Leslie LaFoy (2 page)

To her relief, the sandy-haired young man cleared his throat, lifted several pieces of parchment from his desktop, and began, “Mistress Curran arrived in Williamsburg late yesterday afternoon bearing sealed correspondence from Mr. George Seaton-Smythe. You're acquainted with the gentleman, are you not, Devon?”

Claire watched the tall American stride across the office to toss his cloak over the back of an elegantly carved chair. She judged his height to be at least six and two. His boots were of soft black leather, rising to his knees and conforming to his calves. His frock coat was well tailored, the fit fashionably loose and covering the rest of him from her perusal. Not that she needed to see any more than she could. Everything about him spoke of a powerful man quite used to getting his way. Claire quickly moistened her lips and flexed her fingers at her sides.

“ ‘Gentleman’ is a term I'd use only loosely to describe Seaton-Smythe,” Rivard replied, his back to her and his attorney. Folding his arms across his chest and fixing his gaze on something beyond the window glass, he added, “I know him only by reputation. The productions of my estate are agented through another house.”

Her heart racing, Claire took a long, deep breath, stared at the carpet, and hoped that the attorney would make short work of the ugly business at hand.

“It appears that Wyndom doesn't share your assessment of the man,” Edmund Cantrell continued. “On the fourth day of January last he entered into a contract with—”

“For what sum?”

Claire heard the steely edge of anger. The strength ebbed from her legs and she locked her knees before she could collapse into the chair behind her.

“Two thousand pounds sterling,” answered the attorney, his voice soft in an apparent effort to ease the harshness of the truth. “According to Seaton-Smythe, Wyndom has been either unwilling or unable to repay the debt.”

“Tell me, Edmund… Did Seaton-Smythe have the gall to pretend that he ever expected my besotted brother to conduct himself honorably?”

Cantrell quietly cleared his throat and went on. “Mr. Seaton-Smythe has offered three alternatives for correcting the unfortunate situation. As his first offer, he suggests that you permit him to legally attach your present and future consignments until the debt is paid in full. Should that be unacceptable, then he suggests that you pay the entire amount, in sterling. Mistress Curran is to act as the courier.”

Rivard broadened his stance and didn't look away from the window as he asked, “And the third… alternative?”

Again Cantrell cleared his throat before he spoke. Claire closed her eyes as she listened to him reply, “Mr. Seaton-Smythe has offered to cancel the debt upon delivery of legal proof of your marriage to his niece.” Cantrell drew a long breath. “The same Mistress Claire Curran.”

She heard the slow measure of Rivard's turn, felt the heat of his attention boring through her. Swallowing back the bitter taste of mortal embarrassment, Claire opened her eyes and met his gaze. Never in all her days had she seen such loathing, such unadulterated hatred in a man's eyes. She opened her mouth to speak, but couldn't make a sound.

“Mistress Curran wishes to find some manner of
evading the proposal,” the young attorney offered in hasty rescue.

“Oh?” Rivard drawled, both dark brows slanting derisively. “Do you have two thousand pounds sterling on your person, Mistress Curran?”

The cold mockery of his tone stole what precious little air remained in her lungs. She shook her head mutely.

“Have you, mistress, any property you'd be willing to forfeit for payment of my brother's debt?”

The sun-warmed stones of Crossbridge Manor shimmered bright before her mind's eye.
But Uncle George holds the title
. Her eyes aching from the threat of angry tears, Claire again shook her head.

“If I might be permitted to offer a possible solution?” Edmund gently interceded. “Seaton-Smythe has offered to cancel the debt upon the receipt of proof of your marriage. He made no stipulations regarding the nature of that union or the duration. Perhaps …”

“A divorce?” Rivard supplied, quirking one brow and smiling. “An intriguing idea, Edmund.”

The young attorney stared blankly at the top of his desk and shook his head in slow disagreement. “Intriguing, yes, but with attendant difficulties, Devon. As you well know, Virginia lacks the power to grant them, and so the case must be made in England itself. Additionally, acceptable grounds are very narrow and would cause the both of you permanent social scars. I was thinking of a slightly less scandalous way out of the marriage contract. One that we can manage in our own house, so to speak.”

“An annulment?” Claire heard herself ask in a stunned whisper. “Are you suggesting that the marriage be annulled after my uncle has pardoned the debt?”

“Not too terribly honorable, I know,” Edmund replied. “But it would be escape without complete social ruination.”

Devon Rivard's gaze swept her from head to hem,
contempt shining in his eyes and twisting his lips into a cruel smile. “And how quickly the lady thought of it.”

The sound of his scorn ignited fires she'd thought carefully and safely banked. The words escaped before she could stop them. “How dare you, sir, cast aspersions on my character. You know nothing of me or my circumstances.”

She lifted her chin and appraised him in much the same manner as he had her only a moment before. “I'd rather bed the Devil himself than consider marriage to such a self-consumed fool.”

He cocked a brow in slow consideration. Deep within his eyes a flame kindled. “You speak of your circumstances,” he said, his voice soft and yet somehow sharply cutting.

