Courting the Countess Read online

  Then there was his sister May’s behavior. Mr. Claeg’s presence had revived her flagging spirits. As she sat beside him on the sofa with Ivy on the other side, the pair took turns flirting outrageously. A stern look from Mr. Ludlow curtailed Brook’s half sister’s poor manners. Regrettably, no one thought to restrain May Hamblin.

  Mallory Claeg seemed immune to the tension. After supper, Mrs. Ludlow had suggested that they adjourn to the small music room. Ivy and Honey, both competent on the pianoforte, took turns impressing the group with their skill. Mr. Claeg praised both girls and swore when pressed that he was unable to dub one girl superior over the other. His evasion did not prevent them from squabbling. Brook also was able to play the instrument but did not volunteer, nor was she asked. A slender book of verse in hand, she feigned interest in it while her parents, Mother A’Court, and Mrs. Byres played whist. With his arms crossed, Ham watched Mr. Claeg as if he were a stray mongrel he mistrusted. May Hamblin’s intentions were so clear that Brook felt a pang of pity for the young lady.

  So lost was Brook in her musings, it startled her to find Mr. Claeg staring directly at her. Another man would have glanced away once he had been caught. Mr. Claeg was proving to be something other than predictable. Peeking over her unread tome, Brook lifted her brow, letting him know in her own way that she was not intimidated. Unabashed, the scoundrel simply tucked his fist under his chin and continued to study her. Ham had noticed their silent exchange and scowled at them both.

  May Hamblin lightly stroked Mr. Claeg on the coat sleeve, interrupting his deliberation. “Being a connoisseur of art, you must live a fascinating life, Mr. Claeg.”

  Ham shifted his stance. Perhaps he had finally noticed his sister’s keen interest in the artist. “Mr. Claeg is in trade, May. He makes pictures. It is connoisseurs who make it art.”

  “It is an old argument, my lord, and both sides are passionate,” Mr. Claeg said, smiling at May. The gaze he directed at the earl held no amusement. Mallory knew he was being baited and yet could not leave the subject undefended. “Naturally, I am in favor of the artist. It is his vision, his blood, that is ground into the pigment and mixed with linseed oil. The artist puts a part of himself on that canvas.” He shook his head as if deriving conclusions from a private argument with himself. Brook suspected he had said more than he intended to his unappreciative audience. “I lose respect for the gentleman who claims to know art because he had traveled to Italy and viewed several dozen pictures. All that proves to me is that he can traverse the seas without disgracing himself.”

  May giggled and applauded her companion. It was a dreadful simpering sound, Brook thought. The woman was also making a fool of herself.

  “The artisans should allow the educated gentlemen to create a standard of excellence. They need guidance, a moral and decent aspiration. Mr. Claeg, even you must concede that you do not have to be a potter to appreciate a porcelain vase, or a silversmith to recognize good plate,” Ham stubbornly argued.

  “I do not criticize aspiration, Lord A’Court, just the man who judges its value,” Mr. Claeg astutely countered.

  Ivy’s hands froze over the keys of the pianoforte while she listened raptly to the gentlemen’s debate. The players of the card game had also suspended their play. Despite his casual airs, Mr. Claeg took his art very seriously, and it was an imprudent man who provoked him.

  “Ha! Only those who embrace mediocrity fear the power of the connoisseurs. Talent survives the ages.”

  May was not the only Hamblin who was acting outrageously. Brook had credited Ham for having more sense than he was illustrating.

  “Not when the varnish blackens and the paint begins rotting off the canvas,” Mr. Claeg drawled. She noticed his white teeth when he smiled. They were straight and very sharp, the sign of a true predator.

  “If this argument has been debated by learned men for generations, I doubt we will find a resolution this evening,” Brook said, and everyone laughed with the exception of the earl and Mr. Claeg. She was putting an end to their conversation before they took their disagreement outdoors. “Ivy, play something soothing.”

  “Play one of Handel’s works,” her mother called out before returning her attention to the cards in her hand.

