them than a trading of skills that, while not symmetrical skills, were certainly complements.
Owen put a hand on his shoulder, his voice quiet. ‘We all miss him. Thomas was a brave man. He died in the service of his country, nobly and honestly. It’s been a long time, but sometimes I still think I can hear him laughing. I’ll turn around at the club and expect to see him, but he isn’t there.’
‘I know. Me, too.’ Jonathon paused to gather himself. ‘Do you really think he’s dead?’ he said quietly. It was a thought he only voiced aloud to a few select people. After all this time, too many people felt he was ridiculous to hold on to what was becoming a ludicrous hope. There’d been no body. Thomas was just simply gone.
Owen didn’t laugh, didn’t try to argue with him. ‘It’s been a long time, Jonathon.’
A long time indeed. He’d had seven years to get used to Thomas being gone and yet somehow he hadn’t mastered it any more than he’d mastered the return of his French. Maybe he never would. ‘He was just so damn young.’ Jonathon breathed, unable to hold back the emotion that flooded his voice. ‘He was barely past his twentieth birthday. He’d hardly had time to grow up.’
‘He honoured us with his life.’ Owen cleared his throat. ‘We can honour him with ours. Jonathon, I need you in Vienna. What will it take?’ Owen paused, taking a moment to cleanse the intensity from his tone. ‘Has there been any progress?’ he asked carefully, kindly.
‘I need time.’ Never mind that seven years hadn’t been time enough. He tried not to think about last night’s debacle. ‘I need to find another tutor and continue my lessons.’ Jonathon said it as confidently as he could, as if he truly believed more study would fix what plagued him. It had been unfortunate his last tutor had a family emergency in Paris and been called away at a most critical juncture, but perhaps it didn’t matter. A pair of sharp brown eyes swam to the fore of his memory, accompanied by a polite voice: The French don’t pronounce the final ‘r’ in bonjour. Perhaps his problem wasn’t something that could be fixed by study. Still, he had to try. For Thomas.
‘We need the post settled before the Season ends, Jonathon. Elliot Wisefield is champing at the bit should you fail and we need a replacement for Lord Wareborne in Vienna by the New Year. I have good men there—Viscount St Just, Matheson and Truesdale—but Central Europe is on the brink of exploding.’
Or imploding, depending on how one looked at it, but sending Wisefield? The name made Jonathon cringe. They’d been rivals since school as much as he and Owen had been friends. How fitting that they’d now be vying for the same diplomatic post. How could Danvers, how could any of them, be considering Wisefield? He might be smart, might have an encyclopaedic head of knowledge when it came to history, but he hadn’t an ounce of finesse to his name.
Jonathon couldn’t protest, though, it would be bad form to malign a competitor. Instead, he had to be confident. He didn’t want Owen Danvers to think he was begging. Weakness persuaded no one, not even friends.
Jonathon turned from the window, a strong smile pasted on his face, the one he used to charm overprotective mothers. ‘The end of the Season will be fine. Thank you, Owen.’
Owen Danvers rose from behind his desk. His face was etched in concern and for the first time, Jonathon saw the worry his friend carried as the man clasped his hand in a firm handshake. ‘Let me tell you again, I want you there, Jonathon. The Phanariots are rising, the Greeks are making their bid for an independent state. These next few years will be volatile times. The Treaty of Vienna will be tested. Whether or not the treaty holds will depend on the men who stand behind it.’
‘The treaty must hold. It has to.’ Jonathon’s mind was already racing with moves and countermoves. The Phanariots thought Russia would be their saviour from the Ottomans, but Russia dared not move without France and Britain, Metternich’s concert of Europe demanded it. The Ottoman Empire was weak, but was now the time to crush it? A hundred questions surged. None of them would matter if he couldn’t overcome this last hurdle.
‘Do you have someone in mind for tutoring?’ Danvers asked.
‘Yes, I do.’ Jonathon answered with a confidence he didn’t feel. He thought once more of amber eyes and a pretty blue dress showing a nice bosom. It was madness. He hardly knew her beyond his association with May’s brother and suddenly he was pinning his future on her, Miss Welton, Viscount Stanhope’s daughter, May Worth’s friend from Sussex—what was her name? Clarice, Clara, Clarinda, Catherine? None of those seemed quite right. Claire. That was it. Would she even do it? Could she do it? Was her French as good as her very brief demonstration at the table and May’s endorsement indicated? He was in no position to accept mediocrity. He needed excellence and he needed it fast.
A hasty plan began to form and it started with flowers. Jonathon hurried out of Whitehall, headed towards the nearest florist. There was a spring his step even as he reminded himself this whole gambit smacked of desperation. He was hoping for quite a lot from a woman whose first name he barely recalled.
* * *
‘Mr Jonathon Lashley to see you, Miss Welton.’
The butler’s announcement sent a thrill of excitement down Claire’s spine. How many times had she imagined hearing those words? How many times had she dreamed of this moment—Jonathon Lashley calling on her? Then she forced herself to remember why he was calling. Not once in those imaginings had he called on her for French lessons. It seemed May’s plan had worked thus far. She should be ecstatic, so why did she feel a bit fraudulent, dangling her French out there like so much cheese in a mousetrap?
‘Send him in, Marsden,’ her mother shot, her eyebrow raised as she spoke a single crisp word. ‘Interesting.’
It wasn’t all that interesting from where Claire sat. She knew exactly why Jonathon was here. He’d arranged his call perfectly to ensure privacy. The time for afternoon calls was nearly over, the sitting room at Stanhope house empty. The last callers had left ten minutes ago. There was no chance of anyone noticing his arrival. Was he that embarrassed to be seen calling on her? The nuance stung.
She and her mother rose as Jonathon stepped into the room and made his bow. ‘Good afternoon, Lady Stanhope, Miss Welton. I trust I am not too late?’ He presented her with a bouquet of flowers, fresh white-petalled snowdrops and deep butter-yellow roses.
‘Thank you, they’re lovely.’ She took the bouquet, irrationally touched by the gesture. It meant nothing. It was protocol. But, oh, it was so easy to forget she’d angled for this very moment. She signalled for Marsden to get a vase. ‘Will you take tea?’ Claire gestured to the tea pot and the trays of cakes beautifully frosted and arranged to appeal to the eye.
‘I have come with a request,’ Jonathon began once they were settled with cups and cakes. He balanced his plate on his knee, his fingers preternaturally gripping the delicate handle of his teacup. Now, that was interesting. Claire watched him carefully. If she didn’t know better, she’d think the urbane Jonathon Lashley was nervous. Impossible. Then again, just last night she’d been disabused of the notion that he was perfect. If he squeezed Grandmother Highthorne’s Wedgwood any tighter, the slim handle would likely burst under his grip.
She understood the feeling. She thought she just might burst under his gaze. He was looking directly at her as he spoke and her pulse was about to go through the ceiling. He’d never directed any conversation to her this long before. If she had something in her hand to grip, she’d be squeezing the life out of it, too. But her teacup remained on the table, perhaps for the better. Claire tried to focus on what he had to say. ‘I’m in need of a French tutor to help
