3. Chapter Three
C lara gulped down the remaining swallows of tea from her cup, hoping the bracing bite of the bitter brew would clear her vision. She had to be hallucinating. That man could not possibly be standing in her drawing room doorway.
And yet . . .
She glanced around the room. Everyone else seemed able to see him as well. He was apparently all too real.
Clara had lived in the country all her life. She’d stumbled into mud puddles, snagged her skirt on wayward twigs and rocks, and been chased down more than one lane by an angry goose. Never had she endured a greater humiliation than the encounter twenty minutes ago in a London square.
Maybe it was the indignity of her appearance, her mother’s hysterics, her aunt’s snobbery, the delicacy of her current situation, or the fact that the entire business had been the fault of a child’s toy, but the why didn’t matter. What did matter was that she’d coiled her hair into a simple low bun and ordered tea be brought to the family drawing room to pretend the entire afternoon had never happened.
And now, the man who’d witnessed it all was standing in front of her.
The only positive note was the stranger appeared as uncomfortable as she was by the surprise encounter.
Mother’s cheeks were tinged with pink as she continually lifted and lowered her teacup. Aunt Elizabeth was blinking rapidly, looking from her son, Ambrose, to the newcomer and back again. She had been rather insulting to the man earlier, and he was obviously friendly with the viscount.
What if he was someone important? Would anyone notice if Clara slid to the floor and hid under the skirted couch?
Marmaduke, of course, had not a single misgiving as he rose from his seat with a wide smile, arms outstretched as if he were welcoming a friend home from a years-long journey to India. “Mr. Lockhart.”
Ambrose looked from his cousin to the package-carrying man with confusion. “You know each other?”
Mr. Lockhart cleared his throat and adjusted his hold on the parcel. “We had a recent encounter. It was of little consequence.”
God bless the man, whoever he was. Unfortunately, Clara’s brother was not as inclined to save her from embarrassment as this stranger.
Marmaduke laughed and moved to stand behind Clara. When his hand landed heavily on her shoulder, she allowed her eyes to slide closed as if not watching would stop what was soon to happen.
It didn’t.
“Our mothers and my poor sister were brutally attacked out on the green.” Marmaduke’s voice was filled with an overabundance of horror. “Mr. Lockhart saved them from certain doom.”
“I do believe you’ve missed your calling,” Mother said dryly as she collected the used teacups onto the tray, her cheeks still flooded with color. “Such dramatics cannot possibly be to your advantage on the cricket pitch.”
“Clearly you haven’t been to many cricket matches,” Marmaduke muttered.
Aunt Elizabeth rose from the settee and straightened her skirts. “Our family does not need a professional performer among our ranks.”
Marmaduke’s grip on Clara’s shoulder tightened again, but this time Clara lifted a hand and gripped his fingers in support. Aunt Elizabeth might not have said having a professional athlete in the family is bad enough, but there’d been enough discussion about it over the years and the message was more than implied.
As if Aunt Elizabeth needed an outlet for her displeasure, she frowned at her sister and the tea tray she was holding. “Honestly, Miriam, you aren’t in the country anymore. The servants will see to that.”
Clara winced. Mother frowned at the tray in her hands and then the low table as if trying to decide whether returning the tray to the surface or carrying it from the room was more embarrassing.
Aunt Elizabeth wasn’t waiting for her sister to decide. She turned away from the table, straightened her shoulders, and tilted her chin a little more into the air. “I believe I shall go check with Mrs. Turner about dinner tonight. She was going to see if the market had any good fish.”
Ambrose’s eyebrows lifted as he stepped aside so his mother could leave the room.
A tense silence filled the room as her the last echoes of her footsteps drifted away.
“Mr. Lockhart, allow me to belatedly present my mother, Lady Eversly,” Ambrose said flatly as he gestured to the empty door.
“A pleasure, I’m sure,” Mr. Lockhart murmured.
The entire room seemed to exhale a sigh of relief as the moment slid away.
Clara’s ease was short-lived, though, as Marmaduke had not forgotten that he had an opportunity to torture his little sister.
“As the package is apparently yours, Ambrose, I’m doubly glad Mr. Lockhart was able to keep it safe while he rescued our relatives in distress.”
“We were hardly in distress,” Mother said as she set the tea tray on the table and rearranged the dishes on it as if that had been her plan the entire time. “’Twas a trifle inconvenient but hardly a loss of composure.”
Mr. Lockhart coughed and seemed to find the toe of his shoe of sudden intense interest. Was he remembering how Mother had screamed and flailed about, knocking Clara’s bonnet askew? She certainly was.
“I saw you from the window, Mother.” Marmaduke didn’t bother to hide his laughter. “There was most definitely a loss of composure.”
Mother snatched up the tea tray once more, sending her carefully rearranged cups clattering against each other. “Tea? Yes. Tea. More tea.” She strode toward the door. “I’ll have some sent in.”
Ambrose once more waved a hand toward the empty doorway. “My aunt. Mrs. Woodbury.” He turned his brown eyes to Clara and Marmaduke. “Would either of you like to mysteriously exit the room?”
“I’m not going anywhere,” Marmaduke said with a laugh. “Clara might wish to flounce out though.”
Clara frowned at her brother. She’d be the absolute last person to leave this room now.
