If she closed her eyes, for a few minutes at a time, Claire could almost imagine that she was in the house in Saint-Germain. There was a sense of belonging. The servants were kind to her. She was an honored member of the family. Her garments were of the finest materials. Her body was pampered. Her skin was faintly perfumed. And her host, John Burke, unfailingly addressed her in her native tongue.
But when she opened her eyes, the dream faded. She was in the lavender room. The servants were mostly black slaves. The furniture was after the English style, rich mahoganies and walnuts, polished to a mirror perfection. Her gowns were too elegant for her mother’s modest taste, high-waisted with a dearth of ornamentation, after the latest fashions from Paris. Even her hair was cut and styled in the current mode. Small curls framed her face. Ringlets fell to her shoulders. And she had only to step outside the door of John Burke’s great red-bricked mansion on Broadway, and the dream faded to oblivion.
The noise was remarkable, even to one who was inured to the hustle and bustle of Paris. New York was a seaport, and therein lay the difference. At every crossroads one might glimpse water and sails. The wharves were a hive of activity. An army of drivers and their carts were engaged in moving goods to and from warehouses to destinations all over Manhattan. Their raucous calls were intermingled with the cries of street vendors pushing handcarts filled with every kind of mouth-watering comestible for sale to eat on the spot.
The city itself was an odd mixture. There were steep-roofed Dutch houses of a former era, and there were stately Georgian mansions complete with white plaster porticoes. In Paris, Claire was used to a magnificence which was not evident here. But it was the cold magnificence of white marble. She infinitely preferred the yellow and red-bricked buildings of New York. The architecture suited the residents. Warm. Friendly. Informal.
Yet passions smoldered beneath the surface. The gentlemen fought duels at the drop of a hat. The ladies were spared most of the gory details. As is the way of things the world over, however, women soon wormed the scandals out of their menfolk. To Claire, having recently escaped the Terror in France, the quarrels between gentlemen seemed nonsensical as well as frightening. By her lights, Americans enjoyed the most just form of government in the world. For a man to risk his life for a small point of honor seemed almost blasphemous. The gentlemen did not agree with her. Scarcely a week went by when the dread word “Weehawken” was not bandied about in some assembly or other. Weehawken was just across the river in New Jersey. It was there that the gentlemen settled their differences with pistols at twenty paces. Claire’s nightmares took a new twist.
That thought engaged her mind as she readied herself for the assembly which regularly took place every Friday evening in the ballroom of the City Tavern. In New York, every tenth building was a tavern. Most were exactly as the name indicated, a public inn where travelers might put up for the night, or where gentlemen could enjoy a tipple in convivial company. The City Tavern was exceptional. It was the former mansion of the Delancey family. Only the crème de la crème of New York society entered its magnificent portals. Its stables could house, at a pinch, up to two hundred horses.
As was to be expected, for these assemblies, the patrons were decked out in their most elegant finery. The mature matrons continued to adopt the regal fashions from London. Not for them the simple sheaths of silk or satin, à la Grecque, which their daughters had ordered from the influx of Parisian modistes who proliferated in New York. The gentlemen, in matters of fashion, followed the ladies’ lead. The younger generation had taken up the new vogue for dark, more restrained garments and unpowdered hair. Even here, there was no uniformity, for some grew their hair long and tied it in back with a black ribbon, while others sheared their locks to the collar.
Claire critically assessed her reflection in the looking glass. She was fortunate to have fallen heir to any number of fine gowns which Sarah Burke’s youngest daughter had left behind on the occasion of her marriage the year before. Jane had subsequently removed to her husband’s home in Connecticut. Sarah’s youngest daughter, Claire deduced, was up to the mark on the latest fashions. The sheath of pale blue silk would have passed muster in Paris.
A little black maid draped a matching silk shawl around Claire’s shoulders. There was no need for anything heavier, for the temperature was comfortably warm. Claire picked up her fan, warned her maid, Dulcie, not to make herself sick on the bonbons she had left for her, and slowly made her way to her hostess’s drawing room on the ground floor.
Besides herself and the Burkes there were two others making up their party—Betsy Fulton, the eldest daughter, who was visiting with her children from Hanover, and David Burke, John Burke’s brother, and younger than he by a good twenty years.
