Two Corinthians (2 page)

“I hope she did not hit her head.”

Claire forced herself to open her eyes. She looked up into a handsome face full of solicitude. The gentleman had dark hair, tousled, touched with grey at the temples, dark eyes, a patrician nose whose haughtiness was belied by sensitive lips. Faint lines about his mouth gave him a slightly cynical air, but despite those and the greying hair, she thought he could not be much above five and thirty.

“She is awake!” cried Lizzie. “Thank heaven. Is it very painful, Claire?”

“Yes...No...It does not signify,” she whispered feebly. “My basket?”

“I’ll get it, don’t worry. Only I cannot move without disturbing you.”

“Slade shall fetch the basket,” said the stranger.

Claire became aware of a small man dressed in the fastidious black of a gentleman’s gentleman, sitting on the opposite seat. The carriage was luxuriously upholstered in supple leather, dyed dark blue. She was unhappily certain that the mud on her gown must have transferred to the seat, and since she was leaning against the stranger, with his arm supporting her, his clothes must also be suffering.

“It does not matter,” she murmured as the valet rose to his feet with a resigned look.

“Yes it does,” Lizzie contradicted. “You will doubtless be confined to your bed for a few days and unable to collect more roots. Pray make sure you find them all, Slade, and the trowel and knife as well.”

“Roots, miss?”

“Rose roots. They cannot have fallen far from the basket, so you will see them.”

“Yes, miss.”

The handsome gentleman turned a look of amused enquiry on Lizzie. “You are a gardener, ma’am?”

“Not I. Embroidery is my forte. Claire, you are shockingly pale. I am sure your ankle is hurting.”

“It throbs a little. As long as I do not move, it is not too bad.”

The valet scrambled back into the coach, setting the basket on the floor.

“Thank you, Slade,” said the gentleman. “And now I must direct the coachman, Miss...?”

“I am Elizabeth Sutton. Our house is just a mile or so along this lane.”

He knocked on the roof and called, “Peter, drive on!”

“It is very kind of you to take us up, sir,” Lizzie said as the carriage started off.

“The sooner your maid’s injury receives attention, the better, Miss Sutton. You are Sir James’s daughter, I presume? I was on my way to purchase a mount from him.”

“Yes. I am glad we do not take you out of your way. But Claire is my sister, sir, not my maid.”

He looked down at Claire with surprised interest. She felt a hot flush of embarrassment rise in her cheeks as she quickly closed her eyes and wished she had not so soon abandoned her feigned swoon.

“I beg your pardon, Miss Sutton,” he said, a note of amusement now colouring the deep voice. “These are your gardening clothes, I collect?”

Bravely she opened her eyes. She read sympathetic understanding along with the amusement in his gaze, and nodded. The motion, slight as it was, somehow transferred itself to her ankle and the pain shot up again. She bit her lip, holding back a cry.

Lizzie squeezed her hand. “We are nearly home, dearest,” she said. “It is lucky that your carriage is so well sprung, sir, for it jolts hardly at all.”

“Lucky indeed, Miss Elizabeth,” he responded smiling.

Her head on his chest, Claire noticed the vibration of his speech and realised she could feel his heartbeat and the rise and fall of his breathing. It was a shockingly intimate position, but she did not dare move. She was grateful for the warmth of his body and the comfort of his strong arms protecting her from the inevitable swaying of the coach.

Who was he? A wealthy man, to judge by his vehicle, though of course it might not be paid for. A sportsman, if he meant to buy a horse from her father. The coat against which her cheek was pressed was smooth, of Bath cloth she guessed. His linen was snowy white. His neckcloth, though neat, was simply knotted. Better dressed than the average country squire, yet no dandy, he must be a member of the Corinthian set, Claire decided.

More important, he was a true gentleman, kind and considerate even when he had thought her a servant. This was the sort of man she wanted Lizzie to fall in love with and to marry.

The carriage turned in between familiar gate posts and pulled up before the manor. Slade let down the step, hopped out, and scurried to knock on the front door. The unknown Corinthian carefully lifted Claire and carried her into the house, followed by Lizzie with the precious basket. The butler hovered, clucking at them anxiously.

“Golightly, send a groom for Dr. Farrow at once,” ordered Lizzie, taking charge. “Sir, will you be so good as to carry my sister above-stairs?”

