautiful and didn’t care. Beauty had not kept her brother safe on their uncle’s estate, nor would beauty alone suffice to gain a marriage to a man closer to her own age. Someone she might even learn to love.

L’amour
.  “Pah,” said Claire, quickly finishing her
toilette
by tucking a small tippet of lace up her left sleeve. It was time to go to the ball.

* * * *

“Mademoiselle Claire de Lancie,” announced the Pembertons’
maître de cérémonie.

The duchess smiled warmly at Claire. “And where is your dear aunt this evening, Miss de Lancie?” she asked solicitously. Lady Pemberton was an energetic, gregarious woman and her flame-red turban wobbled alarmingly as she spoke. Claire eyed it warily and returned a smile.

“Oh, Your Grace,
she had
une nuit blanche
, an absolutely
sleepless
night.”  Claire had early discovered that a phrase or two of French did wonders for one’s reputation in London society. Now she lowered her voice confidentially, as if only she and the duchess were in on the secret of her aunt’s illness.  “Her headaches get worse and worse this time of year, as you know.”

A confidence wasn’t quite enough to stop Lady Pemberton’s next question. “You’re not here
alone
are you, my dear?” she asked in alarm.

Claire felt a few neighboring ears perk up. “Oh, no! 
Certainement non!
My 

brother . . . ”  Claire gave a laugh and waved vaguely behind her. Fortunately, the dandy next in line chose that moment to move forward and sweep Her Grace a wide bow, taking Lady Pemberton’s hand and pressing it to his lips in a smacking kiss. The Duchess bobbed and tittered, and Claire made her escape.

The affair had not yet progressed to being an impossible crush, and she looked around carefully, hoping to see Major Trevor. The Duchess of Pemberton was noted for the creativity of her arrangements, and Claire was having some difficulty identifying male guests through the maze of palm fronds and Egyptian obelisks set about the room.        

Ah, there he was. And heading her way. Claire smiled.

* * * *

“So, who is she?” drawled the earl in an indifferent tone that didn’t fool Lady Pamela.

“I didn’t know her earlier, my love,” she replied.  “What makes you think I do now?”

“Do you not?” said the earl.

The figure of the dance parted them for a moment. Glide, step, glide, as Lady Pam moved smoothly around Viscount Richland and back to the earl. He was frowning, and she was hard put not to laugh. Such a strong man–rich, handsome, a wonderful lover–yet he had been felled by one glance from a slim, raven-haired chit.

The marvelously amusing part, thought Pamela, is that he doesn’t even know it yet.

“In fact, I do,” she admitted, making a
demi-tour
. “Good heavens, is that a sphinx?”