Claire
Five
When the time came to dress for dinner, Jonathan realized his trousers were missing.
Well, not all of them were missing. He had brought no valet with him to Greystone, having parted ways with his man when he reached Dover, but upon entering his bedchamber, he’d discovered the castle’s (remarkably efficient) staff had unpacked all his things while he’d been in the entrance hall. His clothes were neatly arranged in the armoire, his grooming items laid out on the dressing table.
And, as he discovered at half past six, though all the trousers he’d brought for riding and daywear were present, his evening trousers seemed to have disappeared.
Hot with embarrassment and well-supplied with shillings, he rang for the housekeeper. In the end, despite Mrs. O’Connor’s considerable ingenuity, she was not quite able to unravel the mystery. All she could ascertain was that somebody had bid one of the housemaids to send all his grace’s evening trousers out for laundering—but no one could find where the request originated or, indeed, where the trousers were sent.
Jonathan appeared in the drawing room a quarter of an hour late, his brow as furrowed as the ill-fitting suit he’d borrowed off his host. He was dismayed, if not surprised, to find the whole party still assembled there; his status as the highest ranking man had left them without the power of starting dinner in his absence.
“My deepest apologies,” he began with earnest discomposure, addressing the hostess in particular and the company in general.
“Do not trouble yourself, your grace,” Claire broke in. “A delay of fifteen minutes is hardly the worst I ever suffered.”
Jonathan winced at the pointed allusion.
“You can see we are all at our leisure,” she went on, “and still enjoying our sherry. Mrs. O’Connor kept us abreast of the circumstances.” Her gaze strayed to his lower half with a slight quirk of her lips.
Brilliant. The whole party had been talking about his trousers. They must have had a good laugh at his expense.
Mortification roiled Jonathan’s already-precarious stomach. Earlier, in his chamber, he had located the hoped-for domed platter, but this year it contained only a few plain, hard biscuits tasting rather of sawdust. Though he’d devoured every crumb, they’d done little to alleviate his hunger—or to mitigate the two or three brandies pressed on him in the billiard room.
Perhaps it was the brandy’s influence, but as he endured Claire’s amusement something in her appearance struck him oddly. After a few moments’ consideration, he realized it was her gown.
There was a time he’d been closely familiar with all her wardrobe, since he’d remained at Greystone through nearly the whole of their many-weeks-long courtship. Earlier she’d been wearing one of her favorite morning gowns, which he’d seen on many occasions. But tonight she wore something new.
It was stunning, of course—a gown in deep green silk with a spill of lace obscuring just enough décolletage for good taste—but unfamiliar. Alien.
It made Jonathan realize that a year had passed. Not just a year of his life, but of hers. A year in which he had no idea what she’d been wearing, doing, reading, or creating. All at once, he felt profoundly sad to have missed everything.
Especially when she returned to laughing with the fair-haired young chub, and ignoring Jonathan altogether. The other guests followed suit, all returning to little clusters that seemed inaccessible to newcomers.
Shifting uneasily, he discovered a new sympathy for wallflowers as his gaze wandered about the room, inspecting wood paneling, tasseled curtains, and ancient ceiling beams. But upon realizing he stood directly under a swag of mistletoe—pathetically alone—he switched to scanning the room’s occupants in search of a friendly face.
By the hearth, Claire and her young chub were in company with her two sisters: the younger, Elizabeth, who Jonathan knew well; and the eldest, Lady Cainewood, who he’d encountered a handful of times. The three ladies of Greystone origin were all lovely and rather alike—slim and graceful with oval faces, dewy skin, and matching dark hair. Only their eyes were different: Lady Cainewood’s sky-blue, Lady Elizabeth’s clear green, and Claire’s that compelling amethyst.
Over by the windows stood their brother Noah, who shared all their matching features. He too would have been quite pretty—perhaps embarrassingly so—if not for the scar that slashed through one eyebrow. With a glazed look in his blue eyes, he was talking to (or rather, being talked to by) Lady Caroline, an imperious blond with an upturned nose. Jonathan had got fairly well acquainted with her last year, for as the only child of Greystone’s nearest neighbors, she was a fixture around the castle—especially since she’d reached marrying age and set her sights on poor Noah.
The final knot of five guests were arrayed on the sofas. Two were ladies, one unknown to Jonathan and another he recognized as Miss Mary Harris, Elizabeth’s excitable friend who’d been invited for Christmas last year.
The three gentlemen he either knew or had met at billiards. Noah’s brother-in-law, the Marquess of Cainewood, was a mediocre shot but a good sport. Then there was a fashionable-looking fellow called Captain Talbot, who’d been forever attempting to raise the stakes.
But it was the third gentleman Jonathan finally decided to approach. He was a distant cousin of Noah’s called The Honorable Mr. Nathaniel Chase, a reedy gent with generous sideburns didn’t play billiards, but declared he was fond of spectating. Though his idea of spectating had been to crowd the table and direct his chatter toward whichever player was attempting to concentrate, Jonathan hadn’t minded. Mr. Chase had earned his good opinion by beginning a lively discussion of Roman amphorae, and since Jonathan had a great fear of boring his friends with his obscure interests, he could not but relish an opportunity to converse with a fellow antiquarian. Now he was looking forward to another such conversation.
But as he made to join Mr. Chase on the sofa, a footman pulled the bell. Claire announced dinner, prompting everybody to rise and Jonathan to abandon his planned discourse on aqueducts.
As they entered the dining parlor, he was dismayed to recall that two of the guests were still strangers to him—the lady on the sofa and Claire’s young chub. Quite suddenly he felt all the impropriety of sitting down to dinner with people to whom he had never been introduced.
Inevitably he was honored by a place next to Claire’s at the top of the table, an arrangement which gave no one any pleasure. Claire was composed but noticeably tense, and for his part, Jonathan would have much preferred to maintain a distance from her until he could contrive a private meeting.
He looked away, pretending to admire the artful centerpieces devised of winter greenery and gilded paper, until Claire, never remiss in her duty, deftly made the necessary introductions. The young chub turned out to be a Lord Milstead, a viscount come all the way from Shropshire. And the unknown lady seated to the right of Jonathan, wearing a sharp-eyed look on her lightly freckled face, was The Honorable Mrs. Nathaniel Chase.
“Your grace’s notice is an honor,” she gushed, awe softening her gaze. “I’d no notion this little house party would be so very fine! Is not my cousin Claire a dazzling hostess?”
Jonathan would have answered in the affirmative had not Mrs. Chase kept right on talking.
