Chapter One
Williamsburg, Virginia
April, 1774
Murder would have been a kinder fate, Claire thought,
resisting the urge to chew on her lower lip. All of her
plans had been made around an assumption that had proven
to be overly optimistic. How could she have underestimated
her uncle's spiteful nature? She sighed quietly. There was
no point in chastising herself for shortsightedness.
There'd be plenty of time for that after she found a way
out of the ugly Byzantine maze her uncle had crafted.
If only she'd managed to sleep some the night before. She
needed a clear head, a mind that could wrest salvation
from thin air. But she'd spent the night pacing her rented
room, unable to think about anything except what a black-
hearted scoundrel her uncle was. And now all she had to
show for the effort was a brain that had all the power and
clarity of lukewarm oatmeal. Claire clenched her teeth.
"I hope, Mistress Curran, that you found your lodgings
suitable?"
Perched on the edge of the chair, Claire forced herself to
swallow past the tightness in her throat, took as deep a
breath as her stays permitted, and met the gaze of the man
standing behind the desk. "They're more than adequate for
my needs, Mr. Cantrell. I appreciate your thoughtfulness
and effort on my behalf."
The solicitor lifted a sheaf of papers, perused them
briefly, and then cast them down with a soft sigh. "It's
the least I can do under the circumstances. I'd like you
to form at least a favorable first impression of Virginia
hospitality. Devon isn't likely to be as concerned with
the warmth of your welcome."
Claire stared down at her lap.She didn't have to remove
her worn kid gloves to know that her primly laced fingers
had turned a ghostly white. Adjusting the drape of her
dress and flexing the blood back to her fingertips, she
said, "I'm no happier with the circumstances than Mr.
Rivard will be. If a way can be found to escape the
situation, I assure you that I'll do so."
Edmund Cantrell arched a pale brow and again picked up the
sheaf of papers lying on the desk. "He's not going to
believe that you're an innocent party in this affair.
You're aware of that, aren't you, Mistress Curran?"
She lifted her chin. "I had no knowledge of either the
nature or the contents of the letter before yesterday, and
I'll swear such before God. You yourself broke the seal."
"Please," the young solicitor hurried to inject. "I meant
no dishonor to you. I know your uncle by reputation, and
I'm quite sure that such perfidy is common to his business
practices. It's Devon who concerns me. He has a streak of
suspicion in him that's both wide and notorious. He won't
be as . . ." The man sighed and stared down at the papers
as he shook his head.
"As what, Edmund?"
Claire pivoted in the chair, turning toward the office
doorway and the direction from which the question had
come. A man stood framed within it, the dark curls on his
head only a scant distance from the top of the doorway, a
mere sliver of space existing between his massive
shoulders and the oaken sides of the jamb. The morning
light stood at his back and cast his facial features into
gray shadows. But she didn't have to see his face to guess
the expression he wore. She could tell much about his
state of mind by the broad stance he took in the doorway,
by the way he commanded the room into which he faced. He
was annoyed at having to be there, and he was determined
to dispatch the business at hand as quickly as possible.
She fixed her gaze on the desk before the affable Mr.
Cantrell and fought back the wave of panic that threatened
to propel her out of the chair, out of the office, down
the street, and into blissful oblivion. A sense of pending
doom settled over her shoulders even as she silently
prayed, Please, dear God, let this be some other man.
"As what, Edmund?" the stranger repeated, stepping across
the threshold and stripping the woolen greatcoat from his
shoulders. He turned toward the young man as though they
were the only occupants of the room. "Come now, I'm a busy
man and I don't have the time for parlor games."
Claire saw Edmund Cantrell rising to his full height and
squaring his shoulders. "I was about to say that you're
not nearly as understanding as I am."
Her heart sank with certainty.
Devon Rivard made a soft, dismissive sound before
replying, "Hardly a great revelation, Edmund. Your message
said it was a matter of great importance. Given the
weather this morning, it had better be."
"And it is, I assure you," Cantrell responded, sweeping
his hand in a wide gesture toward Claire. "May I introduce
Mistress Claire Curran, of London."
For a quick moment Claire considered correcting the
details of the introduction, to provide her former title
and her proper place of residence, but then just as
quickly decided against it. To be a lady trapped in a
situation of obviously lower, trading-class origins . . .