When she entered the room, all conversation died. Claire’s first thought was that she must have been the topic of conversation. It troubled her not one whit. The Burkes were not malicious. They had adopted her as though she were a daughter of the house. John Burke had given her to understand that he had made her father’s acquaintance years before, when he had traveled in France to trace his Huguenot forbears. A friendship had developed. For a time, he and Leon Devereux had kept up a correspondence. Claire thought it a marvelous coincidence that of all the people in America to whom Millot might have sent her, he chanced upon the one who was intimately acquainted with a member of her family.
Sarah came forward and crooned appreciatively over Claire’s borrowed finery. John pressed a glass of lemonade into her hand, and the conversation resumed where it had left off when Claire entered the room. She sipped her drink slowly. Adam Dillon. She had heard the name before but could not remember in what connection. His ship had docked that very afternoon, and the whole of society, it seemed, was eager to renew his acquaintance. Claire listened in silence. Evidently, Adam Dillon was a great favorite with the Burkes.
“Poor Adam,” said Sarah, “to be holed up for months in a French port. No wonder public opinion is turning against the French. What right have they to interfere with American merchant ships?”
“None whatsoever,” agreed her husband amicably. “But the British are no better. Were it not for a most fortuitous fog blanketing the coast of France, the Diana might very easily have fallen prey to a British frigate, as Claire can testify.”
Truth to tell, Claire remembered very little of the voyage from Bordeaux to Boston. As soon as the French coast had faded from view, that strange inertia had returned to claim her. She could not seem to summon more than a passing interest in past, present, or future. It was Blanche who had bullied her into writing a letter to her sister and brother in England, and Blanche who had secured a promise from the captain that on landing in Boston, he would undertake to see that the letter was conveyed to England.
The New World had gradually worked a change in Claire. She saw that here, of all places, was the possibility of a fresh start. Her sufferings were not so unique. Others had fared far worse. They had not wallowed in self-pity. America had been the making of them. They had made fortunes, established dynasties. Claire deemed that she was more fortunate than most. She was young. She was healthy. And she had landed on the doorstep of a family who accepted her without qualification.
She knew that she could not remain as a guest with the Burkes indefinitely. Her pride spurred her to make a push for independence, as Blanche had done. Blanche had hired herself on as an actress. New York, unfortunately, did not support a resident drama company as did the major cities of Europe. Blanche had been obliged to go on tour. The girls had talked in general terms of opening a school of deportment for young ladies when Blanche returned at the end of the season. Until such time, Claire was content to drift.
She became conscious that she had come in for some good-natured cajolery. Betsy’s blue eyes, so like her father’s, danced mischievously.
“I can scarcely wait to see Claire’s effect on him. As we all know, Adam has an eye for a pretty face, and Claire’s beauty is breathtaking.” Claire’s brows winged upward, and Betsy laughed. “Oh very good, Claire! That look would freeze live coals! Do practice it on Adam. It’s about time some female cut Adam Dillon down to size!”
“Betsy!” protested her mother. “Anyone would think that you did not like Adam.”
“Nonsense, Mama. Like every other female who hasn’t quite reached her dotage, I’m a fool for Adam. All the ladies love him.” She wagged her finger playfully. “But I warn you, Claire, he’s a heart-breaker. Keep your distance or you’ll rue the day.”
“Betsy,” said her father dryly, “you are a young matron of three-and-thirty. You have young children in your care. Kindly try to conduct yourself in a more mature fashion, else I shall advise Alex that he should swat you more regularly.”
“Yes, Papa,” answered Betsy irrepressibly, and winked at Claire.
Claire had met Betsy’s husband, Alex Fulton, only once, when he had delivered his wife and children to her parents’ home some weeks before. Alex Fulton, like his in-laws the Burkes, was of a gentle disposition. Claire could not imagine him swatting a fly.
David Burke took Claire’s empty glass from her hand. He smiled into her eyes. “I’ll stick to you like a limpet,” he promised. “No one will trouble you, else I shall make myself very disagreeable.”
At these faintly loverlike words, mother and daughter exchanged a startled look. Over the rim of her glass, Sarah surreptitiously contemplated her young brother-in-law.
David Burke, at five-and-thirty, was a fine-looking man. His thick dark hair was tied in back with a black ribbon. His garments, though sober, were exquisitely tailored. David had presence. He was less serious than the rest of the Burke clan. But Sarah did not find fault with the young man on that score. In her opinion all the Burkes wanted a little leavening. In her own small way, she considered herself the spice that added a little flavor to her husband’s life. David Burke had no need of spice.
