Anne Barbour (17 page)

As Claudia complied, her aunt drifted about the room, uttering aloud the plans that seemed to be fairly assaulting her. “The first thing we must do is make the master’s bedchamber ready. I’m sure his lordship will not wish to spend another night in the butler’s quarters. Then...”

Claudia raised a hand to still her aunt’s busy ramblings. “We’d best wait until the day after tomorrow. Aunt, when we have concluded our business in Gloucester. I do not wish Thomas to get wind of my decision to relinquish Ravencroft until the deed is done.”

“Oh. Yes, of course. Well, I shall merely peek into the master’s suite, just to get an idea of what must be done. It’s been empty for so long, you know. What a fortunate thing we just inventoried the linen room. I shall select what will be needed. Oh. What about clothes? Surely, he will require new coats and—and everything. I shall be thinking of who he might hire as a manservant, too.”

Claudia tiptoed from the room, gently closing the door behind her.

It was not very much later that Claudia found herself seated next to the master of Ravencroft, tooling along the road to Gloucester in the gig that served as the means of transportation for those living at Ravencroft. Emanuel’s curricle and phaeton, and even the fashionable barouche that had once graced the Ravencroft carriage house had been sold many months previously. They might have ridden in the ancient landau that still squatted in the shadows, but Claudia had been loathe to take Lucas away from his stable duties to act as coachman. She prayed that it would not rain, although the skies hanging greyly above them did not look promising.

She was acutely conscious of the close proximity of the man seated next to her, wielding the reins of the gig rather inexpertly. He had not, he explained rather sheepishly at the onset of their journey, driven a horse beyond two or three times in his adult life. Despite this, he drove with a definite panache, and if occasionally the horses misinterpreted his direction, he was able without undue difficulty to make his wishes known and eventually obeyed. Claudia had the feeling that it would not be long before Lord Glenraven became as adept a whip as he had been a confidence trickster in his bad old days.

A thought struck her suddenly, and she twisted about to look at him. “Would you like to stop at a haberdashery today, my lord, to purchase some new clothes?”

Jem glanced down at the serviceable but obviously inexpensive outfit he had worn at his first encounter with her. “New clothes?” he asked in surprise. Then, he laughed. “Are you saying, my dear Mrs. Carstairs, that I don’t present the picture of a peer? You are right, of course,” he concluded. “This ensemble, however, is not the only suit of clothes that I own. I left most of my things in London, and after I have got myself officially announced as Lord Glenraven, I shall send for them.” He laughed again. “I promise you, by week’s end, if all goes well, I shall be revealed to you in all my lordly glory.”

“I shall await your emergence with bated breath, my lord,” replied Claudia demurely.

“That reminds me of another thing,” Jem said abruptly. “Do you think you might get by without that infernal, eternal ‘my lord?”

She looked at him for a moment in blank surprise. “But I can no longer call you January.”

“No, but you might call me Jem.”

Claudia drew in a sharp breath. “No, I mightn’t.”

“I don’t see why not. I’ve been called that by everyone I know for the past twelve years—except when they’re swearing at me, of course. I hope you don’t plan to do much of that.”

“No, of course not.” She was feeling unaccountably flustered by this exchange. “It—it simply would not do. It wouldn’t be at all proper. I—” She finished in a rush. “I am your employee.”

“Mm, yes. I see what you mean. But, I fear I cannot put up with all this ‘my lord-ing.’ ” He mused silently for a moment “How about Standish? I know it should probably be Glenraven, but even that sounds a bit much, don’t you think? I’ve always thought that title a trifle grandiloquent, as though we were laying claim to half of Scotland.”

“You are being absurd, my lord,” she responded severely. “I’m afraid from now on you will just have to get accustomed to—my lord.”

Jem sighed heavily. “Very well. However, I shall not take that as your final answer. I shall keep chipping away at you. I can be most persuasive, you know.”

Claudia permitted herself a smile. “So you’ve told me. However, I am not a gambler to be fooled by a trick.”

He placed a hand on his heart and bent a sorrowful look upon her. “You wound me, Mrs. Carstairs.”

Unable to face the warmth she read in his eyes, she hastily directed his attention to the fact that they had reached the outskirts of Gloucester.

