Sharon Sobel (19 page)

“I did, and the girls happily reminded me I was not nearly as good as you. Several of them unwittingly demonstrated my weaknesses by falling asleep during my dramatic reading as Lady Macbeth.”

“Lady Macbeth? It is no wonder, for you surely are the least likely woman to be convincing in such a role. There is nothing scheming or manipulative in your good nature,” Claire remarked.

Mrs. Brooks nodded her head, though she seemed hesitant to accept the kind words. “And yet I have been known to get what I desire.”

“If you mean you managed to find some purpose for my poor life by bringing me here, then that is quite different. Lady Macbeth sought power for her own gain. You, by contrast, are most generous to others.”

This is a compliment that seemed acceptable. “Yes, I suppose that is true. I do not seek power as it is understood by others; indeed, it would be quite unwelcome in my life.”

Claire was not uncertain why the conversation, which started so casually with playacting the role of Lady Macbeth, suddenly seemed to take a personal turn. But Mrs. Brooks, perhaps sensing the same thing, anticipated any questions.

“My husband would be the next Marquis Wentworth if anything happens to his nephew, you understand. That is, of course, until Maxwell marries and has a son. The fact that my husband would be a most reluctant marquis, and necessarily give up his profession, makes me much more than a matchmaking busybody when I introduce my nephew to eligible young ladies. I also advocate for my husband’s happiness, and thus for my own.”

“Do you introduce your nephew to many young ladies?” Claire asked, remembering the most awkward occasion of the meeting at the Armadale Ball.

“Hardly any, for he does not consider himself worthy, as you yourself were witness.”

“I was, but I think you will be remarkably pleased to know that much has changed. I did not think I would see him at all at Brookside Cottage, for you gave me reason to believe he would be in Portugal all the while. But he and I had much to say to each other and he finally was able to wander through the ruins of Brook Hall, a place he had not visited in all these years. I believe he is quite reconciled to taking his sister about in society and even enjoying it a bit himself.” Claire looked out the window while she delivered this information, as if it was hardly of interest to she herself.

“I see,” said Mrs. Brooks. “And all this was accomplished with nothing more than some conversation?”

Claire turned back to face her lover’s aunt. “Indeed.”

“Then it is as we guessed, Lady Claire. You are a most persuasive speaker.”

“Oh, yes. It is one of my finest talents,” Claire said. She hoped she sounded equally persuasive on that point and would not be questioned about the particulars of their conversations.

“Having persuaded my nephew to enter society and take his rightful place among his peers, I hope you will not abandon him now? He knows no one, of course.”

“I think I can safely say that the marquis is not nearly as needful of our help as you would believe, Mrs. Brooks. He has been damaged, of course, and perhaps even more so mentally than physically. And he has been reclusive, which has allowed dangerous rumors to spread about him. But his sister has taught him much about love and redemption, and he has apparently proven quite capable in serving Armadale. There is nothing of the invalid in his nature or behavior, I assure you. He may require some well-placed introductions, and you and I are recruited to assist in the planning of a fine ball for Camille’s coming-out, but you will soon realize that he can manage quite well on his own.”

“You speak passionately, Lady Claire. It is to your credit,” Mrs. Brooks said softly.

Claire blushed, not only for the passion, as her friend noted, but also for the sentiment. She did not deserve credit for returning Maxwell Brooks to the world. He made his own way, and some of his abilities were rather remarkable.

“The credit is your nephew’s, Mrs. Brooks. He will not disappoint you here in London, and I daresay your and Mr. Brooks’s fondest hopes will be realized.”

Adelaide Brooks and Claire studied each other for some moments, during which Claire ardently wished the older woman would just come out and directly ask the question that hung between them. But as she did not know for what Mrs. Brooks truly wished, it must remain unspoken until they better understood each other.

“You will be happy to know that he and Lady Camille are invited to a dinner at Mrs. Longreaves’ home on Tuesday,” Claire said.

“So I have been told. They have already accepted the invitation,” Mrs. Brooks said.

“Surely you are happy about this?” Claire asked. Her friend looked somewhat indifferent about the business.