She wouldn't explain anything to him. She'd go to Crossbridge Manor—somehow—and do what she could to sort out the disaster her life had become. Stepping around the chair, Claire took her cloak from the wall peg, saying as she did, “I owe you no accounting, Mr. Rivard. And I'll give you none. Seek a solution to your dilemma as best you can, but don't expect me to be a party to it.” She draped the woolen cloth over her shoulders and, while fastening the frog at the neck, added, “I'll make arrangements to return to London as soon as possible. If you wish for me to bear your payment to my uncle, please see that it's delivered to my lodgings before I depart Williamsburg. Mr. Cantrell knows where to find me.”

She turned to find the attorney staring at her, his blue eyes large in his face. “Mr. Cantrell,” she said, dropping her chin in polite acknowledgment, “I sincerely appreciate your kindness and—”

“And how is it that you intend to pay for your passage back to London?” Rivard asked, his tone no kinder than before.

She turned to glare at him. His arms were once
again crossed over his chest, but he had shifted his stance so that he rested his weight casually on one leg. The gaze that met hers was cool and distant. “Perhaps you acquired some jewelry from the woman who gave you that god-awful gown?” he ventured before she could reply. “Might you be planning to sell a bit of it for your ship passage?”

His words struck her like a fist. Her throat tightened and she willed back the hot torrent of words. To speak would unleash angry tears and she would never give him that satisfaction.

“It doesn't matter on which side of the Atlantic you stand,” he continued, both his tone and the light within his eyes hardening. “George Seaton-Smythe has the reputation of a wharf rat. That you're of some blood relation to him counts against you. On the other hand, that you're obviously a poor and utterly disposable member of his family speaks in your behalf. He didn't send you here and offer you for sacrifice just to rid himself of an undowered, crumb-gobbling relative. What's his true intent?”

God only knew and she didn't want to attempt to guess. She was frightened enough already. Clenching her teeth, Claire struggled to slow her breathing. “My uncle isn't in the habit of discussing his business decisions with me, Mr. Rivard,” she ground out. Once more she turned to the lawyer. “Good day, Mr. Cantrell. And again, thank you for all—”

“No matter,” Rivard went on. “I'll discover his motives soon enough. And you haven't answered my question as to how you intend to pay for your passage back to dear ol' London.”

Of all the insufferable men she'd ever met… Something deep inside her snapped with an almost audible click. Claire spun about and, arms akimbo, retorted, “Are you always so rude, Mr. Rivard?”

“It's one of the many privileges of class, Mistress

Curran,” he retorted with a quick and humorless smile. “And how do you plan to secure—”

“Perhaps, Mr. Rivard,” she answered with slow force, “my uncle's made provisions for such. Has that possibility not occurred to you?”

He shook his head slowly. “He made no such arrangements. There wouldn't be any point in doing so.” A bitter smile lifted the corners of his mouth as he added, “Your uncle understands the circumstances of Tidewater gentlemen.”

Claire narrowed her eyes and studied him. Surely he didn't mean to accept the suggestion of marriage? She watched him flick his cloak about his shoulders.

“Have her at Reverend MacDowell's house at three today, Edmund. And bring with you whatever papers are necessary to satisfy Seaton-Smythe. I'll meet you there.”

“I won't!” Claire spluttered, feeling her stomach sink to her toes even as a scalding heat flooded her cheeks. “I won't marry you!”

He turned to her slowly, fire burning in his eyes and his chin as hard as granite. “Indeed you will, Mistress Curran. And without protest. You have no honorable means to secure passage back to London. Accept that you've been deliberately stranded and that lifting your skirts is the only sure means you have to feed yourself.”

“Devon!” snapped Edmund. “You go too far, man!”

“Nay,” he calmly replied, meeting Claire's gaze. “The lady needs to know how truly desperate her situation is. She can sell herself to many or she can sell herself to me.” He took a step closer to her and went on, his voice quiet and hard as he said, “If you choose the former, Mistress Curran, your life will be brutal and mean and short. Choose the latter and know that, when the debt's canceled, you may go your way as chaste as you now stand.”

“And as penniless and desperate as her current state!” the attorney countered, outrage crackling through his words.

“I'll give her a dowry,” Devon replied. “It certainly won't be much of one, but it'll be sufficient to trap herself another husband.”

“Devon, your attitude is unconscionable!” Edmund shot back. “I regret that I ever suggested this… this farce!”

Spinning about, the man strode toward the door. “Hell, Edmund,” he cast over his shoulder as he went. “Offer to marry her yourself when she's free. I don't give a damn one way or the other.”

“You can't wed on such short notice,” Edmund offered quickly. “The banns have to be published. A license has to be secured. And decency demands that there be at
least
a day or two between its issuance and the actual performance of the ceremony.”

Rivard paused, his hand on the latch, and turned back. His eyes blazed as he icily replied, “The requirement of the banns, a license, and
decency
can be set aside if the circumstances are sufficiently dire, Edmund, and you well know it. Have her at MacDowell's at three.”

The door closed behind him with a finality that chilled Claire's soul.

EVON STEPPED ACROSS
the threshold of the pub and pulled the door closed behind him. The raw wind that accompanied him rolled like a storm through the thick haze of tobacco smoke, clearing it sufficiently for him to identify the men gathered around a gaming table in the back. He offered the expectant tavern keeper only a brief nod of acknowledgment before he strode across the planking toward the circle of gamblers.