Chapter 2
Two
TWENTY-THREE-year-old Lady Claire Chase managed to throw a cloth over the workbench—concealing both her diary and the evidence of the pendant she was making—moments before the door burst open.
“There you are!” cried her younger sister, Elizabeth. She tossed a handful of fresh-picked, scraggly winter plants on a nearby table. “We’ve been ages searching for you!”
“We?” Claire echoed. “Who’s we?”
“Why, Noah and me, of course. Er—” On realizing there was nobody behind her, Elizabeth retreated to the corridor. “Noah, you coward! Come here this instant!”
A sheepish Noah appeared in the doorway.
Elizabeth prodded him through it. “I found this one hiding out in the stables.”
“I wasn’t hiding,” Noah protested. “I was checking on poor Endurance’s hoof.”
“You were hiding.” Claire rose to loom over her brother as best she could at six inches’ disadvantage. “Because you are a coward. What else can one call a man who sends his valet to do his dirty work?”
“Ah”—Noah made a fair attempt at indifference—“so Collins delivered my message.”
But Claire knew him too well: she could tell by his stiff posture and elusive gaze that he was dissembling, and she had no patience for it. Or for him. “Have you told Elizabeth what was in the message,” she barked, “or shall I?”
“He didn’t have to—the whole castle is talking about it.” Elizabeth gave the offender another poke. “Don’t you have something to say to Claire? Something that starts with a- and ends with -pology?”
He swatted her hand away. “I’m not convinced that I do. It’s my estate, after all, and Rathborne is my friend. Why shouldn’t I invite him to stay?”
Both sisters were incensed. Claire nearly upset the workbench in her haste to get at her brother. “Because he was my intended, who trifled with my heart!” she shrieked as Elizabeth let fly with a string of thoroughly unladylike expletives.
Whether Noah understood either sister was doubtful, but he grasped their tenor. “Claire,” he began when Elizabeth had worn herself out, “I know you and Rathborne have a thorny history—”
“Thorny?” Claire repeated incredulously.
How dare Noah use such a trivializing descriptor as thorny?
Noah, who knew nearly every mortifying detail of that history.
Who had been present at the first meeting, and kept a keen eye on their increasing attachment—had promoted it, even, as any man would promote an alliance between his sister and his wildly eligible friend.
He had applauded every step of their courtship.
Had, in his capacity as the family patriarch, given his blessing upon their engagement, and witnessed Claire’s perfect happiness on the occasion.
Had parsed and approved every particular of the wedding, the honeymoon, and the bride’s anticipated installment as mistress of her new home, the splendid Twineham Park.
He’d even donned his best suit in readiness to give her away.
But the suit had been donned in vain.
For the bridegroom, Jonathan Stanhope, the Duke of Rathborne, had never showed.
In confusion and despair, Claire and all her family waited at the church, she by turns fearing for Jonathan’s safety and raging at his treachery. Finally, nearly two hours beyond the appointed time, she received word—not by the duke’s arrival, but a messenger’s:
My dearest and most beloved Claire,
I haven’t the words to express how deeply sorry and stricken I am to have failed you today, a day I had awaited with the utmost impatience and joy.
My mother took suddenly ill this morning, and the mysterious and alarming nature of her condition left me without opportunity for communication until the physician could be fetched and the patient made tolerably comfortable.
Maman is resting now, though not yet out of danger.
I hope you will credit that no lesser power than the love and terror of a devoted son could have kept me from making you my wife today.
With the highest estimation of your compassionate heart, I beg your understanding and forgiveness.
Still (most hopefully) yours,
Jonathan
Though Claire could never be so callous as to revel in the plight of her soon-to-be mother-in-law, the effect of the letter was instantaneous and euphoric. For having feared no justification could exist for her intended’s absence, here was justice aplenty.
As soon as the duchess recovered (which was very soon indeed), they set a new date to be married and resumed all their former happiness. On the appointed day, the wedding breakfast was prepared. The guests collected. The suit donned.
And, once again, the groom failed to appear.
Having languished in her wedding finery more than three hours, now quite certain her dreams were dashed—after all, what excuse could Jonathan possibly give for missing their wedding again?