“The young lady, er, woman has nothing to be embarrassed about,” the stranger said in a calm voice. “She maintained her composure the entire time.”
What was she meant to say to that?
“Are you certain?” Marmaduke stepped to the side and leaned down to cross his arms on the back of the settee his aunt had recently abandoned. It brought his eyes down to Clara’s level. “Not even a squeal when you were attacked?”
“Would one of you please tell me what happened?” Ambrose strode into the center of the room and faced down his cousins, arms crossed imperiously over his chest.
Clara fought the urge to roll her eyes. While he was her cousin, he might as well have been her brother. Growing up, he’d spent more time in their home than his own. All his school holidays had been spent at the vicarage, and when he decided to retreat from London these days, he was as likely to visit his uncle as return to his own country estate.
In the past few years, Clara had actually come to view the situation with a measure of pity, that her cousin seemed so rootless in his life despite his duty and title. At the moment, though, she felt nothing but frustration. Ambrose was doomed to join Marmaduke in being an insufferable idiot once he learned about the kite.
“I’ll just set up the clock then, shall I?” Mr. Lockhart strode across the room in a long, awkward path that gave the little group a wide berth.
Ambrose nodded toward the fireplace. “It fits nicely on the mantle.”
Mr. Lockhart’s gaze connected briefly with Clara’s as he crossed to the fireplace. The glimpse of such a unique, golden shade had her tilting her head for a second look, but he steadfastly gave his attention to the package he was unwrapping.
“What happened on the green?” Ambrose was clearly not distracted by the man with the clock. “Were you truly attacked?”
“No,” Clara said decisively.
“Yes,” Marmaduke said with equal confidence.
Ambrose looked from one to the other and back again. “Well, which is it?”
“It was a kite.” Clara sighed. Maybe if she told the story, they could all admit it was nothing and move on with their lives. “It got away from some children, and we got a bit tangled in the string. It was nothing.”
“They were imprisoned by the string,” Marmaduke corrected. “Bound together into a six-legged monster.”
Clara closed her eyes. A monster? Truly?
“The kite whipped about them, intent on ravaging their coiffures in a fit of jealousy of the fabric of their skirts—”
“What?” Clara’s eyes popped open as she turned to look at her brother.
“—but just before the angry kite could devastate its final target, our hero, Mr. Lockhart, swooped in to restrain the beast and save the day.”
“You really did miss your calling,” Clara muttered. “Do you intend to take to the stage when you can no longer swing a cricket bat?”
“Don’t even speak such a thing. I shall always be able to swing a cricket bat.”
Ambrose extended both his hands, palm out, toward his cousins. “May we return to this beast of a kite?”
“Ah, yes, where was I?” Marmaduke stood and turned to lean one hip on the sofa so his arms were free to gesture about as he told his story. “There they were, held captive by the kite’s dastardly string, slowly being choked to death by its tightening hold.”
A muffled snicker came from the direction of the fireplace, but when Clara glanced that way, Mr. Lockhart appeared to be going solemnly about his business while paying no heed to the room’s dramatics.
“Mr. Lockhart snatched the kite from the air mere inches from your mother’s face—one handed, mind you, since he was still carrying the clock.”
Clara had to admit that part, at least, might be true.
“Had he been but a moment later, our family would have been the first scandal of the season, forced to retreat to the country until the gossip had receded. The tale would have been in all the papers, and my dear sister would be forced into a life of spinsterhood because no one would want to marry a woman who’d been disfigured by such an attack.”
Clara had the sudden urge to find every child in London and ask them to fling their kites toward her face.
“Fortunately, Mr. Lockhart was there, to rescue our sister, who clung to him as he dragged her to safety—”
“I beg your pardon.” Clara jerked from the chair to poke a finger toward her brother. “There was no clinging.”
There was also no mistaking the quiet laughter now coming from the man near the mantel.
Marmaduke lifted his hand, index finger and thumb bent to form a curve with a slight gap in between them. “There was a little clinging.”
He sighed and sent Ambrose an exaggerated look of sympathy. “I can’t blame her, though. She’d just come through a life-threatening experience. I’d cling to a handsome gentleman as well.”
“I did not cling.” She crossed her arms and faced Ambrose.
Ambrose grinned. “So you agree the gentleman is handsome.”
She would not dignify that with an answer. Nor was she going to admit her cheeks were heating.
“Yes, there was a kite and, yes, Mother, Aunt Elizabeth, and I were trapped in the tangled sting. Mr. Lockhart came to our aid but we would have managed without him.”
“Hmmm.” Ambrose scratched his chin as he looked from Clara to Marmaduke. “Who should I believe?”
“Honestly, Ambrose, you can be as vexing as he is.” Clara turned to her brother. “And what possible scandal could have occurred?”
“The kite could have knocked you off your feet and cast your skirts up in front of half of London.”
“Not if the string was tying our skirts down.” Clara stuck her nose in the air. “If you’re going to make up stories, at least keep all your pieces straight.”
“What we need here,” Marmaduke said with a sly grin, “is an impartial third party.”
So help her, if he’d taken account of everyone who’d been on the green so he could discuss this little incident with them, she’d break his cricket bat over his head.
But, no, Marmaduke had no need to scour London. He merely turned his attention to the fireplace.
“What say you, Mr. Lockhart?”