SECRET HEARTS
By Alice Duncan
(I wanted to call this book DIME NOVEL, but was thwarted by the powers that be, as usual. Not only that, but because of the cover art, I had to shave off the hero’s mustache! That’s how much control we authors have over our work. Well, I assume Stephen King, et al., are allowed some control, but the rest of us are pretty much dirt.)
Secret Hearts
Copyright 1997 by Alice Duncan
All rights reserved.
Published 1997 by Dell Publishing,
A division of Bantam Doubleday Dell Publishing Group, Inc.
Smashwords Edition September 2, 2009
Visit aliceduncan.net
Chapter 1
Bullets
whined through the still morning air, striking with alarming accuracy
the boulder behind which Tuscaloosa Tom Pardee huddled
hunkered. War whoops and vicious curses rent the air. The woman
cowering next to Tom wept piteously.
“We know you’re there Tuscaloosa Tom!” a whiskey-voiced malefactor exclaimed.
“Ah, but goodness and right are on my side,” Tom declared stoutly. “You, villains, are the devil’s spawn!” He punctuated his declaration with a volley from his trusty firearm.
“Oh, Tom!” the woman sobbed.
“Fear nothing,” the heroic man assured her. “I will rescue you!”
“I know you cannot fail me,” Miss Abigail Faithgood choked out, flinching at each new auditory assault upon her senses. Oh, my, she was frightened! Yet she knew—she knew—Tom would not fail her. He had never failed in his life.
Suddenly, with a bloodcurdling howl, an Indian brave leapt from the boulder above them to confront Tom, the feathers in his headdress bristling, his war paint vivid in the noonday sun. Miss Abigail Faithgood screamed.
Without flinching, Tom . . . Tom . . .
“Tom what?” Chewing on the end of her pen and patting at the hair coiled over her left ear, Claire Montague stared at the paper on her desk. “Botheration. And how can it be a clear morning if it’s noon?”
“Miss Montague?”
Claire jerked in alarm, and the pen dropped from her fingers to clatter on the blotter. She hadn’t heard the door open. Well, why should she? She herself had oiled those hinges faithfully every single Monday of her life for ten years now.
“Good heavens, Scruggs, you frightened me to death.”
The butler’s lugubrious expression lengthened. “I beg your pardon, Miss Montague. But he’s here.” Scruggs sounded as though he were reporting the arrival of Doom. “His carriage just drew up outside.”
Claire’s hand flew to her throat. She didn’t need to ask who he was. Her palpitating heart thundered so violently that for a second she feared for her consciousness. She pulled herself together. This reaction was absurd; she knew it.
“Thank you, Scruggs. I shall descend immediately.”
“Very good, ma’am. Mrs. Philpott is preparing refreshments.” Scruggs’ face, which Claire often thought more nearly resembled that of a morose moose than anything else, disappeared.
Mrs. Philpott was the cook, and Claire suspected she was at this moment weeping into her teakettle. With a big sigh, she rose from her desk, slipped her work in progress into its special drawer, and locked it away with the key she kept on a chain around her neck.
Composing herself with some effort—after all, it wasn’t every day one met the man of one’s dreams, the man who haunted one’s every daylight hour and filled one’s nights with alluring fantasies—Claire stood up straight and tall; entirely too tall, in fact. For at least the thousandth time, she regretted her unladylike inches. Oh, well. There was nothing she could do about them. Patting her severe hairstyle once more to make sure no intemperate strands poked out, she adopted her best housekeeperish expression.
Then, gulping an enormous breath for courage, she walked out of her room and prepared to greet the new master of Partington Place.
# # #
Tom Partington wished it wasn’t so blasted dark. He’d love to get a glimpse of his new home. But it had been twilight when his rented coach barreled him through Marysville. The night was black as pitch now and raining fit to kill besides. A couple of his many old wounds had begun to ache earlier and now throbbed in earnest. Tom was used to pain, though. Besides, nothing could subdue the excitement bubbling within him tonight.
Oh, he knew life was what one made of it. And he certainly didn’t expect to be handed anything else on a silver platter any time soon. Once was plenty; more than life generally offered a fellow, in Tom’s experience.
Excitement gripped him, though. There was something about this place that made one dare to dream: an atmosphere of unrefined excitement. Confidence bubbled in the air. This land wasn’t so much raw as it was undaunted. The clinging vine of civilization had yet to choke the life out of California, and the climate fairly vibrated with energy.
Tom felt a liveliness here—had felt it as soon as his ship docked in San Francisco. The atmosphere wasn’t like that of the cities back home: stifled, stuffy, lifeless. There was something in the wind here that felt like a promise, if not of hope fulfilled, then at least of hope eagerly pursued. It was a promise that assured him that if he couldn’t achieve his dream, he could damned well chase it for all he was worth. Tom had never felt so optimistic in his life.
Staring into the impenetrable night, he couldn’t keep the smile from his face. It had been there ever since he’d learned the terms of his uncle Gordon’s will. Tom still couldn’t quite believe the old buzzard had left his entire fortune to him.
When the carriage slowed, he couldn’t even wait for the horses to come to a full stop before he pushed the door open and jumped out. His bad leg gave a tremendous throb when he landed on the graveled walkway, but Tom didn’t care. He took the steps to the grand double doors of his new house—house, hell! It was a damned mansion!—two at a time, and yanked the bell pull with an exuberance he hadn’t felt in years.
Several minutes passed and Tom was on the verge of tugging on the pull again, when the door creaked open. A man who looked as though he’d walked straight out of an Edgar Allan Poe story peered at him. Tom figured him for the butler.
Silence reigned for several seconds before Tom broke it with a broad smile and said, “Hello, there. I’m Tom Partington.”
The ghoulish man took a step backwards and pulled the door open. “Please come inside, sir.”
So Tom did. In spite of the butler’s gloomy demeanor, Tom’s sunny mood prevailed. “Thanks. It’s cold as the dickens out there.”
Claire stopped at the top of the wide staircase, the voice at the front door having momentarily stunned her. It couldn’t have been more perfect if she’d selected it herself. Deep and resonant, a rich, pure Alabama drawl, it touched Claire in places she’d never dared hope would be touched.
She devoutly prayed the face, frame and character that went with the voice would not disappoint. After all, she’d often been told photographs did not tell one the entire story. Claire had invariably laughed and said she provided her own stories, but tonight was different. She wanted former Brevet General Thomas Gordon Partington to live up to her expectations more than she’d ever wanted anything in her life, barring a genteel background and great literary talent. She already knew those two commodities had been denied her.
