Secret Hearts (2 page)

      
Claire
told herself sternly to get a grip on her senses. At the moment, they
were fluttering in her middle like deranged butterflies. This would
never do.

      
She
tried on a smile and decided it fit. “I should be happy to do so,
sir. It’s such a chilly, rainy night, though, perhaps you would like
to take tea in the parlor first. I believe Mrs. Philpott, the cook,
is already preparing refreshments. I’ll be happy to tell you about
your new home over a cup of tea before we attempt a grand tour.”

      
If
she didn’t faint and drown in her own teacup. For a woman with such
a dull exterior, Claire often thought the fates had teased her most
unkindly when they’d given her these exalted sensibilities. She maintained
her smile, though, and tried her best to appear unruffled. In truth,
she’d never been so ruffled.

      
“Thank
you. I would like a chance to dry out and have a nip of—something.”

      
“Yes,
well, please follow me, Mister—General—oh, dear.”

      
Well,
so much for aplomb. Claire could feel heat rise to stain her cheeks.

      
“‘Mister’
will do nicely, thank you, Miss Montague.” Tom paused. “It is Miss
Montague?”

      
Flustered,
surprised he’d even bothered to ask, Claire murmured, “Yes. Yes,
it is.” Then, impulsively, she added, “You see, Mr. Partington,
your uncle spoke so glowingly of you that we denizens of Partington
Place have become quite used to thinking of you as the Young General.”

      
“My
uncle was, I’m afraid, much given to exaggeration, Miss Montague.”

      
Surprised
by his tone of voice, which sounded exceedingly dry, Claire decided
she’d best not respond lest she say something inappropriate. Opening
the door to the parlor, she stepped aside and allowed her new employer
to enter before her. She hoped he’d like the way she’d kept the
house up. Even though her obligations to her publisher and her readers
took a good deal of her time, Claire had always put her responsibilities
as housekeeper at Partington Place above all else and hoped desperately
to keep her job. Partington Place was her home. She was also proud of
her skill at housekeeping because it was one at which she excelled,
in spite of her tawdry origins.

      
Tom
looked around the room with apparent interest. Claire trusted he would
not object to the dried flower arrangement she’d set on the side table.
The late Mr. Partington had enjoyed her attempts at flower arranging,
but she had no idea what other men might appreciate. The only men she’d
ever known in her life until Mr. Partington employed her were her father
and her brother, neither one of whom counted.

      
Claire
was so nervous it was an effort to keep her hands demurely clasped in
front of her. They wanted to wring one another in agitation.

      
“This
room is quite charming, Miss Montague,” Tom said, making Claire’s
knees go weak with relief. “I expect your influence has held sway
in Partington Place? I can’t imagine Uncle Gordon having this much
taste.”

      
Surprised,
Claire blinked several times before she managed to say, “Oh, no, General—I
mean, Mister—Partington, the late Mr. Partington had exquisite taste.
He was a man of the most refined sensibilities.”

      
“Really?”
Tom leveled a perfectly gorgeous smile at her, and Claire’s hands
tightened around each other.

      
Swallowing,
she said, “Yes, indeed. He was a most worthy gentleman.”

      
A
knock sounded at the door, and Claire blessed the interruption as she
dashed to open it. Sure enough, it was Mrs. Philpott. Claire noticed
the poor old cook’s swollen, red-rimmed eyelids, and gave her a commiserating
smile as she took the tea tray.

      
Claire
had already promised the cook she wouldn’t introduce the new master
until the following day when, Mrs. Philpott assured Claire, she would
certainly have stopped weeping. Claire hoped so, although she didn’t
dare be too optimistic. Mrs. Philpott went through life as though pursued
by her own personal storm cloud. No matter what the circumstances, Mrs.
Philpott could find
something
to worry about.

      
“Here’s
your tea, Mr. Partington. Do you care for cream and sugar?” Pleased
that her voice sounded steady, Claire dared smile at the devastatingly
handsome man staring at the portrait of his uncle hanging over the fireplace.