—news arrived at last. This time, the duke came in person, looking very foolish and telling an even more foolish tale.
By some great anomaly, he had managed to lock himself in his dressing room. Having made every attempt to break down the door, and then to make noise enough to notify passersby of his plight, he was eventually found by his mother.
The duchess grieved loud and long upon discovering his protracted imprisonment, for it was she who had summoned the whole household outside to see their master off for his wedding, thus unfortunately leaving no one within earshot of her son’s shouts and bangs.
Ignoring Jonathan’s entreaties to cease apologizing and fetch the village blacksmith, the duchess now summoned the whole household to the dressing room door, inviting each man to take his turn at fiddling with the latch and bruising his shoulder.
This went on for quite some time until, finally, somebody brought the blacksmith.
Within moments Jonathan was free and racing to the church—although, of course, already far too late, as weddings had to take place before noon.
By the end of this account, Claire had gathered her courage. It was past time to voice an idea she had been mulling over for some weeks, ever since the duchess’s abrupt illness and miraculous recovery.
“Is it possible,” she said delicately, “that your mother might be trying to prevent our marriage?”
His answer was just as Claire had expected.
Ludicrous! Inconceivable!
Why, maman was the last woman on earth who could ever sabotage her own son.
Once Claire got to know her mother-in-law better, she would easily discount such suspicions, for anybody who knew the Duchess of Rathborne would inevitably find her to be the most affectionate of parents, and one who enjoyed an uncommonly close relationship with her only child.
In truth, Claire had found that already, despite having spent just one day in the duchess’s company. During their courtship, Jonathan spoke of his mother often and with great fondness, a trait Claire found endearing (at the time), since she herself was close with her family.
Once they became engaged, their first duty lay in paying a visit to Twineham Park, that the two women Jonathan loved might be introduced.
Twineham was located about three hours’ drive from Greystone Castle. Its late master, the previous duke, having embarked on his Grand Tour in the 1780s, had returned with a souvenir in the form of Henriette, the daughter of a French marquis.
Luckily for Henriette, her elopement removed her from France before the Terror commenced. Unluckily, her husband’s early demise left her quite on her own in a strange country, with a vast estate to manage and a young son to raise.
In Jonathan’s telling, from that day forward she withdrew from society to attend to her duties, and as her son grew, so increased her reliance on him.
He was everything to her—her constant companion, her precocious helpmate, her pride and joy.
For love of Jonathan, she had found the strength to endure, had dedicated her life to safeguarding his birthright.
And in return he was ever eager to bestow all the filial gratitude, consideration, and love that was her due.
In Claire’s observance, this was all perfectly accurate. Jonathan showed his mother a very pleasing attention and regard. He was forever agreeing with her judgments, deferring to her preferences, and ensuring she and her little dog always had the best chair by the fire.
It was all extremely proper. He was the model of a perfect son. Claire ought to have witnessed such scenes with satisfaction and approval.
And she did...for the most part. Except that one thought kept plaguing her as she watched the duo in their tableau of domestic harmony…
Where do I fit in?
But surely this was a mere trifle. Claire was being silly. So what if Jonathan was good to his mother—who could object to that? Would she prefer he abuse the poor woman? Could she truly be so petty and jealous as to wish they loved each other less?
Of course not. No doubt Claire was simply feeling a bride’s nerves. It was natural to fret about such an upheaval in one’s life; anybody would worry about finding their place in a new family.
But she would soon, to be certain, discover her worries had been needless.
Jonathan was her perfect match and, moreover, his mother would be moving to the dower house after the wedding.
The duchess had made the announcement herself during dinner, with only one or two exclamations at how easy and empty her days were soon to become, what with Twineham Cottage being so much smaller and simpler to manage than the great house.
Thus, Claire set aside her misgivings and went ahead with the wedding.
And then with the second wedding.
And then, after many impassioned pleas, heartfelt apologies, and tender promises—all aided by the considerable force of Jonathan’s charms (and Claire’s extreme susceptibility to them)—with a third.
The third time, however, she laid down two conditions.