Besides, she admitted, the truth of what she was and where
she came from wouldn't make a bit of difference in the
larger, ugly scheme of things about to unfold. Without a
word, Claire rose to her feet with a wholly feigned aplomb.
The young attorney continued with the formalities,
saying, "Mistress Curran, may I present Mr. Devon Rivard,
owner of Rosewind and one of the region's preeminent
citizens."
"A compliment undeserved, I assure you," the newcomer said
smoothly, turning toward her with the most abbreviated of
bows.
He was a rakishly handsome man with sooty eyelashes that
framed eyes of darkest emerald, a mouth wide and full and
somehow mocking, the corners etched with lines that seemed
more faded than faint. Yet it was an intangible something
about him that knotted a cord deep in the center of her
chest. She named it fear and swallowed as best she could
around the lump rising in her throat.
His gaze skimmed the length of her, and she wondered if he
knew that her secondhand sack dress was three years past
fashionable and that she'd deepened the seams of the
bodice to fit her meager attributes. With what little
resolve she had remaining, Claire said, "It's a pleasure
to meet you, Mr. Rivard. I only wish that the
circumstances were of a different nature."
He lifted a dark brow while he offered her another brief
bow. "I can't consider unfortunate any circumstance which
brings such an attractive young woman into my company,
Mistress Curran."
She thought the slight curve of one side of his mouth
belied the compliment, and a flicker of ire coursed
through her veins. The sudden warmth steadied her knees
and strengthened her resolve. Claire dipped her chin ever
so slightly in the direction of Edmund Cantrell,
saying, "I believe you'll shortly abandon any such
thinking, sir."
To her relief, the sandy-haired young man cleared his
throat, lifted several pieces of parchment from his
desktop, and began, "Mistress Curran arrived in
Williamsburg late yesterday afternoon bearing sealed
correspondence from Mr. George Seaton-Smythe. You're
acquainted with the gentleman, are you not, Devon?"
Claire watched the tall American stride across the office
to toss his cloak over the back of an elegantly carved
chair. She judged his height to be at least six and two.
His boots were of soft black leather, rising to his knees
and conforming to his calves. His frock coat was well
tailored, the fit fashionably loose and covering the rest
of him from her perusal. Not that she needed to see any
more than she could. Everything about him spoke of a
powerful man quite used to getting his way. Claire quickly
moistened her lips and flexed her fingers at her sides.
"'Gentleman' is a term I'd use only loosely to describe
Seaton-Smythe," Rivard replied, his back to her and his
attorney. Folding his arms across his chest and fixing his
gaze on something beyond the window glass, he added, "I
know him only by reputation. The productions of my estate
are agented through another house."
Her heart racing, Claire took a long, deep breath, stared
at the carpet, and hoped that the attorney would make
short work of the ugly business at hand.
"It appears that Wyndom doesn't share your assessment of
the man," Edmund Cantrell continued. "On the fourth day of
January last he entered into a contract with--"
"For what sum?"
Claire heard the steely edge of anger. The strength ebbed
from her legs and she locked her knees before she could
collapse into the chair behind her.
"Two thousand pounds sterling," answered the attorney, his
voice soft in an apparent effort to ease the harshness of
the truth. "According to Seaton-Smythe, Wyndom has been
either unwilling or unable to repay the debt."
"Tell me, Edmund . . . Did Seaton-Smythe have the gall to
pretend that he ever expected my besotted brother to
conduct himself honorably?"
Cantrell quietly cleared his throat and went on. "Mr.
Seaton-Smythe has offered three alternatives for
correcting the unfortunate situation. As his first offer,
he suggests that you permit him to legally attach your
present and future consignments until the debt is paid in
full. Should that be unacceptable, then he suggests that
you pay the entire amount, in sterling. Mistress Curran is
to act as the courier."
Rivard broadened his stance and didn't look away from the
window as he asked, "And the third . . . alternative?"
Again Cantrell cleared his throat before he spoke. Claire
closed her eyes as she listened to him reply, "Mr. Seaton-
Smythe has offered to cancel the debt upon delivery of
legal proof of your marriage to his niece." Cantrell drew
a long breath. "The same Mistress Claire Curran."
She heard the slow measure of Rivard's turn, felt the heat
of his attention boring through her. Swallowing back the
bitter taste of mortal embarrassment, Claire opened her
eyes and met his gaze. Never in all her days had she seen
such loathing, such unadulterated hatred in a man's eyes.