      
He
turned and smiled back, making Claire catch her breath and turn her
attention to the tea things.

      
“Thank
you, Miss Montague. I do take cream and sugar. One lump, please. I can
understand why my uncle spoke so highly of you. You’re a veritable
paragon of housekeeperish virtues.”

      
Claire’s
“Thank you” sounded squeaky to her ears. She picked up Tom’s teacup
and prayed her hand wouldn’t shake.

      
He
murmured another polite, “Thank you,” took the cup, and Claire was
pleased to note she hadn’t spilled a drop.

      
“Tell
me, Miss Montague,” he said after a sip of tea, “do you have any
idea why my uncle left me this place?”

      
Startled,
Claire said, “Why, no, sir. I just assumed it was because you were
his only nephew.”

      
“Hmmmm.
No, he has others.”

      
“I’m
afraid I wasn’t in the late Mr. Partington’s confidence when it
came to his personal financial matters.”

      
With
a grin, Tom said, “No? Well, perhaps it doesn’t matter.”

      
“I
do know that he held you in the greatest esteem, though.” Claire was
shy about telling him that, but felt compelled to do so.

      
“Did
he now?”

      
“Yes,
indeed. Why, he read me every one of the newspaper accounts of your
career.” Claire stopped speaking suddenly, as though unsure she should
have divulged so much.

      
“Ah,
yes, the reporters,” Tom said dryly. “Many’s the times I was forced
to save some citified newspaper man from his own folly.” He took another
gulp of tea. “Tell me, Miss Montague, I know the estate grounds are
extensive. I’m interested in pursuing certain—oh—business matters,
and wondered if you knew the exact acreage.”

      
Tom
put his teacup down on an end table, reached into his coat and with
a smooth, elegant gesture, withdrew a slim cigar. Claire watched, eyes
widening. That was it!
 

      
Without
flinching, Tom reached inside his fringed buckskin garment and withdrew
a slender dagger. With one swift, graceful lunge, he dispatched the
ferocious brave. Miss Abigail Faithgood screamed.
 

      
“Miss
Montague?”

      
With
a start, Claire realized Tom had just spoken to her. “Oh! I’m so
sorry, sir. My mind wandered momentarily.” Good heavens, the man would
think she was demented if she kept this up. Frantically, Claire fought
for composure.

      
Tom
watched Claire’s mental struggles wage themselves on her expressive
face and revised his initial impression of her. Miss Claire Montague
might be a sobersides and she might favor a dreary hairstyle and boring
garb, but she certainly was not dull. In fact, Tom had seldom seen such
an animated countenance. She seemed quite charming, in fact, and not
nearly as stuffy as his first impression had led him to believe. He
gestured her into a chair and sat himself down on the sofa, trying not
to sprawl.

      
“Do
you have any idea what the full acreage encompassed by Partington Place
is, Miss Montague?” he asked again gently.

      
“No.
No, I’m afraid I don’t. But I’m sure Mr. Silver, the late Mr.
Partington’s man of business, will be happy to go over all that with
you. He has agreed to visit you tomorrow morning if it suits you.”

      
“That
will be wonderful. Thank you.”

      
Claire
took an agitated sip of tea and Tom wondered what the matter was. All
at once it hit him why she must be so nervous. Of course. What a fool
he was. But, hell, he wasn’t used to dealing with servants.

      
“Miss
Montague, I would like to reassure you that I don’t plan to make any
staff changes immediately, if at all. My uncle got along quite well
with you, Scruggs, the cook and the rest of the employees here at the
Place, and I’m sure I shall do the same.”

      
She
looked relieved, and Tom was pleased.

      
“Thank
you, Mr. Partington. I fear Mrs. Philpott was quite worried about losing
her situation. In truth, while she is a good, plain cook, she does rather
lack experience in more extensive presentations.”