Drawing in one more deep breath and exhaling it slowly, Claire put her hand on the polished banister and began her descent.
“Miss Montague will be with you in a moment, General Partington,” the butler said drearily. “She will see you to your room.”
“Mister Partington will do quite well,” Tom said, trying to keep the acid out of his voice. He looked around the foyer of his new home and nearly laughed out loud when he saw the fancy Oriental carpet and all the polished wood and marble. Great God, this was fantastic! He’s scraped and slaved and saved for fifteen years now, hoping he’d one day be able to afford even a small place to call his own and now, in a few magnanimous strokes of his late uncle’s pen, he’d been handed all this!
“Very good, sir.”
Tom thought the fellow sounded as though he were agreeing to commit murder. “And what is your name, my good man?”
“Scruggs, sir.”
Just Scruggs? Oh well, who was Tom to argue? Anyway, it didn’t matter. “Just Scruggs” was his butler now. His very own butler. Hah!
“Right, Scruggs. Well, will you please take my coat and hat somewhere? They’re dripping onto the carpet.” And what a carpet it was! Tom knew absolutely nothing about carpets, but he’d seldom stood on anything this thick. And it was his! His, his, his! With difficulty, he checked an exultant laugh.
“Very good, sir.”
Shaking his head, Tom watched as Scruggs bore his coat and hat away as though each item weighed a thousand pounds. Good grief, what kind of people had Uncle Gordon employed here, anyway?
On the other hand, what the hell did he care? After all, he was rich as Croesus now, thanks to Uncle Gordo. And, as Tom had been dirt poor all his life in spite of the Fine Old Family Name, the change delighted him. Not even that death’s-head butler could blight his happiness.
He heard the stairway creak. Looking up quickly, he discerned a tall, elegant, albeit severe-looking, female making her way down the staircase.
Aha, the housekeeper. Tom had heard about her. According to the letters Uncle Gordon had written to Tom’s mother, people in the town of Pyrite Springs had at first been quite scandalized about the relationship between old Uncle Gordo and his housekeeper, Miss Montague. They’d soon gotten over it.
Peering at the woman descending the staircase toward him, Tom had a hard time crediting the rumors. Unless his uncle’s taste had improved since Gordon’s fallen in love with Tom’s mother, this woman seemed entirely too majestic a female to have been the focus of salacious gossip linking the two of them. Maybe the citizens of Pyrite Springs possessed lively imaginations.
This creature certainly did not appear to be the stuff of romantic tales. Granted, her features were fine, her nose small and straight, and her mouth quite prettily shaped. Still, she appeared quellingly rigid. Also, across her face spectacles glittered in the lamplight, and she wore her hair in a dreadful style, braided and coiled into two tight little knots above her ears. Her hair reminded Tom of a pair of rattlesnakes about to strike, although that thought was undoubtedly the product of too many years on the frontier.
Nevertheless, he had been reared to be polite to ladies, no matter how regal their manners and no matter how far his life had divided him from his gracious youth. He walked to the foot of the stairs and smiled.
“Miss Montague?”
“Yes,” Claire breathed. “I am she.”
Good heavens, the man was perfection. His limp, though barely perceptible, hinted of gallant deeds and suffering. His blond hair was just a bit too long for fashion but perfect for him, and it glimmered like gold in the candlelight. That famous mustache of his outlined lips too beautiful for words; although God and the whole country knew Claire had used enough of them in her many feeble attempts to do them justice. His eyes were blue as cornflowers. In this dim light, she could barely perceive their color, but their size, depth, and luminosity were spectacular. And his smile. Claire swallowed. His smile could melt a heart of ice.
Southern gentleman, fearless soldier, brave frontiersman. Brevet General Thomas G. Partington was the living personification of Tuscaloosa Tom Pardee. Claire very nearly fainted. Taking several careful, deep breaths, she spared herself the indignity of tumbling down the staircase and landing insensate at his feet, but managed to negotiate the few last steps with a modicum of dignity.
Her hand shook when she extended it to accept his and he helped her into the foyer. Good heavens.
Dianthe, she thought suddenly—a little sadly. I must introduce him to Dianthe. They were made for each other.
“You are Claire Montague? My uncle’s housekeeper?”
“Yes. Yes, I am the housekeeper,” Claire replied breathlessly.
“Good. I’m very pleased to meet you. Mister—er—Scruggs told me you’d show me around my new home.”
Claire told herself sternly to get a grip on her senses. At the moment, they were fluttering in her middle like deranged butterflies. This would never do.
She tried on a smile and decided it fit. “I should be happy to do so, sir. It’s such a chilly, rainy night, though, perhaps you would like to take tea in the parlor first. I believe Mrs. Philpott, the cook, is already preparing refreshments. I’ll be happy to tell you about your new home over a cup of tea before we attempt a grand tour.”
If she didn’t faint and drown in her own teacup. For a woman with such a dull exterior, Claire often thought the fates had teased her most unkindly when they’d given her these exalted sensibilities. She maintained her smile, though, and tried her best to appear unruffled. In truth, she’d never been so ruffled.
“Thank you. I would like a chance to dry out and have a nip of—something.”
“Yes, well, please follow me, Mister—General—oh, dear.”
Well, so much for aplomb. Claire could feel heat rise to stain her cheeks.
“‘Mister’ will do nicely, thank you, Miss Montague.” Tom paused. “It is Miss Montague?”
Flustered, surprised he’d even bothered to ask, Claire murmured, “Yes. Yes, it is.” Then, impulsively, she added, “You see, Mr. Partington, your uncle spoke so glowingly of you that we denizens of Partington Place have become quite used to thinking of you as the Young General.”
“My uncle was, I’m afraid, much given to exaggeration, Miss Montague.”
Surprised by his tone of voice, which sounded exceedingly dry, Claire decided she’d best not respond lest she say something inappropriate. Opening the door to the parlor, she stepped aside and allowed her new employer to enter before her. She hoped he’d like the way she’d kept the house up. Even though her obligations to her publisher and her readers took a good deal of her time, Claire had always put her responsibilities as housekeeper at Partington Place above all else and hoped desperately to keep her job. Partington Place was her home. She was also proud of her skill at housekeeping because it was one at which she excelled, in spite of her tawdry origins.
Tom looked around the room with apparent interest. Claire trusted he would not object to the dried flower arrangement she’d set on the side table. The late Mr. Partington had enjoyed her attempts at flower arranging, but she had no idea what other men might appreciate. The only men she’d ever known in her life until Mr. Partington employed her were her father and her brother, neither one of whom counted.