He was nodding his willingness, when Alfie charged into the hall. Seeing Claire in the arms of a stranger, he raised his fists, his face thunderous.

“What you done to her?” he demanded. “Leave her be!”

“If you want to take a poke at me, lad,” said the gentleman calmly, “wait until I have set your mistress down.”

“Alfie, Miss Claire has hurt herself,” Lizzie hurried to explain. “You must fetch some coal from the shed and take it up to our chamber. Then ask one of the maids to light a fire. Do you understand? Take some coal up and ask Molly to light a fire.”

“Un’stand, Miss Lizzie. Miss Claire be all right?”

“Right as rain, Alfie. Hurry now and have a fire made up in our chamber.”

Lady Sutton, sweeping into the hall, heard these words.

“What do you mean by ordering a fire in your chamber, Elizabeth? It is quite unnecessary. Heavens, Claire! What disgraceful scrape have you landed yourself in this time? You will be the death of me, I vow. Sir, I beg you will not allow my daughter’s shocking behaviour to disturb you.”

“Miss Sutton has hurt her ankle, ma’am.” The stranger’s composure was unimpaired. “If you will allow me to carry her up, I shall return at once to present myself in due form. I am George Winterborne. Sir James is expecting me, I believe.”

Lady Sutton gasped. “Lord Winterborne! Of course, my lord! But pray put Claire down, I am sure she can walk up, the silly girl.”

“No, she cannot, Mama,” interrupted Lizzie firmly. “If you will follow me, my lord, I shall show you the way.”

With a nod to her exasperated ladyship, Lord Winterborne strode after Lizzie.

Claire wanted to die of humiliation. She ought to be used by now to being scolded in front of strangers, she told herself, but she still found it difficult to bear, impossible to ignore. And somehow it was worse because this stranger had been so kind and understanding. Now he must think her a ridiculous old maid. She avoided meeting his eyes as he laid her gently on her bed.

“Thank you, my lord,” she whispered.

“I wish you a speedy recovery, Miss Sutton,” he said, then turned to Lizzie. “Will your servant remember the fire, or do you suppose your mother has rescinded the order?”

“He will bring it,” Lizzie assured him. “He obeys Claire and me without question, and will take no notice of anything Mama tells him. I do not mean to be rude, my lord, but as soon as you leave I can make Claire more comfortable.”

He grinned, looking almost boyish. “Then I shall go down and explain matters to her ladyship. May I have your abigail sent to you?”

“We have none. We help each other.”

“Admirable,” he murmured, and departed.

Soon Claire was in her nightgown and under the covers. Alfie and Molly came, and a fire burned merrily in the small grate. Dr. Farrow arrived, diagnosed a bad sprain, and promised that it would heal quickly if she did not put her weight on it for a few days. He bound her ankle and left laudanum, but she discovered that as long as she kept still it only ached a little. Lizzie brought their favourite book of poetry and read to her. She was warm and comfortable and beginning to be drowsy, when Lady Sutton burst unannounced into the chamber.

“Elizabeth, I cannot imagine how you managed it, but Lord Winterborne complimented me on your pretty manners. He admired your appearance, also, and your care of your sister. I do believe Claire’s clumsiness may be turned to good account for once.”

“Who is he, Mama?”

“How shockingly ignorant you are, child! Why, he is the Marquis of Bellingham’s heir. He is one of the most eligible gentlemen in the country. Rich as Croesus in his own right, and he will inherit I know not how many estates. You must try if you can catch him, Elizabeth. I have persuaded him to spend the night here, and you shall sit next to him at dinner.”

“But he is quite old, Mama.”

“Not a day over six and thirty, and handsome into the bargain. What more can you ask? Besides, you will do better with an older husband to hold the reins. I depend upon you to set your cap at him.”

“Rome was not built in a day,” murmured Claire.

Her mother rounded on her. “I will not have you interfering in this, miss! Just because you could not bring any gentleman up to scratch in an entire Season, there is no reason to suppose that your sister cannot make an impression upon Lord Winterborne that will at least bring him back. He already admires her, after all. Now, let me see what you have in your wardrobe that will be suitable.”

As they searched through the meagre collection for the least shabby dinner gown, Claire mused on the extraordinary fact that for once she agreed with her mother. Lord Winterborne would be a splendid match for Lizzie.

