Leslie LaFoy (4 page)

It didn't matter whether the assumptions were true or false. It mattered only that the perception existed.

The continuation of the Tidewater aristocracy rested on just such illusions … and on the unspoken understanding that to challenge one man's facade would bring the world down about every man's ears.

Yes, he knew the intricate rules that governed his existence, and he knew the consequences of failure. An image of auctioning away Rosewind formed in his mind. With a low growl he banished the dark vision. The pitiably dressed, fiery-tempered Mistress Curran was, without doubt, the last woman he'd have chosen to marry if he had free say in the matter, but prudence clearly demanded he accept the situation with as much public grace as possible. He'd vowed to save his estate and secure his future. If Claire Curran was an expedient means to that end, then so be it. And heaven help her if she, or her conniving uncle, tried to stand in his way.

OMEWHERE A BELL SOUNDED
the eleventh hour of the morning. Claire sat on the chair in Edmund Cantrell's office listening to the long, full notes and feeling the world close around her. How had matters gone so awry? And why now? She'd borne her uncle's correspondence and conducted his business negotiations countless times over the past four years. This time had seemed no different. She'd had no inkling, no warning that he was about to banish her to the deepest, darkest corner of the world. Had she missed some clue that should have served as a warning?

Hoping the young attorney wouldn't notice her trembling hand, she raised the glass of brandy to her lips and took a careful taste of the dark fluid. The memory of Devon Rivard's mocking eyes played on her mind; the soft, cutting timbre of his words still rang in her ears. Her blood raced icy through her veins, driven by the frantic pounding of her heart.

“There. Now isn't that better?” Edmund Cantrell asked, a kind smile dimpling his cheeks.

No. Nothing's better at all
, she wanted to sob. Instead, she fixed her gaze on the carpet and managed a weak nod as the liquid seared a path down her throat.

Leaning back against his desk and folding his arms across his chest, the young man continued, “I've always maintained that there's nothing quite like a good brandy to put one's concerns into their right perspective. I know it's hardly proper for a lady to take strong spirits, but I believe that under the present circumstances, propriety might be temporarily set aside.”

“You're most kind,” Claire heard herself reply.

“It's the least I can do, considering it was my poor judgment which placed you in such unfortunate circumstances. I'm sorry, Mistress Curran. Please believe that. If there's anything I might do…”

“If you'll draft a letter of credit against my uncle's accounts sufficient to pay for my return to London, I'd be most appreciative,” she answered, her gaze still fixed on the carpet. “I'd like to leave Williamsburg as soon as possible.”

A long silence filled the room. She looked up to find the young man standing with his hands thrust deep in his coat pockets and wearing an expression that appeared to be a mixture of disgust and despondency.

“I truly wish I could honor your request,” he finally said. “But your uncle didn't authorize any drafts on his accounts in your behalf. I can't do so without his written consent. Had I the resources, I'd gladly pay for your fare myself.”

Claire moistened her lips with the tip of her tongue and swallowed past the growing lump in her throat. Despite her resolution otherwise, her voice was an incredulous whisper as she asked, “Are you saying that my uncle never intended for me to return to London?”

With a long sigh, Edmund Cantrell nodded. “I'm afraid that I must admit that, as usual, Devon was correct in his assessment. Your uncle knew the bargain would be accepted and that there'd be no need to arrange for your transportation back to England. I'm so very sorry.”

A shiver ran up the length of her spine as her stomach knotted hard and cold. Memories of Crossbridge Manor assailed her. It took every measure of her dignity to calmly say, “Surely, under such extreme circumstances, allowances could be made.”

He shook his head and stared down at his feet. “Were your uncle's reputation other than it is, I'd encourage your hopes, but unfortunately…” He looked up to meet her gaze. “I believe the situation warrants bluntness, Mistress Curran. Among Tidewater gentlemen it's often said that George Seaton-Smythe would sell his mother for the right price. While that statement's an obvious exaggeration, it's woefully apparent that he is willing to sell his niece.”

“Only because his mother's dead,” Claire muttered, lifting the glass of brandy to her lips. The rich liquor slipped easily down her throat but did nothing to loosen the frigid fingers that gripped her heart and soul. She sat on the edge of the chair, stunned by the gravity of her circumstances, her thoughts careening through the dark memories of the recent past and then vaulting ahead to a future whose shadows loomed as heavy and sad as those behind her.

She considered both for a long moment. Her past had been written by others, and she'd dutifully played the roles they'd assigned her because she'd had no other choice. And the future… A quiet inner voice offered another, reckless course. Claire nodded to herself and instantly felt the coldness of her dread begin to ease. The future belonged to her and to no one else. She'd make of it what she would. She'd defy her uncle's efforts to forever
consign her to the end of the world, to shackle her to an insolent and resentful stranger.

Claire rose to her feet and extended the brandy glass toward the attorney. “My father was always quick to remind me that only mortal fools resist the will of the Lord. Perhaps Papa was correct,” she observed with a faint smile. “Since there appears to be little hope of altering the tide of events, I'd best be getting about the acceptance of them.”