Claire was so nervous it was an effort to keep her hands demurely clasped in front of her. They wanted to wring one another in agitation.
“This room is quite charming, Miss Montague,” Tom said, making Claire’s knees go weak with relief. “I expect your influence has held sway in Partington Place? I can’t imagine Uncle Gordon having this much taste.”
Surprised, Claire blinked several times before she managed to say, “Oh, no, General—I mean, Mister—Partington, the late Mr. Partington had exquisite taste. He was a man of the most refined sensibilities.”
“Really?” Tom leveled a perfectly gorgeous smile at her, and Claire’s hands tightened around each other.
Swallowing, she said, “Yes, indeed. He was a most worthy gentleman.”
A knock sounded at the door, and Claire blessed the interruption as she dashed to open it. Sure enough, it was Mrs. Philpott. Claire noticed the poor old cook’s swollen, red-rimmed eyelids, and gave her a commiserating smile as she took the tea tray.
Claire had already promised the cook she wouldn’t introduce the new master until the following day when, Mrs. Philpott assured Claire, she would certainly have stopped weeping. Claire hoped so, although she didn’t dare be too optimistic. Mrs. Philpott went through life as though pursued by her own personal storm cloud. No matter what the circumstances, Mrs. Philpott could find something to worry about.
“Here’s your tea, Mr. Partington. Do you care for cream and sugar?” Pleased that her voice sounded steady, Claire dared smile at the devastatingly handsome man staring at the portrait of his uncle hanging over the fireplace.
He turned and smiled back, making Claire catch her breath and turn her attention to the tea things.
“Thank you, Miss Montague. I do take cream and sugar. One lump, please. I can understand why my uncle spoke so highly of you. You’re a veritable paragon of housekeeperish virtues.”
Claire’s “Thank you” sounded squeaky to her ears. She picked up Tom’s teacup and prayed her hand wouldn’t shake.
He murmured another polite, “Thank you,” took the cup, and Claire was pleased to note she hadn’t spilled a drop.
“Tell me, Miss Montague,” he said after a sip of tea, “do you have any idea why my uncle left me this place?”
Startled, Claire said, “Why, no, sir. I just assumed it was because you were his only nephew.”
“Hmmmm. No, he has others.”
“I’m afraid I wasn’t in the late Mr. Partington’s confidence when it came to his personal financial matters.”
With a grin, Tom said, “No? Well, perhaps it doesn’t matter.”
“I do know that he held you in the greatest esteem, though.” Claire was shy about telling him that, but felt compelled to do so.
“Did he now?”
“Yes, indeed. Why, he read me every one of the newspaper accounts of your career.” Claire stopped speaking suddenly, as though unsure she should have divulged so much.
“Ah, yes, the reporters,” Tom said dryly. “Many’s the times I was forced to save some citified newspaper man from his own folly.” He took another gulp of tea. “Tell me, Miss Montague, I know the estate grounds are extensive. I’m interested in pursuing certain—oh—business matters, and wondered if you knew the exact acreage.”
Tom put his teacup down on an end table, reached into his coat and with a smooth, elegant gesture, withdrew a slim cigar. Claire watched, eyes widening. That was it!
Without flinching, Tom reached inside his fringed buckskin garment and withdrew a slender dagger. With one swift, graceful lunge, he dispatched the ferocious brave. Miss Abigail Faithgood screamed.
“Miss Montague?”
With a start, Claire realized Tom had just spoken to her. “Oh! I’m so sorry, sir. My mind wandered momentarily.” Good heavens, the man would think she was demented if she kept this up. Frantically, Claire fought for composure.
Tom watched Claire’s mental struggles wage themselves on her expressive face and revised his initial impression of her. Miss Claire Montague might be a sobersides and she might favor a dreary hairstyle and boring garb, but she certainly was not dull. In fact, Tom had seldom seen such an animated countenance. She seemed quite charming, in fact, and not nearly as stuffy as his first impression had led him to believe. He gestured her into a chair and sat himself down on the sofa, trying not to sprawl.
“Do you have any idea what the full acreage encompassed by Partington Place is, Miss Montague?” he asked again gently.
“No. No, I’m afraid I don’t. But I’m sure Mr. Silver, the late Mr. Partington’s man of business, will be happy to go over all that with you. He has agreed to visit you tomorrow morning if it suits you.”
“That will be wonderful. Thank you.”
Claire took an agitated sip of tea and Tom wondered what the matter was. All at once it hit him why she must be so nervous. Of course. What a fool he was. But, hell, he wasn’t used to dealing with servants.
“Miss Montague, I would like to reassure you that I don’t plan to make any staff changes immediately, if at all. My uncle got along quite well with you, Scruggs, the cook and the rest of the employees here at the Place, and I’m sure I shall do the same.”
She looked relieved, and Tom was pleased.
“Thank you, Mr. Partington. I fear Mrs. Philpott was quite worried about losing her situation. In truth, while she is a good, plain cook, she does rather lack experience in more extensive presentations.”
“More extensive presentations?” What the hell did that mean?
“Well, if you were to invite your friends in for a gala ball or a theatrical evening, or some other affair of that nature, you see, she’s worried that she won’t be able to cope. I tried to assure her that any family chef accustomed to cooking for a single gentleman would need help under those circumstances, and to remind her that the late Mr. Partington used to hire people from the village for parties. Mrs. Philpott, however, seemed determined that you would expect her to be able to create elaborate pastries and ice sculptures on an every-day basis.”
“Good God.”
“I mean, I’m sure a gentleman such as you must be used to entertaining on a grand scale, but I believe Mrs. Philpott can handle your day-to-day requirements if they aren’t terribly elaborate. And even parties, with help.”
“What makes you think I’m used to giving big parties, Miss Montague?” Tom asked, genuinely curious. “I’ve been living on the frontier for fifteen years.”
“Oh.”
She was obviously startled by his brusque question, and Tom wished he’d phrased it more delicately. That was what came of living in the rough, he reckoned, and vowed to try to conduct himself more appropriately, as befitted his new station in life.
“I beg your pardon, Miss Montague. I didn’t mean to sound so blunt. But I can assure both you and Mrs. Philpott that I am not in the habit of entertaining—on any scale at all. Nor do I have a bevy of friends who will expect it of me.”
Good Lord on high, the buffalo hunters, half-breed scouts, and mule skinners he’d been associating with for the past several years would probably faint dead away if they even set foot in this mansion. And, after taking a good whiff of them, undoubtedly Miss Claire Montague would join them. Tom suppressed his chuckle at the image his thought evoked.
