into an easy chair to begin sifting through the invitations.
Some were for next week and beyond. Some for tomorrow night. Some for tonight. Hank tossed aside all but those requesting his presence for this evening. There were six. Three were for late-night gatherings. Three were for dinner. He considered the dinner invitations, shrugged wide shoulders, closed his eyes and chose one at random.
Horace and Lillian Titus.
Dinner at eight.
Claire was enchanted with Saratoga Springs.
The pristine mountain hamlet was like a fabled fairyland with its grand hotels, quaint shops, beautiful parks and mineral fountains and handsomely dressed visitors.
She strolled leisurely up Broadway passing the Grand Union Hotel, Congress Inn and the Clarendon, each unique and magnificent and unlike anything she had seen back in London. As she approached another impressive building, the huge brick-and-stone United States Hotel, she glanced down the narrow street bordering its side.
And so it was that she was looking directly at a carriage when a tall, lean man bounded out of the back seat. He stood for a second on the sidewalk, smiling and gesturing as he spoke to his driver. Claire’s eyes widened and her lips parted.
Midnight hair glistening in the sunshine, broad shoulders appealingly straining the fine linen of his sky-blue shirt, buff-hued trousers draped just so on his slim hips and long legs, he was, without doubt, the most attractive man she had ever laid eyes on.
Unable to tear her gaze from the handsome stranger, Claire stood across the street and stared until he turned away, sprang agilely up a set of steps, unlocked a door and disappeared inside. Even then she continued to stay where she was, her rapt attention fixed on that door.
She wondered who he was and where he was from and if she would ever see him again. Her heart began to race. Of course she would see him again! He, like she, had come to Saratoga for the season. He was obviously a guest at the United States Hotel and she would very likely run into him there. All she had to do was go inside.
Beginning to smile with anticipation, Claire eagerly crossed the narrow street and hurried down the sidewalk until she reached the front of the hotel. She climbed the steps to the wide veranda where people were gathered to talk and laugh and enjoy refreshments served by uniformed waiters.
Claire crossed the veranda and went inside the vast, high-ceilinged lobby. Attempting to appear casual, she sauntered unhurriedly about, glancing at the milling guests, searching for the one who was sure to stand out from the crowd.
Nodding and smiling to people she’d never met, Claire would have, on any other occasion, noticed how incredibly friendly everyone seemed. But she was preoccupied. She was looking for the handsome, dark-haired man in the blue linen shirt.
After several fruitless minutes, Claire gave up the hunt. She was too late. He wouldn’t be coming to the lobby. He had obviously already checked in at the desk moments earlier and collected his key. No need to stay longer.
She made her unhurried way through the crowded lobby and out the tall doors onto the veranda. She was descending the front steps when a middle-aged, well-dressed woman came hurrying up the steps toward her.
Reaching her, the woman smiled and said, “Oh, Your Grace, we heard you were coming to Saratoga this summer. How thrilling to have the Duchess of Beaumont here for the season!” When Claire gave the woman a questioning look, she said, “Don’t you remember me? Lillian. Mrs. Lillian Titus. How wonderful to see you after all these years! My, my, you are lovelier than ever.”
Taken aback, Claire, when she was finally able to get a word in, said, “No, no. I’m afraid you…you’ve made a…you see, I’m not…I…” Claire stopped speaking. She paused for only a second, then said, “Why, yes, it has been quite a long time.”
“It must be at least seven or eight years,” declared Lillian. “Now Horace and I are giving a dinner party this very evening. You simply must come. Everyone will be there. Our cottage at eight sharp. Say you’ll join us, please, Your Grace.”
Claire smiled. “I’d be honored.”
Seven
Then and there the usually level-headed, rarely-take-a-chance Claire Orwell decided that for once in her life she would toss caution to the wind. Until just before Charmaine Beaumont arrived in Saratoga, she would be the Duchess of Beaumont! For a few golden days and nights, she would live the life of a wealthy, daring duchess amidst the Gilded Age glamour of Saratoga Springs.
Claire wasn’t worried that she’d be out of her element. She knew how the wealthy lived, how they behaved. Her dear deceased mother, before she was married, had for a short time been lady-in-waiting to the Queen, her title Woman of the Bedchamber. Her mother had treasured the invaluable experience and had shared many fond recollections.
Claire could hold her own around this wealthy crowd, could convince them that she was the duchess. And she intended to do just that.
Beginning this very evening she’d hobnob with America’s rich and powerful. She would drink chilled champagne and laugh merrily and flirt with the well-heeled gentlemen and dance until dawn and have not a care in the world.
Her cheeks flushed, Claire hurried back to the secluded estate to tell Olivia of her scheme.
The older woman met Claire at the front door and began, “I made great progress in town, Claire. By tomorrow morning we’ll have—”
Claire waved a silencing hand and interrupted, “Your news about the staff can wait, Olivia. Come out onto the veranda and sit down, please. I’ve something to tell you and it can’t wait another minute.”
Curious, Olivia stepped outside. She obediently took the rocking chair Claire indicated. When she was seated, Claire, continuing to stand, told of her planned deception. Surprised, but fully approving of such a lark, Olivia listened as Claire talked excitedly of her intentions.
“I honestly believe that we can fool them,” Claire stated emphatically. “The duchess has not been to the Springs in seven or eight years. Many of the people who are here this summer have never even met her. The others have had plenty of time to forget exactly how she looks.”
“And she is tall and slender like you and has pale blond hair,” Olivia offered, nodding.
“Exactly. It should be relatively easy to convince everyone that I am indeed the Duchess of Beaumont. I ran into a middle-aged woman—a Mrs. Lillian Titus—at the United States Hotel this afternoon. She mistook me for the duchess and invited me to a dinner party at her home this evening. Said she’d send a carriage round to collect me. That’s what gave me the idea for this fling of fancy.”
“I’ve seen photographs of Charmaine Beaumont,” Olivia said. “There’s a resemblance perhaps, but you’re much prettier than she.”
Claire smiled. “You are prejudiced. Besides, if that is true—which I doubt—everyone will suppose that I got better looking as I fully matured. The duchess is thirty-three, an age when most women are at the top of their form, are they not?”
“You don’t look thirty-three, child. More like twenty-three.”
The twenty-seven-year-old Claire smiled again and said, “Well of course I look young. We noble ladies take good care of ourselves.” She laughed then and, impulsively sinking to her knees before the seated Olivia, took the older woman’s frail hands in hers, squeezed them affectionately, and said, “Oh, Olivia, I know what I’m planning to do is wrong, even unforgivable. But I just don’t care. I’ve made up my mind. I am going to be happy! I’m going to have a gay time and enjoy every minute of every day. I’m going to have pretty clothes and do just as I please as if I were the real duchess.”
“But how, Claire? We haven’t the money to—”
“We will have,” Claire again squeezed Olivia’s hands, then released them and shot to her