by Jo Beverley
Clarissa jumped.
Miss Hurstman had emerged from the parlor like a spider from a hole. “Come back in here.”
“Why?”
“We have things to discuss. Believe it or not, I’m your ally, not your enemy.”
Clarissa found herself too fascinated to resist.
“You’re strong,” Miss Hurstman said, as Clarissa reentered the room. “A bit of brimstone, too. That’s good. You’ll need it.”
“Why?”
“You’re the Devil’s Heiress. And you’re a Greystone. Even under my aegis, you’ll receive some snubs.”
“I don’t care, except if it hurts Althea.”
“It’ll hurt her if people are cruel to you. She can’t take any fire at all, can she?”
“She doesn’t like discord, but she can be strong in fighting for right and justice.”
“Pity we don’t have lions to throw her to. She might enjoy that.”
Enough was enough. “Miss Hurstman, I’m not at all sure you will suit, but if you are to be caustic about Miss Trist, you certainly won’t.”
The woman’s lips twitched. “Think of me as your personal lion. Now sit down. Let’s talk without a delicate audience.
“I like you,” Miss Hurstman said as she returned to her straight-backed posture in her chair. “Don’t know what fires you’ve been through, but it’s forged some steel. Unusual in a gel your age. Your Althea is doubtless a lovely young woman, but tender lambs like that give me a headache. They can always be depended on to say the right thing and to suffer for the stupidity of others.”
“It wasn’t stupidity that killed her fiance.”
“How do you know? War is stupid, anyway. Do you know we lost ten times as many men to disease as wounds? Ten times, and a regiment of women with sense could have saved most of ‘em. Enough of that. I want to have things clear. We’re to find her a good husband, are we?”
Clarissa imagined that Wellington’s troops must have felt like this before battle, and yet there was a starchy comfort in it. Miss Hurstman, despite her unlikely appearance, radiated competence and confidence.
“Yes.”
“Any dowry at all?”
“A very small amount.”
Miss Hurstman humphed. “The right man will find that romantic. What’s her family?”
“Her father is the vicar of Saint Stephen’s in Bucklestead St. Stephens. He’s brother to Sir Clarence Trist there. Her mother is from a good family, too. But there’s no money and seven other children.”
“Where did the fine clothes come from, then?”
“I gave them to her.”
“Why?”
Clarissa considered her answer. “Do you know Messrs. Euston, Layton, and Keele, ma’am?”
“Only by repute and a letter.”
“Thorough,” said Clarissa. “Conscientious. Determined to pass over my fortune when I’m twenty-one with scarcely a nibble out of it.”
“Very right and proper.”
“Carried to ridiculous lengths. I can buy what I want and they will pay the bills, but they allow me virtually no money to spend on my own. They would never have let me hire Althea to be my companion—and you have to admit that having her here will be much more pleasant than being here alone.”
“You have me,” said Miss Hurstman with a wicked smirk.
Clarissa swallowed a laugh, and suspected it showed.
The truth was that she was beginning to like Miss Hurstman. There was no need to pretend with her. With Althea, dear though she was, Clarissa always felt she had to watch herself so as not to bruise her friend’s tender feelings. With Miss Hurstman, she could probably damn the king, pick a fight, or use scandalous language and stir no more than a blink.
“Clothes,” Miss Hurstman prompted.
“Oh, yes. The ELK didn’t object to my bringing Althea as a friend, but she needed fashionable clothing. They’d not pay for that, but they’d pay for new clothes for me.”
“Shady dealings, gel.” Miss Hurstman waggled her finger, but the twinkle might be admiration.
Clarissa was surprised to feel that Miss Hurstman’s admiration might be worth something. “It wasn’t a noble sacrifice. I would never have worn those gowns again. They were bought for me to parade before Lord Deveril.”
“Ah. And that shade of blue wouldn’t have suited you any better than the one you’re wearing now. Hope you chose better this time.”
Clarissa looked down at the tiny sprigged pattern that had been the best material Miss Mallory’s seamstress had to hand. “So do I. I chose rather bold colors.”