“I see. Well, then that’s fine.” Claire looked at him over her teacup, a puzzled expression on her face. Her spectacles gave her a grave, studious look, strangely appealing to Tom. He had an urge to tease her out of it.
“You seem surprised, Miss Montague.”
“I suppose I am, actually.” Her studious expression intensified. “I mean—well, your uncle used to love relating tales of your derring-do, Mr. Partington, but he also indicated you were used to fairly lavish entertainments when you got back to civilization from the wild frontier.”
Tom shook his head in disgust. He couldn’t help it. “As I said, Miss Montague, my uncle was given to exaggeration.”
“Was he really?”
She looked at him, big-eyed beneath those lenses of hers, as though he’d just denied the existence of God, and Tom was momentarily taken aback. Curious, he asked, “Just what did my uncle say about me?”
Peering at him earnestly, Claire said, “Mr. Partington, your uncle was so proud of you. He followed your career with great interest. He cut out every newspaper article and magazine reference he could find, and read letters from your—oh, dear.”
“From my mother?” Tom gave her an understanding smile. “It’s all right, Miss Montague. Uncle Gordon’s undying love was probably my mother’s greatest pleasure in life. I’m aware that they corresponded regularly.”
He could tell she was relieved when a big sigh gusted from her, making her seem much less austere than before.
“I’m so glad. I didn’t want to—to make any indiscreet references.” Obviously embarrassed, Claire took another sip of tea.
With a little chuckle, he said, “And if he read you her letters, I’m not surprised you believed me to be a hero.”
Claire opened and shut her mouth twice, then took another sip of tea. “At any rate, Mr. Partington, your uncle Gordon used to delight in telling me tales about you. He thought the world of you.”
“I’m not sure I liked his way of showing it,” Tom muttered sourly. Then he recalled that he was now sitting in the parlor of this very lavish estate—his, only because of Uncle Gordo’s generosity, or, more probably, guilt—and he sighed. “I beg your pardon. I didn’t mean to sound churlish. I gather you and my uncle were, ah, great friends.”
“Yes, indeed, Mr. Partington. The late Mr. Partington was very kind to me. He took me on—that is to say, he hired me—ten years ago, knowing I hadn’t a particle of housekeeping experience. We became more in the nature of father and daughter, I suppose, than employer and employee.” She heaved a tiny sigh. “He was a kind man, and I miss him very much. He used to absolutely delight in sharing your adventures with me.”
She looked at him shyly, and Tom felt a tiny twitch of tenderness in his heart.
“I would carry the tales of your exciting adventures to the kitchen and regale Mrs. Philpott and Scruggs with them. They were every bit as fascinated by them as I was.”
Oh, Lord. This was worse than Tom thought. On the other hand, he decided, taking another look around, he guessed he could stand it. He settled for a short, “I see,” and decided to drop the subject.
They drank tea in silence for a few more minutes. Tom said, “Are you, Scruggs and Mrs. Philpott the only . . . employees on the estate, Miss Montague?” Unused to having dependents, Tom wasn’t entirely certain what to call them.
“Good heavens, no, Mr. Partington. Why, there are two housemaids, Sally and Dolores—we call her Dolly—a chief gardener, Mr. Hodges, his two helpers, Carlos and Rodrigo, and a host of people who work on the farm. Mr. Silver can explain the workings of the farm to you, I suppose. I’m afraid my expertise is limited to the house itself.” Peering demurely into her teacup, she added somewhat bashfully, “And the garden.”
“I see. Well, Miss Montague, if you’re through with your tea, perhaps you wouldn’t mind taking me on a tour of my new home.”
Claire put her cup and saucer down with a clank and popped up from her chair. “Certainly, Mr. Partington. Nothing would give me greater pleasure.”
Good grief. If that were true, she must lead an extraordinarily dull life. But, no. It was probably an empty social cliché and not to be taken seriously. Thinking he really should have studied civilization for a few more days before he tried living in it, Tom followed Claire Montague out of Uncle Gordon’s parlor.
No. His parlor. Tom sighed with satisfaction.
# # #
Claire escaped from Tom Partington’s company as soon as she could. Not that she didn’t find him utterly fascinating; he was all too fascinating for her peace of mind, in fact. It’s just that being in the company of the real Tuscaloosa Tom Pardee had inspired her to greater heights of literary fancy than she ever could have imagined even two or three hours ago.
With a feeling bordering on ecstasy, she sat at her desk and unlocked her special drawer. Pulling out the manuscript of her latest dime novel, she bent industriously to her task, writing far into the night. Even when she finally forced herself to climb into her bed and pull the quilt up to her chin, she stared at her ceiling, too excited to sleep.
He had come at last. And he was everything Claire had hoped he would be. More. Polite, handsome, cultured, elegant: He was absolutely perfect.
# # #
Tom pulled out every drawer and opened every cupboard in the library and then in the pantry before he found a bottle containing distilled spirits. He took it into the library with him and, after staring at the label in bemusement for several seconds, poured himself a stiff one.
Lifting his glass, he saluted his uncle’s portrait. “To you, Uncle Gordo, damn your eyes.” After a big swallow and a shudder, he added, “Good God. Why on earth did you ever start drinking cognac?”
His tour of his new home had been unremarkable except that Tom felt like pinching himself every now and then to make sure he was awake and this wasn’t a dream spawned by years of back-breaking work and desperate wishes.
He’d also found himself enjoying the company of Miss Claire Montague. Oh, it’s true she was starchy, reserved and majestic. Still, she seemed remarkably efficient and she hadn’t appeared to be offended by his occasional gaffes. Like when he’d called his “boudoir” the dressing room. Or when he’d asked, when shown the wine cellar, if his uncle hadn’t kept any regular booze around the place.
He guessed he had a lot about gracious living to get used to. He’d manage, though. Sighing deeply, he sank into an armchair, still gazing at his uncle’s portrait. His contented expression gave way to a frown after another sip of the fine, aged cognac.
Tom knew the old story, about how Gordon Partington had wooed the beautiful belle, Melinda Grace Hartwell and how, on the eve of their engagement party, Gordon’s dashing older brother, Grant, had swept Melinda off her feet.
Tom often thought marrying his father wasn’t the brightest thing his mother had ever done. Of course, marrying his mother wasn’t the brightest thing his father had ever done, either. But then, Tom was a practical person, unlike either of his parents. God alone knew how he’d managed to end up that way; must be a throwback to an earlier generation.