  The gentlemen continued to scowl at each other while Ivy began playing. Ignoring the hostility between her brother and Mr. Claeg, May said, “I saw your submission to the Royal Academy last year, and mediocrity was not the word to describe it.”

  Losing interest in the earl and his plebian tastes, Mr. Claeg focused his eerie light blue gaze on May. “What did you think of my Pandora?”

  Flattered, she checked her reflection in the large mirror on the wall across from her and preened. “Extraordinary, sir. One could empathize with her anguish.”

  Exasperated by his sister’s attempt to intellectualize on a subject out of her depth, Ham rolled his eyes, mumbled, “God save us.”

  “Were you shocked by her costume?” Mallory asked innocently.

  May pursed her lips. “No. Was that your intention?” As they sat side by side together on the sofa, her curly dark hair and classic beauty complemented Mr. Claeg’s masculine grace rather nicely, Brook sourly mused.

  The artist idly scratched his chin. “Well, for the sake of symbolism she was stripped of her civility.”

  The young woman looked perplexed.

  “His Pandora was naked, May,” Ham dryly replied at his sister’s gasp. “She was probably some prostitute he dragged off the street.”

  The earl’s snide tone had Brook rising to Mr. Claeg’s defense whether he needed her to or not. “It is a high honor to be chosen by the academy. Are you an associate?” Brook asked, attempting to cast him in a responsible light.

  His head snapped in her direction. All the friendliness she always associated him with was quickly doused by her question. “No,” he said, stating with that one word that pursuing the subject would be futile.

  If having an artist in the house had not captured her younger half sister’s imagination, the notion that he painted naked prostitutes was positively titillating. “Ladies truly pose naked for you?” Honey asked, her eyes wide with awe.

  “Honey Ludlow!” her father shouted.

  “Sweet Honey, I assure you—” Mallory winked at Brook. “I kept my eyes firmly shut.”

  The clock chimed the tenth hour. The house was still active with the sounds of its temporary inhabitants. If they had been in London, they would have been preparing for a late supper or a ball. Here it was easier to conform to nature’s schedule. Everyone was going through their various nighttime rituals before they went to bed. Brook smiled at the feminine shriek that was followed by infectious laughter. She had paired her half sisters in a bedchamber. Brook envied their closeness. Too many years spanned between them for her to share in their merriment.

  She pushed open the door they had not bothered to close. Honey was chasing Ivy around the room, both were dressed in their nightclothes. The few pieces of furniture posed no obstacles for them. What they could not run around they climbed over. Brook opened her mouth to chastise them and then thought better of it. The room would survive the abuse.

  “Pleasant dreams, girls,” Brook said.

  Ivy narrowly escaped her sister by rolling off the bed. She used the post to right herself and swing herself in another direction. “G’night,” she said, not breaking her stride.

  Honey skidded to a halt and exhaled a sigh of relief that it was not mother or father who had come to check on them. “G’night, Sis.” She lunged for Ivy and the chase resumed again.

  Brook closed the door. She continued down the hall and listened to the indistinct murmur of voices. Recognizing one of the voices, she deduced that her personal maid, Morna, was still tending to Elthia, Lady A’Court’s needs. The older woman traveled with her own personal staff; however, she was a woman who was used to an army of servants seeing to every whim. If Brook wanted assistance with her dress, she might have to seek out her housekeeper, Mrs. Gordy.

  The door abruptly opened while Brook stood there wavering about whether or not she should open the door. The solemn face of her housekeeper popped into view. So the dowager had absconded with her Mrs. Gordy, too. Chagrined, Brook wondered if she would be forced to seek assistance from one of the bailiff. She could just imagine Lady A’Court’s reaction to that plan!

  Brook looked at the large pot of steaming water in her housekeeper’s hands. “Is there a problem?”

  “Aye, madam,” she huffed, tossing a perturbed look back at the women in the room. “Too many people in this house. Demanding this … complaining about that—I am too old for this nonsense!”

  Since Mrs. Gordy was younger than the woman she was complaining about, Brook fought back a smile. “What is wrong with the water?” she calmly asked.

