by Jo Beverley
“Wherever, I fear it will be sadly flattened.”
Then she found herself sharing a smile that left her feeling positively light-headed.
“Better a hat than people,” he said, those richly blue eyes on hers, making her heart race.
How rash she had been to come to names with a man she knew nothing about. Especially with one who seemed able to spin her out of common sense with a look.
It was done now, however, so she curtsied and gave him her name in return. Suddenly at a loss to describe her status, she added, “Of Miss Mallory’s School here.”
He turned to the wide-eyed girls. “As are you all, I suppose. All right?”
“Yes, sir,” the girls chorused adoringly.
Oh, no. Horatia was gazing at him as if he were a god, and now the man could probably claim to have been introduced. Clarissa realized that she’d rashly created a very improper situation, and she winced at what Miss Mallory would think of this whole affair.
“Were you at Waterloo, Major Hawkinville?” Horatia asked breathlessly.
“Yes, I was.”
“In the cavalry?” asked Jane.
“No.”
Before anyone else could ask a question, however, he bowed farewell. “But now, ladies, I must be off to other battles.”
And thus he was gone, striding away through the dazed stragglers, looking, to Clarissa’s dazzled eyes, like a hero among lesser men. Finding three young strangers in the chaos seemed impossible, but if anyone could do it, Major Hawkinville could.
Definitely a hero, but judging by his swift departure, one who sought no glory in war.
Not cavalry, so infantry. He had shown great steadiness in the face of the crowd. She could imagine him leading his men to assault the walls of an impenetrable fortress, or keeping them steady in the face of a French cavalry charge.
“Wasn’t he handsome, Clarissa?” Jane sighed. “And one of our noble soldiers!”
“A warrior angel,” Georgina said. “I shall draw a picture of him as Saint George when we get back.”
Clarissa didn’t point out that Saint George was not one of the angels. This wasn’t the right time for a lesson, and she wasn’t a teacher, thank heavens.
“A major,” sighed Horatia. “Mentioned in dispatches a dozen times. He must have met the Duke of Wellington.”
“Doubtless.” But Clarissa was shocked that her thoughts had been so like those of the younger girls. “Come,” she said crisply. “We must return to school. If news of this crush has reached them, they’ll be worried.”
After their fright, the girls made no trouble on the return journey. Clarissa chose a roundabout route that should avoid any problems and determined to put any thought of handsome Major Hawkinville out of her mind.
That was hard to do when the others were determined to chatter about him. There was a great deal of romantic babble, despite their youth. Horatia was silent, probably drifting in a true hero-worshiping ecstasy.
Clarissa supposed that wouldn’t hurt. She’d certainly done the same at times.
Florence Babbington’s handsome brother had rendered half the school breathless when he’d come to take his sister out to tea. Clarissa remembered writing a poem in his honor, and she’d only been twelve at the time.
O noble man, tall, chaste, and bold. So like a gallant knight of old, Turn on me once, lest I expire, Those obsidian orbs full of manly fire.
Her lips twitched at the memory. What nonsense people could create in the throes of romantic fervor.
Then there’d been the groom at Brownbutton’s livery.
The stables were behind the school, separated by a high wall. From the attic windows, however, a person could see over the wall, and it was a wicked amusement for the senior girls. A stalwart young groom had been a special treat two years ago. He’d generally worked without his jacket, and with his sleeves rolled up, revealing wonderfully strong brown forearms.
One deliciously naughty day Maria Ffoulks had caught him working without his shirt. She’d run to gather as many of the senior girls as she could, and they’d pressed to every available window for about ten minutes until he’d gone into the stables and emerged covered again.
That hadn’t been infatuation, however. It had been more like worship from afar. Worship of the male of the species, and of the mysterious, forbidden feelings he stirred in them all.
That sort of thing was probably why she’d been such a ninny as to hope when her parents had finally summoned her for a London season.
