Leslie LaFoy by Come What May Page A

“Nefarious scheming.”
    From behind them, Devon Rivard corrected, “More like exceedingly poor judgment and then miserable luck.”
    “Oh, I do hear a story begging to be told,” HenriettaRivard chirped happily as she drew Claire into a lavishly appointed salon. Devon's brother stood directly in front of the hearth, a large brandy snifter in his hand and the tails of his frock coat perilously close to the flames. Another older woman sat perched on the edge of a nearby chair, an embroidery hoop in her hand. Her panniers were every bit as wide as Madam Rivard's, her hair styled in a manner that was only slightly less extravagant. Elsbeth, Claire guessed. Henrietta's supposedly shrewish sister.
    “It's been two years since anything even remotely amusing or interesting has happened at Rosewind,” Madam Rivard went on, guiding Claire toward the fire. “Devon is positively the most boring man in all of the Americas. Had I not given birth to him myself, I would swear that he wasn't my child at all. Life under his control has become just as stifled as he is. Wyndom, do move over to share the warmth with Mistress…”
    Wyndom obeyed, his gaze riveted on his very full glass of brandy, and Claire was deposited beside him at the hearth, her mind reeling and her heart pounding. She saw no choice but answer, “Curran.”
    Devon, standing in front of the buffet with a decanter in one hand and a crystal tumbler in the other, fixed his brother with a hard look and said, “You didn't send the message, did you?”
    “I couldn't think of an appropriate way to frame the words,” Wyndom replied without looking up. He took a sip of his brandy before adding, “And, besides, you didn't leave me the time. Arranging for the carriage took all that you allowed.”
    “You're a sniveling coward.”
    “Devon!” Madam Rivard gasped, wheeling on him. “We have a guest in our home and you will exercise good manners.”
    “Mother,” he retorted icily, pouring his drink, “Youshould know that Claire is more than a mere guest. She's my wife.”
    Claire couldn't see his mother's face, but it wasn't really necessary. Madam Rivard gasped, pressed her hands to her face, and staggered where she stood. Claire instinctively edged forward, preparing to catch her should she faint dead away.
    “Had Wyndom stiffened his spine when instructed to do so,” Devon continued, his tone still flinty as he advanced toward the hearth with his drink, “you would have been accorded the opportunity to both receive such startling news and recover from your shock in private. The awkwardness of this moment lies squarely at his feet.”
    “Nevertheless,” the woman with the embroidery hoop said haughtily,
“you
are the son who owes your mother the explanation.”
    Claire watched fire blaze in his eyes, realizing that despite their sometimes strained and contentious exchanges, she hadn't seen him truly angry until now. With what appeared to be great effort, he deliberately turned his shoulder to the woman and addressed his mother. “Wyndom incurred a gambling debt and arranged a loan from an agent of George Seaton-Smythe in order to pay it.”
    “I'm not familiar with the name. Is he a Virginian?”
    “No, Mother,” he replied tightly. “He's British.”
    “Oh, thank goodness. I would so dislike having our friends know that borrowing was necessary.”
    Devon scowled at his mother and went on. “Mr. Seaton-Smythe apparently came to realize that my brother's promises aren't worth the paper on which they're written and that I represented the only hope he had of recovering the two thousand pounds sterling Wyndom had borrowed from him.”
    “I hope that you didn't pay the man that kind ofmoney,” the other woman said, her tone no less imperial for having been pointedly dismissed just a moment before. “Your mother and I have repeatedly submitted our lists to you and have, despite that, done without a great number of necessities for far too long. We haven't had