“Bold seems suitable,” said Miss Hurstman dryly. “If they don’t suit, we’ll choose again. Won’t make a dent in your fortune. So, Miss Trist needs to marry money. And generous money, at that.”
“What she needs is a man who loves her.”
Miss Hurstman’s brows rose. “When she can’t love him back? She’d go into a decline under the guilt of it. And if she doesn’t marry money, she’ll feel she’s let down her family.”
Clarissa wanted to object, but the blasted woman had clearly taken Althea’s measure to the inch. She needed to be of service to all.
“I want her to be happy.”
Miss Hurstman nodded. “She’ll be content with a good man and children, and plenty of worthwhile work to do. You, on the other hand, need a man who loves you.”
Major Hawkinville, Clarissa thought, and reacted by stating, “I don’t need a man at all. I’m rich.”
“You’re obsessed by your money. Guineas are uncomfortable bedfellows.”
“They can buy comfort.”
Miss Hurstman’s brows shot up. “Planning to buy yourself a lover?”
“Of course not!” Clarissa knew she was red. “You, ma’am, are obsessed with… with bed! My trustees cannot have known your true colors.”
Despite that, she could see the wicked twinkle in Miss Hurstman’s eyes, and felt its reflection in herself. She’d never known anyone so willing to say outrageous things.
“Why are you my chaperone?” she demanded. “You are clearly a most unusual choice, even if you are well connected.”
“Nepotism,” said Miss Hurstman, but that twinkle told Clarissa that there was more to the word than there seemed to be. “And you come into your money at twenty-one,” Miss Hurstman carried on. “Unusual situation all around. Unusual that Deveril leave you anything. Even more unusual that he arrange for you to be free of control at such a tender age.”
“I know, and sometimes I wish he hadn’t.” After a moment, Clarissa admitted something she’d never told anyone before. “It frightens me. I’ve tried to learn something about management, but I don’t feel able to deal with such wealth.”
Miss Hurstman nodded. “You can hire Euston, Layton, and Keele to manage your affairs, but it will still be a tricky road. It’s not just a matter of management. A woman is not supposed to live without male supervision, especially a young unmarried lady of fortune. The world will watch every move you make, and scoundrels will hover with a thousand clever ways to filch your money from you.”
Major Hawkinville, she thought, though she couldn’t see him as a scoundrel. “Fortune hunters. I know.”
“At the end of a few weeks with me,” Miss Hurstman stated, “you’ll be more ready, and in ways other than administrative. But don’t put the thought of a husband out of your mind entirely. There are good men in the world, and one of them would make your life a great deal easier. I don’t see you as content with celibate living.”
Put like that, Clarissa wasn’t sure she would be content, either, and she knew part of that feeling was because of the heroic major, even though he hadn’t touched her in any meaningful way. She wasn’t ready to expose such sensitive uncertainties to Miss Hurstman’s astringent eye, however.
Her companion rose in a sharp, smooth motion. “There’s a lot about you that I don’t understand. I won’t pry. As long as it doesn’t affect what we’re doing here, it’s no business of mine. But I’ll l
isten if you want to talk, and I can keep secrets. You probably won’t believe it, but I can be trusted, too.”
Clarissa did believe it. She was tempted to lay all her burdens on the older woman’s shoulders—Lord Deveril and his death; Lord Arden’s cruelty to Beth; even the Company of Rogues, Lord Arden’s friends, who had helped her, whose burden of secrets she carried, who frightened her in vague, elusive ways.
That the idea tempted her was alarming in itself.
Chapter Six
Hawk rode into Brighton at half past eight, before the fashionable part of town was stirring. He turned into the Red Lion Inn and arranged to stable Centaur there. He had a standing invitation to stay with Van and his wife, who’d taken a house on the Marine Parade, but he wouldn’t disturb them at this hour.
He wasn’t sure why he was here so uselessly early except that he’d wanted to get on with his pursuit of Miss Greystone. Time was shortening before Slade’s deadline, but more than that, like a novice before battle, he feared losing his nerve.