Barring his love for Tom’s mother, Uncle Gordon had been practical, too, and he’d done really well for himself. Tom’s gaze swept the room yet again. The furnishings of this room alone were worth more than his parents’ entire household in Alabama; Tom would bet anything on it if he were a betting man. Being the practical person he was, however, Tom didn’t gamble.
It was practicality that had seen him into the army even though he knew the Confederacy was doomed. He’d had to get away from home, and the army was the only way he could see to do it without breaking his parents’ hearts. They, being the fanciful, addle-pated fools they were, had thought he was being noble.
Tom rested his head on the back of the chair and stared moodily at the ceiling. Noble! Lord. Well, he guessed his old uncle Gordo had thought he was noble, too. Why on earth else would he have left him this magnificent estate?
Now Tom would have to figure out how to help his parents without giving them money outright. If he simply handed them cash, they’d fritter it away, sure as anything. With a heavy sigh, he decided he’d tackle that problem later. Right now he planned to wallow in fine cognac and newly acquired riches.
And horses. Tom grinned as he contemplated Jedediah Silver’s visit on the morrow. Silver would be able to tell him if his dream were doomed or if Tom could at last indulge his fondest wish.
Good old Uncle Gordo. Even if he had made Tom’s life miserable in some respects, the old fellow had certainly done him a good turn by leaving him his estate and his fortune. Perhaps unrequited love, the very thought of which stirred Tom’s pragmatic soul to wry amusement, wasn’t such an idiotic waste after all. It had benefited Tom Partington, for a pure fact.
Tom pulled out another slim cheroot, sipped his cognac, and wrinkled his nose. The wretched stuff had probably cost a damned fortune. With a grin, he decided he could get used to it.
Chapter 2
At Tom’s request, Claire took breakfast with him at eight o’clock the following morning. She was in the dining room, in fact, when Tom pushed the door open. Claire looked up eagerly—and dropped her fork.
“You shaved off your mustache!”
Tom stopped dead in the doorway and blinked at her, obviously startled. Claire was too shocked to be appalled by her shrill bellow.
How could he have done such a dastardly thing? Why, Tuscaloosa Tom Pardee’s mustache was dashing! It was gorgeous! It was what distinguished Tuscaloosa Tom from a thousand other, inferior, frontier scouts! How in the name of heaven could he have shaved it off? She suppressed an impulse to surge from her chair and pummel him.
“I beg your pardon?”
Tom’s puzzled voice gradually penetrated Claire’s rage and astonishment, and she realized she’d just shrieked at her employer. Immediately, she felt her cheeks get hot, and she knew she’d turned beet-red. Good heavens, what on earth was she thinking of? She sucked in a deep breath. She hadn’t thought at all, was the problem.
With the cheerless knowledge that her breeding had again blindsided her, Claire tore her gaze away from her employer’s naked face and bowed her head. “I’m so sorry, Mr. Partington. I don’t know what possessed me to shout at you in that unseemly way. Please forgive me.”
Humiliation still burned her cheeks. Claire wouldn’t have been surprised if he’d fired her on the spot. She was, therefore, doubly amazed when she heard his throaty chuckle. Although she feared what she might see, she dared lift her head a fraction and looked at him.
He’d recovered from his shock at her indiscreet shout, and was grinning broadly as he headed to the sideboard and began heaping his plate with food. “Sorry to startle you, Miss Montague. Didn’t know anyone would miss it.”
Didn’t know anyone would miss it? Good heavens, Claire loved that mustache. She’d written about it endlessly. Depending on the circumstances her hero faced, that dashing mustache of his bristled or drooped or lifted or dripped or sparkled with ice crystals in winter. Claire swallowed hard. “I beg your pardon, Mr. Partington. How foolish you must think me.” She tried to laugh, but a laugh wouldn’t come. He’d shaved off his mustache. Claire could hardly stand it.
# # #
As breakfast progressed, however, Claire, who kept shooting surreptitious peeks at Tom’s face, decided her world might not be over yet. In truth, his mouth, which was a work of art in itself, actually looked quite good without the frame of its famous mustache. In fact, Claire discovered herself staring in a most unbecoming manner at his lips. She frowned and tore her gaze away. There was her low breeding again, exhibiting itself in an indelicate way just when she least expected it.
Well, she’d overcome her background before, and she could continue to do so. Claire told herself to stop being foolish and concentrate on efficiency. Efficiency is what Mr. Partington expected of her, and efficiency she would give him.
“Mr. Silver will be arriving at ten, Mr. Partington.” She took a bite of ham, although she really was too nervous to be hungry. Merely being in the same room with this man, this ideal of her heart, made her stomach flutter.
His spectacular blue eyes sparkled at her from across the table. His mustache, Claire thought with a pang, would have drooped just enough to give him the air of an antebellum Southern gentleman getting ready to ride to hounds. Somewhat grudgingly, she decided he carried the air off rather well even without the mustache. Also, his broad shoulders filled the master’s chair much more fully than had his uncle’s. Claire decided maybe she didn’t miss his mustache too much after all. She tried not to stare.
The breakfast room was much more intimate a chamber than the dining room. It had the capacity to seat only twelve people easily. This morning, with her senses completely overwrought, Claire would have felt more comfortable with twenty feet of mahogany between herself and her new employer, especially since she’d already managed to make a complete fool of herself before the day had barely begun.
“I’m looking forward to meeting him, Miss Montague. I have all sorts of questions to ask.”
“I’m sure you will find him very forthcoming, Mr. Partington. The late Mr. Partington said he’d found a treasure in Jedediah Silver.”
“I’m certain he said the same of his housekeeper,” Tom offered gallantly, making Claire blush like a schoolgirl.
She sputtered something incomprehensible and felt like an idiot. What a noble soul he was, to say such a thing after her behavior only minutes earlier! Claire guessed she could survive without his mustache so much after all.
He continued, “After breakfast, perhaps you’d do me the kindness of showing me the estate grounds. I know you don’t have much to do with the farm, but you mentioned gardens. I’ve always wanted a garden.”
Tom took a sip of coffee. Gordon Partington had imported his coffee from Jamaica, and it was generally considered excellent. Tom seemed to like it, for which Claire was glad.
It surprised her to detect the note of unalloyed excitement in her new employer’s demeanor. She’d have expected such a well-traveled, heroic man of the world to be used to grand estates and elegant appointments.
