The Captain's Courtship. Regina Scott
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but his power extended only to his ship. There, he was used to relaying orders, having them followed without question. Funny how one look from Claire made him feel like a schoolboy again, staring across a crowded ballroom at the most beautiful girl in all of London and hoping she might notice him.
“Sir?” the footman asked, brows drawn down under his powdered wig. Richard hadn’t even heard the door open, much less remembered knocking.
He straightened to his full height, looking down at the black-clad fellow, and boomed in his most commanding tone, “Captain Richard Everard to see the Marquess of Widmore.”
The footman accepted his card with a respectful bow. “Please wait inside, Captain Everard, while I determine whether his lordship is at home to visitors.”
Richard followed him into the house and glanced about as the footman made his stately way up the stairs. The entry hall was tall, with pale blue walls rising to a veined dome of glass in the ceiling. Already the light was fading with the afternoon. On one wall hung a massive oil painting of sailing ships in the middle of a battle, cannons coughing smoke.
Richard shook his head. The artist was clearly in love with the idea of the sea but had never sailed. No captain would waste powder on the air, the target already past. And the flying flags should be pointed in the same direction as the sails. But then, he’d seen sailing as just as romantic when he’d headed out as a youth.
He clasped his hands behind the back of his brown wool coat and balanced on the balls of his booted feet. Standing about, riding in carriages, felt odd after so many days at sea. At times he missed the order of things; at others he was glad for the good food, a company that included women. Even the sounds of London were different from the roll of the sea, the calls of his crew at work. Here in the house, someone was playing the piano, with a great deal more precision than his cousin. The scent of a woman’s cologne, sweet and flowery, hung in the still air.
Claire hadn’t been wearing any cologne. He snorted at how easily his mind returned to thoughts of her. She’d always smelled of roses before. The scent had reminded him of the formal gardens his mother had enjoyed at Four Oaks in Derby, the estate where he’d been born. But then, perhaps he’d always wanted to associate Claire with thoughts of home.
“Everard,” the marquess called, descending the stairs with a lively step, as if he’d kept the prince waiting and not the nephew of an old friend. “Good to see you.”
Richard shook the hand the lord offered as he drew near. He was a little surprised to find that the marquess’s hair had gone all white, kept back in a queue like Vaughn’s. He looked a little leaner than Richard remembered as well, in his dove-gray coat and black breeches, as if the weight of his responsibilities had worn him thin.
But his grip remained firm and strong as his gray eyes regarded Richard solemnly. “A shame about your uncle. A bit of color left the world the day he died.”
“Thank you, my lord,” Richard replied, releasing his hand. “And that’s what brought me to your door. Do you have a moment for private conversation?”
The marquess frowned. “Certainly. This way.”
He led Richard down the silk-draped corridor. As they passed the open door to what was obviously a music room, Richard caught sight of a young lady with close-cropped chestnut curls and a scowl of determination on her lovely face.
“My daughter, Lady Imogene,” the marquess offered as if he’d noticed Richard’s look. He made no move to introduce them formally. “Join me in the library, if you please.”
Richard followed him into the next room. The library was paneled in satinwood; built-in bookcases with leaded-glass fronts lined opposite walls. Oriental carpets ablaze with color lay across the polished-wood floor. The marquess went to a straight-backed settee by a wood-wrapped fireplace and took a seat, nodding to Richard to sit on one of the Egyptian-style chairs across from him.
“Now then,” he said, “what can I do for you, Everard?”
Richard braced both hands on the thighs of his tan breeches. “My uncle left us a letter, apparently written the night he died.”
“Oh?” the marquess said. He leaned back as if making himself comfortable, but Richard could see the tension in him, like a sail stretched against the wind. Had he known about the letter?
“In it,” Richard continued, watching him, “he advised that if we questioned anything about his death, we should apply to you for answers.”
His lordship raised his silvery brows. “How extraordinary. But I would assume you would know more than I would. Which of you seconded him that night?”
“That’s one of the things we find questionable, my lord. He didn’t ask any of us to second him. The first we knew of the duel was the physician returning with his body.”
He leaned forward, eyes narrowing. “And did this physician have nothing to report?”
“Nothing of use to us. He claimed he’d been retained by my uncle’s valet to oversee the duel, but he didn’t even know the name of the fellow Uncle fought. And Uncle’s valet has never returned to the house.”
“Naturally you’ve made inquiries.”
Richard inclined his head. “Naturally. But the fellow’s gone to ground. We had business in the north, so we haven’t been able to investigate further until now.”
A smile thinned the marquess’s lips. “In the north? Then I suppose you’ve finally met your cousin Samantha.”
Richard nodded. “I understand you knew about her long before we did.”
He spread his hands before his tastefully embroidered waistcoat. “Your uncle and I were once closer than brothers. I knew all about his marriage to that Cumberland girl, and why he chose to keep her daughter a secret.”
“Oh?” Richard cocked his head. “Then tell me, for I confess, the need for it eludes me.”
His smile softened. “Oh, come now, Captain Everard. You know how many adventures your uncle survived by the skin of his teeth. Having a daughter watching would have made life far messier.”
That he could not deny. “He could have told us.”
“He could have. He chose not to. Only you can determine the reason.”
Richard didn’t like the implication that he, his brother and Vaughn were somehow a threat to Samantha. “Then you know nothing of the duel itself.”
“Alas, your uncle ceased confiding in me a while ago. I suspect he was converted to that evangelical nonsense Wesley used to preach.”
Richard had heard of the minister who had at times fought the established Church of England to ensure that all who wished to know Christ might be saved, but he found it difficult to associate the devoted preacher with his uncle.
“Uncle wasn’t known for his piety,” he replied.
“It seems you’ve been at sea too long, Everard. Things change.” He rose. “Now, if you have no other questions, I have more pressing matters to address.”
Richard rose as well. “Only one question, my lord. Have you ever employed a servant with the last name of Todd?”
The marquess frowned. “Todd? The name doesn’t sound familiar, but he may have worked on one of my estates. Why do you ask?”
“He recently left our employ and took something of value along with him. His letter of reference said you’d been his previous employer.”
“A liar as well as a thief, it seems,” the marquess replied with a sad smile. “I’ll mention the fellow to my steward, but I doubt anything will come of it. Give my regards to your brother and the new Lady Everard.” He started for the door.
“I will,” Richard promised, following him, “but you’ll likely see them yourself soon enough. Samantha is coming to London