He was presumed to be a confirmed bachelor. What was not generally known was that David had formed an ineligible connection with a married lady some years before. The complacent husband, like himself, was a member of Congress. Many ladies in Philadelphia had set their caps for David Burke. He had deigned to notice nary a one.
On settling down at the Burke household two weeks before, he had apologized for having only a day or two to spare to catch up on family gossip. That was before he met Claire. There was no talk now of rushing back to Philadelphia to attend to his numerous duties.
Sarah smiled a secret smile to herself. Betsy, recognizing that smile, looked a question at her father. John Burke, thinking only of Adam, frowned. His tone was uncharacteristically testy when he said, “Stuff and nonsense! Claire is too young for flirtations and such like. She is hardly more than a child. Adam is like a member of the family. It would never enter his head to offer insult to a lady who is under my protection.”
Claire was becoming bored to tears with the topic of Adam Dillon. It was not necessary for her to make his acquaintance to grasp the gentleman’s character. She’d met his like in the salons of Paris. Her dimples flashing, she said demurely, “I am not so young as you think me, John. I’m one-and-twenty. I’m French. I’ve long since outgrown the practiced flatteries of charming flirts, be they ever so handsome.”
Everyone laughed.
As it turned out, Adam Dillon did not make an appearance at the assembly that evening. Nevertheless, his presence was felt. From the moment Claire walked into the ladies’ cloakroom to deposit her wrap, till the moment she retrieved it after supper, the name of Adam Dillon was on everyone’s lips.
Claire had the pleasure of recognizing many of the ladies to whom Sarah had introduced her in the previous weeks. The pattern of their lives was almost identical to the one Claire had followed in Paris before the Revolution had become a Terror. There were afternoon calls where the ladies conversed over tea and plum cake; there were shopping expeditions to William Street where the most fashionable mantua makers displayed their wares. There were long carriage drives in the country. There were both private parties and public balls, such as the present agreeable affair. And on Sundays, there were church services.
In religious matters, the citizens of New York, so Claire was given to understand, were more tolerant than most. There were twenty-two churches representing thirteen denominations, some of which Claire had never even heard of before. Claire was a Catholic. In France, there had been religious persecutions. It was years since she had attended Mass. In New York, she followed the Burkes’ example. John Burke was a church warden at Trinity, the prestigious Episcopalian church. Every Sunday, Claire sat with the Burkes in their family pew. Occasionally, she idly debated with herself whether or not she should make herself known to a priest of her own faith. The matter hardly seemed pressing. Time passed, and she did nothing about it.
The first person who met them as they stepped into the cloakroom was Sarah’s contemporary and very best friend, Mrs. Martha Armstrong. Her opening remarks were to be the model for everything which followed that evening. Adam Dillon was the subject of her conversation.
“Lily’s nose is out of joint,” she told Sarah gleefully.
Claire affected an interest in arranging her curls at one of the long pier glasses. The two older ladies bent their heads together and dropped their voices, but Claire overheard every word. The rumor was that the beautiful young widow was incensed. Adam had given Lily her walking papers. Scarcely had she welcomed the return of her erstwhile lover when he had declared his intention of taking ship for France as soon as he had cleared the press of business which had accumulated in his absence.
Later in the evening, Claire had the privilege of being introduced to Lily Randolph. It was Betsy who did the honors. Naturally, Claire was curious. In one comprehensive glance, she took the beauty’s measure. The lady was wealthy. She was fashionable, after the French manner. And for some inexplicable reason, she was also hostile. Claire was dismissed with a deliberate flick of the eyelashes before the lady moved away.
The exchange delighted Betsy. “She’s jealous,” she said. “I never thought I’d see the day, but Lily Randolph is positively green with envy. You’re a potential rival, you see.”
Claire looked sideways at her companion. “Why do you dislike Mrs. Randolph?”
“I? Dislike Lily Randolph? I’ll have you know that we were at school together.” After a moment Betsy grinned sheepishly. “When I was a young girl, she stole all my beaux,” she confessed.
Claire laughed and in the next breath refused several young bucks who descended upon her to secure the next dance. Her manners were charming. Her smile was sincere. These young men posed no threat to her. They reminded her of eager young puppies bent on mischief.
Couples were taking the floor for a stately cotillion. “A dowager’s dance,” disparaged Betsy. “Let’s sit this one out.”
They watched from the sidelines. David Burke joined them for a moment or two, but was soon called away to converse with a number of the gentlemen. He threw Claire a pained look of apology.
