Secret Hearts Read online

  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.”

  “Who?”

  “Mr. Addison-Addison, sir. I believe,” Scruggs added, for the first time answering an unasked question, “that the gentleman is an Author.”

  Tom took a gulp of wine. Damned stuff tasted like vinegar. So much for Claire missing his uncle. “One of her artists, is he?”

  “I believe so, sir.”

  Scruggs stood by the sideboard, staring at Tom in resignation, as though he expected the inquisition to continue. Tom felt a little guilty for having snapped at the fellow. He just wasn’t used to having a butler, is all.

  He said, “Thank you, Scruggs,” and was relieved when the man shuffled off.

  Well, hell. So now what was he supposed to do? Tom looked around glumly. He wasn’t in the habit of amusing himself. He was used to having friends around to talk to, drink with, play cards with, go carousing with. This being rich wasn’t all it was cracked up to be. He wished he’d asked Silver to dinner.

  Pushing himself away from the table, Tom moped to the parlor, poured himself some of the port Scruggs had thoughtfully left for him there, and took a slug. It tasted like fermented prune juice and he shuddered.

  Finding nothing of interest with which to occupy himself in the parlor, he took his port and paid a visit to his library. There were books aplenty, many of which Tom had not read, but he didn’t feel like reading tonight. He wanted to talk to somebody. Hell, this was the evening of his first full day in his new home, enjoying his new wealth, and he felt as though the world had died and left him orphaned.

  He threw back the last of his port, grimaced, and wondered if he’d ever get used to the trappings of a gentleman. Tomorrow he was going to lay in a supply of booze, whether it was considered refined or not. He couldn’t stand this cognac and port nonsense another day.

  He wished Claire was here. She was quite delightful to talk to.

  After circuiting the library twice, staring out the window at the black night for ten minutes, sitting at his desk and thrumming his fingers on the blotter for what seemed like an eternity, he gave up solitude and headed for Claire’s office. He hoped his presence wouldn’t be unwelcome.

  # # #

  Claire felt a defeated sense of resignation as she sat on the sofa in her parlor-office and mended a torn pillowslip. It’s not that the mending hadn’t been piling up shamefully. Actually, mending was the one job she’d neglected during her tenure as housekeeper at Partington Place.

  No. The reason she felt unsettled this evening was that she longed to be sitting here alone in her office as she had been all afternoon, writing. Writing trash. Heaving a sigh, Claire decided her nature must truly be that of an unworthy plebeian. After meeting Tom Partington, though, she had an almost ungovernable urge to exalt his exploits on paper. She couldn’t seem to help herself.

  Still, the chapter Sylvester Addison-Addison had come over to read was quite . . . thrilling. In its own way. She glanced up from setting a stitch to observe Sylvester poised as though balancing on the foredeck of a ship in high water, holding his manuscript to the oil lamp, a fervent expression on his handsome face. Light from the fireplace licked him artistically and highlighted the elegant moodiness of his features.

  Claire smiled. Not only was Sylvester a true Author, but he—like Dianthe—possessed the looks of an artist, as well. And the sensibilities. Why even in the dead of winter, Sylvester had managed to find lilies. He’d brought her some this very evening, and they now graced a vase on the table next to her. Of course, they’d probably cost him a fortune, she thought, eyeing the flowers with a pang, but a true artist measured cost in terms other than vulgar coin.

  Besides, it wasn’t his money anyway; or not much of it, at any rate. Sylvester did have to work part-time at the local mercantile—unlike Dianthe, who received a modest competence from a dead relative—but he reaped much more from the endowment of the Pyrite Arms than from his employment. Not that Claire grudged him a penny, for Sylvester’s genius deserved everything Gordon had to give.

  She sighed again and guessed she possessed the sensibilities of a hack dime novelist. Frowning, she resumed sewing and tried to concentrate on Sylvester’s stirring prose.

  His glorious voice gave life to his words, but Claire still couldn’t help but wish those words were describing something possessed of more natural animation than Grecian ruins. With a pang for her wretched lack of artistic vision, she bent to her stitching.

  The knoc
k on her door came as Sylvester had just launched into a detailed description of the marble scrollwork on the tomb of his tragic hero’s equally tragic father. He looked up, tossing his tousled locks impatiently.

  “Who in God’s name is that?”

  Claire put her mending down. “I’ll go see, Sylvester.” Her heart hoped she knew who it was; her practical nature told her not to be silly.

  This time her heart won.

