Secrets in the Regency Ballroom: The Wayward Governess / His Counterfeit Condesa

That proved to be on Thursday when the Greystokes came to dine at Netherclough. Claire was relieved to learn that they were to be the only company that evening. It meant there was no one else to note her presence and perhaps mention it to others later. Her whereabouts would remain secret. She dressed with care, selecting her new lilac gown. It was simple and elegant without being ostentatious, and the colour suited her. As she had no other jewellery her only adornment was her locket. Nevertheless she was not displeased by her appearance when she looked in the glass. It should at least pass muster. Affording her reflection a last wry smile, she left her chamber and made her way to the drawing room.

She arrived to find the guests talking to their host, but at her entrance they greeted her with expressions of pleasure, which she returned with equal sincerity.

George gave her a beaming smile.

‘Good to see you, Miss Davenport, and how very well you look.’

Ellen echoed the sentiment. ‘Indeed you do, my dear. And what a delightful gown.’

The Viscount, listening, knew the words for truth. As he hadn’t seen the frock before he gathered it must be a new purchase. Clearly the trip to Harrogate had been productive. The colour of the fabric became her well, suiting her dark curls and fresh complexion, and his critical eye could find no fault with the cut or the style. It epitomised simple, understated elegance. She seemed to have an instinct for it. He noted that she was wearing the silver locket again. It was a pretty trinket, but amethysts would go better with that gown. Even so it showed off her figure well and, he reflected, a figure like hers should be shown off. It was beautiful. His imagination stripped away the dress and contemplated what lay beneath. He caught his breath. With an effort of will he forced the image away and his attention back to his guests.

A short time later dinner was announced. He offered his arm to Miss Greystoke while her brother led Claire in. Throughout the meal, though he kept up his part in the general conversation, Marcus found his attention repeatedly returning to Claire. Yet his critical eye could discern not the least hint of awkwardness in her demeanour, and her manners were impeccable. Far from seeming out of place, she looked as though she belonged.

Once the meal was over the two ladies withdrew to the drawing room, leaving the men to talk over their brandy and cigars. Claire had been looking forward to having the opportunity for private speech with Ellen, and when at last the two of them were alone she seated herself on the sofa beside her friend.

‘Now tell me all,’ Ellen said. ‘And especially about your young charge.’

She listened avidly as Claire supplied the details.

‘I am so glad that all is well. I gathered as much from your letter, but it’s always reassuring to hear it from your own lips.’

‘I have nothing to complain of,’ said Claire. ‘The Viscount takes a great interest in Lucy’s education and provides whatever I ask for in that regard.’

‘Excellent.’

‘He is most solicitous about the child and seems anxious to ensure her happiness.’

‘So it would seem.’ Ellen paused. ‘Has he said any more about finding the men responsible for his brother’s death?’

‘No, but that does not mean he has abandoned the scheme.’

‘At least he can use his position to enlist the help of the authorities. That must be far safer than adopting a false identity.’

‘I cannot think he will do so again, not now he has Lucy to consider.’

Had they known it, the conversation in the dining room was turning on a similar theme.

‘Have you taken further action?’ asked George.

‘I called upon Sir Alan Weatherby in Harrogate last week. He is my godfather—was Greville’s too—and is a local magistrate besides. He is most anxious to have information about the wreckers. Rest assured, if he learns anything I shall know of it soon after.’

‘Then he knows the truth?’

‘Yes. Sir James Wraxall also knew of Greville’s mission here, though not his true identity. He knew my brother by the pseudonym of David Gifford.’

‘Wraxall knew?’

‘Yes, and lent his full support to the scheme.’

‘I suppose he would, being a local magistrate. All the same he is not a popular man in the district.’

‘Magistrates rarely are popular,’ said Marcus.

‘Wraxall is a mill owner, too. He was the first to cut wages.’

‘Ah, I see.’

‘I am glad you have chosen this way to find your brother’s killers.’

‘I hope the disappearance of Mark Eden didn’t cause you any difficulties?’

‘None at all. As you asked, I gave it out that he had gone to stay with relatives further north. I left the destination suitably vague.’

