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Authors: Kate Harper
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little girl is.’
‘Papa,’ Miss Claybourn said, without any particular inflection, ‘is inclined towards hysteria.’
‘Well you certainly do not seem to be hurt,’ the man allowed, his eyes lingering on her face admiringly. ‘Only you, Miss Claybourn, could look so delightful after such an alarming experience.’
‘I was not at all alarmed.’
‘Yes, well come along,’ Sir Antony said hastily, shooing the small collection of people before him as one would a flock of unruly ducks. ‘Tea is waiting and mister… oh my heavens, I don’t even know you name, Sir! Never mind. Harmon will show you where you may clean up and then show you to the drawing room. We can all make the proper introductions then.’
‘I need to clean up myself, as well,’ Miss Claybourn said, glancing down at her muddied skirts ruefully. ‘If you will all excuse me?’
‘Yes, my dear, but don’t be too long. Remember your grandmother -’
‘Yes Papa, I know. I will hurry.’
Marcus was led away by the butler, who quickly arranged for hot water and the cleaning of his boots. This excellent individual also sponged the worst of the mud from his breeches and generally tidied him up with the smooth efficiency that denoted a truly excellent majordomo.
‘I’m afraid I should change completely,’ Marcus observed, wiping a warm cloth over his face. It came away brown.
‘We can manage very well, Sir,’ Harmon assured him and, sure enough, not ten minutes later he emerged remarkably unsullied. With his greatcoat removed and his neckcloth tied a little more elegantly he looked quite passable. The brown jacket of superfine was well cut, at least and he had put on a fresh linen shirt that very morning. It was a pity he could not exchange his dark brown breeches for a cleaner pair but the worst of the grime was gone and his boots had been returned to him in excellent condition. Sir Antony’s staff had wrought a small miracle and he was shown to the drawing room relatively confident that he would not look too much like a muddied greenhorn. Taking a deep breath, he mentally girded himself and stepped into the fray.
Chapter Three
There were seven people gathered, all of them seated around a large, low table while an elderly woman in black presided over an enormous teapot, pouring cups of tea which were taken from her by a hovering footman and distributed accordingly. A rather good spread had been laid out, Marcus was pleased to note. If he must socialize then he would not say no to a decent feed. Of Miss Claybourn, there was as yet no sign but he expected it would take her longer to emerge. A female’s toilette could not be hurried. Sir Antony rose and came forward the moment his unexpected guest walked in; clearly, he had been waiting for him.
‘Here we are, then,’ he said jovially. ‘Sir, let me once again bid you welcome. You’re looking much more the thing.’
‘Bring him over here, Antony,’ an unexpected voice said. Unexpected, because it was not the cultured accents that he had come to take for granted in the drawing rooms he usually attended. Instead, the voice, strong and resonant, sounded pure Yorkshire. ‘Let’s get a look at the lad who rescued our Johanna.’
A faint flicker of something – discomfort? – appeared briefly on Sir Antony’s face but he smiled and nodded. ‘Yes indeed, Mother. As soon as I learn the young man’s name, introductions will be made.’
‘Lord Marcus Hathaway,’ Marcus said, knowing that it would be just as easy to get it over with now. He had no idea who was staying at Cloverton Hall but it would be just his luck that somebody would know him, or at least his name. Discarding his title was probably not the best idea and, while he could always adopt an entirely new sobriquet, that might very well trip him up as well. The surprise on his host’s face was unmistakable but it quickly became apparent that it was not recognition that put it there, but astonishment that
‘Papa,’ Miss Claybourn said, without any particular inflection, ‘is inclined towards hysteria.’
‘Well you certainly do not seem to be hurt,’ the man allowed, his eyes lingering on her face admiringly. ‘Only you, Miss Claybourn, could look so delightful after such an alarming experience.’
‘I was not at all alarmed.’
‘Yes, well come along,’ Sir Antony said hastily, shooing the small collection of people before him as one would a flock of unruly ducks. ‘Tea is waiting and mister… oh my heavens, I don’t even know you name, Sir! Never mind. Harmon will show you where you may clean up and then show you to the drawing room. We can all make the proper introductions then.’
‘I need to clean up myself, as well,’ Miss Claybourn said, glancing down at her muddied skirts ruefully. ‘If you will all excuse me?’
‘Yes, my dear, but don’t be too long. Remember your grandmother -’
‘Yes Papa, I know. I will hurry.’
Marcus was led away by the butler, who quickly arranged for hot water and the cleaning of his boots. This excellent individual also sponged the worst of the mud from his breeches and generally tidied him up with the smooth efficiency that denoted a truly excellent majordomo.
‘I’m afraid I should change completely,’ Marcus observed, wiping a warm cloth over his face. It came away brown.
‘We can manage very well, Sir,’ Harmon assured him and, sure enough, not ten minutes later he emerged remarkably unsullied. With his greatcoat removed and his neckcloth tied a little more elegantly he looked quite passable. The brown jacket of superfine was well cut, at least and he had put on a fresh linen shirt that very morning. It was a pity he could not exchange his dark brown breeches for a cleaner pair but the worst of the grime was gone and his boots had been returned to him in excellent condition. Sir Antony’s staff had wrought a small miracle and he was shown to the drawing room relatively confident that he would not look too much like a muddied greenhorn. Taking a deep breath, he mentally girded himself and stepped into the fray.
Chapter Three
There were seven people gathered, all of them seated around a large, low table while an elderly woman in black presided over an enormous teapot, pouring cups of tea which were taken from her by a hovering footman and distributed accordingly. A rather good spread had been laid out, Marcus was pleased to note. If he must socialize then he would not say no to a decent feed. Of Miss Claybourn, there was as yet no sign but he expected it would take her longer to emerge. A female’s toilette could not be hurried. Sir Antony rose and came forward the moment his unexpected guest walked in; clearly, he had been waiting for him.
‘Here we are, then,’ he said jovially. ‘Sir, let me once again bid you welcome. You’re looking much more the thing.’
‘Bring him over here, Antony,’ an unexpected voice said. Unexpected, because it was not the cultured accents that he had come to take for granted in the drawing rooms he usually attended. Instead, the voice, strong and resonant, sounded pure Yorkshire. ‘Let’s get a look at the lad who rescued our Johanna.’
A faint flicker of something – discomfort? – appeared briefly on Sir Antony’s face but he smiled and nodded. ‘Yes indeed, Mother. As soon as I learn the young man’s name, introductions will be made.’
‘Lord Marcus Hathaway,’ Marcus said, knowing that it would be just as easy to get it over with now. He had no idea who was staying at Cloverton Hall but it would be just his luck that somebody would know him, or at least his name. Discarding his title was probably not the best idea and, while he could always adopt an entirely new sobriquet, that might very well trip him up as well. The surprise on his host’s face was unmistakable but it quickly became apparent that it was not recognition that put it there, but astonishment that
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