“I’m glad that affair is over,” observed Betsy idly. Claire had no difficulty in deducing that they had returned to the boring topic of Adam Dillon and his notorious liaison with the lady who had dismissed her with a flick of her long lashes.
Betsy sighed. “Adam ought to get married, settle down, set up his nursery. He would make a wonderful father. He has a way with children.” She sighed again. “Unhappily,” she went on, “he also has a way with women. His interest never fixes on one girl for long.”
Claire, thinking of the poor girl who must one day sacrifice herself on the altar of his dynastic ambitions, suppressed a shudder. As the evening wore on, everything she heard about Adam Dillon only reinforced her first impression. The man was a libertine of the first order. Conversely, he was also the biggest prize on the matrimonial market. The more she heard, the more cynical Claire’s smile became. Fond mamas looked as eagerly to the glass entrance doors as did their fledglings. Lily Randolph, however, was taking no chances. Like a sentry on duty, she patrolled the area. By the time David Burke led Claire into supper, one interesting fact had emerged. Adam Dillon, in spite of his unsavory reputation, was universally liked.
Claire dismissed the libertine from her thoughts, and gave her attention to her partner. For some time, they talked in generalities about Philadelphia, and David’s work as a congressman. To the Burkes, public service was a family tradition. The Devereux at one time had held an equally estimable position in France, but of a different character.
“The king was absolute monarch,” explained Claire. “The only way for a man who was not an aristocrat to advance himself was through commerce or, more recently, the army.”
“Did your father ever mention my brother’s name?”
“Not to my knowledge.” This was something which had puzzled Claire. After reading Millot’s letter of introduction, John Burke had greeted her as a long-lost relative. It seemed odd that her father had made no mention of such close friends in America.
“Tell me about your family,” David prompted.
She told him about the early days, when it had seemed to her that her parents were demigods. A sparkle crept into her eyes. Her dimples were flashing. It would have surprised Claire to know that her own name figured in conversations almost as often as did Adam Dillon’s. Her companion knew it. Like others in that ballroom, he was captivated by Claire Devereux.
“Now it’s your turn,” she teased. “How is it that you are so much younger than your brother?”
“I,” he said gravely, “was an afterthought, or rather, no thought at all. My parents, like Abraham and Sarah, believed that they were too old to be fruitful.”
“Did you have no brothers or sisters apart from John?”
“Several,” he answered, making a face. “But thankfully, the last of them left the nest soon after I was born. And so I reigned in solitary splendor.”
She laughed. “I’ll wager you were spoiled.”
“Do I seem spoiled to you?”
“No. But then, I scarcely know you.”
“You may have observed that I am doing my best to rectify that omission.” His mouth curved.
They fell silent for a moment. He made a gesture with one hand. “I’ve been fighting off the competition all evening. You don’t seem to notice the hordes of young blades who are panting to be introduced to you. Most young ladies would be highly gratified. You are a most unusual specimen, Miss Devereux.”
Her eyes danced. “They remind me of my younger scapegrace brother. I am more partial to mature gentlemen, such as John Burke, or yourself, for instance.”
He laughed. “What news of your brother and sister?”
Claire looked down at her plate. She selected a sweet biscuit and nibbled daintily before replying, “I should like them to come here to be with me.” She gave him a steady look. “I like America. I think they will like it too. I’ve written asking them to join me, if only my letter will find them.”
“It will,” he said, and gently squeezed the hand in her lap.
Claire was no fool. David Burke was clearly demonstrating a partiality toward her. She gently withdrew her hand. To distract him, she said the first thing that came into her head. “Tell me about Adam Dillon.” Inwardly, she groaned.
That night, for the first time in weeks, sleep eluded her. A fierce sadness had taken hold. She was thinking of the old days, the old places and the old faces. It seemed to her, then, that the best and the finest part of her life was over. Nothing that came in the future could ever hope to match those magical days of her young life when she had been supremely happy without being aware of it. Everything worthwhile was gone. The flower of France had perished in a tide of blood—those carefree young men and beautiful young girls who had graced her mother’s ballroom in Saint-Germain. Where, oh God, where were they now? In desperation, she forced herself to think of the present.
David Burke. He was pleasant to look upon, of medium height, well built, and with eyes as clear and as blue as a mountain lake. When he smiled, which he did often, those eyes crinkled at the corners. He was John’s youngest brother, but Claire would never have guessed that they were related. David was too much the gallant. He was more fashionable, more worldly, less serious than John. Still, when she was with him, she felt safe.