‘I am much obliged to you, George.’

‘No offence, but I rather hope Eden does not return.’

The Viscount smiled wryly. ‘Really? I rather liked him.’

‘Seriously, Marcus.’

‘Seriously, George, so do I.’

A short time later they rejoined the ladies in the drawing room and the conversation was directed into other channels for a while. Then George suggested some music. The Viscount’s grey eyes gleamed. Recalling the story-telling episode on the way to Harrogate, he looked straight at Claire and seized his opportunity for revenge.

‘Perhaps Miss Davenport will oblige us with a song.’

As he had foreseen, Claire could hardly refuse. He watched as she got up and moved to the pianoforte. When her back was to the others she threw him a most eloquent look. His grin widened. Enjoying himself enormously, he followed her to the instrument and riffled through the sheet music until he found the piece he was looking for. Then he handed it to her.

Torn between annoyance and amusement Claire took it from him, scanning it quickly. In fact it was neither difficult nor unfamiliar as she had suspected it might be. He wasn’t that unkind, she decided. All the same she would have preferred not to be the centre of attention. Thank goodness it wasn’t a large company.

‘I’ll turn the pages for you,’ he said.

Undeceived by that courteous offer she nevertheless returned him a sweet smile.

‘How very kind.’

The grey eyes held a decidedly mischievous glint, but he vouchsafed no reply and merely stationed himself beside her. Supremely conscious of his proximity but unable to do anything about it, she turned her attention to the music. Then, taking a deep breath, she settled down to play.

After hearing the opening bars Marcus’s amusement faded and was replaced by pleasure and surprise; she played and sang beautifully, more so than he could ever have supposed. He had expected competence, but not the pure liquid notes that filled the room. Her voice was clear and true and had besides a haunting quality that sent a shiver down his spine and seemed to thrill to the core of his being. He had heard the song countless times, but never so movingly rendered. When at last it came to an end he was quite still for some moments before he recollected himself enough to join in the applause. He wasn’t alone in thinking the performance good. Greystoke too had been much struck by it.

‘Wonderful!’ he said at last. ‘First class, Miss Davenport.’

‘I had a first-class teacher,’ she replied, looking at Ellen.

‘There can be no doubt about that,’ Marcus replied. ‘You are both to be congratulated.’ This time there was no trace of mischief in his face when he looked at Claire. ‘Please, won’t you play something else?’

Her heart beat a little faster for he had never used quite that tone before. It was unwontedly humble. Controlling her surprise, she could only acquiesce.

‘Yes, of course.’

Turning to the pile of music, she drew out a piece at random. It was much more difficult and she was glad of it for it meant she wouldn’t be tempted to look at him instead. However, she soon became conscious that he felt no such constraint. Her skin seemed to burn beneath that penetrating gaze and only with a real effort of will could she keep her expression impassive and her concentration on the music. Soon enough the melody claimed her and filled her soul. Marcus saw her surrender to it and felt all the passion of that skilled performance as he too was transported. He knew then that he was listening to something quite out of the ordinary, something that both awed and delighted, and he didn’t want it to end.

When it did he was first to lead the applause. However, the others were not far behind him. George Greystoke got to his feet.

‘Bravo, Miss Davenport!’

She received their praise with a gracious smile and then rose from the piano stool, insisting that Ellen be allowed her turn. When her friend bowed to the pressure Claire retired to a seat across the room. Marcus’s gaze followed her, but he remained by the pianoforte and presently turned his attention to his guest, consulting with her about the choice of music and then waiting to turn the pages as she played. He was, thought Claire, a most courteous host, and, seeing him now, his attentions to herself did not seem so marked at all, but rather the good manners of one accustomed to moving in the first circles. It was foolish to refine on a look or a gesture. He would treat any female guest with the same polished courtesy.

The remainder of the time passed agreeably enough until, soon after the tea tray had been brought in, the Greystokes took their leave.

‘It has been a most delightful evening,’ said Ellen as they stood together in the hallway.

‘I hope to have the pleasure of seeing it soon repeated,’ Marcus replied.