Nevertheless, she met his smile with one of her own that she hoped didn’t declare too openly the adoration she felt for him. “I’d be happy to, Mr. Partington. Your uncle allowed me quite a free hand in the gardens. I hope you will approve.”
In truth, about the only skill Claire prided herself on, besides housekeeping, was horticulture. The gardens at Partington Place were famous in the small town of Pyrite Springs. Even people from as far away as Sacramento sometimes visited the grounds during Partington Place’s Spring Open House or on the fourth of July, when Gordon hosted an annual party for the public. Claire wasn’t sure she dared hope Tom would continue some of the traditions she’d come to cherish at Partington Place.
They walked outside as soon as they’d finished breakfast, Tom graciously allowing Claire to lead the way through the solarium, across the marbled terrace, down the stairs, and into the small rose garden. Her heart was thundering like cannon fire by this time. She prayed he’d like what she’d done here.
The small rose garden led, by way of a perfectly cunning rose arbor, to more extensive gardens. Here Claire had overseen that various beds were stocked year-round with annuals and perennials so that the grounds seldom looked completely bare. Now, in the dead of winter, of course, the roses no longer bloomed, and there were no gay blossoms or sweet fragrances to caress the senses. The wisteria trellis seemed blank and cold to her, and she frowned at it critically. Even without the roses and wisteria blooming, however, green abounded and one could appreciate the beauty of the grounds.
At least Claire could. She hoped to heaven Mr. Tom Partington would be able to share her enthusiasm. Peering at him from the corner of her eye, she thought she detected an expression of approval, and contained her sigh of relief with difficulty.
She led him under the rose arbor’s arches, bare now except for canes which would, in April and May, come alive with cascades of sweet-smelling blossoms, and into the flower beds. She wished it were April and the daphne in bloom so he could smell the enchanting hedge lining the flower beds. It wasn’t April, though, and she held her breath and clamped her hands together in front of her.
“The gardeners have already planted ranunculus and anemone bulbs, and the tulips, hyacinths and daffodils come up year after year. In early spring they’ll begin to bloom, and it will be quite colorful out here, and very fragrant.”
Looking around, Tom’s eyes sparkled with pleasure. “This is wonderful, Miss Montague. I’ll bet the place is spectacular when everything’s blooming.”
“Indeed, it is, Mr. Partington,” Claire said in a rush. “Why I—I believe the gardens of Partington Place are truly inspirational. At least, I did my very best to make them so.” She ducked her head, embarrassed at having said something so clearly bespeaking conceit in her own accomplishments.
Tom didn’t seem to mind. His expression held respect—even deference—when he turned to look at her. “You are truly a woman of many talents, Miss Montague. My uncle was very, very fortunate to have found you.”
Claire whispered, “Thank you, Mr. Partington.” It was difficult for her to speak past the lump which had suddenly grown in her throat. How kind he was, to say such a thing after her lapse this morning.
All at once the solarium door opened and boots clicked on the marble. Claire viewed Jedediah Silver with pleasure. A young man, Jedediah was inclined to be overly serious. Yet he possessed a sense of fun that surfaced every now and then. Claire had a feeling the young accountant had raised himself up by dint of his own hard work from rather meager beginnings. He never spoke of it and she never asked. She herself came from a background she would prefer to forget, and she respected Mr. Silver’s reticence.
Grateful for the accountant’s interruption, Claire hurried toward him with her hands outstretched. “Mr. Silver! It’s so nice to see you again. You haven’t visited Partington Place for much too long.”
His smile for Claire was very warm. “Miss Montague, it’s a pleasure to see you again, too.” He looked up, smiled at Tom, and held out a hand. “I see Miss Montague has been giving you the grand tour, General Partington.”
“I prefer ‘Mister’ Partington,” Tom said gently. “And you, I assume, are Mr. Silver.”
# # #
Later that same day, Claire was yawning over the household account books in the tidy office she’d made for herself in a small back parlor in Partington Place when Dianthe St. Sauvre came to call. Hearing the soft click of the door leading out to the yard being opened, Claire looked up and smiled when she beheld her friend.
“Good afternoon, Dianthe.”
Dianthe didn’t so much walk as waft toward Claire. As she sank into a chair, her flowing skirts settled around her like a soft cloud, and Claire sighed. She was past envying Dianthe, she guessed, but it did seem somehow unfair that such beauty as Dianthe possessed couldn’t have been shared more equitably among God’s creatures instead of bestowed exclusively upon this one exquisite woman.
What used to depress Claire even more than her abundant beauty was that Dianthe enjoyed genuine artistic genius. Unlike Claire herself who wrote hack dime novels for so sordid a commodity as money, Dianthe created magnificent romantic verses which she then interpreted in dance. Naturally, she was poor as a church mouse, as befitted a True Artist.
Without returning Claire’s greeting, Dianthe lifted her head and breathed, “Did he arrive?”
Even her voice was beautiful, Claire thought resignedly. There wasn’t a man alive who wouldn’t be stirred to gallant deeds by Dianthe’s voice.
“He came last night.” Claire sat forward on her chair and leaned over the desk. “And, oh, Dianthe, he’s everything I expected him to be.”
Dianthe’s eyes grew round. She tossed her blond curls and whispered, “Oh, Claire, truly? He’s truly the hero of—you know.”
The very few of Claire’s friends who knew her dark secret were extremely kind to her. None of them ever mentioned “Tuscaloosa Tom Pardee” to her face; they honored her friendship too much.
“Yes. He’s simply wonderful. You must meet him, Dianthe. You and he would be—well, you’d be perfect together. I just know it.”
Dianthe blushed becomingly, as she did everything. Claire couldn’t suppress a wistful sigh. If only she’d been given a fraction of Dianthe’s glorious femininity. Ah, well. As her father had told her more than once, each person was given gifts suitable to his or her abilities. It was probably the only sensible thing her father had ever said, in fact, but that was another matter entirely. Claire guessed it was her lot in life to be practical. She wished she’d been given a practical soul to go along with her practical looks.
“Do you really think so, Claire?”
“I truly do, Dianthe. He’s every bit as handsome and noble as the newspaper and magazine accounts depict him as being. Why, he even tried to disparage his achievements when Mr. Silver came to call this morning.” She decided not to mention his mustache.
Dianthe pressed a hand to her bosom, a feature as gloriously lush as the rest of her. “He’s modest as well as heroic? Oh, Claire!”
“Indeed he is. Why, he insisted upon being called merely ‘Mr. Partington,’ as if his achievements in the war meant nothing at all to him. Also, he claimed to know nothing about business or farming or running an estate, and very humbly begged Mr. Silver’s guidance in those matters.”