Miss Greystone might seem innocent, but he couldn’t imagine how she could not have been involved in Deveril’s death and that forged will. She was, as far as he could see, the sole beneficiary. Anything he discovered was likely to lead to her destruction, and quite simply, he balked at that. He’d spent the past weeks seeking some other way of claiming the Deveril money.
He’d failed.
If he’d failed, he doubted it was possible. He’d used every angle and connection to try to find the forger, or a hint of the killer. Nothing, which meant he was up against a clever mind and that line of inquiry was dead, especially given his shortage of time. One day, however, he hoped to know who had constructed the deceit, and how.
And why. That in particular puzzled him. The heiress had the money. Why had a clever mind gone to such illegal lengths for no obvious profit?
A lover? He didn’t want to think he’d been as deeply fooled by her as that.
From servants and gossips, he’d compiled a list of people Clarissa had been seen with during her time in London, but it was short and unhelpful. The Greystones and Deveril had only been tolerated, so her social circle had not been wide. The highest-born connection was Lady Gorgros, a vastly stupid woman who couldn’t be the genius behind anything.
Viscount Starke had hung around Deveril, but he’d shake hands with anyone for another bottle of brandy, and his hands perpetually shook on their own, anyway. There’d been others of his sort, and a couple of upstart families who had wined and dined the Greystones under the illusion that it was a step toward the haut ton.
After Deveril’s death, however, she’d been taken up by the Marchioness of Arden. That had struck him as strange enough to be interesting until he’d discovered that Lady Arden had been a teacher at Miss Mallory’s School. Obviously, in time of need Clarissa had turned to her. Hawk would have spoken to the marchioness to see if she had anything to tell, but the lady was living in the country, expecting to be confined with her first child at any moment.
It was perhaps as well. Poking in such high-flowing waters was likely to be dangerous. That explained, however, why the heiress’s guardian was the Duke of Belcraven, Arden’s father. Her own father had been persuaded to sign away all his rights for five thousand pounds. With the Greystones, it would appear, everything was for sale.
So, after weeks of work, he had facts but no clue about Clarissa Greystone’s mysterious partner in crime. Thus his only key was Clarissa herself. Perhaps her honesty and innocence were a deep disguise, and she was a thorough villain. Perhaps she was the puppet of some undiscovered manipulator.
Whatever the truth, Hawk was going to uncover it, and he would do whatever it took.
As soon as the post office opened he went to speak to his obliging informant there. Since Hawk was from a well-known local family, Mr. Crawford had made no difficulty over accepting a crown to send word when Miss Clarissa Greystone arrived in town.
“Came to register with me yesterday, Major Hawkinville,” the rotund man said with a wink. “Miss Greystone, a pretty friend, and their chaperone.”
“Any other notable arrivals?” Hawk asked, attempting to mask his interest a little.
Crawford consulted his book. “The Earl and Countess of Gresham, sir. Mrs. and Miss Nutworth-Hulme…”
When the man had run down the list, Hawk thanked him again and left, pausing to allow a couple to enter the room. An arresting couple.
The woman was a silver-haired beauty in pure white, from the plumes on her bonnet to her kid slippers. Somehow she tweaked at his memory, though he didn’t know her. Certainly no man would forget her. Her companion was a tall, darkly handsome man with an empty sleeve tucked between the buttons of his jacket. Military, Hawk guessed, but again, no one he knew.
“Mrs. Hardcastle!” Mr. Crawford exclaimed, coming around his counter to bow to the lady.
Ah, he remembered her now. She was the actress they called the White Dove of Drury Lane. She’d been playing Titania when he’d tracked Van down in the theater a while ago. His mind had been entirely on Van’s danger, but even so, her grace and charm had made an impression.
She was irrelevant to his current concerns, however.
As he continued on his way he heard Crawford greet the man as Major Beaumont, confirming that he was military and a stranger. All the same, that irrelevant name would now have slotted into his mind.
He found it tiresome to have nearly every detail stick, even something like a chance-met actress and her escort, but he’d learned to live with it, and it was the basis of his skill. He still had time to kill, so he walked over to the seafront, hoping the brisk breeze would clear his mind.