The next thought struck at her before she could prevent it. Philippe. She did not know his real name. She hoped she never would. He had used her and discarded her like so much refuse. He had nearly destroyed her. The pain almost shattered her. A confusion of thoughts spilled into her mind.
Of a sudden, she had a recollection of something she had said to John Burke about the whole tribe of Devereux. The name of Devereux stood for something. She’d had those lessons drummed into her along with her catechism at her grandmother’s knee.
The Devereux had risen from nothing to make their mark on France, Grandmère had told her. They had suffered crushing defeats only to rise again. The blood of generals ran in their veins, as did the blood of felons. In each generation, there was a Devereux who pulled himself up by his bootstraps and set about rebuilding the family fortunes.
Claire had no memory of names, had no memory of each personal history. In those days, the stories her grandmother had passed on had seemed to resemble the myths and legends of ancient Greece. Her father made light of Grandmère’s revelations. They were an embarrassment to him. Those days were gone forever. The Devereux were firmly established in French society. They had the king’s favor. Events proved that he was not so farseeing as Grandmère.
The name of Devereux stood for something, if only she could remember it. Claire let her thoughts drift. Grandmère’s soft tones seemed to echo in her head. Honor, duty, valor—many noble houses claimed these virtues as their own. The Devereux claimed something unique. Resurrection.
It was the wrong word, but the thought was exactly right. Resurrection. The dogma of the church had become inextricably tangled in her child’s mind with the dogma of the Devereux. And she would be damned by all former generations of Devereux if she allowed herself to sink under the weight of her misfortunes. The thought was vaguely comforting. By degrees, she drifted into sleep.
In another part of the house, John and Sarah Burke readied themselves for bed. Sarah was brushing out her long hair. “Did you hear what Claire said before we left for the assembly?” she asked.
John’s face was averted. He was removing odds and ends from his pockets. His movements stilled. “What did she say?”
“She said that she was one-and-twenty. I understood that Leon Devereux was a single man when you met him first in ’72?”
“I don’t know what gave you that idea,” answered John, and he carefully set down an enamel snuff box on the flat of a walnut dresser. He traced the pattern on the lid with his eyes.
“It’s so long ago,” said Sarah, quite unaware of the tension emanating from her husband. “I suppose I made an error.” She laughed softly. “At the time, I was taken up with my own woes. I had just been delivered of our fifth daughter and was sunk in despair. I did not know how I was to greet you with the sad news when you returned from France.” She twisted on her dressing-table stool to face him. “You’ve never reproached me for failing to give you a son. Yet, you are a man. You must have felt that lack.”
Gradually his harsh features relaxed into a smile. “I would not exchange one of my daughters for a dozen sons. Besides, now that they are all married, our girls have brought five very presentable young men into the family.”
“Not to mention grandsons,” added Sarah.
“I like my granddaughters equally as well.”
“Still…” Sarah turned back to watch herself in the mirror. “You must sometimes wish that your name could continue.”
“There are plenty of Burkes to carry on the name. I have never held with that foolishness as you well know, Sarah. Our blood continues, by whatever name.”
Sarah’s next observation grated on John’s ears. “David seems quite taken with Claire. Did you see the way he looked at her? She’s very beautiful, of course. She draws men’s eyes like a magnet.”
“What nonsense is this? David and Claire? It’s impossible!”
Sarah’s hand stilled. “Why is it impossible?”
John struggled out of his coat and began to undo the buttons of his waistcoat. “My brother is too old for her,” he said gruffly.
“Is he?” Sarah seemed to consider the matter. At length, she observed, “I don’t think David would agree with you. I suppose Adam is quite out of the picture?”
“I thought you liked the girl?”
“I do.”
“Then why this unseemly haste to marry her off?”
“Unseemly haste?” Sarah laughed. “Your own daughters were all married by the time they reached Claire’s age. Good God, John, you yourself were that very age when you married me. Have you forgotten that I was barely sixteen?”
His answer was indistinct. Sarah’s brows knit together. After a moment, she returned to her task, and said in a more thoughtful tone, “My dear, marriage is the only solution that presents itself. Claire is too proud to stay on with us indefinitely. She won’t want to accept our charity. Then where will she be? And with the prospect of no dowry, a suitable marriage may be difficult to arrange. Adam wouldn’t care a fig whether or not a girl was well dowered, and David, I’m sure, shares his sentiments.”
John had nothing to say to these moot points. When Sarah slipped into bed beside him, his arms went round her, pulling her close. “Do you love me?” he whispered.