“Truly? My goodness.”
Dianthe rose from her chair and Claire discovered she hadn’t entirely overcome her deplorable tendency to envy her beautiful friend. Graceful as a sylph, Dianthe circuited the room, fingering objects delicately, her lovely face thoughtful.
“He even offered Mr. Silver a generous bonus if he’d spend a few weeks here and teach him ___«everything there is to know about the farm and grounds. Apparently he has an idea about breeding horses, but doesn’t want to embark on such an enterprise unless the estate is well able to support it.” Claire approved such a pragmatic attitude.
“Horses,” Dianthe breathed, endowing the word with all the mythic properties of Pegasus. Claire wished she could make her voice do that.
“Indeed. He seems to be interested in a particular breed. I believe it’s called Ap-Ap-Appaloosas. At least, I think that was the name.”
Dianthe stopped wafting. “Appaloosas?” Her flawless forehead wrinkled when she spoke, as though she did not find the word aesthetically pleasing.
“Yes. The breed was evidently developed somewhere in the Northwest. I understand they’re spotted.”
“Spotted?” Dianthe’s brows dipped over her crystal-blue eyes.
Sensing her friend’s disapproval, Claire hastened to say, “I asked about them this morning, Dianthe, and they’re not nearly as awful as they sound.”
Still frowning, Dianthe resumed her chair in front of Claire’s desk. “No?”
“No, indeed. Why, in fact, I understand they possess a princely temperament and their spots are primarily confined to their rear quarters. Although,” she added conscientiously, “I don’t really know much about them. I’m hoping Mr. Partington will permit me to learn along with him, so that I may be of some help to him in his new enterprise.”
She tried to keep her galloping heart from giving her words any special emphasis. She knew her new employer could never find it in himself to view her as anything other than a employee, but if he would allow it, perhaps she could make herself useful. Long ago, Claire had given up hope for anything more out of life.
“You’re interested in horses?” Dianthe sounded faintly appalled.
Quelling a spurt of indignation, Claire said rather tartly, “Horses are noble beasts, Dianthe. I’m surprised at your attitude, quite frankly.”
Waving a delicate hand in the air, Dianthe said, “Of course, Claire. But horses with spots?” She shook her head, endowing the gesture with an elegance it probably did not deserve.
As it often did while Claire was writing, inspiration struck her now. She carefully schooled her expression to betray only indifference. “I believe the first persons to develop Appaloosas as a separate breed were Indians, Dianthe.”
It did not surprise Claire when Dianthe’s expression of distaste immediately transformed into one of rapt interest—even awe.
“Indians?” Again, she made this word sound mysterious, glorious, magical.
“I believe so.” Claire smiled, pleased that she’d crossed that hurdle so easily.
“Oh, my.” Dianthe sank back in her chair, adopting a pose Claire had seen captured on canvas by great artists. Her own little sigh was unintentional.
She was surprised into an unladylike start when a brisk rap came at the door. Dianthe, of course, expressed her alarm in a much more elegant manner, merely lifting an eyebrow and sitting slightly forward. When the door opened to reveal Mr. Thomas G. Partington, her lips parted and her eyes grew round.
Claire was not astonished when the Young General glanced at Dianthe, looked away, swiveled his head back as if it had been wound by a spring, and stared, going somewhat bug-eyed.
She said calmly, “Mr. Partington, may I introduce you to my very good friend, Dianthe St. Sauvre. Miss St. Sauvre is a poet whose works are soon to be heralded world-wide.” She gave Dianthe a smile which Dianthe returned warmly.
Rising from her chair as Venus might have risen from the sea, Dianthe glided toward Claire’s dumbfounded employer, her hand held out. Her heart squeezed when she saw the man of her dreams swallow, draw himself up straight, and give Dianthe a smile Claire would have died for had it been directed at herself.
She’d been right. They were absolutely perfect together.
“Mr. Partington, it’s such a pleasure to meet you.”
“The pleasure is all mine, Miss St. Sauvre,” Tom said feelingly. “Believe me.” He drew her limp hand to his lips, and Claire experienced a pang of regret. There wasn’t a gentleman alive who would kiss her hand that way; she knew it.
“Claire has been telling me about your interest in horses, Mr. Partington.”
“Has she now?”
Tom’s smile for Claire was brief and friendly, not at all akin to the one he’d bestowed upon Dianthe.
“Indeed, it sounds like a fascinating venture,” Claire said, aware even as she spoke that she’d lost his attention to Dianthe again.
“So you’re a poet, Miss St. Sauvre?”
“Yes. I do my poor best.” Dianthe lowered her lashes in a becoming manner.
“She’s not a mere poet, Mr. Partington,” Claire said hurriedly. “Dianthe writes brilliant odes to Nature and then creates evocative dances to go with them.”
Tom said, “Really,” in a lost-sounding voice.
“Oh, yes.” Claire drew in a deep breath. This seemed as good a time as any to beg the new master of Partington Place’s indulgence; better than most, in fact. Might as well hit him with it while he was under Dianthe’s spell.
“In fact, the late Mr. Partington used to support the arts in several extremely practical ways.”
“Did he now?”
Claire watched Tom watch Dianthe as she floated to her chair and drifted into graceful repose once more.
“Yes, indeed. He was a great supporter of the Pyrite Arms.”
“Beg pardon?” Tom’s gaze, which had been stuck like glue on Dianthe, lifted. He looked quizzically at Claire.
“The Pyrite Arms. Several fine, fine artists live there. It is an hotel endowed by the late Mr. Partington specifically to give talented individuals a home. They are provided room and board at a modest cost, and are given the freedom to devote their energies to art without the mundane world stifling their creative sensibilities.”
Claire and Dianthe shared a smile. Dianthe whispered, “Mr. Partington was truly an enlightened benefactor.”
Blinking, Tom murmured, “Was he now?”
Warming to her subject, Claire said, “Oh, yes, sir. Why, Dianthe is only one of five truly gifted artists who live and—and create—at the Pyrite Arms.”
Tom cleared his throat. “A truly noble enterprise, ladies.”
Dianthe breathed, “Truly noble.”
“Yes,” Claire continued. “And your uncle Gordon used to enjoy hosting Artistic Evenings for residents of the Pyrite Arms, too, Mr. Partington.”