A ninny. She’d been in danger of being ninny over Major Hawkinville, too. “Come along, girls,” she said briskly. “Cook was making Sally Lunns when we left.” Mention of cakes removed any tendency to dawdle.
Hawk moved swiftly down the Promenade, following the flotsam of the crowd toward the Wellington Inn. The innkeeper deserved to be flogged for causing this mayhem.
He guessed the three boys would have gone along with the crowd, and as long as they kept their feet would have come out of it all right. He passed some people being attended to, but none of the injuries seemed serious. The only boy he saw among them was clearly being attended to by his mother.
A bunch of lads ran by, but they all seemed happy and purposeful, and none particularly fit the description of the evangelists. A wail caught his attention and he turned to look, but then a man scooped up the crying child and carried her away.
There were people scattered around, many of them disheveled or dazed, some on the ground. Since they were all being cared for, he followed the trail again, part of his mind scanning for the boys, part assessing the puzzle that was Clarissa Greystone.
A thief and a murderer?
Not a whore called Pepper, that was for sure, not even by deception.
The image of her face rose up, blushing, freckled, frankly thanking him for his help. No, she wasn’t a beauty, but astonishingly, his heart had missed a beat there. One of these quirks that comes after battle, and she had been remarkably gallant.
Damnation, he must not let her under his guard! What was to say she hadn’t played the whore, and wasn’t playing a part now?
Because no one played a part in battle. In battle, the truth about a person spilled along with the blood and guts, and that riot had been a minor battle.
He paused to question two brown-haired lads hunkered down to play with ants in the road, but they said they lived in a nearby house. A blond urchin wandered by eating a plum, not seeming to be in distress other than the juice all over her hands and dress. Hands on hips, he looked over the untidy groups of people but didn’t see any children who seemed likely.
He spotted a young brown-haired boy standing tearfully alone and went over to him. “What’s your name, lad?”
The boy looked up, knuckling his eyes. “Sam, sir.”
Hawk suppressed a sigh. “Who were you with, Sam?”
“Me dad, sir. I lost ‘im, sir. He’ll be cross.”
This wasn’t one of his targets, but he couldn’t leave him here. Hawk held out a hand. “Why not come along with me? I’m going to check out the Wellington. Perhaps your father’s having a drink there.”
A damp, sticky hand wrapped trustingly around his, and they progressed down the street. Soon he gathered two frightened sisters, and another lad who was older but seemed slow-witted. Then stray children began to attach themselves like burrs collected during a march through rough country, and he eventually found the evangelists.
“Your mother’s worried about you,” he told them.
“We couldn’t help it, sir,” the wild-eyed eldest said. “And we stuck together.”
Hawk ruffled his hair and looked around at his collection, all putting their absolute trust in him.
Clarissa Greystone would probably trust him too—if she was as honest as she seemed to be. The encounter had tangled all his threads, but she was still his only lead to the heart of the conspiracy, and he had to pursue her.
Once he dealt with his present duties.
He and
his burrs turned a corner and faced the Duke of Wellington Inn. The Great Man would not be amused.
The place was jam-packed, with free-ale patrons spilling out into the street in all directions, many of them already drunk. He spotted the town crier leaning boozily against a horse trough, and guided his squadron there.
He pulled out a notebook and began to take down names.
When he had them all, he ripped out the page and commanded the town crier’s attention. “These children are lost. You are to go around town announcing their names, and that they are to be found here.”
He used his military voice, and the rotund man stood straight. “Yes, sir.”
“Good. Start with the Lord Wellington.”
In moments, the man’s mighty bellow was breaking through the din. Hawk turned to the children. “Stay here. Your parents will find you.” He put the oldest boy in charge of making sure the little ones didn’t wander, then took Matt, Mark, and Lukey back to their mother.
He was not surprised to find that the heiress and her charges had left. That was no problem. He now had an excellent excuse to call on the school.
Chapter Four
Clarissa settled the girls at their tea under the eye of the cook, then carried a tea tray upstairs. She hoped Althea was recovered enough to talk.