“Indeed, I am. But this has nothing to do with my fondest hopes, you realize.”

Claire struggled to grasp the earlier threads of this conversation, knowing they were important to the weave of the tapestry, and yet unsure how the pattern would develop. She did not remember ever being so confused about matters of such importance to herself, and blamed it all on her sojourn in Yorkshire, where her companions said what they meant, and were honest, almost to a fault.

“But perhaps they have to do with mine,” Claire said, letting the lady believe what she would.

***

Max scarcely saw Lady Claire in the days between their arrival in London and Mrs. Longreaves’ dinner party. He heard her clear voice singing in the parlour as she helped Camille practice for a musical entertainment. And he knew she came one afternoon to advise his sister on what to wear for the party, for the scent of lavender led him to the closed door of the drawing room.

“I should not enter, my lord,” intoned one of the servants, stepping in front of him.

“I beg your pardon, but this is my home and that is my drawing room. I believe I left a letter from my cousin upon the table,” Max argued, surprised to hear himself so authoritarian. But he hardly knew his staff here and did not feel quite as comfortable with them as he did with his people back in Yorkshire.

The man had the audacity to laugh. “Forgive me for saying so, my lord. But what was your drawing room is now a ladies’ dressing room. Lady Camille told me no one should enter but your aunt, a coterie of dressmakers and seamstresses and, of course, Lady Claire.”

“Of course,” Max said grudgingly, thinking they might as well be back in Yorkshire. “I could guess Lady Claire was behind all this.”

The man cleared his throat. “I should think she is in front of all this, leading in the others to do her bidding.”

“Yes,” Max agreed. “She is very good at that.”

And so he did not see her that day, or the next, and spoke five words of greeting to her on the day after. They agreed the weather was unseasonably warm and the riding along Rotten Row particularly congested. Claire assured him his sister was quite ready to be seen in her new wardrobe, and he told her James Cosgrove mentioned he was to attend the Longreaves’ party, though surprised to receive an invitation from a family hitherto unknown to him.

When he mentioned this bit of information to Camille she seemed indifferent to Cosgrove’s business, which Max took as a positive sign. That is, his sister, confident in her associations as well as in her dress, was perfectly willing to engage with gentlemen she did not yet know. Max supposed he must thank Claire for giving her such confidence. If only he could find her alone, he might do so in a satisfying manner.

In the meantime, he felt like a man wandering through the desert, seeking an oasis. He knew she was busy, not only with the business of properly presenting his sister, but with renewing old acquaintances. And he was busy, occupied with learning about the properties and businesses he scarcely concerned himself with before. He hitherto knew these by the ledgers of income received and cash outlaid, but now he visited buildings and sailing vessels and a small publishing business on Fleet Street that had been started by his maternal grandfather. It was all new and rather intriguing, but none of it was equal to an hour spent in Claire’s presence. Or ten minutes in her bed.

She sent him a note on the afternoon of the dinner. His man delivered it to him while he was pouring over sea maps in the library, and must have known the identity of the sender. But there is a great difference between a letter about the business of fabric costs for his sister’s gowns, and a sealed note scented with roses. The subject was that of her housekeeper’s unexpected journey to Margate, where her daughter was to be delivered of a baby. But Max hardly read this, for the red petals that fell to the rug made Claire’s meaning achingly clear. He immediately went to his stable to notify the groom that a horse would be needed in the early hours of the morning.

A few hours later, Max and Camille traveled to the Longreaves’ mansion, renowned for dwarfing every other house on the elegant square. He tried to describe its impressive size and appearance to his sister, but she seemed impatient with his efforts, telling him she would ask Claire about it instead. Nevertheless, she allowed him to escort her into the grand foyer, and introduce her to their hosts and other guests. Almost immediately, Warren St. Paul, a young man recently returned from France, relieved Max of Camille’s company, and took her off in the direction of the conservatory.

Max felt he ought follow them there, for he knew the things that could happen when one was surrounded by humid air and flowering flora, but was derailed by the arrival of other guests.

