Page 15 of The Trouble with Tweed

“Unlike you, Sylvia dear,” Claire said, “I’m not frightened in the least of your brother.”

“You do realize I can hear you,” Michael deadpanned.

“You should be scared of him,” Sylvia said, ignoring her brother and slathering another scone with strawberry jam. “He’s ever so creative when it comes to payback, and he has an exceptionally long memory.”

“Two areas in which I feel I’m up to the challenge when it comes to him. We are more evenly matched in such regards than you and he.”

“It’s your funeral,” she said.

“So dramatic,” Michael said. “All I was going to do was ask her opinion on my navy coat.”

Claire said, “I have to side with your mother on a matter of principle.”

Michael scoffed. “You haven’t even seen it.”

“I don’t need to have seen it to know that I prefer your mother’s taste to your own.”

He grinned. “This coming from a lady who once hacked off her own hair with a pair of sewing shears.”

“I was seven.”

“It’s been said that you can begin to tell one’s taste from an early age,” he teased.

On sudden inspiration, Claire smiled and batted her eyelashes. “If you don’t agree with my opinion, you’re certainly free to ask Miss Thompson what she thinks of your coat.”

“Miss Thompson?” his mother said, sitting up straight and latching on to the subject with alacrity. “Who is Miss Thompson?”

“No one of import.” Michael narrowed his eyes at Claire, who serenely buttered her scone.

Lady Rutheridge’s head whipped back and forth between Claire and Michael. “I don’t believe you,” she finally said to her son. “If Claire has brought this Miss Thompson to our attention, certainly she’s worth asking about.”

“Miss Thompson is a woman of my former, brief acquaintance.”

“That’s not what she was claiming only yesterday in your parlor,” Claire said.

“When we were out at the modiste?” Lady Rutheridge raised her eyebrows. “Michael? Is this true?”

He threw up his hands. “I don’t even know the chit⁠—”

“Such language,” his mother tsked, “and in front of your sister.”

“If my sister is old enough to be presented to society for marriage, she’s certainly old enough to hear me use mild language.”

“Who is Miss Thompson?” Lady Rutheridge said.

Michael frowned and turned to Claire. “I cannot believe you brought her up to my mother.”

“Answer me, Michael,” Lady Rutheridge insisted.

“I’ve changed my mind,” Sylvia murmured. “My money’s on you, Claire.”

CHAPTER 5- CLAIRE

Michael had agreed to meet Claire the following day in the park, a convenient location, as Miss Dahlia Warrington was set to sketch her and her sisters there. Their grouping sat upon a thick quilt spread over a tarpaulin so that moisture wouldn’t seep through and ruin their outing.

Claire straightened her jacket with a yank and glanced around the park. It was a beautiful day. Billowing white clouds dotted blue skies that promised sunshine and nothing more. She held the requisite lace parasol, one that perfectly coordinated with her fetching grey ensemble.

Though Claire didn’t want to admit it, she was just as excited as her other sisters for the additional dresses Miss Warrington was designing for them. Still, her mouth slanted downward whenever she noted how often her brother’s eyes lingered on Dahlia, and how little he endeavored to hide his interest.