She opened her mouth to speak, but couldn't make a sound.
"Mistress Curran wishes to find some manner of evading the
proposal," the young attorney offered in hasty rescue.
"Oh?" Rivard drawled, both dark brows slanting
derisively. "Do you have two thousand pounds sterling on
your person, Mistress Curran?"
The cold mockery of his tone stole what precious little
air remained in her lungs. She shook her head mutely.
"Have you, mistress, any property you'd be willing to
forfeit for payment of my brother's debt?"
The sun-warmed stones of Crossbridge Manor shimmered
bright before her mind's eye. But Uncle George holds the
title. Her eyes aching from the threat of angry tears,
Claire again shook her head.
"If I might be permitted to offer a possible solution?"
Edmund gently interceded. "Seaton-Smythe has offered to
cancel the debt upon the receipt of proof of your
marriage. He made no stipulations regarding the nature of
that union or the duration. Perhaps . . ."
"A divorce?" Rivard supplied, quirking one brow and
smiling. "An intriguing idea, Edmund."
The young attorney stared blankly at the top of his desk
and shook his head in slow disagreement. "Intriguing, yes,
but with attendant difficulties, Devon. As you well know,
Virginia lacks the power to grant them, and so the case
must be made in England itself. Additionally, acceptable
grounds are very narrow and would cause the both of you
permanent social scars. I was thinking of a slightly less
scandalous way out of the marriage contract. One that we
can manage in our own house, so to speak."
"An annulment?" Claire heard herself ask in a stunned
whisper. "Are you suggesting that the marriage be annulled
after my uncle has pardoned the debt?"
"Not too terribly honorable, I know," Edmund replied. "But
it would be escape without complete social ruination."
Devon Rivard's gaze swept her from head to hem, contempt
shining in his eyes and twisting his lips into a cruel
smile. "And how quickly the lady thought of it."
The sound of his scorn ignited fires she'd thought
carefully and safely banked. The words escaped before she
could stop them. "How dare you, sir, cast aspersions on my
character. You know nothing of me or my circumstances."
She lifted her chin and appraised him in much the same
manner as he had her only a moment before. "I'd rather bed
the Devil himself than consider marriage to such a self-
consumed fool."
He cocked a brow in slow consideration. Deep within his
eyes a flame kindled. "You speak of your circumstances,"
he said, his voice soft and yet somehow sharply cutting.
She wouldn't explain anything to him. She'd go to
Crossbridge Manor--somehow--and do what she could to sort
out the disaster her life had become. Stepping around the
chair, Claire took her cloak from the wall peg, saying as
she did, "I owe you no accounting, Mr. Rivard. And I'll
give you none. Seek a solution to your dilemma as best you
can, but don't expect me to be a party to it." She draped
the woolen cloth over her shoulders and, while fastening
the frog at the neck, added, "I'll make arrangements to
return to London as soon as possible. If you wish for me
to bear your payment to my uncle, please see that it's
delivered to my lodgings before I depart Williamsburg. Mr.
Cantrell knows where to find me."
She turned to find the attorney staring at her, his blue
eyes large in his face. "Mr. Cantrell," she said, dropping
her chin in polite acknowledgment, "I sincerely appreciate
your kindness and--"
"And how is it that you intend to pay for your passage
back to London?" Rivard asked, his tone no kinder than
before.
She turned to glare at him. His arms were once again
crossed over his chest, but he had shifted his stance so
that he rested his weight casually on one leg. The gaze
that met hers was cool and distant. "Perhaps you acquired
some jewelry from the woman who gave you that god-awful
gown?" he ventured before she could reply. "Might you be
planning to sell a bit of it for your ship passage?" His
words struck her like a fist. Her throat tightened and she
willed back the hot torrent of words. To speak would
unleash angry tears and she would never give him that
satisfaction. "It doesn't matter on which side of the
Atlantic you stand," he continued, both his tone and the
light within his eyes hardening. "George Seaton-Smythe has
the reputation of a wharf rat. That you're of some blood
relation to him counts against you. On the other hand,
that you're obviously a poor and utterly disposable member
of his family speaks in your behalf. He didn't send you
here and offer you for sacrifice just to rid himself of an
undowered, crumb-gobbling relative. What's his true
intent?"
Copyright 2002 by Leslie Lafoy