so much more.”
Mr. Devizes sucked in his chubby cheeks and peered at the glass. Like everything else in Claire’s life, it was elegant and ornate and tarnished around the edges. “M’customers aren’t so much impressed by size as pedigree,” he mused in a rusty voice. “Were it owned by someone famous, then?”
She had no idea. The mirror was one of the last pieces left that had belonged to her late husband. Nearly everything else had been returned to his family seat and the possession of his heir, or sold to pay off debts. The remaining pieces were sadly inferior, which was why she’d had to go to less reputable dealers to find a buyer.
Claire waved a hand. “Well, certainly it was owned by the affluent and powerful. Very likely, kings have regarded themselves in this glass.”
“Or at least those who fancied themselves royalty,” said a warm bass voice.
Words froze on her tongue. Mr. Devizes turned to glance behind them, then took a step back, closer to the mirror. “I thought you said this was to be a private sale. I didn’t come prepared to bid.”
Lord, please help me! Is he truly here? Every muscle in her body protested as she turned to find out. Just one look at that tall, powerful frame, and she felt her knees buckling.
No! She would not faint. Richard Everard already held her in the utmost contempt. She refused to let him see her least weakness. She did what she’d done since the day he’d abandoned her. She smiled—not too effusive, not too sweet—just a gentle upturn of the corners of her mouth, which most people took as approval.
“Good day, sir.” Her voice was equally calm and distant. Excellent. Surely she could do this. “Mr. Everard, isn’t it?”
One russet brow went up, whether in surprise or amusement, she wasn’t sure. Once she’d been able to read every thought in those deep brown eyes, every quirk of that gentle mouth. He had obviously grown skilled at hiding his feelings.
“Captain Everard,” he corrected her, but his nod was for the tradesman beside her. “Forgive the interruption, sir. The footman who answered my knock seemed to think I was expected.”
A logical assumption. Jones knew his mistress was expecting any number of furniture purveyors to make offers on the last items. The footman and her cook were only staying on at the house until they secured other posts. Claire was thankful for their loyalty, especially since she could no longer afford to pay them for their help.
Devizes licked his flabby lips, then glanced between Claire and the towering stranger. “Friend of yours then, your ladyship?”
How could she answer? Once she’d hoped for so much more.
“No,” Richard Everard said, and his gaze hardened. “I have business with the lady.”
“Twenty pounds,” Devizes barked out to Claire. “I was here first. I have rights.”
Claire glanced at Richard. So he would not even claim a friendship. Why did that hurt so much, after such a long time apart? And she certainly couldn’t imagine what business they had, unless he’d come about one of the other pieces. How absurd! What interest could a privateer turned merchant captain have in things like an old walnut secretary and a tarnished mirror?
But she’d also learned in the last few years to make the most of every opportunity, never knowing when another door would close. Richard might not be a friend, but he could be of use to her. Desperation made for strange companions.
“Fifty,” she said to the dealer.
“Fifty?” Devizes fairly sputtered. Then his eyes narrowed. “Thirty.”
Captain Everard was staring at her, but she didn’t care, much. She needed that money. It was the only way she might start over. “Forty-five.”
“Forty.”
“Forty-three, and I shall have it delivered.”
The dealer eyed her a moment more, then inclined his head. “Done. Payment when it is delivered.”
Claire gave him her reasonable smile. “But, sir, surely you don’t malign my character. Payment now will allow me to arrange delivery.”
“You might have her put that in writing,” Richard Everard said.
Why, the nerve! Well, she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of knowing that he’d hurt her yet again. “What an excellent suggestion, Mister…Captain Everard. I have parchment and a quill on the secretary.” She made her way carefully across the nearly empty room, hoping she was the only one who heard the angry footsteps under the whisper of her skirts against the bare wood floor.
“No, no,” Mr. Devizes protested, following her. “No need. I’ll take you at your word. I heard your father was an earl.”
Yes, he had been, though little good that had done her. Earls had expectations about whom their daughters should marry, expectations of how their daughters should comport themselves in society. And earls could not leave their titles or entailed property to anyone female in the line. That was one reason she was in such difficulty at the moment.
She turned once more, and the dealer, with a side glance at Richard, met her in the middle of the room. He took a bag from inside his rumpled brown coat and handed it to her. “That should cover it.”
And she was expected to be a lady and take him at his word as well. After all, ladies did not haggle with tradesmen. Sordid matters like finance were far below them. Unfortunately, too many gentlemen of her acquaintance had failed to live up to their words, and they had claimed to love her. Claire had no one to protect her but herself. And You, Lord. Thank You for never failing me!
“Oh, how kind,” she said to the dealer. “Let me just make sure. We wouldn’t want you to overpay, now, would we?”
Richard Everard crossed his arms over the chest of his black greatcoat as if she was inconveniencing him, and Mr. Devizes fairly danced with impatience. But she counted every coin, made sure the amount added up to the forty-three pounds he’d offered, slipped the money into a corner of the secretary for the moment and returned the bag to the dealer. The gold and silver glowed against the dark wood, but the gleam only reminded her of the future she’d planned, far away from her beloved London.
“I’ll have the mirror to your shop later today,” she promised as she walked Mr. Devizes to the sitting room door and out into the parquet-tiled entryway. Jones was elsewhere, so she opened the front door and watched the dealer descend the short flight of stairs to the Mayfair street. Outside, life went on. Ladies in flowered and ribboned bonnets strolled past, attended by strapping footmen; gentlemen rode by on horses with lineages better than hers. Soon, if things went as planned, she would leave them all behind.
But first she had to get rid of the past that had suddenly loomed up in front of her. She held the lacquered green door open and eyed Richard Everard where he stood in the doorway of the sitting room. That long, straight nose always made him look as if he were leaning forward, ready for anything. She didn’t feel nearly as ready.
“Please don’t let me detain you, Captain Everard,” she said. “Surely you have something more important to do than to accost me.”
He strolled toward her, and she stood taller. There—she’d succeeded in insulting him, and he’d leave as quickly as he’d arrived. She wouldn’t have to learn why he’d shown up at her door, what he thought he could say to her. She wouldn’t have to take the chance that her heart would break all over again. She could go back to dreaming of him and waking in the night wondering what might have been.
He reached up over her head with one large hand, took hold of the door and pulled it easily from her grip. It shut with a click.
“We must talk,” he said.
* * *
Richard watched as Claire’s blue eyes widened. Such a pale blue, as clear and bright as the sky on a winter’s morn. And just as cold, like the heart that beat in that