“I love you,” she answered, pressing herself to his length.
“You are my heart,” he told her. “Without you…ah Sarah, show me how much you love me.”
Later, sleepy and sated, he listened to his wife’s even breathing. He had loved Sarah from the moment he had first caught a glimpse of her on his way to classes as a student of law at King’s College. He was barely twenty years old. Sarah was fifteen. He was inexperienced, and totally unprepared for the passions which overwhelmed him. He could not keep his hands off her. He was terrified that he would dishonor her.
A year later, he asked for her hand in marriage. Both sets of parents were aghast. It was not that they opposed the match. The Burkes and Schullers were leading families in New York. Such an alliance could only find favor. But not yet. John had years to go before he was established. They were both so young. Love did not enter into the calculations of their parents.
John chose his weapons with care. To his own religious father, he quoted scripture. To Sarah’s worldly parents, he prophesied scandal. He would have her with or without benefit of marriage. Finally, their elders relented. John took Sarah to wife. She filled his whole soul.
Almost fifteen years were to pass before he was tested. Juliette Devereux was breathtakingly beautiful. From the moment she had come into his line of vision, he was smitten with the girl. She was an innocent. She was barely twenty. He was five-and-thirty years old.
He was missing his Sarah. That much he remembered. And then all thoughts of Sarah were ruthlessly suppressed when he walked into his bedchamber to find Juliette Devereux waiting for him. God! In her own father’s house with her brother in the next room! For more than two months he indulged in this insanity before he put a stop to it. The girl would not listen to reason. She went to her brother.
He’d tried to make amends. But what amends could he make? The Devereux did not want for money. He was a married man with a wife and children waiting for him at home. It was a matter of honor. Leon Devereux would be happy with nothing less than his blood. He had betrayed their friendship. He had dishonored his sister.
There was a duel. Leon Devereux had aimed to kill him. John had stood there like a target and was only sorry when the bullet hit the fleshy part of his shoulder and not his heart. His own honor lay in ruins.
Life must go on. Sarah was waiting for him in America. He had not known how well he could act, how easily he could pretend that nothing of any significance had occurred while he was away. But it wasn’t acting. Because as soon as Sarah’s arms closed around him he knew that whatever he’d had with Juliette Devereux was as a shadow compared to this. Sarah was his heart, his life. She was dearer to him than honor.
It was that poor girl who was forced to pay the penalty for his sin. More than ten years were to pass before he discovered it. He and Sarah were on an extended tour. They were in France as the guests of Benjamin Franklin. God forgive him, but he had scarcely spared a thought for Juliette Devereux in the intervening years. He’d fought in a war. He had become a statesman. He’d raised a brood of children. In France, his thoughts had naturally turned to the girl. He wished merely to assure himself that things went well with her. His letters to Leon Devereux were returned unopened. It was Benjamin Franklin who had satisfied John’s curiosity. The Devereux were well known in France. There was a sister who had died a number of years before. Her name had slipped his mind.
John was conscience-stricken. He’d come down with a fever. When he recovered, he’d hired men to ferret out what had become of Juliette Devereux. In his heart, he knew what they would uncover before their findings were put into his hand. Juliette Devereux had died in childbirth. She had been delivered of a girl-child. No one knew what had become of her baby.
Always, he had wondered, half fearful, half hopeful, until Juliette’s daughter had walked into his study some weeks ago with a letter of introduction from Nicholas Millot. John did not believe in coincidence. In everything, he saw the hand of God.
He would have recognized her anywhere. Those finely sculpted features! That halo of red-gold hair! Only the eyes were different. His eyes, a true blue without a trace of either gray or green. Claire Devereux was his daughter. He would stake his life on it.
He did not know what he was going to do about it. Sarah’s words had disturbed him. Claire would not wish to exist on the charity of strangers for long. Marriage was the only solution that presented itself.
But not with his brother! David was Claire’s uncle. If the worst came to the worst David must be told. John did not think it would come to that. David was thoroughly enamored of Mrs. Baynard of Philadelphia.
Marriage was the easiest solution. Adam’s name came to mind and was instantly rejected. Adam Dillon was not a marrying man. There were others who would fall over themselves to claim the girl’s hand, if she were well dowered. John’s mind sifted through the names of those young gentlemen of his acquaintance who would meet with his approval. His last thoughts were of Sarah and his newfound daughter. Whatever happened, he did not want Sarah or Claire to be hurt. Oh God, they must not be hurt.