Claire looked down at her blotter, worried lest her passion for the Pyrite Arms enterprise give away her fervent interest. Yet if she could enlist the support of Mr. Thomas G. Partington to his uncle’s pet project, she would be so happy. Somehow it seemed to Claire that when she helped the artists at the Pyrite Arms, she was making up in some way for “Tuscaloosa Tom Pardee”. Using her paltry skills in making so much money in so crass a manner embarrassed her. She tried at every opportunity to enlist further support for the Pyrite Arms. Besides, keeping the Pyrite Arms project alive would keep Gordon’s memory alive, as well. Claire sometimes felt the Pyrite Arms would be her absolution.
Good Lord. Tom had never seen a woman as lovely as the creature draped in the chair across from his housekeeper. The contrast between the two ladies was almost painful to observe, and Tom felt a tug of sympathy for Claire. She was a good woman and was quite taking in her own subtle way.
It seemed almost a shame, however, that she should have become friends with the ethereal Dianthe St. Sauvre, who must eclipse her in any setting. Yet they obviously shared a strong friendship. That puzzled him in more ways than one, as Claire seemed infinitely brighter than her more beautiful friend. Dianthe reminded him in all too many ways of his own lovely but empty-headed mother. He wondered what she and Claire found to chat about.
“Well, perhaps you will do us the honor of visiting again, Miss St. Sauvre.”
A glance at Claire assured him he’d said exactly the right thing, and he was irrationally pleased with himself. Although Tom had never had much truck with poetry, preferring the bawdy verses warbled in the countless seedy saloons he’d frequented in his impoverished days, he found himself saying, “I’ll speak with Miss Montague about one of your—your evening art things.”
“Artistic Evenings,” Dianthe murmured. She gave Tom another dazzling smile.
“That would be so wonderful of you, Mr. Partington.” Even though Claire knew Dianthe’s beauty and not her own eloquence had nudged her employer into making the offer, she was very grateful. After he witnessed for himself the wonderful work the denizens of the Pyrite Arms created, he would surely be swayed to further generosity.
Dianthe left shortly after Tom’s arrival. It seemed to take Tom a few minutes to recover. Claire thought dryly that he looked as though he’d been sucker-punched. With an internal sigh, she guessed he had been. They discussed the business of the estate for a half-hour or so before Mr. Partington took himself off for another chat with Mr. Silver.
As for Claire, her accounts settled, her work done, she went up to her room, fetched her work in progress, toted it downstairs to her office, and immersed herself in the further thrilling adventures of Tuscaloosa Tom Pardee. She knew it was shameful to take such delight in the unedifying pastime but guessed it was only to be expected, considering her origins.
# # #
Tom couldn’t remember another time in his life when he’d eaten dinner alone. Or in such luxury. Sitting at the head of his magnificent dining table—capable of seating thirty with room to spare—he stared at a vast, empty expanse of polished mahogany that seemed to go on forever.
His uncle hadn’t had the place piped for gas, and the glistening wood faded away into the shadows. An arrangement of dried flowers banked by two candles leapt into view about the middle of the table and saved it from looking utterly desolate, but even that one clump of flowers seemed a mile away. The room was gloomy, lit as it was only by candles set quite far apart. Tom felt ridiculously forsaken.
Hell, he’d been around people his entire life. Scads of people. Hordes of people. Even when he’d been scouting for the railroad in the vast emptiness of the American frontier, there had been people around. In fact, the fellows in the railroad camps had been like a big, bawdy family to him. He’d never been alone like this.
Occasionally Scruggs would bring in another dish or refill his wine glass—God, what he wouldn’t give for a mug of beer—but the butler didn’t speak to him. Rather, he slumped around the room like a condemned man. Tom still hadn’t decided whether Scruggs’ attitude was fostered of animosity towards Tom or if he was merely a naturally morose man. He guessed Claire would be able to tell him. He also couldn’t figure out how Scruggs could find his way around in the dark.
At least the silly cook had stopped crying. Claire had introduced him to Mrs. Philpott that morning, and it had taken a good forty-five minutes to convince the woman Tom wasn’t going to cast her off like an old shoe.
Gazing moodily at all the gleaming wood stretched out in front of him, the happy thought struck Tom that Dianthe St. Sauvre would add a stunning note to his elegant dining room. He lifted his glass in a silent salute. He’d never seen anything like her in his life. She was the most dazzling female he’d ever encountered. Maybe he could invite her to dine with him sometime. Then he frowned.
If she came to dine here, he’d have to talk to her. Tom wasn’t at all sure what to say to a poetess. Besides, there were societal strictures against single gentlemen inviting single ladies for dinner, weren’t there? He couldn’t recall if his mama had ever spoken to him on the subject. If she had, it was so long ago the rules had slipped his mind.
Claire would know. He’d ask her. Claire was such a comfortable woman, and she seemed to know all about stuff like that.
Finally Tom couldn’t stand the silence. Wondering if he were breaking a cardinal rule of Partington Place, he asked his butler, “Did my uncle always take his meals alone, Scruggs?”
It seemed to take forever for his question to register and for Scruggs to put the dish of potatoes he’d been holding on the sideboard and turn around. Tom was on the verge of asking again, more loudly in case the butler suffered from deafness, when Scruggs answered.
“No, sir.”
“Did he have friends in often?”
“No, sir.”
Frowning, Tom asked, “Well, who’d he eat with, then?”
“Miss Montague always took her meals with the late Mr. Partington, Mr. Partington.” He sounded absolutely hopeless.
Tom digested Scruggs’ information. “Well, why isn’t she taking her meal with me?”
“I couldn’t say, sir.”
“Did she eat alone tonight?”
Tom felt a little miffed at the thought. He wondered if Claire was so heartbroken by the death of his uncle that she couldn’t stand to see Tom taking his place. She hadn’t seemed heartbroken, but what the hell did he know—about women or heartbreak?
“No, sir.”
Tom looked at Scruggs expectantly, but the butler didn’t seem inclined to volunteer information on this subject or any other. With an itch of aggravation, he asked, “Well, where’d she eat then?”
“In her office, sir.”
Poor Claire. Tom wished he’d had the presence of mind to ask her to eat with him. Not for the first time, he cursed the circumstances of his life. They’d brought him honor and unwanted fame, but the nuances of polite behavior seemed determined to elude him.
But wait a minute. Scruggs had said she hadn’t dined alone.
“Did you and Mrs. Philpott eat with her?”
“No, sir.”
Rolling his eyes, Tom barked, “Well, who the hell did she eat with then?”
Scruggs’ face seemed to lengthen with Tom’s show of incivility, and Tom was annoyed with himself. “She dined with Mr. Addison-Addison, sir.”