He shook hands with George and then came to stand by Claire to wave the guests off.

‘Miss Greystoke is right,’ he observed as the carriage pulled away. ‘It has been a most delightful evening.’

Claire glanced up at him and smiled. ‘Yes, it has.’

They remained there together until the vehicle was lost to view round a bend in the drive, and then turned and walked back into the hallway. For a moment they paused, neither one speaking. Aware of him to her very fingertips, wanting to linger and knowing she must not, she forced herself to a polite curtsy.

‘I’ll bid you a goodnight, sir.’

Marcus wanted to detain her, but could think of no valid reason for doing so. Instead he took her hand and carried it to his lips.

‘Goodnight then, Miss Davenport.’

Reluctantly he watched her walk away and then returned to the drawing room and poured himself a large brandy from the decanter on the table. He tossed it back in one go and poured another. As he did so he glanced across the room to the pianoforte and, in his imagination, heard Claire singing and knew again the frisson along his spine. He also knew that what he felt was a damn sight more than admiration for fine musical skill. When they had been alone together after the guests had gone he had wanted to take her in his arms. No, he corrected himself, what he had really wanted to do was carry her up the stairs to his bedchamber and make love to her all night.

Almost immediately he felt self-contempt. Claire Davenport was not some trollop to be used for an idle hour’s amusement. She was a respectable young woman. She was Lucy’s governess, for heaven’s sake. A role he had appointed her to. Any liaison between them would make that position untenable and he would be responsible for ruining her reputation and then for causing her to leave. Only a real cur would do that. Only a cur put his own desire before the welfare of the woman he claimed to care for. For both their sakes there could be no familiarity between them. It was not only his feelings and hers that were involved here, but Lucy’s, too. She was beginning to settle into her new home, to trust him. It was obvious that she was also growing attached to her new governess. Could he be responsible for the loss of yet another person she cared for? Could he put her through that? It needed but a moment’s thought to know the answer. There must be no advances to Claire, no matter what it cost him. Had she been living with the Greystokes it might have been different, but the minute he hired her he had put her out of reach. The irony did not escape him.

Claire returned to her room and retired to bed, but sleep would not come. Her thoughts were troubled and her mind raced. Every time her eyelids closed Marcus’s face was there. His words echoed in her memory. She could still feel the warmth of his hand on hers. The memory set her pulse racing, like that other memory of his lips on her skin. When he was near it was hard to think of anything else. His presence drew her as a moth to a flame and, just as surely, she knew that yielding to temptation would mean getting badly burnt. Men of rank might dally with their servants, but they did not marry them.

The knowledge brought with it a feeling of overwhelming sadness. If things had been different…if they had met under other circumstances…but she could not imagine any circumstances under which they would have met. Her uncle, though a gentleman, did not move in such exalted circles. He was flattered by the notice of a man like Sir Charles Mortimer. What would he have said to the notice of a viscount? What would have been his reaction if such a man had offered for her hand? She knew the answer too well: the offer would have been accepted immediately and she would have been expected to comply. Her heart beat a little quicker at the thought. If she had been promised to a man like Marcus Edenbridge would she have sought to escape the match? The answer brought another wave of warmth to her neck and face. Just as quickly she realised how ridiculous it was even to consider the possibility. Ridiculous and dangerous. She was not safe yet. This post was her refuge, her protection. She would do nothing to jeopardise it, no matter what her personal inclination.

In the morning she would resume her duties as though nothing had happened. When she and Marcus Edenbridge happened to meet, she would behave with the utmost propriety. Never by word or sign would she let him suspect what she felt for him. This evening, delightful as it had been, was a one-off occasion, a favour perhaps for past aid. It would not happen again. He had discharged his obligation and in future his socialising would be done among his social equals. The knowledge gave her a pang; she had enjoyed herself this evening. It had given her a glimpse of another world, one to which she would never belong. It served to reinforce how very different were their social positions.

In the days that followed the Viscount behaved with the utmost propriety when their paths crossed. He visited the nursery each day and took a keen interest in what Lucy did, but he never lingered or tried to interfere in any way. To Claire he was unfailingly civil, but never more than that. Just occasionally the grey eyes betrayed a stronger emotion, but it was never given further expression.