Lord and Lady Fayreweather came through the door next, and Max spared some attention for the gentleman. For all Claire had to say about her friend Marissa, he did not recall her ever mentioning the lady’s husband. And if she did, he certainly did not imagine this dignified man, who was a solemn crow next to his wife’s brilliance. Fayreweather certainly knew his part, and did nothing to detract any attention from his beautiful wife.

There was a lesson to be learned here, perhaps about what each partner brings to a marriage. But Max decided he would reflect upon it later, for the large door suddenly opened again, and he forgot everyone but Claire.

She glanced down as she entered the house, fussing with netting on her gown that looked infused with diamonds. When he took a step closer, he realized the gems were drops of water on the fabric, reflecting in the candlelight, and that it likely started to rain even in the moments since he and Camille entered the mansion. Claire slipped her shawl off her shoulders and looked up just as he came to stand beside her.

“It is raining,” she said unnecessarily and blinked several times.

“You are not crying?” he asked as he handed her a linen cloth. “Are those tears in your eyes?”

“You know they are not,” she said and smiled, but took his cloth, just the same. “Unless you tell me I have something to regret this night.”

“I cannot think of a thing, unless we find the sherry too dry or the strawberries too tart.”

“Mrs. Longreaves has an excellent conservatory and has allowed her strawberry plants to flourish there in sweet soil. I am certain they will be delightful,” Claire said.

“Yes, I believe Mr. Warren St. John is describing those delights to my sister, even now. They have gone off to the conservatory, ignoring the pleasures to be found in this room.”

Claire nodded and said nothing. And in those moments he took in her elegant costume: the dark blue gown overlaid with netting, sapphire earrings dangling nearly to her chin, and a matching necklace of stones so magnificent that Glastonbury might have started a small war financed by the sale of them. Her hair was pinned in a fashion he had not seen on her before, revealing a good deal of her neck and shoulders, and the neckline of her gown was very low, revealing even more.

“Lady Claire,” murmured a man as he approached them. He stopped just shy of trampling on her hem. “How wonderful it is to see you again for we have been bereft in your absence. We heard you went north, to assist in some family matters. And yet I saw your brother two weeks ago, and he knew nothing about it.”

“My dear brother would not have recognized our parents if we did not sit down to breakfast with them each morning, so it is no wonder he is unaware of whom I see, and where I see them. Not all brothers and sisters enjoy a special closeness.” Claire looked at Max even as she answered this gentleman, and she seemed somewhat impatient with this conversation. “Is he in town, did you say?”

“I did not say,” the man said, and then seemed to notice Max for the first time. “I am Charles Longreaves, my lord. And you are most welcome to my father’s home.”

“Then I must thank your father for inviting a stranger to your table,” Max said.

“If you are a friend of Lady Claire, you are no stranger here. Lady Claire and I have known each other forever, or very near forever.” Longreaves laughed, which did nothing for Max’s good humor. “I trust the lady’s judgment in all things, and so you are welcome anytime.”

His words were artlessly spoken, but Max understood what the man was saying, and appreciated this was the very point of coming here tonight and to all the events following. He glanced at Claire, who nodded thoughtfully, and guessed she thought the same thing. This was to be a mission of redemption, and all the idle talk and late dinners were tokens along the way.

“Lady Claire, would you be so kind as to come with me to the library? I wish to show you a recent discovery, something I know you would enjoy more than any lady I know.”

Claire took this man’s elbow, pressing against him familiarly, before nodding to Max and walking off into the shadows towards something only she, apparently, would properly appreciate. Max felt a spurt of something he refused to believe was jealousy, for had he not already secured the lady’s affections? Did they not already have a promise for this very night?

“He has discovered an odd little bone,” explained a lady at Max’s side. He looked down at her, realizing she might have witnessed the whole conversation without him noticing her presence. “He would like for her to see it, of course.”

“Of course,” Max said, wondering where on the man’s damned body this bone was discovered, and why it could not be revealed in the company of others. Inasmuch as Longreaves and Claire were old friends, they might very well have been showing each other bones, and muscles, and flesh for years.