A rather battered and ink-stained book.
Fourteen
“My dear Lord Greystone!”
When the sing-song greeting reached their ears, both Noah and Claire froze, his hand still gripping her arm. Their furious argument ended abruptly. They looked round in trepidation, having both forgotten the matter of their uninvited guest.
But the lady was nowhere to be seen—until Claire at last caught sight of a delicate gloved hand wiggling its fingers inside the chaise. At the same time, a dog began yapping.
Claire signaled a footman, who sprang into action. Finally shaking off her brother, she straightened her clothing and moved forward to receive the duchess. As Noah joined her, she realized most of their guests were also gathered round, having observed the siblings’ tussle with avid interest.
Mary was in her element.
The footman lowered the chaise’s steps, and the Duchess of Rathborne seemingly floated down them.
Beneath her fur-lined velvet cloak, she was magnificently attired in red and gold silk—rather too magnificently for traveling, though perhaps not for barging into a Christmas party. As always, under one arm she carried a Pomeranian as immaculately groomed as his mistress. Today the little dog wore a collar of rubies and diamonds matched to those the duchess was wearing.
“Your grace,” Noah said, bowing over her small hand. “I beg pardon for my shameful neglect.”
“Tiens, you must not think of it!” she replied in her breathy French accent. “I’m sure if poor Rousseau”—she scratched the Pomeranian’s ears—“were not so very thirsty, I should not mind sitting out in the cold and damp as long as you please.”
To this pointed remark Noah could only respond by inviting the trespasser inside. Sending Mr. Evans off for a dish of water (pursued by her grace’s directive that Rousseau drank only green tea), he offered the duchess his arm.
Claire and the company of eager spectators followed close on their heels. As everyone swarmed through the entrance hall, three footmen vanished beneath mounds of shedded outerwear.
Noah led her grace into the saloon, talking indifferently of weather and roads until he’d got her installed by the fire, with her dog at her feet daintily lapping Imperial Hyson Tea. Then he fell pensively silent, and Claire guessed he was scouring his memory for an acceptable way to ask a duchess what on earth she was doing in his house.
Thankfully, her grace spared him the trouble. “You’ve proved so very kind, my Lord Greystone, that I know you shall be only too happy to oblige my wish of visiting with my son.”
“Oh! I see. Yes, well…”—Noah threw Claire a look of panic—“I believe the duke is rather indisposed”—her grace scowled, and he swallowed hard—“but naturally, I’m at your service!” He rose. “I shall fetch him at once.”
The scowl transformed into a serene smile. “So very kind!” she repeated.
In his haste to escape, Noah nearly collided with Mr. Evans in the doorway.
“Begging your lordship’s pardon,” the butler said with ruffled dignity, “but may I venture to apprise you of the time?”
“The time? Oh, blast, it’s time for us all to dress!”
As everyone began reluctantly filing out, and Noah scurried off to his task, Claire realized, with dawning horror, that she was about to be alone with the duchess. For it was unthinkable to leave such a distinguished guest unattended, and as Greystone’s mistress, the duty of staying behind must fall to her.
In vain she sought Elizabeth’s eye in order to plead for assistance. But her sister was either lost in contemplation or pretending to be, for she quit the room without a backward glance.
Claire could only hope Noah would return quickly—and with a stout heart in his chest. She feared her grace might not accept the inevitable rejection with anything even close to (actual) grace, and indeed, might try something drastic to get her own way.
She would not succeed, however, in Claire’s estimation—even should Noah’s resolution falter—for as Claire knew all too well, pigs would fly before Jonathan came within spitting distance of his mother.
In fact, odds were Jonathan had already left Greystone. And, believing what he did of Claire, he’d probably never again come within her spitting distance, either. She would never get the chance to argue her innocence—which was just as well, since she hadn’t a clue what she could possibly say to convince him of it.
“Will you be needing anything, my lady?”
“Hmm?” The query drawing her from her reverie, Claire looked to Mr. Evans—her last remaining ally, as everyone else had gone. Though his expression betrayed no telltale sentiment, Claire knew the old butler well enough to perceive his concern for her.
Feeling touched, she managed a small smile. “Thank you, Mr. Evans, but I would not for the world keep you from your dinner preparations.”
He hesitated. “Are you certain?”
She squared her shoulders. “Quite certain.”