Edmund Cantrell nodded as he took the glass from her hand. Setting it amid the papers littering his desk, he said, “You're a most sensible young woman, Mistress Curran. A trait quite desirable and yet so uncommon these days. Devon is a very fortunate man indeed.”

“He won't consider himself so,” she countered softly, “if I arrive at the church in my present state.” Offering him a gentle smile, she extended her hand, saying, “I do appreciate all the time you've so graciously given to my concerns this morning, Mr. Cantrell. I'll return to my rooms now so that you may get on with more pressing matters.”

“Allow me to escort you, Mistress—”

“Nonsense,” she interjected, fluttering her hand in a gesture of good-natured dismissal. “I won't hear of it. You have tasks awaiting your attention.” She smiled at him sweetly and, in the manner she had seen her cousins use with great effectiveness, tilted her head to gaze at him through the tips of her lashes. “Thank you, but no, Mr. Cantrell. Your offer is most gallant, but if I've managed to travel across the Atlantic Ocean, surely I can find my way down a Williamsburg walkway.”

He bowed in acquiescence. “Then I'll call for you at the inn this afternoon. Shall we say at half past two?”

When she nodded her assent, Edmund Cantrell took her hand in his, bent politely over it, and then let her depart.

Moving resolutely down the street, Claire glanced
up at the gray wall of clouds rolling in from the west and wondered if they portended the same weather change in Virginia as they would have in England. After a moment, she shrugged and, lifting the hem of her skirts, lengthened her stride. While she sensed a fair chance of snow in Williamsburg before the afternoon was out, she knew with absolute certainty that Satan would be sleigh riding in hell before she married Devon Rivard of Rosewind.

D
EVON
EMERGED
from the silversmith's shop, tucking the paper-wrapped ring into the pocket of his waistcoat and glowering. Mistress Claire Curran would be his wife in name only. The nature of their relationship didn't require a wedding band, and yet he had just spent a goodly sum to acquire one for her. The price of bowing to social expectations rankled his sense of practicality. It'd be the very last extravagance where Mistress Curran was concerned, he promised himself, reaching for the reins of his mount.

As he swung up into the saddle, his gaze drifted down the street of the small burg. Several women, well bundled and carrying market baskets, scurried along the way, their heads bowed before the onslaught of the westerly wind. A young man with a worn and battered leather valise tipped the brim of his hat to them as he stepped aside to allow them unhindered passage.

Devon narrowed his eyes and studied the slight figure. A name refused to come to mind, but he knew that he'd seen the youth before. Perhaps the lad was one of those employed as a runner for the House of Burgesses. Or perhaps he was simply one of the many students who studied at William and Mary and whose faces were familiar about the town but whose names were generally either not known at all or not worth remembering.

Devon shrugged and turned his mount into the
wind. He had far more important matters to occupy his mind. Lunch at his favorite pub appealed to him at the moment. Food, hot and substantial, might ease the cold heaviness that had been sitting in the pit of his stomach for the last hour. And if eating failed to ease his anger and growing uneasiness, he'd at least be in the right place to attempt to drown them.

T
HE
REMAINS
of his noontime fare had long since been carried away. His third brandy had just arrived at the shadowed corner table when a blast of cold air intruded upon Devon's memories of an impossibly tiny waist and wondrously full, tempting lips. Gratefully, he blinked aside his inexplicable fascination with Claire Curran's physical attributes and looked about him, determined to find a more winsome creature to consume his imagination.

Even as he did, the same young man he'd seen earlier in the street stepped across the threshold of the tavern and pulled the door closed behind himself. Devon frowned and took a slow sip of his brandy. Who
was
the boy? And why did he feel so damn compelled to ferret the answer from the recesses of his brain? Better this benign puzzle, he told himself, than the insanity of wondering what the Devil's handmaiden might look like stripped out of her secondhand damasks and linens. He settled his shoulders against the high back of the worn wooden settle, tilting his head so that the deeper of the shadows fell across his face and hid his appraisal.

After a moment, the boy stepped smartly to the bar and began, “Good afternoon, sir.” He waited until the man behind the counter paused in wiping a glass and raised a brow in silent question.

“I understand that I may find Mr. John Starnes dining in your establishment,” the lad continued. “Would you be so kind as to point him out to me?”

“Over there,” the keep replied with a quick thrust of his chin, indicating a man seated two tables to Devon's left. “Wearing the plum-colored coat.”

Devon contemplated the young man's rhythm of speech, knowing that he'd heard it before but unable to place it within his memories. His frustrated mind presented him with yet another image of his accursed wife-to-be, with an image of her cheeks flushed with anger, her eyes blazing, her small breasts rising and falling. Devon took another sip of the brandy and stared at the boy. The rudeness of it be damned. No other diversions had presented themselves and he simply couldn't abide another moment of Mistress Curran's haunting.