Come What May

Chapter One Williamsburg, Virginia April, 1774 Murder would have been a kinder fate, Claire thought, resisting the urge to chew on her lower lip. All of her plans had been made around an assumption that had proven to be overly optimistic. How could she have underestimated her uncle's spiteful nature? She sighed quietly. There was no point in chastising herself for shortsightedness. There'd be plenty of time for that after she found a way out of the ugly Byzantine maze her uncle had crafted. If only she'd managed to sleep some the night before. She needed a clear head, a mind that could wrest salvation from thin air. But she'd spent the night pacing her rented room, unable to think about anything except what a black-hearted scoundrel her uncle was. And now all she had to show for the effort was a brain that had all the power and clarity of lukewarm oatmeal. Claire clenched her teeth. "I hope, Mistress Curran, that you found your lodgings suitable?" Perched on the edge of the chair, Claire forced herself to swallow past the tightness in her throat, took as deep a breath as her stays permitted, and met the gaze of the man standing behind the desk. "They're more than adequate for my needs, Mr. Cantrell. I appreciate your thoughtfulness and effort on my behalf." The solicitor lifted a sheaf of papers, perused them briefly, and then cast them down with a soft sigh. "It's the least I can do under the circumstances. I'd like you to form at least a favorable first impression of Virginia hospitality. Devon isn't likely to be as concerned with the warmth of your welcome." Claire stared down at her lap. She didn't have to remove her worn kid gloves to know that her primly laced fingers had turned a ghostly white. Adjusting the drape of her dress and flexing the blood back to her fingertips, she said, "I'm no happier with the circumstances than Mr. Rivard will be. If a way can be found to escape the situation, I assure you that I'll do so." Edmund Cantrell arched a pale brow and again picked up the sheaf of papers lying on the desk. "He's not going to believe that you're an innocent party in this affair. You're aware of that, aren't you, Mistress Curran?" She lifted her chin. "I had no knowledge of either the nature or the contents of the letter before yesterday, and I'll swear such before God. You yourself broke the seal." "Please," the young solicitor hurried to inject. "I meant no dishonor to you. I know your uncle by reputation, and I'm quite sure that such perfidy is common to his business practices. It's Devon who concerns me. He has a streak of suspicion in him that's both wide and notorious. He won't be as . . ." The man sighed and stared down at the papers as he shook his head. "As what, Edmund?" Claire pivoted in the chair, turning toward the office doorway and the direction from which the question had come. A man stood framed within it, the dark curls on his head only a scant distance from the top of the doorway, a mere sliver of space existing between his massive shoulders and the oaken sides of the jamb. The morning light stood at his back and cast his facial features into gray shadows. But she didn't have to see his face to guess the expression he wore. She could tell much about his state of mind by the broad stance he took in the doorway, by the way he commanded the room into which he faced. He was annoyed at having to be there, and he was determined to dispatch the business at hand as quickly as possible. She fixed her gaze on the desk before the affable Mr. Cantrell and fought back the wave of panic that threatened to propel her out of the chair, out of the office, down the street, and into blissful oblivion. A sense of pending doom settled over her shoulders even as she silently prayed, Please, dear God, let this be some other manLaFoy, Leslie is the author of 'Come What May' with ISBN 9780553583144 and ISBN 055358314X.