Chapter 21 - Claire #2
The next moment, Claire’s heart rate jumped again—she heard multiple pairs of footsteps crunching towards them on the gravel. She quickly ducked down and hefted Lord Nelson’s booted foot further into the shrub.
“Is he dead?” Sylvia whispered.
There was no time to respond, for suddenly three young ladies appeared at the far end of the garden room.
“Miss Preston, Miss Barrows,” the lady in front of the grouping said. “We thought we heard a dreadful shout.”
It was Miss Patricia Bates, one of the most fashionable young ladies of the current Season. Claire didn’t know the names of the young ladies flanking her, but they were equally popular this year.
“That was me,” Claire admitted, even as Sylvia shot her a wide-eyed look of terror.
“Whatever was the matter?” Miss Bates inquired, her head tilted at an elegant angle that best displayed her swan-like neck.
“Sylvia strayed too close to the shrubbery and became ensnarled. I’ve only just freed her this moment.” Claire smiled as if they were all friends. “Though I certainly didn’t mean to disturb your walk.”
“Not at all. We ladies must stick together. After all, one would want to avoid scandal at all costs.” Miss Bates’s eyes drifted toward Sylvia’s messed hair. “Any number of sordid things could happen if one were to wander in a garden alone.”
“Which begs the question why you’re out here, if you believe such?” Claire asked lightly. “Besides, if it’s scandal you’re looking for, I’ve already happened upon all the scandal available this evening.”
“Oh?” The lady to the right of Miss Bates leaned forward. Her thin nose twitched in anticipation—she rather reminded Claire of a very pretty vole. “Do tell.”
“The state of the gardens themselves.” Claire swatted at the bush.
“Why, it’s so unkempt, it nearly tore my skirts.
Sylvia and I were engaged in our conversation and it snagged us both before we were aware of it.
Your poor coiffure,” she said to Sylvia, reaching out and plucking a leaf from her lavender hair.
“Your maid should really be using the bent pins instead of the straight.”
“It is especially wild in this garden room,” Miss Bates said, looking about.
“Indeed,” Claire said. “That particular bush could be hiding any number of reprehensible persons, and we’d never even know it.”
Sylvia gave a rather hysterical laugh and cut it off immediately.
Miss Bates nibbled her lip. “Quite right. We should be getting back indoors.”
“We shall go together.” Claire nodded stoutly. “There’s safety in numbers.”
When they’d once more been enveloped by the warmth and sound of the grand house and taken their leave of Miss Bates and her friends, Sylvia whispered, “I don’t think I can face anyone. I feel as if I might burst into tears at any moment.”
“Wait for me in the ladies’ room,” Claire said. “I’ll alert Michael and call for the carriage.”
Sylvia nodded and hurried down the opulent hall.
Claire headed toward the sparkling music spilling from the open doorways of the ballroom.
The party was in full swing now. Laughter rang out above the stringed instruments playing in the corner, and light shimmered across silk as the dancers twirled in time in the center of the parquet floor.
Michael was across the room, standing with several gentlemen. As Claire debated the best route to reach him unobtrusively, he said something that made the other gentlemen laugh.
“Miss Preston,” Lord Sheldon said, appearing at her elbow so suddenly that Claire jerked in surprise. “I do believe I have the next dance.”
His name was indeed carefully printed on her paper booklet, but Claire wasn’t going to delay her conversation with Michael by the length of an entire dance.
Sylvia needed to leave the ball, and Michael needed to go deal with Lord Nelson before the man staggered back into the ballroom, bloodied and hurling accusations.
Claire glanced over her shoulder at the entrance as if her thoughts might have conjured the fellow.
“Apologies, Lord Sheldon,” she said hurriedly. “Matters have changed since the start of the evening. I fear I’m not available as promised.”
For any other gentleman, this explanation would have sufficed.
But Lord Sheldon frowned, accentuating his toad-like features.
Claire still stared across the ballroom in Michael’s direction.
He glanced up; their eyes met. Claire raised her eyebrows in an obvious request for help.
Michael frowned, turned, and murmured something to his friends.
