The Duke Conspiracy (40 page)

Inside was dark as the darkest night, quieter
than the streets, and the slice of brilliant sunshine cutting
through the open door revealed dust cloth-covered lumps — long
sofas and loungers, high-backed, old-fashioned wingchairs, stubby
little tables for teas long gone. She and Paul used to peer beneath
the white sheets at the fine old furniture, giggling and sneezing
as dust flew about them, Harmony worrying her fingernails and
hanging on her heel in the doorjamb, ready to run at the first hint
of trouble and adamant no dust would touch her white gossamer gown.
No one had ever come near, though.

They'd had so much fun together. But then
Papa had died, all the horses but two had been sold, Paul had been
let go, Harmony had convinced her to turn up her hair and attend to
fashion, and high-society Diana had taken Paul's place in their
little trio. When Uncle David had written Paul's reference, he'd
printed
finis
to her childhood.

Without her consent, tears blurred the
mounded shapes around her. She left the door on the latch for what
little light it offered and slipped through the silent aisles, her
wrap catching on a dressing table and raising dust that tickled her
nose toward a sneeze. In the nearest corner, a large, cone-shaped
bundle hung from the rafter, covered from hook to bottom with aged
canvas and bound with cleverly knotted ropes. Clara slid beneath
the canvas's folded and stitched edge, twisted beneath the binding
— tighter than it used to be, or was she larger? She squeezed
inside anyway. Beneath the covering, rippling softness slid across
her cheek and clavicle, and she settled cross-legged within the
hanging chair's satin draperies. Here, in her secret place, gently
rocking, away from everyone, with no sights or stray sounds to
distract her, finally she could think.

Why,
why
had Papa written that odious
clause into his will? She wanted his money, of course she did — it
was her inheritance by birthright. But she would only inherit if
she married before her nineteenth birthday, less than half a year
away, and that meant she had to marry with Uncle David's permission
and approval. Her time was running out. And the only man she'd ever
want to marry was so far out of her reach, he might as well be
dead.

Sobs broke through and she crumpled her
handkerchief to her face. Phillippe. Captain Phillippe Levasseur,
beyond elegant in his pristine white breeches and blue uniform coat
trimmed with bullion and lace. Those careless auburn locks, cut
short in the modern Brutus manner, had cascaded over his
smooth-cream forehead and his commanding dark eyes had never left
hers as he bowed over her hand when Diana's older brother
introduced them in the assembly room. She'd been weak-kneed then,
oh, indeed. If he'd commanded her to wed him at that moment, she'd
have taken his arm without hesitation.

Everyone in her set knew he was perfect, had
said so time and again. He'd danced the first
six
with her
at the Mallorys' ball, setting tongues wagging throughout the three
towns, and Uncle David had scolded her for the imprudence.
Phillippe had taken to calling on the Barlows every Tuesday, when
he knew she'd be there, too, and they hadn't been able to claim
their meetings at the assembly room were accidental for long. Of
course his political views were odd, republican and democratic and
so on, but surely his charm and delightful manners made up for all
that. And the possibilities once she owned a chateau and vineyard
in France!

But the peace had collapsed more than a year
ago. She'd heard nothing,
nothing
from him since then.
Fashion plates could cross from France, Royal Society fellows
traveled back and forth as they pleased. But the tear-stained notes
she wrote him could only be burned.

How could an odious viscount, or even a duke,
compare with perfection? And how could Uncle David expect her to
marry that brute? Uncle David had been so kind when he'd first
arrived in Plymouth to care for her, sitting quietly in the music
room while she'd poured out her heart through the harp and
pianoforte. He'd told her stories of Papa's years at sea, during
the American war and the early days of the revolution in France.
But he'd grown quieter during the brief year of peace and as she'd
neared her penultimate birthday, he'd set himself to select her
husband. As if he couldn't wait to be shot of her. And as if she
couldn't be trusted to select her own husband perfectly well.

She wiped her eyes and fought the tears.
Viscount Maynard was out of the question. But she did need a
husband. She could pray for peace, final, blessed peace, and wait
for Phillippe. But if peace took too much time, she'd lose Papa's
home, the rooms where they'd played and watched ships in the
harbor, everything he'd intended for her.

Or she could marry someone less than
perfect.

Hinges creaked, not nearby. A hollow boom
echoed in the warehouse's cavern. Clara gasped. Even her tears
froze as footsteps approached. No one had ever interrupted before,
in all the years she'd visited the warehouse. It almost seemed a
sign.

“Right, that one there.” The Cheapside voice
made no pretension toward being anything but mercantile. “And
these. They're to go to the
Topaze,
out in the Sound. Oh,
and that hanging thing. Be careful with it, clumsy Joe.”

The chair swung, rocked, rocked again, jolted
up and back. Clara grabbed the wooden frame, her heart pounding so
loudly it seemed impossible they didn't hear it.

“Heavier than it looks, mate.”

And then the hanging chair floated free, the
unseen footsteps' owners carrying it — and her — away.

It would be humiliating, but she had to say
something before she wound up on board a ship. She opened her
mouth.

No sound emerged. Her voice refused. She
closed her mouth, rolling her lips together.

A ship. A ship could take her anywhere.
Including France. Across the seven seas, in search of her perfect
Phillippe.

She could vanish for more than a few hours,
indeed for as long as it took. She could find him, marry him, bring
him home to Uncle David, a
fait accompli.

Uncle David. Aunt Helen. They'd worry when
she vanished, when they discovered she was gone. It would serve
them right. How could they imagine they knew what was best for her
when they refused to even consider her wishes?

It was a wild, a desperate gamble. But her
situation was dire.

And she wouldn't have to see the viscount
again.

Simply as that, she had a third option.