Page 77 of The Trouble with Tweed

“Rutheridge couldn’t be further from our thankfully departed brother if he tried. Indeed, he’s so far from that sort of character that I think Rutheridge certainly does try. Such an upstanding reputation cannot come about by accident.”

“But only weeks ago, a young woman appeared at his doorway, trying to bilk him out of child support. Such a thing wouldn’t happen if he didn’t have a licentious reputation.”

Claire didn’t know why she was arguing when she already believed Michael. Perhaps it was the dying vestiges of her own pride that made her protest.

“Good heavens, Claire,” William said, shaking his head. “That sort of thing happens to every gentleman of nobility. That’s not a failure of reputation, but a failure of butler and footman. There’s always a conniving element of society who’ll attempt anything to part a nobleman with his coins. Why, Abeer has turned away four such women from my doorstep since I returned to London, and I daresay such a thing won’t stop, probably until I’m dead.”

“Why on earth would these ladies do such a thing to men with upstanding reputations?”

William exhaled his incredulity. “Well, it must have worked at least once, and the idea spread. But for gentlemen like myself who’ve never visited the brothels, it’s easily enough remedied. We don’t have to entertain such nonsense because there’s no possibility of it being the truth. Rutheridge should have fired his butler on the spot.”

“I think he had strong words with him afterward,” Claire mumbled.

“But you thought it was evidence of Rutheridge shirking his morals and duty?”

She shook her head. It was hard to admit to herself that she’d been wrong about everything for a large span of time. It was nearly impossible to admit it out loud.

William arched an eyebrow. “Really, Claire, you should have known better and given the man more credit.”

His gentle upbraiding served to do what nearly two days of rumination could not. Tears gathered along her lower lashes.

“Oh, drat it all,” William said, his eyebrows rising in alarm. “Don’t cry.”

Claire shook her head, but now that she’d started, she couldn’t quite make herself stop. Tears catapulted themselves over her lower lashes, one after another.

“Really,” he said, “whatever I’ve done to upset you, I didn’t mean it. I take it back. Would you like a pony? I will buy you several if you only promise to stop.”

Claire laughed through her tears, which only seemed to unsettle her brother more. “Not ponies, then. Diamonds? Diamonds are always nice.”

“I think I might have ruined everything,” she admitted.

“Of course not. Whatever it is can be remedied,” he said.

Claire shook her head. If only she felt as certain as William sounded.

“But seriously, Claire.” William waited until she raised her eyes to his. “If you don’t stop crying, I’m going to buy you something scandalously expensive.”

Apparently she hadn’t controlled herself quickly enough for William’s tastes, for the following morning, Mara presented Claire with a blue velvet box.

They both gasped when she opened it. Resting upon the navy satin was a diamond and sapphire tiara. Claire held a forefinger to one of the winking diamonds in wonder.

“I suppose William wasn’t joking after all,” she murmured.

That evening, they were to go to the theater. Claire would have cried off due to a headache or another small malady, but William had gone to the trouble of securing a box for the family.

She wore the sapphire and diamond tiara. Claire thought it went very well with her navy velvet gown, and if nothing else, she hoped that it would distract from the bleakness of her skin, the wanness of her appearance. Even when she tried smiling at herself in the mirror, something about the deadness of her eyes made the expression vaguely pathetic.

When Claire gathered with her sisters in the foyer, Beatrice was the only one not wearing a tiara. Margaret’s was studded with light blue aquamarines that brought out the color of her eyes. Lily’s was adorned in pearls and diamonds.

“Wait just a moment,” Beatrice snapped, her eyes flitting to each of her sisters in turn. Or rather, to their heads. “Where did you get those?”

“William,” they all murmured, as if they’d planned it.

Beatrice propped a hand upon her silk-clad hip. “Why on earth didn’t he get me one?”

Claire was surprised to see the glimmer of true hurt in Beatrice’s eyes, so she said, “I’m not certain what my sisters did to earn their gifts, but he only gave me one because I cried.”

“You cried?” Beatrice blinked with wide eyes. “Why?”