“I say, Miss Preston,” Lord Sheldon said, pulling her attention from Michael. “This is highly irregular. I asked for the dance and you agreed. I distinctly remember writing my name upon your booklet.”
Lord Sheldon made to grab at the fanciful dance card dangling from her wrist as if he intended to show her proof of their prior arrangement. Claire pulled her hand out of his reach; his amphibious frown deepened.
“My sincerest apologies, Lord Sheldon.” Claire gave her most winning fake smile—the one that took great effort and pulled at the edges of her lips. “As I mentioned, circumstances have changed since we last spoke.”
“Circumstances?” he blustered, his neck turning pink. “What circumstances? You are free for the dance, are you not? And my name is on your card. I remember putting it there.” He jabbed his finger toward her booklet once more.
“Ah, Lord Sheldon,” Michael said, neatly sliding himself between Claire and the man. “Whatever seems to be the matter?”
Lord Sheldon frowned as if debating whether it was advisable to air his grievances to another gentleman. After only a moment, the desire to complain won.
“Miss Preston won’t honor the dance she promised me,” he grumbled petulantly.
“I fear that’s my fault completely,” Michael said smoothly. “You see, I’ve asked for another dance and she’s graciously acceded.” He turned to Claire; his smile was half amusement, half challenge. “Isn’t that right, Claire?”
“Indeed.” Claire put her hand in his offered one with only a small thrill of trepidation.
Three dances. It certainly would be noted by someone, and what would their excuse be for such a display?
Michael led Claire onto the dance floor. Lord Sheldon stared after them with a frown so marked that if he were to open his mouth, Claire thought a croak of anger would emerge. She shook both concerns away quickly. There were more pressing matters.
“What’s the matter, Claire?” Michael murmured in a low tone that sent butterflies loose in her stomach. His eyes were intent on her face; she hoped he attributed the pinkness of her cheeks to the dance, nothing more.
“You cannot react to what I’m about to tell you,” she said. “We are already an object of much attention.”
“Very well. I’ll do my best not to squawk or faint dead away.” The corners of his eyes crinkled, and a swarm of butterflies inconveniently erupted in her stomach.
“If you do react poorly, someone you care about very much will be forever attached to a loathsome gentleman—Lord Nelson.”
“What did that bastard do?” Michael demanded in a low tone.
There was a feathering at the corner of his jaw that she could read easily because she knew him so well, but otherwise he did an admirable job of keeping his anger under wraps.
Claire gave a tight smile. “It wasn’t her fault, I assure you. Or at least, most of her complicity can be attributed to naivete, and not any shortcoming in character.”
“Just tell me.”
“He took her on a walk in the gardens and tried to kiss her,” she whispered.
Michael’s hand spasmed around hers as he frowned down at her. “It’s a wonder you agreed to go with him in the first place, Claire. I got the impression you didn’t like the fellow.”
“It wasn’t me,” she murmured, her eyes going wide momentarily before she remembered that they were the object of much scrutiny. “It was Sylvia.”
Michael frowned, but if Claire had expected him to erupt at the news that it was his little sister and not her who was the object of that lecherous man’s unwanted advances, she was disappointed.
“Is she all right?” he asked.
“Quite. She’s in the ladies’ retiring room. I told her I’d fetch you and the carriage.”
“Very well. As soon as this dance is finished, I’ll—”
“That’s not the worst of it, I’m afraid,” she quickly said. “I need you to go and deal with the man himself.”
“Oh, don’t worry. I intend to.” Michael’s tone was low and full of dark promise.
For some reason, the first swarm of butterflies was joined by a second. Claire did her best to ignore them.
“I mean now.” She unintentionally squeezed his hand with her anxiety. “You see, I saw them together and intervened, and while I’m fairly certain he’s not dead, I think you’d better go and check.”
Michael gave a slow smile. “Dear Claire, what on earth did you do?”
“I may or may not have struck him in the face with a rock?” She said the last with a tiny, unladylike squeak that made the statement sound like a question.
He tipped his head back and laughed. Claire might have been impressed that he was able to keep time and steps with the dance while doing so, but she barely refrained from shushing him. If people hadn’t been watching before, they most certainly were now.