  Chapter 3

  “Mr. Partington!”

  Tom felt very ill at ease. He’d brought the port decanter with him, thinking to offer Claire and her guest a glass of wine, but now he wasn’t sure how his gesture would be received. Claire’s exclamation of surprise didn’t make him feel any more comfortable. She stood in the doorway as though shocked, and Tom felt like an interloper. He had to remind himself that he was master in this house.

  Suddenly leaping backwards, Claire yanked the door open. “Oh, my goodness, Mr. Partington! I’m so sorry. Do, please, come in.”

  With a glance at the young man glowering at him from the fireplace, Tom murmured, “If I’m not intruding.”

  Another, sharper, look revealed the fellow was holding a sheaf of papers in one hand and a wilted flower in the other, pressed to his chest. Must be some sort of new fad, Tom supposed. He’d been out of society for a long time and had a lot to catch up on. But wilted flowers? He shook his head.

  “Heaven’s no! How could you possibly be intruding? It’s a pleasure to see you this evening.” Claire took another step back, almost stumbling over a magazine basket in her haste.

  “I brought some port, if you’d like a glass.”

  “Thank you. How kind.” Claire stared at him for a minute, marveling again at how perfect he was. Even without his mustache.

  Then she recalled there was another gentleman in the room. “Mr. Partington, please allow me to introduce you to Mr. Sylvester Addison-Addison. Mr. Addison-Addison was just reading me the latest chapter in his epic historical novel, The Solitary Journey of a Grecian Soul.”

  Claire’s epic novelist was definitely not happy about having been interrupted. Sylvester slammed his manuscript onto a table, threw his wilted lily on top of it, and thrust a lock of hair back from his white brow. Nodding curtly, he mumbled, “Partington.”

  All at once Tom felt a familiar tickle in his chest. It had been years since he’d had to deal with surly boys, but he used to get a kick out of it in the army. Setting the port decanter down on a side table, Tom pasted a big smile on his face and walked towards Sylvester Addison-Addison with his hand outstretched.

  “Good evening, Mr. Addison-Addison. A writer, are you?”

  “I am an author, yes.” Sylvester had been practicing his superior sneer, Tom thought. He shook Tom’s hand, but obviously wasn’t pleased to have to do so.

  “Mind if I sit down and join you for a while?”

  Tom smiled at Claire, who swallowed nervously. He was sorry to see that she’d taken to wringing her hands, apparently a little worried about her author’s manners. Tom could hardly blame her.

  “Of course not, Mr. Partington. Why, it would be a privilege to have you sit with us.”

  Tom sat docilely. “Mr. Silver will be joining us for a few weeks, Miss Montague. I trust that won’t inconvenience you?”

  “Certainly not, Mr. Partington.”

  Claire gave him a smile that relieved her features and made her seem younger and prettier than she had until now. A dimple played at the corner of her mouth and Tom approved.

  “Why, I’ll have Sally fix up the blue room upstairs tomorrow morning. Do you know how long he plans to visit?”

  “At least until Christmas. He’s going to show me the ropes around the estate.” He wished she’d do her hair another way. Those two braided knots definitely did not flatter her. Tom, admittedly not an authority when it came to females, thought she’d do well to pile her hair on top of her head. If she were worried about maintaining a housekeeperish appearance, that would do it, and much less severely.

  Picking up her mending with a shaking hand, Claire said, “Well, I’ll let Mrs. Philpott know to expect an extra diner, then.”

  “Speaking of that, I understand you used to take your meals with my uncle, Miss Montague.”

  She peeked at him over her pillowslip. “Why, yes, I did, Mr. Partington. The late Mr. Partington, well, he—he was very kind to me and treated me more as a member of his family than as an employee.”

  “I think that’s a fine idea myself. I’d be delighted if you’d join me for meals. I must admit to having been sadly lonely at dinner tonight.”

  Tom heard the angry rustle of manuscript pages at his back. Apparently, The Author was getting peeved at being left out of the conversation. He cast a negligent peek over his shoulder and took note of Addison-Addison’s stormy expression. Ignoring him, Tom poured Claire a glass of port and handed it to her.

  “Thank you, Mr. Partington.” She dropped her pillowslip and lunged for the port. “And I should enjoy joining you for meals.”

  Tom was surprised to see a hint of pink stain Claire’s cheeks, as though she were embarrassed.

  The papers rattled again, more loudly, and Tom swiveled to look at Sylvester. “Want a glass of port, Addison?”