      
“More
extensive presentations?” What the hell did that mean?

      
“Well,
if you were to invite your friends in for a gala ball or a theatrical
evening, or some other affair of that nature, you see, she’s worried
that she won’t be able to cope. I tried to assure her that any family
chef accustomed to cooking for a single gentleman would need help under
those circumstances, and to remind her that the late Mr. Partington
used to hire people from the village for parties. Mrs. Philpott, however,
seemed determined that you would expect her to be able to create elaborate
pastries and ice sculptures on an every-day basis.”

      
“Good
God.”

      
“I
mean, I’m sure a gentleman such as you must be used to entertaining
on a grand scale, but I believe Mrs. Philpott can handle your day-to-day
requirements if they aren’t terribly elaborate. And even parties,
with help.”

      
“What
makes you think I’m used to giving big parties, Miss Montague?”
Tom asked, genuinely curious. “I’ve been living on the frontier
for fifteen years.”

      
“Oh.”

      
She
was obviously startled by his brusque question, and Tom wished he’d
phrased it more delicately. That was what came of living in the rough,
he reckoned, and vowed to try to conduct himself more appropriately,
as befitted his new station in life.

      
“I
beg your pardon, Miss Montague. I didn’t mean to sound so blunt. But
I can assure both you and Mrs. Philpott that I am not in the habit of
entertaining—on any scale at all. Nor do I have a bevy of friends
who will expect it of me.”

      
Good
Lord on high, the buffalo hunters, half-breed scouts, and mule skinners
he’d been associating with for the past several years would probably
faint dead away if they even set foot in this mansion. And, after taking
a good whiff of them, undoubtedly Miss Claire Montague would join them.
Tom suppressed his chuckle at the image his thought evoked.

      
“I
see. Well, then that’s fine.” Claire looked at him over her teacup,
a puzzled expression on her face. Her spectacles gave her a grave, studious
look, strangely appealing to Tom. He had an urge to tease her out of
it.

      
“You
seem surprised, Miss Montague.”

      
“I
suppose I am, actually.” Her studious expression intensified. “I
mean—well, your uncle used to love relating tales of your derring-do,
Mr. Partington, but he also indicated you were used to fairly lavish
entertainments when you got back to civilization from the wild frontier.”

      
Tom
shook his head in disgust. He couldn’t help it. “As I said, Miss
Montague, my uncle was given to exaggeration.”

      
“Was
he really?”

      
She
looked at him, big-eyed beneath those lenses of hers, as though he’d
just denied the existence of God, and Tom was momentarily taken aback.
Curious, he asked, “Just what did my uncle say about me?”

      
Peering
at him earnestly, Claire said, “Mr. Partington, your uncle was so
proud of you. He followed your career with great interest. He cut out
every newspaper article and magazine reference he could find, and read
letters from your—oh, dear.”

      
“From
my mother?” Tom gave her an understanding smile. “It’s all right,
Miss Montague. Uncle Gordon’s undying love was probably my mother’s
greatest pleasure in life. I’m aware that they corresponded regularly.”

      
He
could tell she was relieved when a big sigh gusted from her, making
her seem much less austere than before.

      
“I’m
so glad. I didn’t want to—to make any indiscreet references.”
Obviously embarrassed, Claire took another sip of tea.

      
With
a little chuckle, he said, “And if he read you her letters, I’m
not surprised you believed me to be a hero.”

      
Claire
opened and shut her mouth twice, then took another sip of tea. “At
any rate, Mr. Partington, your uncle Gordon used to delight in telling
me tales about you. He thought the world of you.”

      
“I’m
not sure I liked his way of showing it,” Tom muttered sourly. Then
he recalled that he was now sitting in the parlor of this very lavish
estate—his, only because of Uncle Gordo’s generosity, or, more probably,
guilt—and he sighed. “I beg your pardon. I didn’t mean to sound
churlish. I gather you and my uncle were, ah, great friends.”