“It isn’t funny,” she finally hissed once Michael had recovered enough to grin down at her. “He fell backwards into a bush and I have no idea if he’s still alive.”
Visions of a trial and prison cells danced in her mind. Though Claire believed her past had forged her into something stronger than the average lady, she still didn’t think she’d enjoy sleeping that close to a waste bucket.
Some of Claire’s very real fear must have leached into her words, for Michael didn’t laugh again, like it appeared he wanted to.
Instead he said, “I assure you that Nelson’s head is too thick for you to permanently injure him. I once witnessed a draft horse kick him because he’d pulled its tail.”
“Do you really think so?” Sudden hope had her blinking up at him.
“I’m certain of it, but I’ll go check and remove him quietly from the premises.”
“Thank you.” Her relief threatened to make her misstep.
Michael escorted her to the edge of the crowd, where Margaret was standing next to the Duke of Ettrick.
“Ettrick,” Michael said with a nod. “Would you walk with me?”
A moment of confusion flickered over the large man’s face even as he silently nodded his assent and fell in step with Michael, following him from the ballroom.
“What was that about?” Margaret murmured.
“Would you do me a favor?” Claire asked, ignoring her question. “Would you please find Lady Rutheridge and unobtrusively inform her that Sylvia isn’t feeling well and to call the carriage around? I’ll bring her to the front door shortly.”
“Of course.” Margaret frowned in concern. “Is she all right?”
“Nothing terribly wrong—just a stomachache. But you know how the gossip mill loves to speculate about young ladies who leave a ball early.”
“Too true.” She nodded. “She’s just over there—I’ll tell her immediately.”
“Thank you, Margaret.”
Claire slipped from the ballroom and found Sylvia waiting behind a screen in the ladies’ retiring room. It was only a matter of waiting until they had the room alone before they could speak freely.
“Is this what love feels like?” Sylvia surprised Claire by asking.
“What? How do you feel?” Claire pressed a cool hand to Sylvia’s forehead, which felt the same temperature, if not a bit clammy.
She grimaced. “Like I’m going to be sick upon the carpet.”
“That’s not love.”
“At least there’s that. Though I never thought I’d risk my propriety for a man I didn’t love.”
“Why did you accompany him to the gardens?”
“I don’t know. It all happened so fast.” Sylvia wrung her hands. “Mother is going to kill me. And that says nothing of Michael.”
Claire patted her shoulder. “Michael won’t kill you. He may have some choice words for you on the matter, but you’re going to be just fine.”
She shook her fingers out. “Michael’s going to make me marry him, isn’t he?”
“Absolutely not,” Claire said. “That would be an outcome much weighted in Lord Nelson’s favor.”
“Why did I ever go out there?” Sylvia wrung her fingers again until Claire had to resist the urge to slap at her grip. “I never should have gone with him.”
“You’re not the only one who has been caught in such a position, and you won’t be the last.”
“Yes, but those young ladies have all been ruined,” Sylvia hissed.
“That’s not true. I would hazard a guess that most such incidents are kept very quiet indeed.”
“Do you think so?” she asked, hope naked in her voice.
“Of course.”
Claire didn’t add that most males wouldn’t want their female relative’s indiscretion discussed. She didn’t think it would be a helpful comment, given the circumstances.
“But what if we were seen?” Sylvia hissed. “And what if he tells someone?”
“That, of course, is exactly what Michael will prevent from happening.” Claire patted Sylvia’s hand and tried to project confidence. “Though I would advise against stepping out into the gardens with gentlemen in the future. Even when you do meet one that you are fond of.”
“I’m never leaving a ballroom again.” Sylvia looked at her, wide-eyed. “It all happened so quickly. First there was the champagne, and then…”
“Who brought you the champagne?”
“It hardly matters now,” Sylvia moaned.
“It matters to me.”
Sylvia shook her head and another of her lavender locks loosened from her updo. “I’m not sure. Perhaps I was the one who suggested it. I don’t know.”
“It’s all going to be fine,” Claire said. “Let’s get you to your carriage. I have no doubt that Michael will take this matter well in hand.”