As she put down the tray on the small spindle-legged table by the window, she thought of how much she would miss this room. She’d once itched to be out of school and in the world. Now it and the walled garden were her comfort and safety.
But then she realized that the wall was the one around Brownbutton’s livery stable. From this low level, however, she couldn’t see into the yard. Muscular men could be wandering around there stark naked and she wouldn’t know.
Safer so.
Safe. But she was going to be forced to leave.
Someone knocked at the door, and Clarissa opened it. “Come in, Thea. I was just going to invite you for tea.” But then she realized that there was something different about her friend. “You’ve put off your mourning.”
Althea was in a pretty gown of cream sprigged with pale blue flowers, and she looked lovely. Even more lovely. Suave Major Hawkinville would probably trip over his feet if he set eyes on Althea looking like this.
Clarissa didn’t like to examine why that depressed her.
It was over. They would never meet again.
“It’s been a year,” Althea said, smoothing the soft fabric. “Gareth would not have wanted me to wear dull colors forever. He… he liked this dress.” She pulled out a handkerchief and pressed it to her eyes, then blew her nose. “It will get easier.”
“Yes, I’m sure,” said Clarissa helplessly. “Come and have some tea.”
Althea sat and Clarissa poured. “Today must be difficult for you.” She offered the cake.
Althea took a piece, her eyes still glossed with tears. “For you, too.”
Oh, lord.
Clarissa had let Althea think they shared a bond of mourning. It had just happened, and then she hadn’t known how to set things right. It had been impressed upon her that no one must know the truth about Lord Deveril’s death, and that it would be better if she didn’t show her relief over it.
Now, suddenly, however, it was intolerable to be lying to Althea, and after all, who could think that she didn’t loathe Lord Devil?
“An anniversary,” she said, “but not a sad one.”
Althea stared.
“I’m sorry for letting you think otherwise. I— I never wanted to marry Lord Deveril. He was my parents’ choice. I have never grieved for him.”
“Never?” Althea asked, eyes widening. “Not at all?”
“Never.” Clarissa thought for a moment and then admitted a little more. “In fact, I was glad when he died. More than glad. Over the moon.”
Althea just looked at her, and it was clear that her Christian soul was shocked.
“Lord Deveril was my father’s age,” Clarissa hurried on, beginning to wonder if she should have kept silent after all. “But age wasn’t the problem. He was ugly. But that wasn’t it either.” She met her friend’s eyes. “Put simply, Thea, he was evil. Despite his wealth and title, he was accepted hardly anywhere. Nobody spoke to me of such matters, but I couldn’t help realizing that he indulged in all kinds of depravity.”
She started at the touch of Althea’s hand. “I’m sorry. I wish you’d told me sooner, but I’m glad you’ve told me now. It explains so much. Why you’re here. The way you think about men.” After a moment, she added, “Not all men are like that.”
Clarissa laughed, her vision blurring a little. “It would be an impossible world if they were. Truly, Thea, I doubt you’ve ever met anyone as foul. The mere thought of him makes me feel sick.”
Althea refilled Clarissa’s teacup and put it into her hand. “Drink up. It’ll steady you. Why did your parents permit such a match?”
Clarissa almost choked on a mouthful of tea. “Permit? They arranged it and forced me to agree. They sold me to him,” she went on, hearing the acid bitterness in her voice, but unable to stop it. “Two thousand upon my betrothal in the papers, and two upon my wedding. Then five hundred a year as long as I lived with Deveril as a dutiful wife.”
“What? But that’s atrocious! It must be illegal.”
“It’s illegal, I think, to force someone into marriage, but it’s not illegal for parents to beat a daughter, nor for them to mistreat one in all kinds of ways.”
Instead of distress, Althea’s eyes lit with outrage. “Though it may not be entirely in keeping with the Gospels, Clarissa, I, too, am delighted that Lord Deveril died.”
Clarissa laughed with relief. “So am I. Glad he died, and glad I told you. It’s been a burden to lie to you.”
