And now he sat across from her, with no idea how handsome he was or how lovely he looked when he laughed. Though he needed a haircut, a good night’s sleep and to gain a few pounds, she thought he was the most perfect specimen of manhood she’d ever seen.
He had seen her almost at her worst today—when she’d entertained the notion of ripping out the Doctor’s eyes. Then he’d seen her at her weakest in the submersible. And she had yet to see him at anything other than his patriotic best.
If only she could loathe him. But loathing him, as easy as it should be, proved to be as difficult as finding Stanton Howard in this glittering crowd.
“Would you like another glass of wine, madam?” a waiter asked from just over her shoulder.
“Why not?” She flashed him her most beguiling smile. His polite expression didn’t waver. Perhaps she was losing her touch.
He refilled her glass and went off to serve the rest of the table. The captain dined at the front of the large dining room, where everyone could see her and her guests and she could see a {e cestll of them in turn. It was the perfect vantage point from which to survey the room.
Not one man—or woman—stood out as someone who could be Stanton Howard. Had she truly thought it would be that easy? That she’d glance around once and spot him instantly? He was a master of disguise. For that matter, he might not even be in the dining room.
It would have been so much easier to find him if he’d brought the Doctor with him as they originally suspected he would. Perhaps that was why he’d left the other man behind, or perhaps he was simply keeping to form and betrayed the Doctor as he betrayed everyone he met.
They had that in common, she and Howard.
“More wine, my lord?”
She glanced over as the waiter spoke to Alastair. The Earl of Wolfred flashed that lopsided, rakish grin of his, and the young man practically melted at his feet. “Of course.”
Ugh. Did the man not know how to not flirt? All he had to do was turn on that bloody British charm of his and people turned into drooling idiots, panting all over themselves for a scrap of his attention.
“Miss Clarke.”
Claire turned her head, grateful for the distraction, and smiled to the woman on her right. She and Alastair had been given the very sought-after seats at the head of the table. “Yes, Captain?”
“I’ve been wanting to tell you how much I enjoyed seeing you perform in Boston when you appeared in Much Ado About Nothing.”
Claire almost made a face. Shakespeare, of course. She didn’t understand the appeal, but people seemed to like his works, and she’d gotten good reviews as well as a decent paycheck for the role. “Thank you. It’s always so lovely to know that one’s work has been appreciated. It gives me a feeling of great pride to know I brought a character to life for someone.”
She caught Alastair glancing at her out of the corner of her eye. He seemed surprised to hear her talk. She was an actress, by trades both true and false. Did he think she didn’t know how to speak in a proper fashion? Or was he surprised to hear such sincerity in her voice? She didn’t have to pretend at that. She’d wanted to be an actress long before she ever became a spy.
The Company had been a great, dangerous rehearsal.
Alastair was still staring. She fought the urge to stick her tongue out at him and ignored him instead, keeping her attention focused on the one person who actually seemed impressed with her.
The captain continued to talk about various plays and performances, many with which Claire was familiar. They were in the middle of discussing Oscar Wilde, one of Claire’s personal favorites, when an older woman, tall and pale with graying red hair and clear gray eyes, approached. She wore a striking gown of russet silk and a matching hat trimmed with dyed ostrich feathers. She was regal and imperious. She was not beautiful, but she was handsome, with the sort of features that begged to be studied and committed to memory.
There was something strangely familiar about her face. . . . “Wolfred? Is that you? Whatever are you doing here?”>
Alastair rose to his feet, the color draining from his face. The woman kissed his left cheek, then his right, smiling at him with such adoration that Claire felt guilty for witnessing it.
The woman didn’t even seem to notice that he hadn’t spoken. He looked as though someone had punched him hard in the stomach. “Darling, you look marvelous. I heard that you had a certain young lady with you, and I had to come see for myself.”
Uh-oh. Claire stared at the older woman. She certainly seemed to like Alastair, but there was an expression in her eyes that plainly said this situation could go sour fast—and that Alastair had better tell her what she wanted to hear.
Alastair turned his head to look at her. He looked as though he wanted to apologize. There was also no denying that he expected her to play along. That was when she saw the resemblance.
Oh hell.
He smiled, transforming his expression to one of manly adoration. He was a better actor than she. “Mother, you remember Claire, my . . . fiancée.”
Chapter 11
“Claire, darling!”
Alastair could only stand and watch as his mother—Amelia Payne, the dowager Countess Wolfred—engulfed Claire in a rose-scented embrace. To her credit, Claire looked every inch the delighted fiancée, rather than a woman caught in a huge lie.
“Lady Wolfred,” she cooed with a smile. “How wonderful to see you again.”
“As it is to see you.” His mother beamed at Claire. He almost believed they truly knew and adored each other. It was as disconcerting as it was impressive. How was a man to ever know if either of them was lying? “But I am so sorry to interrupt your meal. We shall catch up later, of course?” This was directed at Alastair, and with both of them looking at him with murder in their eyes, he knew he didn’t have a choice.
And he knew they weren’t lying.
He swallowed. This was the last thing he needed. “Of course, Mother.”
She swept away with all the grace of a queen. He drew a breath, and barely had time to plaster a smile on his face before people at the table began congratulating him—and Claire—on their impending nuptials.
“You are a lucky woman, Miss Clarke,” Mrs. Neilson, the woman sitting next to him gushed at Claire. If any of them cared about the fact that she was an actress and American, while he was an earl, none of them showed it.
Great liars, all of them. Now he understood what Dhanya had meant when she referred to Britain as a “nation of spies.”
Claire smiled. It looked sincere, but it reminded Alastair of a lioness baring her fangs. “Indeed I am.” Her gaze shifted, locking with his. He refused to back down. He’d done what he had to do to save both her and his mother any embarrassment, and he refused to apologize for it. The scandal of marrying “beneath” him would be far less than introducing his mother to his supposed mistress.
Though he had no doubt both of them would make him regret it before the night was over.
It would be a small price to pay to have the trip continue on with as little drama as possible. They were there to apprehend Howard, not play at house. Besides, when this was over, he would be the one suffering, as word would get out that he’d been jilted and he’d have to play the part.
And he hadn’t his mother’s thespian skills.
For the remainder of dinner, they made polite conversation with the rest of the table and put on a good show of being a devoted couple. Afterward, when the ship’s orchestra—half a dozen automatons designed to look like beautiful lords and ladies of the previous century—began to play, couples took to the floor to dance.