Folding it once more, she tucked it back into her reticule. She dared not go back to the lane now because Lord Kelkirk could still be there and he would pounce on her, demanding answers to the questions that would be rolling around in his head. Besides, her family would notice her absence if she stayed away much longer. Claire could only hope that whomever had written that note made contact with her again, because she could not take the risk of returning to Tuttle Lane today.
Rushing off alone this morning had probably not been the action of a rational person, yet Anthony’s death had nearly destroyed Claire, and if there was something of his left in the world, then she wanted it and did not want her elder brother to do anything to deter her from getting it. Yes, it could be a hoax, yet something inside Claire had believed it wasn’t. When she’d read that note, something had gripped her– an urgency that had forced her to take a risk to see what Anthony had left behind in France. Now she would have to wait and hope that soon she would receive more correspondence.
How would she face Lord Kelkirk this evening? It was the Harrison ball and everyone would be there, so he definitely would be unless he fell ill–really ill–this afternoon. That doesn’t make me a bad person, wishing an illness on a man I don’t wish to see.
“Yes it does,” she sighed. It made her a very bad person.
Perhaps she could fall suddenly ill? Tell her mother she had a sore head and needed quiet and bed rest? But then what about tomorrow evening and the one after that? She’d have to face him sometime, and knowing Simon as she did, she knew he would never let what happened today drop until he had all the facts. He was tenacious and would hunt her down until he had answers to all his questions. Simon did not understand social boundaries or the restrictions these placed on a person. If he wanted to ask a question, no matter how delicate, he did. She would need to stay composed in his company when next they met, because only he could provoke her enough to drop her calm façade and turn into a sharp-tongued shrew in seconds.
All she’d had to do today to quash his curiosity was say something like, ‘Lord Kelkirk, what a surprise to see you here. My maid comes here often and today I accompanied her to see what has her so excited.’ She could have then offered a polite titter, perhaps, and asked after his health. Why hadn’t she? If Claire was good at one thing, it was social chatter. She’d done nothing because she’d panicked. The fear of exposure had rendered her speechless, and she had reacted instinctively and without thought. No one had known she was going to Tuttle Lane, and she’d wanted it kept a secret, so she’d fled like a fool. Of course, now he did know she’d been there and with a few well-placed words, could make her life difficult.
Walking from the hackney minutes later towards her family’s townhouse, Claire counted the six steps up as she trod them and then stepped over the small crack on the top one, as she did every time she left or entered the house. The door opened before she reached for it and her brother’s butler, who used to be her father’s butler, stood waiting for her.
“Hello, Plimley.”
He looked at her intently for several seconds before he spoke. “Miss Belmont, are you well?”
“Yes, thank you, Plimley,” Claire said, stepping inside.
Plimley had been Claire’s friend when she did not have many. He had played cards with her, listened as she’d practiced piano and read her books when her brother or mother could not. He’d been a constant in her life and was someone she cared for very much.
“And how was your slumber last night, Miss Belmont?”
Lowering her eyes, Claire mumbled something vague and waved her hand about. Plimley knew her sleeping habits were not good, just like he always knew if something was worrying her. However, she was not about to get into that with him now.
“Are you wanting these taken to your room, Miss Belmont?” the butler added, looking at the faded cloak and bonnet he had just taken from her.
Claire was used to Plimley, having known him since she was ten, however sometimes he still made her blink. He was possibly one of the most handsome men she had ever seen. His hair was thick and blonde even at fifty-five years old; he had the bluest eyes and kindest smile of any person she knew. Her mother’s friends—any woman callers, in fact–swooned over him. Even men stopped and stared at him, yet he remained calm and surprisingly un-conceited always. Even when Lady Carmichael had pretended to trip and fall into his arms, he’d simply righted her and remained unflustered as she’d twittered about his strong arms and firm, muscled torso.
“Yes, take them to my room, please,” Claire said and she could hear the tremor in her voice. She was tired, having not slept last night with worry. She needed to reach her room and rest, and then she could think about what next she would do about that note.