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“Reigate,” she said, keeping her eyes on Clara in a disconcerting manner that had her feeling disturbingly exposed, “why don’t you leave Lady Clara and I to chat? I would get to know my future daughter-in-law better.”
Quincy let loose a rude noise. “I think,” he said, his tone clipped and tense, “that you must be mad to think I’ll leave you alone with her.”
“Now, now, Reigate,” the duchess cooed. “You really must learn to be more civil. It would be a shame if Lord and Lady Crabtree overheard. I’ve gotten to know them quite well in the past week. And I can say with certainty that they will not be happy should even a whiff of unpleasantness or scandal touch their precious son and his upcoming nuptials.”
Clara felt all the blood leave her face. A horrible ringing started up in her ears, for it was a threat, plain and simple.
As she and Quincy stared at her in stunned silence, the woman’s smile widened, a cruel kind of victory lighting her cold eyes. “Now, be a good son and leave us to a cozy chat.”
Quincy fairly trembled with outrage beside her, heralding an explosion of volcanic proportions. Needing to keep the peace between them, she placed a hand on his arm. “It’s fine, Quincy,” she murmured low. “I can handle her.”
The duchess laughed. “You hear that, Reigate? She can handle me,” she said in a mocking voice.
Clara shot her a warning look before, fighting to hide the dread that was quickly rising up like a floodwater, she rearranged her stiff features into a bright smile and turned back to Quincy. “Truly, I’ll be fine,” she said. Then, in a whisper, “Don’t let her win.”
Her words seemed to penetrate his mounting fury. Dragging in a deep breath, he smiled at her. “Of course, my dear,” he said. “I shall be close by if you need me.” Taking up her hand, he kissed her knuckles before rising and striding off, not once looking at his mother.
“Well done, Lady Clara,” the duchess drawled. “I thank you for your handling of Reigate. Goodness knows he won’t listen to me.”
“It was not done for your benefit, I assure you,” Clara managed.
“Ah, of course not. You would do anything to save your sister heartache, wouldn’t you?”
Clara just managed to hide her shudder as the slimy slink of revulsion worked its way over her skin. “Let’s make this quick, shall we?” she said. “Dinner will be called soon, and I’d rather not have my appetite threatened with thoughts of having to continue this conversation.”
A grudging respect flared in the older woman’s eyes. “You’ve got spirit, haven’t you?” she murmured. “I don’t know whether to be impressed or annoyed.”
Clara ignored the attempt to bait her, keeping her eyes steady, her head high.
The duchess inclined her head. “Very well. I shall not take up too much of your precious time. I only wished to get to know you better. Surely you cannot fault me for that, Reigate being my last remaining son.”
“What would you know?”
“You have lived on the Isle of Synne all your life, have you not?”
“I have,” she answered, mind spinning as to where this could be going. She wasn’t fooled one bit that this line of questioning was pursued out of mere curiosity.
The duchess raised a hand imperiously. At once a footman approached with a tray. She took a glass of wine from it, keeping her eyes fixed on Clara as she took a sip. The considering gleam in that hard gaze had the hairs on the back of Clara’s neck standing on end.
“You and your sister seem to love it here,” the older woman mused. “Else why would Lady Phoebe be so insistent that everyone trek to this far-flung part of the country for her wedding?”
Once again the woman fell silent. She was trying to unnerve her. But Clara refused to let that happen. She inclined her head, drawing upon years of practice to keep her expression bland.
“And you’ve never had a London season?” the woman continued, seemingly undaunted by Clara’s silence. “Never had a lengthy holiday anywhere?”
“No, Your Grace,” Clara said.
“Really?” the duchess purred, her smile widening in a feral manner. For a moment Clara thought she saw the flash of knife-sharp teeth.
Shaking off the vision, she was about to state emphatically that, no, she had never stepped foot from Synne’s shores.
Until she recalled the one time she was thought to have taken a trip, to visit her old nurse. When in reality she had been hidden away on the remote northern tip of Synne.
Her fingers tightened about the glass in her hands, and she felt she might cast up her accounts all over the duchess’s skirts.
The expression of satisfaction on the woman’s face gave her the appearance of a predatory snake about to strike.
Too late, Clara realized she had shown her hand. She quickly rearranged her features into unconcerned boredom. But her stomach sank, knowing the duchess’s sharp eyes had missed nothing.
