In Love Again Read Online Free PDF

strengths, and all you can do is be mopey!”
    “Okay, okay,” Claire laughed it off. She probably was like an old pile of a castle anyway. She might as well admit it.
    The taxi slowed to a stop in front of a five-story townhouse on a quiet side street in the sixties. A uniformed doorman waited just inside the glass door at the top of the eight or so steps that led up from the street.
    “Here we are,” Bronte said. “Go get ’em, Tiger. I mean, Tigress!”
    “Meow,” Claire said quietly.
    “Roar!” Bronte cried, and they both started laughing again. The taxi driver was beginning to fidget in the front seat. “All right. Off you go. Knock ’em dead and all that. Call me as soon as you get out of the meeting. I’ll be at my office for a few hours then at the Mowbray apartment with Wolf and Max, but you can reach me on my cell either way.” Bronte practically had to push Claire out onto the sidewalk.
    Claire leaned back into the car before shutting the door. “Thanks, Bron.”
    “Sarah made the introductory call, but you’re welcome. Now go!”
    “Okay!” She smiled, shut the door, and took a deep breath before looking up at the stately townhouse. “Here goes nothing,” she whispered to herself, then took the first step toward her possible future.

Chapter 4
     
    A middle-aged doorman opened the tall, narrow door and gestured toward the small front hall. “May I help you?”
    “Yes, I am Claire—” Twenty years of introducing herself as Claire, Marchioness of Wick, caused her to stumble. She smiled at the nice-looking gentleman. “I’m Claire Heyworth. I have an appointment to see Ms. Matthews.”
    “Please wait in the sitting room.” He showed her into a small front parlor that was—predictably—beautifully decorated.
    Boppy Matthews had been a protégé of Sister Parish and then struck out on her own in the 1980s. She favored traditional European styles, with particular hints of American whimsy. Claire had spent the past two weeks reading up on everything she could find about her work. Matthews had published seven books, mostly picture books showing her clients’ homes, and one that read like a country diary about her renovation and preservation work at a large farm in Pennsylvania where she and her husband spent their weekends and holidays. Claire had been particularly taken with the diary, finding much in common with the way Matthews had created a long-term plan for the home and surrounding gardens. The way she planned certain projects that would take decades to complete—trellised fruit trees, allées of original American specimen trees—reminded Claire of what she had been trying to accomplish with the castle in Wick. She suppressed a sigh.
    Claire sat with her hands clasped lightly in her lap. She made no move to pick up one of the many magazines that were piled neatly on the coffee table (definitely Georgian by the look of it) next to a cluster of hothouse peonies in a black-and-white creamware vase (Creil, Claire noted). She tilted her head slightly and resisted the temptation to lift up the pottery and check the maker’s mark on the bottom.
    “It’s Creil, but I’m sure you can tell.” The deep voice was almost mannish. The large woman walked into the sitting room, and Claire quickly stood up. “I am Boppy Matthews.”
    “Claire Heyworth. It’s such a pleasure to meet you. Thank you so much for taking the time to speak with me.”
    “Well, when Sarah called, I couldn’t resist.” Boppy smiled, but it was a little sad. “Her mother was one of my dearest friends, as I’m sure she told you.”
    “Yes, but thank you just the same.”
    “Let’s go out to the back garden. It’s one of the last sunny days for many weeks, I think.” Boppy started to lead them down the hall, then stopped briefly to speak to the doorman, who it seemed was really an all-round everything-man. “James, please have Hilary bring us—” She turned to look at Claire again. “Do you prefer tea or