  The older woman sniffed. “Too cold, Her Ladyship says, as if she can’t see the steam rising from it. Why, I could scald a babe in this water!”

  “Housekeeper, who is keeping you from properly heating my water? Put aside your idle chatter for your own time. My feet cannot wait.”

  “Go,” Brook whispered. “I will handle her.” The thought startled her. There was a time when she did not believe she could handle anyone with the A’Court name.

  “You’ll be able to cook an egg in it,” Mrs. Gordy promised, a malicious gleam lighting her gaze. “A good night to you, my lady.”

  “Do not dawdle, Housekeeper. I cannot—” Seeing Brook, the dowager halted her rant. “Oh, it is you, Lady A’Court.”

  She sat in front of her dressing table. Brook’s maid, Morna, was at the older woman’s feet removing her stockings. The dowager’s personal servant was in the act of peeling off her wig. Brook had never seen the lady without her wig and found
the vision disconcerting.

  Not meeting her sharp gaze in the mirror, Brook said, “I have spoken with Mrs. Gordy. She will return shortly with your water. I hope it will be more to your liking.” Conversing with her mother-in-law had never been easy, especially since Brook was treated like a servant who had transgressed.

  “Your household is a mess, Lady A’Court.” The dowager let her head fall back while her servant massaged her scalp. For practical reasons her graying hair was cut short as a gentleman’s. “Your servants cannot carry out even the simplest orders, and one or two of them border on insolent. That housekeeper of yours must go. I suppose it is difficult to find competent help in these remote areas.”

  Brook and her maid exchanged looks. On Elthia, Lady A’Court’s last visit she had suggested that Morna should be sacked. Brook had naturally ignored the dictate, because her maid was clean, pleasant, and had served her well. If she had listened to the dowager’s commands she would have replaced the entire household staff three times over.

  “It is good of you to worry about the management of my household, madam. However, do not trouble yourself on my account. I will handle the matter.” She gracefully inclined her head. “I will bid you good night. Rest well.”

  “I know one or two families locally who might be able to assist you in this area. Let me think on it and we will discuss it tomorrow.”

  Sometimes Brook wondered if the older woman could hear her. She looked into the mirror half-expecting to see nothing. “Till tomorrow then.” She quit the room feeling no better than when she had entered.

  Brook passed her parents’ room, barely pausing at their threshold. Since she heard no sounds from within, she assumed that they had already retired. Heading for her own bedchamber, she considered her duties concluded for the night. She had already spoken her “good nights” to the earl and his sister. Brook needed her rest for the arguments she would face tomorrow. Her family had not given up on the notion of her returning with them to London.

  They had respected her decision to remain in Cornwall for two years. Elthia, Lady A’Court, should have been thrilled with the idea of her beloved son’s widow spending the rest of her life mourning him. She had been less than satisfied with the match; however, Lyon had had his way. Brook closed her eyes, letting the pain flood her. Why had she not seen past his handsome face? He had seduced her with poetry and compliments and she had foolishly believed him. The sting of tears burned her eyes, but the tears never fell. She had not cried since the day Lord Tipton had told her that her husband had murdered the child in her womb.

  Walking into her bedchamber, she placed the lamp on the table along the wall. Her maid was not likely to return anytime soon. Resigned, Brook began the task of removing the pins from her hair. Sensing that she was not alone, she turned toward her bed and blinked in surprise. May Hamblin was sitting on her bed.

  “Forgive me, Cousin. You seemed so lost in thought that I did not want to startle you,” she said, hopping off the bed.

  Like Brook, she had not dressed for bed. “Do you need me to summon a maid? Mother A’Court should be finished with Morna by now.” Brook reached for the lamp.

  “No, the maid can tend me later. That is not why I am here,” May said, fidgeting with the ribbons at her waist. The nervous gesture seemed contrary to her nature. “I wanted to discuss Mr. Claeg.”