Chapter II—Bertram

A scowl twisted Lord Pomeroy’s usually affable features as he urged his chestnuts onwards. His lordship’s groom, Abel, perched up behind the swaying curricle, hung on for dear life. He disremembered when he’d last seen his even-tempered master driving in such a neck-or-nothing style, just like the veriest whipster!

“Eight years!” muttered his lordship. “And I still love her, the devil take her!” he groaned. “I am altogether too honourable a gentleman!” he castigated himself savagely. “I ought to have taken her into my arms years ago and kissed her till she set the date.”

They reached the top of the long, steep hill down to the little town of Banbury. It was early yet
,
but January days were short and already the setting sun glinted on windows in the valley below. Cotswold stone turned to mellow gold, and snowy roofs glowed rosily. Abel closed his eyes and wished he had had the sense to join his lordship’s valet, Pinkerton, in the travelling chaise. He should have known that after near a week knocking back bad brandy in that hovel of a tavern, his master was in no fit state to drive.

Lord Pomeroy heard his faithful servant moan. Grinning, he glanced back at his pale companion, and slackened their headlong pace. Though his own life might not be worth living, he would not risk his horses’ legs on the icy slope.

Abel had accompanied him on many a wild race without turning a hair: if he thought they were going too fast for safety, he was undoubtedly right.

Half an hour later, as the last light faded from the sky, the curricle came to a halt before the pillared portico of an imposing manor. Abel jumped down and took the reins from his master.

“We leave for Tatenhill the day after tomorrow,” said Lord Pomeroy, swinging to the ground with the grace of an athlete. “You can travel with Pinkerton.”

“Oh no, m’lord! Druther go wi’ your lordship, for ye’re a top sawyer, be ye in never such a dudgeon.”

His lordship clapped the wiry young groom on the shoulder. “You’re a brave man,” he said with a wry smile, “or a foolish one.”

Abel watched him run up the steps to the front door, his tall figure imposing in his many-caped greatcoat. He shook his head.

“A rare dance that Miss Hartwell led you, m’lord!” he muttered to himself as he led the chestnuts towards the stables.

Lord Pomeroy, handing his curly-brimmed hat and gloves of York tan to the butler, allowed a footman to divest him of his greatcoat, revealing a close-fitting coat of russet superfine, pale yellow waistcoat, and beige inexpressibles. Even after five days spent trying to drown his sorrows, his fair hair was unruffled, his cravat impeccably creased, and no speck of mud marred his glossy Hessians.

“Is my sister at home, Braithwaite?”

The butler beamed. It was a pleasure to serve a gentleman like Lord Pomeroy. Never overly familiar, but he always remembered your name just as if you were a member of the Quality.

“Her ladyship is expecting you, my lord,” he said.

Lady Caroline Carfax, a matronly blonde some five years older than her brother and equally easygoing, sat by a roaring fire in the Crimson Drawing Room, her head bent over a Gothic novel. She looked up as his lordship entered, and beamed. He bowed over her outstretched hand.

“Bertram! I have been expecting you this age and had given up for today. It grows dark so early these winter afternoons. Have you seen Louise?”

“My niece goes on famously,” his lordship assured her briefly. “How are the boys?”

“Oh, scarlet fever is a wretched business. We have been unable to entertain for fear of infection, but they are out of quarantine now and will go back to school shortly.” Caroline had noted his discomfort at the mention of her daughter. “I hope Louise has not been troublesome? I am well aware that she is the veriest hoyden, so you need not scruple to tell me all.”

“If she has been in the briars these last few days I have not heard it. She was well and happy when I saw her.”

“It was a prodigious kind of Lord Daniel to take her in for the Christmas holiday. Miss Hartwell must have been relieved not to be charged with her.”

She looked at him questioningly, but he did not respond. He was staring into the fire with a look of utter despondency, his broad shoulders slumped.

“Bertram, is it not settled yet?” she demanded.

“Yes, it’s settled,” he told her in a voice of gloom. “She is to marry Winterborne.”

“Winterborne? Lord Daniel? Oh Bertram, I am so dreadfully sorry! How could she treat you so after you have been faithful to her for so long!”

He shrugged. “You must not blame Amaryllis. She has changed—we have both changed over the years. After all, we did not see each other for six years! She loves him, and you would not wish me to be married to a woman who loves another.”