Chapter Three
His sister was late.
Clive paced the drawing room floor. Terese was to have arrived from London at four or five o’clock at the latest. Now, at seven forty, she was very late. Most unlike her.
He went to the window once again. His worries about Terese vied with his concern he had about the lady who stayed next door—and whom he could see had stood outside now for more than twenty minutes beneath a hotel brazier lamp.
Madame Laurant was unmistakable in the darkening gloom. What in hell was she doing standing out in that storm? Alone, no less. And at night. She had stood there amid louder and louder thunder. With each shocking crack across the sky, her shoulders hunched.
Rain pattered suddenly against his window. She huddled in her short pelisse as she searched the wide thoroughfare before her. Was she meeting someone? It seemed so.
At once, in a fierce downpour, the rain came. She did not move. Did not seek shelter. Was her need to meet this person so dire that she would risk a complete drenching?
God knew, she’d had enough this morning when she plunged into the sea to save his Bella.
Lightning zagged across the horizon.
Clive had the instinctive urge to run downstairs and throw her over his shoulder. Anything to get her out of the deluge and into shelter.
But he could not do any of that, could he? She was not his to save.
“Not tonight,” he told himself, and finished the dram of whisky he’d poured.
In truth, he ought not be so worried about her.
She was merely an acquaintance. Her welfare—indeed, her health after her dash into the ocean—should not concern him so deeply.
But his mother had suffered from inflammation of the lungs, and he knew the toll a sudden chill could take.
Especially on so slight a figure as the exquisite Madame Laurant.
Admit it. Your preoccupation with her is more than for her health or her quick response to save Bella.
True, he could not push aside his questions about why she was now in Brighton—and why she’d been in Richmond near his house, so near he could see her from his hilltop study window down to the shore of the flowing Thames.
She was the artist whom he had seen so many times through his binoculars.
No other woman moved with such grace and alacrity.
She certainly resembled that woman, her wealth of ink-black hair, her delicate bone structure as she stood viewing the sea.
She had to be the same woman, the same artist, who had told villagers that she had to leave Richmond for Dover and Hastings.
Why did she travel so much? Was she eluding someone, something?
He laughed at that absurdity. She was no criminal, escaping the long arm of a Bow Street officer.
He shifted, his nerves clamoring at that disastrous possibility.
No. She did not have the look of someone who stole, or worse.
Yet she was wary. Of what or whom? He saw her skepticism when she had looked around them on the beach.
Had she expected someone to be there? No.
No, she had relaxed after she looked around and found no one.
He’d love to ask her whom she expected, whom she did not care for. But he could not ask her any of that. He would have to know her better to be so intrusive—and he had little chance of that. When he had probed, even slightly, she had been short with him. So there was that.
He took a drink. He was foolish to focus on her.
Terese was his finer concern—and truth was, she was never late.
It was a family trait: She prided herself on her promptness and had trained her staff to follow her lead.
But travel from London could present problems. Lame horses, lost carriage wheels, or unskilled grooms could all make any journey a misery.
Terese’s town carriage and her London-stabled horses were always in tip-top order. Her stable hands were expert, too.
But there was little he could do about her arrival.
He’d hope and pray she’d met no calamities.
If he heard nothing by noon tomorrow, he would hire a Bow Street Runner and send him out to find her.
She usually stopped in Crawley when she came to Brighton, so Clive had that to go on.
For now, he would just have to wait for Terese to breeze in, as she always did, like a hurricane.
His gaze drifted across the room to his daughter.
Rather than wait any longer for Terese, he’d ring for supper to be sent up for him.
He’d have a treat of cake sent up for Bella, who had eaten her supper earlier.
He hated eating like a monk in his room, but what could he do?
Children did not sup with adults, anywhere, ever, except at home.
But he was hungry and she needed to have her dessert and retire—and soon.
Bella was happy at the moment. Sitting in the wing chair drawing with her stubby pencil, she pressed her little lips together in concentration.
She was a blonde beauty. Like her mother.
He spun away from that memory.