  He was the last person Brook wanted to think about before she climbed into bed. Nor did she want to listen to May romanticize the scoundrel. As she removed one of the last of the pins from her hair, the heavy blond length cascaded over her shoulders and down her back. Brook did not consider herself a vain creature, but she thought her hair was her crowning beauty. Lyon had often complimented its thickness and color. Blindly in love with him, she did not suspect early on that he was thinking of another woman when he reached for Brook’s hair. Later he had shown her that the one thing she prized could be wrapped around his fist and used to subdue and punish her.

  “My goodness! You are plucking more hair than stray pins out,” May said, coming up behind her. She guided Brook into the chair in front of her dressing table. “Here, let me play maid for you.” Biting her lower lip and with more care than Brook had been managing, May removed the remaining pins that had been concealed in her hair.

  “Mr. Claeg just recently leased his cottage. I am not certain I can tell you much about the man,” she said, feeling obligated since May had been kind and helpful.

  Reaching around her and picking up the brush, the young woman began the task of smoothing out the snarls left behind from Brook’s rash pin search. “Oh, he explained all about coming here to paint the cliffs. Mrs. Ludlow was telling me that Mr. Claeg has been visiting you on and off this past year.”

  Brook and her mother were going to have a talk about her lack of discretion. She managed a small shrug. “He is not the first artist who has come to sketch and paint the landscape.”

  From May’s frustrated expression, it was not the explanation she had sought. “When he comes here, he always calls on you.”

  “True. Being a gentleman, he feels obligated,” she said, not even believing her own words.

  The other woman laughed. “Have you not heard what they say about him? From all accounts, the man shirks duty. Gracious me, the man actually married his mistress!”

  Being friends with his sister, Amara, Brook had learned bits and pieces about Mallory Claeg’s life in the extraneous manner one does about a stranger. She could recall that she had sympathized with the family, since they had been scandalized by his actions. “I heard it was a love match. Besides it being none of our concern, the lady in question died many years ago. Tragedy can change a person,” she said, thinking of her own losses. Odd, she had never considered that she and Mr. Claeg shared that in common. “Why are we discussing this?”

  May had ceased brushing Brook’s hair. Clutching the hairbrush to her breast, she said, “My brother has spoken to me at length regarding Mr. Claeg’s presence at Loughwydde. He worries that the gentleman’s attentions toward you might be less than honorable. You have been so fragile since your husband’s death.”

  Considering she had watched May flirt with Mr. Claeg all afternoon and evening, Brook thought this lecture on her behavior reeked of hypocrisy. However, May was only the messenger, she reminded herself. It was the new Lord A’Court who was overbearing.

  “You may tell your brother that Mr. Claeg has never behaved in a questionable manner.” There was no need to point out that he had almost kissed her in the front parlor. “He also happens to be the older brother of one of my dearest friends, someone whom I have neglected since I departed London. His sister would never have forgiven him if he had not paid me a call or two.”

  The explanation was reasonable if Amara had known where Brook was. Only Mr. Claeg had discovered her small sanctuary, and he had kept her whereabouts a secret. He had not asked her why or even mentioned his sister since his return to Cornwall. Perhaps because of the promise she gained from him, he had deduced that speaking of Amara would be too upsetting. Did he, like Ham, believe Brook was too fragile? The thought was mildly irritating.

  “Please forgive my prying,” May begged. “Our connection is not of blood; nevertheless, when Ham inherited the A’Court title your well-being also became a matter of interest to him. He is a good man. You have been through so much and deserve a little happiness in your life.”

  Brook rose and twisted in the chair until she was facing May. She offered her hand and the other woman clasped it within her own, accepting the silent apology. “I treasure your friendship. Please convey to your brother that his fears about Mr. Claeg are groundless. Like you, he will be returning to town for the season.”

  “I am not so certain.”

  She managed a small smile. “Of course he will. He came to paint. Once he has finished his task, he will move on.”

  “You misunderstood me. I was referring to Mr. Claeg’s interest in you. My brother was not just being overprotective. On more than one occasion, his gaze strayed in your direction.”

  Brook parted her lips in surprise. How could the man make her feel flattered and annoyed in the same moment? “You are lending credence to coincidence.”