He wasn’t used to having a tangled mind, but Clarissa Greystone had achieved it. Looked at from the angle of the evidence, she could not be an innocent. Hell, she was a Greystone, and even if she had spent most of the recent years at Miss Mallory’s School, that had to carry a taint.
As well, he knew better than most that appearances could be completely deceptive. He remembered a wide-eyed child in Lisbon who had mutilated the soldiers he had murdered and robbed.
The ethereal White Dove was probably a foulmouthed wanton, and wholesome Clarissa Greystone was neck-deep in slime. He need have no qualms about pleasing her and wooing her until she let something slip that would open the puzzle-box of Deveril’s affairs.
If only he felt that way.
He watched the dippers lead their horses down to the beach and harness them to the bathing machines, getting ready for the first bathers of the day. Business might be light, given the clouds graying the sky. Even so, perhaps he should sea-bathe despite the weather, and try to be washed clean of the stink he felt creeping over him.
Maudlin thought, but he’d never used lovemaking as a weapon before.
He suddenly remembered recruiting someone to do just that, however—if coupling with a notorious whore could be called lovemaking. It had been two years ago, just after the taking of Paris. Napoleon had abdicated, and Richard Anstable, an inoffensive British diplomat, had been found stabbed to death.
The man who’d found him had been Nicholas Delaney, and Hawk had recognized the name. Delaney had been the creator and leader of the Company of Rogues, Con’s group of friends at Harrow School.
Hawk, curious about a person he’d heard so much about, had immediately wondered what Delaney was doing at the liberation of Paris. He’d sought Delaney out, and there’d been an instant liking, though Hawk had instinctively blocked the man’s charisma.
That charisma, however, had landed Delaney with the very devil of a job, and because of their acquaintance, Hawk had been given the task of putting it to him.
The Foreign Office, the Horse Guards, and the military command all had files on a woman called Therese Bellaire. A daughter of the minor nobility, she had risen in wealth and power as mistress and procuress to Napoleon’s most important men. In 1814, with Napoleon abdicating, she had turned to Colonel Coldstrop of the Guards, and b
egged his help in fleeing to England. No one thought her purpose innocent.
It had been decided to support her plan so as to find out what she was up to and whom she contacted. The files showed that a few years before, Delaney had been her resident lover for months. The files also said that he’d left her, not the other way around, and that she still cared.
Hawk’s orders had been blunt. “She’s up to something,” General Featheringham had said, “and we need to know what. Only idiots think Boney’s going to sit on Elba growing violets, and there are Bonapartist sympathizers everywhere, including Britain. Tell Delaney to get back into the woman’s good graces and rut the truth out of her.”
Hawk had put it more politely, but Nicholas Delaney’s eyes had turned steady and cool. All he’d said, however, was, “And to think I felt guilty about not fighting in the Peninsula.”
Hawk had tried to sugar the pill. “I hear she’s a very beautiful woman, and skilled at the erotic arts.”
Delaney had stood up at that. “Then you do it,” he’d said, and left.
It hadn’t been a rejection. Hawk had known that, and within days he’d heard that Delaney was part of a wild circle including Therese Bellaire. Soon after that, he’d left for England with the woman, presumably doing his noble service.
Hawk had heard no more of it, and hadn’t cared to, but when Napoleon, as predicted, had returned to France and power, the Bellaire woman had reappeared in the inner circle. She’d disappeared around the time of Waterloo, and now, surely, her goose must be cooked.
It had all come back to him because he’d met Delaney again recently—in Devon, at Con’s place there. Delaney’s country estate lay not far away, and he’d come to look over the strange collection left by Con’s predecessor and to help Con with a dilemma to do with Susan.
Delaney and Hawk had both pretended not to have met before, and it hadn’t seemed that Delaney held a grudge. All the same, Hawk wondered how many thorns from his past would turn up to jab him.
Thorns from his present, as well.
He returned to the Red Lion and ate a mediocre breakfast, waiting for fashionable Brighton to emerge. Waiting for Clarissa Greystone to become vulnerable to his Hawk’s eye and talons.