He also rode with them less frequently, having many other matters requiring his attention. Although she missed him, Claire was grateful for the distance between them. Sometimes she would look from her window and see him ride out across the estate, sometimes alone, but more usually with the land agent. Then she would know that she and Lucy would be riding with Trubshaw that day. Her young charge made good progress and gained in confidence. Soon she was clamouring to be let off the leading rein. The next time that Marcus appeared in the nursery she petitioned him on that score.

‘I’ve been riding for three weeks now, Uncle Marcus. Can’t I please ride Misty without being led?’

He dropped to one knee so that they were face to face and then he smiled. ‘I don’t see why not.’

Lucy flung her arms round his neck. ‘Thank you, Uncle Marcus.’

He returned the hug and looked over the child’s shoulder to Claire.

‘The pony is quiet enough. I think she’ll come to little harm,’ he said. ‘In any case, one learns by doing. Is that not so, Miss Davenport?’

‘Indeed it is, sir.’

Lucy looked at him solemnly. ‘Will you come with us, Uncle Marcus?’

He grinned and ruffled her hair. ‘I have a lot of things to do today.’

She threw a conspiratorial glance at Claire. ‘But I might fall off.’

‘Well, you might,’ he agreed. ‘But then you’ll just have to get back on, won’t you?’

‘Yes.’

The tone and facial expression were so forlorn that Claire was unable to restrain a grin. Her young charge was clearly not above using feminine wiles to get her own way. Even so she didn’t expect him to succumb. His expression said very plainly that he knew what she was about, but to her surprise she saw him smile.

‘Oh, all right, then, you ghastly brat. I’ll come.’

Undismayed by this mode of address, Lucy smiled up at him.

‘But only if you have completed all of your lessons first,’ he added, with belated severity.

Desperately wanting to laugh, Claire turned away and fixed her attention on the view from the window. The Viscount stood up, regarding her with a speculative expression.

‘You will inform me later, Miss Davenport, if Lucy has not done everything she ought.’

‘Yes, sir.’

He looked at his ward and jerked his head towards the desk. With the sweetest of smiles Lucy returned to work. Seeing her once more bent over her copybook, he turned back to Claire. Though she had assumed an expression of becoming gravity she was unable to hide the laughter in her eyes. It was fascinating, all the more so because she was quite unconscious of the effect it had on the beholder. If they had been alone, he would have taught her about the dangers of exerting fascination. As it was he could not permit himself that very attractive luxury so, reluctantly, he made her a polite bow instead and then took his leave.

Claire didn’t set eyes on him again until they met in the stable yard that afternoon. However, apart from a brief, polite acknowledgement of her presence he focused his attention on his ward. Claire was glad of it. It also afforded an opportunity of watching them together. He was, she thought, a good teacher, for he was quiet and firm in delivering instruction, but always ready to praise. As always, Lucy hung on his every word, clearly eager to please him. She learned quickly. He had only to tell her something once and she remembered it.

As she was off the leading rein a groom and not Trubshaw attended them. And as it was Lucy’s first solo outing the pace was necessarily gentle, but Claire didn’t mind. It was just pleasant to be out of doors on so fine a day and in so beautiful a place. All the trees were turning now, the foliage a glorious display of red and russet and gold, and the autumnal air was rich with the scent of leaf mould and damp earth. It was good to be alive on such a day. She glanced at her companions. It was good to be in such agreeable company. Even if it could not last for ever she would enjoy it now.

Lulled by the easy pace and the beauty of her surroundings, Claire was totally unprepared for the sudden violent eruption of a pheasant from the long grass at her horse’s feet. For one heartbeat she had an impression of beating wings and a squawking cry and then her startled mount shied violently, throwing her hard. Earth and sky and trees spun crazily for some moments afterwards, so she lay quite still until the scenery had stopped moving and she could get her bearings again. Then she was aware of someone beside her and of anxious grey eyes looking down into hers.

‘Claire, are you hurt?’

