Secrets in the Regency Ballroom: The Wayward Governess / His Counterfeit Condesa. Joanna Fulford

Claire was both impressed and touched by the way he engaged with the child, and by his ability to take a joke; his expression now was far removed from the haughty individual she had spoken to the previous evening.

      Sensing her regard, he looked up and for a moment met her gaze. Then the light of humour faded a little and was replaced by a different kind of warmth altogether. Conscious of that look, Claire felt her heart miss a beat and she quickly looked away.

      Seeing her unease, Marcus was annoyed with himself. He had been caught off guard when he should have been prepared, for he had already felt the effect that her laughter could have. Once again it lit her face and made her look beautiful. She laughed sincerely, from the heart, without any trace of affectation. He realised too that it pleased him to see her laugh like that. Hitherto her demeanour, though pleasant and courteous, had always seemed a little reserved, but in unguarded moments she had revealed another side to her personality, one that was fun-loving and light-hearted. It suited her. More, he found it intriguing. Almost at once he brought himself up short. As Lucy’s governess and a member of his staff she was strictly off limits. He had appointed her to the post because it suited him; it was convenient and she was eligible and he wanted to help. Now he realised, somewhat belatedly, that he had not been completely impervious to her charms either.

      Claire, sensitive to the atmosphere, felt the change in his manner and upbraided herself for being too forward. It must not happen again. She had not failed to recognise the expression in his eyes when he looked at her and was appalled. Her security depended on keeping this post and she would only do that if her behaviour was above reproach. There could be no familiarity between them. Besides, their social positions made it quite impossible that he would consider her as anything more than a diversion. That kind of liaison could have only one end. It was a lowering thought. Worse was the knowledge that she would forfeit all respect if she was ever to be so foolish as to encourage such attentions. Besides, as she knew full well, there was already a woman in his heart.

      In many ways it was a relief when the carriage reached its destination and drew up in the main thoroughfare. The Viscount turned to Claire.

      ‘I shall leave you here for the time being,’ he said. ‘Wakely will accompany you and carry your packages. I shall return in two hours’ time.’

      ‘Very well, sir.’

      ‘In the meantime I trust that you will have a productive shopping expedition.’

      ‘I am sure we shall, sir.’

      The footman opened the door and, having let down the steps, handed Claire and Lucy out onto the street. The Viscount nodded farewell and the vehicle moved on. For a moment or two Claire watched it depart and then took Lucy by the hand.

      ‘Come. Let us see what this place has to offer.’

      In fact, their investigation of the town’s shops was enjoyable and rewarding. Moreover, she and Lucy were the objects of almost fawning attention by the traders they met for the mode of their arrival had been noted. Such a handsome equipage could only belong to a wealthy man and the crest on the door left people in no doubt as to his identity. Two elegantly dressed females attended by a footman were certain of the warmest welcome everywhere they went. Claire was torn between amusement and alarm. It had not occurred to her that they would attract such notice. On the other hand, it was a novelty to be afforded the undivided attention of every shopkeeper they encountered. The latter almost fell over themselves to offer help and advice.

      The first stop was the draper’s shop recommended by Mrs Hughes, where bolt after bolt of fine cloth was displayed for her inspection. Eventually she settled on two lengths of figured muslin, in blue and jonquil respectively. They were totally unexceptionable, perfect for her newfound role. Along with them she chose a soft lilac mull. It was simple and plain, but it would make an elegant dress for the forthcoming dinner party with the Greystokes. The fabrics were relatively inexpensive, too, which meant that she could save the remainder of her money in case of need.

      When it came to the matter of riding habits Lucy had decided ideas of her own. Rejecting the draper’s suggestion of a dependable brown serge, she chose a deep blue velvet instead. Claire didn’t argue. It was a pretty colour and it enhanced the child’s blue eyes. She chose the brown fabric for herself.

      Having purchased the cloth, they went next to the seamstress where they were ushered into an immaculate parlour and served tea while dress patterns were discussed at length. Delighted to have the custom of such exalted clients, the seamstress went into raptures over their chosen materials and assured them both of her ability to contrive the most stylish and elegant gowns imaginable. The conversation about styles and trimmings and measurements went on at such length that eventually Lucy grew bored and plumped herself down in a chair to play with her doll.

      At last all the arrangements were complete and they escaped from that establishment to move on to the milliner and thence to the bootmaker. After two hours they had spent what seemed to Claire to be a truly prodigal sum of money. At the same time she had to acknowledge that it was very pleasant to have the means to do it and to be free to choose what she liked rather than what her aunt considered suitable for a young lady. That thought produced others less welcome and, as they walked along the street, she prayed that her uncle would never think to look for her in Yorkshire. In a momentary fit of panic she wished she were safely at Netherclough again, concealed from the public gaze. Then she took a deep breath and told herself not to be so foolish. It couldn’t possibly hurt to enjoy one simple shopping trip.

      While Claire and Lucy were thus engaged, Marcus had gone to call upon Sir Alan Weatherby, the local magistrate. He had sent a letter some days earlier, announcing his intention. The missive aroused both curiosity and surprise in the recipient, but he received the visitor with considerable pleasure. The news of Marcus Edenbridge’s return from India had aroused considerable interest in the town, and, with his assumption of the Destermere title, made him a personage of some importance in the neighbourhood. However, in this case the matter was more personal: Weatherby had been a friend of the late Lord Richard Destermere, and had stood as godfather to his sons.

      ‘Welcome back, Marcus,’ he said, taking the other’s hand in a hearty grip.

      ‘Thank you, sir. It’s good to be back.’

      For a moment the two men were silent, regarding each other in mutual appraisal. Then Weatherby smiled.

      ‘I see that India agreed with you, my boy.’ He clapped him on the shoulder. ‘Come, let us go into the study and celebrate your return with a glass of wine.’

      Once the niceties had been observed, the older man set down his glass and regarded the other with a shrewd gaze.

      ‘I sense there is more to this than just a social call.’

      ‘Yes, good though it is to see you.’ Marcus paused. ‘It is about my brother I would speak.’

      ‘A sad business, Marcus. A bad business in every way.’

      ‘You saw Greville before he died.’

      ‘Yes, he paid me an unofficial visit in the guise of David Gifford. He told me about his mission here—as a magistrate it was my job to lend him whatever assistance I could. I was glad to do it, too. The Luddite crew have stopped at nothing in the pursuit of their evil ends.’ Weatherby paused. ‘Your brother paid a heavy price for trying to stop them.’

      ‘Yes, he did, but I intend to bring his killers to justice.’

      ‘You can count on my full support.’

      ‘Thank you, sir.’

      ‘Someone found out what he was doing and silenced him. The killing had all the hallmarks of an execution.’

      ‘You saw his body?’

      ‘Yes.’ Weatherby’s hand clenched on the arm of his chair. ‘As soon as I heard the name David Gifford I knew who it was. Later I visited the scene of the crime—a deserted barn on the edge of the moor. My guess is he was somehow lured to the spot and then killed.’

      ‘Have you any idea whom he might have met