Althea cocked her head. “So why did you tell me now?”
Clarissa put down her cup. “I dislike dishonesty.” She sighed. “Miss Mallory says I must leave, and my guardian agrees.”
“What will you do?”
“That’s the puzzle.”
“What do you want to do?”
Clarissa rubbed her temples. “I’ve never quite thought of it like that. Last year I wanted balls, parties, and handsome gallants.”
“There’s nothing wrong with that.”
“But now I’m a walking scandal. The Devil’s Heiress. And a Greystone to boot. I don’t think I’m going to receive many invitations. And of course, any gallants I do attract will be after my money.”
“Not all of them, I’m sure,” Althea said with a smile.
“Thea, please, be honest. No man has ever shown interest in my charms.” Then she winced at Althea’s distress. “I’m sorry. It’s all right. I truly don’t want to marry, and with money I don’t need to.”
“But you want the balls and parties.”
“Not anymore,” Clarissa said, aware that it was a lie. If it could be done without scandal, she still wanted what most young ladies wanted—a brief time of social frivolity.
Althea fiddled with her sprigged muslin skirts. “I might be leaving Miss Mallory’s, too.”
“But you’ve been here less than a year.”
Delicate color enhanced Althea’s beauty. “A gentleman from home has approached my father. A Mr. Verrall.”
Though Clarissa had just talked about leaving, this felt like abandonment. “Approached your father? Isn’t that a little cold-blooded?”
“Bucklestead St. Stephens is seventy miles from here, and Mr. Verrall has four children to care for.”
Worse and worse. “A widower? How old?”
“Around forty, I suppose. His oldest daughter is fifteen. His wife died three years ago. He’s a pleasant gentleman. Honorable and kind.”
Clarissa knew it was a reasonable arrangement. Althea would live near her beloved family, and this Mr. Verrall would doubtless be a good husband. As Althea’s father was a parson with a large family, she wouldn’t have many desirable suitors. All the same, Mr. Verrall sounded like dry crumbs to
her.
“Don’t you think perhaps you should look around more before committing yourself to this man? You attract all the men.”
Althea shook her head. “I will not love again.”
“You should give yourself the chance, just in case.”
Althea’s eyes twinkled. “By all means. With whom? Mr. Dills, the clock mender? Colonel Dunn, who always raises his hat if we pass in the street? Reverend Whipple—but then, he has a wife.”
Clarissa pulled a face. “It’s true, isn’t it? We don’t meet many eligible men. At this time of year, there aren’t even any handsome brothers passing through.”
“And handsome brothers are usually dependent on their fathers, who would turn up starchy at the thought of marriage to a penniless schoolteacher.”
“Surely not quite penniless,” Clarissa protested.
“When it comes to eligible gentlemen, I am. My portion is less than five hundred pounds.”
It was virtually nothing. Clarissa took another bite out of her bun and chewed it thoughtfully. If only she could give Althea some of her money—but her trustees were sticklers for not letting her be imposed upon. And it didn’t sound as if Althea would wait until Clarissa was twenty-one.
“Beth Armitage married the heir to a dukedom,” she pointed out, “and though I admire her a great deal, she has not a tenth of your beauty.”
Althea laughed gently. “The sort of story to make idiots of us all. Such things cannot be relied on.”
“True,” said Clarissa, remembering the dark side of the fairy tale.
Althea was right. She had nothing but her beauty and good nature to recommend her. The world would say she should be grateful for any suitable offer, even that of an elderly widower with a daughter not many years her junior.
“I came to thank you again for taking the girls,” Althea said, clearly changing the subject. “I’m so sorry you ended up in such trouble.”
“It wasn’t too bad.”
“The girls seem to see it as a wonderfully perilous adventure, including rescue by Saint George, complete with halo.”
Clarissa laughed. “Hardly, but Major Hawkinville did help us, yes.” She gave her account of the event. “I wonder if he found the woman’s lost evangelists. He seemed capable of it.”