  “It’s Addison-Addison, Mr. Partington. There’s a hyphen in the middle.”

  Nodding wisely, Tom murmured, “Parents came from the same family, did they? Works sometimes I understand, as long as they don’t breed idiots.” He ignored Sylvester’s offended snort and poured a glass of port. “Here you go.”

  “Thank you.” Sylvester’s voice was as stiff as his posture when he took the proffered glass.

  Claire took a quick gulp of wine, choking slightly. “Mr. Addison-Addison was just reading from his latest work, Mr. Partington. Would you care to listen for a while?” Glancing at the ruffled artist standing next to the fireplace, she added in a conciliatory voice, “I believe he’s almost at the end of the chapter.”

  “Perhaps we should continue another time, Claire,” Sylvester said heavily. “I can’t imagine Mr. Partington having much interest in great historical literary works.”

  With a sweet smile, Tom said, “I haven’t read many, to tell you the truth.”

  Sylvester muttered, “What a surprise.”

  Immediately Claire spoke up, trying to cover the moment. “Well, you know, the historical novel is a fine art form, Mr. Partington, and Mr. Addison-Addison does it very well. You of all people should enjoy such novels, since your own career is the stuff of legends.”

  “What?” The exclamation slipped out before Tom could stop it.

  “It’s inspired a series of dime novels, at any rate.” Sylvester’s sneer faded into a sullen frown when Claire shot him a look.

  “Ah, yes, the dime novels.” Tom took a swig of port. He frowned, too.

  “It’s hardly surprising that Mr. Partington should have inspired such literary works, Mr. Addison-Addison. After all, his career is renowned the world over.”

  “Literary works!” Sylvester downed his port, too, then grimaced, as though he hadn’t expected it to taste so bad.

  A little put out, Claire said, “Well, they may be mere popular fiction, but they are not entirely without merit, I believe. But your career truly has been thrilling, Mr. Partington. Brevet General at only twenty-two. My goodness.” She gave him another shy smile.

  Tom had encountered that expression of hero-worship before. He’d never much liked it, although he found it almost tolerable in Claire Montague. “Everybody else was dead, Miss Montague, or I’d never have been so honored. Believe me.”

  He felt a little bit as though he’d kicked a kitten when Claire’s eyes opened wide, and she uttered a breathy, unhappy, “Oh!”

  “I’m going home,” Sylvester announced suddenly. Tapping his manuscript into a tidy pile, he bowed to Claire and then to Tom, although he evidently resented the necessity of the latter. “I shall return at a more convenient time.”

 
“Don’t go on my account.” Tom grinned in a friendly manner as he took another sip of port.

  “Oh, dear. Well, if you feel you must. Do come back tomorrow, Sylvester. Perhaps late morning before luncheon would be a good time.” Claire offered him a nervous smile.

  Carelessly swiping a dark curl from his brow, Sylvester murmured, “If I have risen by then. I feel the muse upon me this evening. Perhaps I shan’t sleep.”

  Tom rolled his eyes.

  Claire said, “Of course. Well, do come again when you can. I really can’t wait to hear the rest of your chapter.”

  Another sharp bow, and Sylvester was off into the night, his lily dangling from a white hand, his papers fluttering. Claire watched him stride away and wished she’d handled things better. Sylvester was such a sensitive soul. Turning around, she smiled tentatively at Tom.

  “He’ll carry off his aspect of world-weary suffering a little better when he’s got a few more years under his belt,” he said with a wink and a smile.

  Momentarily stunned by his candor, Claire was too startled to react. When she did, it was with a giggle that took her by surprise. “He was quite silly, wasn’t he? And so rude to you. I’m awfully sorry, Mr. Partington. Artists are such sensitive people, you know.”

  “It’s not your place to apologize for a sulky child playing off his airs, Miss Montague. Please, sit down. I’m sorry to have intruded. I hope he wasn’t in the midst of a particularly moving passage.”

  With a sigh, Claire resumed her chair and her mending. “Actually, Mr. Addison-Addison seems to dwell upon architectural description to the exclusion of almost everything else. I can’t even recall the name of his hero.”

  “Sounds pretty dull to me.”

  Claire’s spectacles glittered, giving her the look of an immensely serious owl. Tom was charmed.

  “I very much regret to say I find much of his work rather boring, Mr. Partington.” She sounded sad.

  “Why do you regret saying that? Sounds like a sensible reaction to me.”

  “I fear it is only one symptom of an underlying weakness in my character.”