Carefully maneuvering the little gig through the narrow streets of the city, Jem gradually arrived at its center. Pulling up in the town square, he looked about him.

“I am afraid I am unacquainted with the attorneys who practice here,” said Claudia. “Perhaps we could inquire at an inn or even at the Cathedral Deanery.”

Jem hesitated a moment “I have recalled the name of the man Father used as his man of affairs—and I think I remember where his chambers were located. He was a good man, as I recall. He was unable to stop Father’s headlong plunge into ruin, but I do not hold him responsible for that. Would you mind if I try to locate him? Or his successor?”

Claudia gave her agreement willingly, and after a few false starts, they found their way to a small building on Catherine Street, adorned with a modest sign reading, “SCUDDER, WIDDICOMBE AND PHILLIPS, ATTORNEYS AT LAW.”

“There,” said Jem in satisfaction. “William Scudder is whom I am looking for.”

He glanced down at the leather case he had brought with him. It was filled with his very life, he thought, then shrugged at his unwonted fancy. Yet, as he lifted the latch to usher Claudia inside, he was conscious of a lump in his throat and a churning in his stomach, for here was to be found the last hurdle in his journey home.

Chapter Twelve

Claudia and Jem were greeted in a small anteroom by an austere personage of dyspeptic mien.

“Yes?” he inquired haughtily, “May I help you?”

The glance he hastily ran over Jem’s shabby suit and Claudia’s plain muslin gown obviously had led him to the conclusion these were not the sort of persons to be welcomed with open arms at Scudder, Widdicombe and Phillips.

“We would like to see William Scudder,” replied Jem courteously, “if he is in.”

The personage sniffed.

“He is in, but I fear he is busy at the moment. Perhaps if you would leave your name...” He let the sentence trail off, apparently in the hope that this unsightly pair would take the hint and simply vanish from his ordered world.

“Please,” said Jem quietly, but with great firmness. “Tell him that Lord Glenraven wishes to see him.”

The personage stiffened. Once more, his rather myopic gaze traveled over them, and he fairly quivered in indignation. “My good man—whoever you might be—please do not try to...”

As Claudia watched in fascination, Jem made another of his transformations. He seemed to grow taller, and he drew about him an air of authority that came as naturally to him as pulling on a coat.

“You will tell him that now.”

The man opened his mouth as though he would dispute the order, but after one look into Jem’s face, he turned on his heel and left the room, shuttering the door behind him with an affronted click.

Claudia had barely absorbed all this, when the door opened once more, and a gentleman in his late fifties hastened into the anteroom. He strode to Jem and gazed at him intently for a long moment before grasping the younger man’s hand.

“Lord Glenraven! When Wickerly told me— But—by God, it really is you! Come in, come in, my boy.” Sparing barely a glance for Claudia, he took Jem by the arm and drew him into an inner office. It was not a large room, but the stained leather furniture and candles burning to augment the meager illumination provided by a single, grimy window, served to create a comfortable atmosphere. An odor of old leather and vellum hung over the place like a benediction.

His eyes never leaving Jem’s face, Mr. Scudder gestured the young man to a seat near a large, paper-strewn desk. Only then did he glance questioningly at Claudia.

“Mr. Scudder,” said Jem, bowing, “allow me to present Mrs. Emanuel Carstairs, the present owner of Ravencroft.”

After a moment’s startled hesitation, Mr. Scudder bowed also, and taking Claudia’s hand, he led her to a chair near Jem’s. He seated himself behind his desk and drew a deep breath.

“Lord Glenraven,” he repeated, smiling broadly. “You have changed considerably from the youngster who visited me once, so many years ago, with your father, but I had no difficulty in recognizing you. Have you come back for a visit, or is there some way in which I can assist you?” He glanced again curiously at Claudia.

Jem sat back in his chair and laid the leather case on the desk.

“Yes, Mr. Scudder, I am in need of your services, and I hope very much that you can help me.”

In reply to the older man’s questioning stare, Jem opened the packet and began to speak. Mr. Scudder literally perched on the edge of his chair during Jem’s recital, and as the monologue continued, his expression grew from surprise, to revulsion, to horror.

When Jem had finished, the attorney collapsed back into his seat, and drawing a large handkerchief from his coat pocket, he wiped his brow.