For a second she did not reply, being aware only that he had used her Christian name, a mode of address that he had never employed before. Then she shook her head.

‘I… I don’t think so. Just a little dazed, that’s all.’

‘Can you sit up?’

A strong arm brought her to a sitting position and supported her there. She managed a wan smile. ‘Nothing broken, I think,’ she said. ‘Only my pride is a little bruised.’

‘That will mend. Can you stand?’

‘Yes, I think so.’

She made to rise, but was saved the trouble for his arm was round her waist, lifting her onto her feet. It stayed there while the groom was despatched to retrieve her horse. Feeling somewhat foolish and not a little self-conscious, she disengaged herself from his hold and took a tentative step away. Without warning the ground shifted under her feet and she swayed. If he had not caught her she would have fallen.

‘I think that’s the end of your ride for today,’ he said. ‘We must get you back to the house.’

‘There’s really no need. I’ll be all right in a minute or two.’

‘Nonsense! Your cheeks are the colour of paper. You need to go and lie down for a while.’

‘Really, I…’

‘Don’t be a little fool. If you get back on that horse now you’ll be off again within a minute.’

He guided her to his own horse and without further consultation she was lifted in a pair of powerful arms and transferred with consummate ease onto the front of his saddle. As the implications dawned Claire paled further. Surely he could not be intending to… It seemed that he was for, having given orders to the groom to lead the mare back, Marcus swung up behind her. Then, taking the reins in one hand, he locked the other arm around her waist. Claire tensed, her heart racing.

‘I can ride home,’ she protested. ‘There’s really no need…’

In mild panic she tried to resist the arm. For answer it tightened a little, pulling her closer.

‘I think otherwise,’ he replied, ‘and for once you’re going to do as you’re told, my girl.’

With that he turned the horse for home. Seeing there was no help for it, Claire capitulated, lapsing into warm-cheeked silence. As he glanced down at her his lips twitched.

‘What, no furious counter-argument?’

‘Would it do any good?’

‘Devil a bit,’ he replied.

It drew a wry smile in return. She might have known how it would be. Being used to a life of command, this man had an expectation of getting his own way, and an infuriating habit of succeeding, too. In any case she didn’t feel much like arguing. Her head was beginning to throb now and, in spite of her assertion to the contrary, she was no longer convinced that she could have ridden back by herself. Moreover, there was something comforting about having the responsibility removed and she felt grateful for that solid and reassuring presence.

Lucy regarded her somewhat anxiously. ‘Are you all right, Miss Davenport?’

‘Not quite right,’ she replied, ‘but I shall be better soon.’

‘It was a naughty pheasant, wasn’t it?’

‘Very naughty.’

Marcus grinned. ‘If I see it again I’ll shoot it.’

Satisfied with this, Lucy nodded and trotted along beside the groom.

Claire sighed. ‘I should have been better prepared. Then I would not have fallen off.’

‘You could scarcely have avoided it,’ Marcus replied. ‘The bird was well concealed and there is nothing like a pheasant for putting a rider on the ground.’

The tone was both humorous and kind and not what she had been expecting. There was also an unusually gentle expression in the grey eyes. Seeing it, Claire felt her pulse quicken. Not knowing quite what to say, she lapsed into silence.

‘It’s all right,’ he said. ‘You don’t have to talk if you don’t want to. Lean your head on my shoulder and rest.’

Claire reclined against him and closed her eyes. The gentle motion of the horse and the warmth of the man were soothing and gradually she began to relax. There would probably be some bruises tomorrow, but all things considered she’d got off lightly.

They returned to the stables some twenty minutes later. Marcus instructed the groom to see to Lucy and then dismounted, lifting Claire down after. Just for a moment she had a sensation of weightlessness before he sat her down gently on the cobbled yard, surveying her with a critical eye. She still looked a little pale though not quite as much as before.

‘Can you walk?’

She replied hurriedly in the affirmative, dreading that if she did not he would carry her. The idea of presenting such a spectacle to the watching servants filled her with horror. Much to her relief he did not gainsay her this time, but merely offered her his arm, and his free hand to Lucy.