Page 50 of The Trouble with Tweed

“You must tell us both questions up front,” Margaret mumbled, her mouth still full.

Claire wrinkled her nose. “Very well. My question for Lily is regarding one Lord Hayes. Specifically, how well she knew him before the Season started.”

Lily’s eyes went round; her teacup stopped on its journey to her mouth, which was agape.

“Lily?” Beatrice asked, frowning.

Claire turned to Margaret with a feline smile. “And my question for Margaret is regarding the Duke of Ettrick.”

“No,” Margaret snapped. “Absolutely not.”

“Come now, Margaret,” Beatrice chided. “You won’t even hear the question?”

“Certainly not. I won’t be answering any questions about him.”

“Ah, what a pity,” Claire said, serenely sipping from her teacup. “Though I thank you for this exercise. I found it most enlightening. The simple fact that you won’t answer my inquiries is quite enough information for me to go on for the time being.”

Their breakfast didn’t last long after that. There was a strained kind of silence until Lily pushed back from the table and fled through the open archway.

Claire narrowed her eyes at Lily’s untouched plate. She turned to one of the footmen. “Please ask the housekeeper to send a loaded tea tray up to Lily’s room, and check with her lady’s maid to ensure she eats something.”

The man nodded and left; Margaret used the distraction to take her leave from the other end of the table.

Beatrice watched her leave and sighed. “How did you know when I didn’t?”

“It’s simply a matter of paying attention,” she said primly.

Claire didn’t tell her the truth: that she could recognize a young lady who was deeply affected by a gentleman, because she’d experienced the same emotions.

CHAPTER 16- MICHAEL

It was a lovely day for a drive. Crisp, but not too cold. The sky was that peculiar shade of blue that was unique to London. Or at least, Michael thought so. He admired Claire as she sat next to him in the phaeton. He hoped she noticed that he’d chosen his ensemble with care—his valet had assured him he looked very fine in a deep-green coat paired with charcoal trousers and and a grey waistcoat.

“Over there,” he said, nodding across the park. “That’s just the kind of gentleman you’re looking for.”

Claire’s sharp eyes followed his line of sight to a grey-haired man stooped with age. As they watched, the man nearly snarled at a pair of children playing with a hoop and sticks at the side of the pathway.

“Lord Filver,” he explained. “A gentleman, but a miser through and through.”

“My husband need not be a miser,” she chided.

“No?” He arched an eyebrow. “Forgive me, I thought you wanted someone who had wealth and who was certain to keep it.”

Claire blinked. “Well, yes, but⁠—”

“That’s a miser,” Michael said. “I’m fairly certain if you look up the term in the dictionary, that’s actually what’s written under miser.”

She gave an exasperated sigh. “I’m not saying he can’t be generous⁠—”

“You’re simply saying that he must never lose his money under any circumstances, correct?”

Claire’s only response to his interruption was her lips pressed firmly together, combined with a scalding glare.

Michael pretended not to notice. “The only way that anyone can be guaranteed of keeping all of their money is never to spend any of it, never to invest any of it, never to risk any of it. And that’s really what you’re trying to protect yourself from, isn’t it? Risk?”

“I want a secure future.”

“Then why on earth don’t you just inform your brother that you don’t wish to marry at all?”