“This is—I have never heard the like!” he gasped. ‘To think that one man could cause such misery. Your father—your poor mother! And your sisters—my God! And you. My boy, I simply do not know what to say.”

A long silence reigned in the room, broken only by the ticking of an ancient clock resting on a dusty mantelpiece. Mr. Scudder appeared lost in his own thoughts, and came to with a jerk when Jem cleared his throat gently.

“Oh. Ah. Yes, I was just...” He straightened abruptly. “You say you have proof of all you have told me?”

Jem removed the papers from the leather case and spread them across the desk for Mr. Scudder’s careful perusal. After another lengthy interval, the attorney raised his head.

“This all seems in order. Of course, if there were to be a dispute over—” He bent a sharp stare on Claudia. “You are truly agreeing to return Ravencroft to his lordship without dispute?”

Claudia nodded, and Jem spoke. “Among the items we need to settle today are a contract between Mrs. Carstairs and myself concerning her employment as manager of the Ravencroft stables.”

“What?” Amazement was writ large on Mr. Scudder’s plump features. “You would hire a female to—but this is unheard of!” He swiveled about to focus his attention on Claudia.

Jem smiled. “Nevertheless, that is what I propose to do. Mrs. Carstairs has made great strides in returning the stables to their former repute, and I feel confident that I could leave them in no more competent hands.” He turned to Claudia, who felt an unwelcome heat rise to her cheeks.

“Yes.” Mr. Scudder’s voice was saturated with disapproval. “I had heard of her activities.” He peered again at Claudia from over his spectacles. “Most unsuitable, if I may say so, dear lady.”

“Yes, I suppose it is,” said Claudia, and at her tone of meek submission, Jem shot her a keen glance. “But, I really had no choice, sir. Perhaps you have also heard that my late husband brought Ravencroft to the brink of ruin.”

Mr. Scudder harumphed, but the gaze he bent on her softened perceptibly.

He picked up the documents that lay scattered on his desk. “There are certain formalities which must be observed in your acquisition to the title, my lord. If you will permit, I shall put these into motion. In a few days, again with your permission, I will call at Ravencroft with documents for your signature. In the meantime, if you wish, I can provide a deed of transfer immediately for Mrs. Carstairs to sign”—he looked at her intently from under thick brows—”if this is what you truly wish to do.”

Claudia nodded. “I have no other option, Mr. Scudder. I had vaguely suspected that Emanuel’s dealings with the late Lord Glenraven were not precisely aboveboard. Having my suspicions confirmed, I could do no other than to return Ravencroft to its rightful owner. Much as it pains me to do so,” she added honestly.

“Well said, Mrs. Carstairs,” replied Mr. Scudder, his forbidding expression having phased into one of marked approval. In another few minutes, having conferred with a chastened Wickerly, more documents were brought into the room, and Claudia was handed ink and quill.

Shortly after that, Mr. Scudder notarized her signature with a flourish and pronounced the deed done.

“There will be a few other steps. I shall file these papers with the clerks’ office, but as of this moment. Lord Glenraven, you are now the owner of Ravencroft.”

These simple words had the power to deprive Jem of speech for several moments. Watching him, Claudia knew an urge to reach out her hand to touch his. Somehow, as she observed the depth of emotion written on his lean face, her own pain at losing the home she had come to love was eased.

The next order of business was Claudia’s contract for employment at Ravencroft. She was astonished at the munificent salary offered by his lordship, but her protests were overruled with gruff civility. With shaking hand, she signed the paper.

After that, there was little to be said, and Mr. Scudder ushered the pair from his office with many expressions of goodwill and the promise to appear at Ravencroft within the week to clear up the remaining formalities.

“I wonder,” said Jem as they made their way down the winding street that opened out into a wide square, “if the Pelican still exists. When I accompanied Father into town, we always stopped there for luncheon. It lies down—let me see, that street over there.”

“Oh,” replied Claudia with a little gasp, “but that is the dearest place in town to dine. I usually go to the White Lamb. Besides, we have little time to spend in the city if we wish to return to Ravencroft before nightfall.”

“Nonsense.” Jem spoke briskly as he put Claudia’s hand in the crook of his arm. “You must strive to be mindful that you are in the company of a nob. No need to worry about paltry things like the cost of lunch.”