Where was the bellpull? Hands on his hips, he gazed around the cozy salon. Usually, a hotel put its pulls in the main rooms. Near windows and draperies. Often near large pieces of furniture like the two credenzas on the far wall. But he’d be darned if he could find it.
Perhaps his bedroom? He strode in and poked around. No.
Bella’s?
Not there either.
What to do?
He winced, hating to disturb Bella to take her downstairs.
“Listen to me, sweetheart.” He went to one knee, and her gray eyes met his. “I have to go downstairs to order our supper. I’ll be only a minute. Will you just stay here and draw for me?”
She bobbed her head absently, her mind fully on her art.
“Shall I order cake or pudding for dessert?”
Her round face beamed her delight. “Cake and pud.”
Laughing, he got to his feet. “Both it is!”
He found his frockcoat, shrugged into it, and shot his cuffs.
Then he pocketed the room key, bade her adieu with a promise of, “Only a few minutes.” Then he emerged into the empty hall and locked his daughter in.
He jogged down the stairs and faced the receptionist, grinning.
“I’d like to order supper sent up to my rooms. Have you a menu for the evening? ”
“Yes, milord. One minute while we get it from the dining room.” He waved a hand to summon one of his footmen, and off that man went to fetch it.
The rain pounded like a thousand needles against the windowpanes.
Clive drummed his fingers on the polished marble desktop. Was madame still outside waiting in the rain? “Terrible storm out there.”
“It is, sir. Blew up sudden, like.”
Clive tried for nonchalance. “I noticed that Madame Laurant went out recently.” Whom did she meet?
“Yes, sir, she did.”
“Was someone to call for her? With a carriage, perhaps?”
The fellow sent him a weak smile, his attention reluctantly drawn from his paperwork. “I hope so, sir.”
So do I. “She didn’t want to wait inside for her caller?”
“I guess not, sir. No.” The reception clerk disappeared behind a wall of mail slots.
So much for gossipy hotel staff.
The footman appeared with the menu card, and Clive scanned the list of items. He told the footman to send up a main of roast beef and potatoes, with vanilla cake and chocolate pudding for dessert. Just as he would have handed the menu back across the desk, Madame Laurant scurried in the front door.
Soaked, she muttered nasty little French phrases to herself as she swiped raindrops from her cheeks and lips.
She smoothed her wet hair, then held her arms out away from her body and shook the raindrops away like a peeved cat.
Her hat, once a perky little thing, sagged limp over her brow.
She fumed at it. He heard her and did not suppress his grimace.
At once she saw Clive, blinked, then did a little nod of acknowledgment. She patted her hat. Soaked, it dribbled water down her ears. She dashed the drops away and gave Clive a wide-eyed look that declared she was in control. But then, as she strode to the front desk, her shoes squished water.
“Bon soir, my lord,” she said to Clive, then picked up the receptionist’s bell and rang it.
“The rain drowned your hat,” he offered quite reasonably, folding his hands before him.
“I’ll salvage something from it for a new kite.”
Clive snorted. “Save everything, do you?”
She locked her blue eyes on his, rueful and yet allowing in the humor of her cockeyed hat. “Everything worthwhile.”
He let his own gaze offer his gratitude for what she had saved this morning. His voice rough with appreciation of her, he whispered, “But it’s velvet. Will it fly?”
“If it does not fly, I’ll make it sail.”
Clive chuckled.
The receptionist appeared, a frown on his face from some issue he’d encountered in the back. However, his female guest smiled, clearly not in the mood for reciprocating his bad humor.
“Sir, pardon,” she bade him with a smile. “Is the dining room still serving?”
“Yes, madam. Would you like a table?”
“No, I will order for my room.”
“Allow me,” Clive said, “to offer you my menu card.”
“Bon soir, monsieur. Merci,” she said as she took his menu and turned her serene gaze on Clive in appreciation. “I think you catch me always fresh from catastrophe!”
“It is my pleasure, madame.” He beamed down at her, his fascination with the clear cerulean blue of her eyes making his knees weak.
Was he fourteen? He gave a laugh. She took it as a response to her joke about her so-called catastrophe.
All the while, he wanted to absorb her, sweep her up, hold her close, and take her to warmth, tea, blankets, and laughter.