THREE HEROES

by Jo Beverley

  She found that the Babbingtons’ small drawing room felt almost like the senior girls’ parlor at Miss Mallory’s and slid with relief into the uncomplicated past. Soon she was chattering and giggling, and the high spirits continued over dinner since, unlike at school, wine was served with the meal.

  Perhaps that was why the after-dinner chatter turned naughty, especially when it was revealed that Florence had made a transcription of The Annals of Aphrodite. As those new to the book huddled to read it, whispering aloud the more exciting phrases, Clarissa wondered how many of them had acquired a little practical experience of the Risen Rod of Rapture.

  Then Florence placed letter cards in a bag and invited everyone to pick two to find the initials of their future husband. Clarissa was interested to note how many of the ten young women clearly hoped for a particular set of initials.

  Clarissa’s heart pounded when her first letter was a G, but then she lost all faith when the second turned out to be a B.

  Suggestions were called out.

  “Gregory Beeston.”

  “Lord Godfrey Breem.”

  “Florence,” said one, “isn’t your brother called Giles?”

  “But he’s married,” Florence pointed out.

  “Is he still as handsome?” Clarissa asked, and recited her poem. It received great applause, and they all began to put together admiring doggerel.

  “George Brummel,” Lady Violet Stavering suggested.

  She had been at Miss Mallory’s too, but had considered Clarissa beneath her notice. She still liked to cloak herself in an air of bored sophistication and was not taking part in the versification.

  “He could certainly use your fortune, Clarissa,” she added.

  Clarissa might sometimes feel at sea in society, but she could swim like a fish in schoolgirl malice. “So could nearly everyone,” she said, dropping her letters back into the bag. “Including your brother, Violet. But I am hardly likely to bestow my riches on an elderly and broken dandy like Brummel. If I enter into trade, I will buy the highest quality.”

  “Such as Major George Hawkinville?” purred Lady Violet.

  So their meetings had been observed. Clarissa willed herself not to blush. “Perhaps.” But she added, “Or some other young, honorable man.”

  Florence leaped in with suggestions, and Clarissa regretted the spark of unpleasantness at her friend’s party. Soon every eligible man of Brighton was being assessed with startling frankness.

  Mr. Haig-Porter’s legs were too thin, Lord Simon Rutherford’s fingers too short and fat. Sir Rupert Grange laughed like a donkey, and Viscount Laverley had a chest so narrow it was surprising he could breathe.

  “But a viscount,” said Cecilia Porteous tentatively. “It is a consideration.”

  Nearly everyone agreed that a peer of the realm might be excused some flaws.

  “Even Lord Deveril,” murmured Lady Violet.

  “Don’t be a cat, Vi,” snapped Florence. “We all know poor Clarissa didn’t want to marry him.”

  “And we thanked heavens for his timely death,” agreed Lady Violet sweetly.

  Clarissa stiffened, wondering if Lady Violet suspected.

  But that was ridiculous. She was simply scratching for the fun of it.

  She was saved by an interruption from Miriam Mosely. “I don’t know how it is that men like Lord Vandeimen and Lord Amleigh, who have both title and physique, are snapped up before they properly appear on the market. I think it vastly unfair!”

  “But remember,” said Lady Violet, “Lord Vandeimen was thought to be as rolled up as Brummel, and drowning in gaming and drink as well, before he married the Golden Lily.”

  This was news to Clarissa, and she recognized that Lady Violet had raised it because the Vandeimens were friends of Clarissa’s. She would very much like to put snails in Violet’s bed. Again.

  She hoped the comment would be ignored, but some others demanded details. Lady Violet chose a sugarplum and bit into it. “Oh, Vandeimen came home from the war to find his father dead and the estates quite ruined.”

  “Hardly like Brummel, then,” said Clarissa.

  Lady Violet was not silenced. “He consoled himself with drink and the tables, but then had the good fortune to snare the rich Mrs. Celestin. Trade, you know.”

  “That’s not true!” objected Dottie Ffyfe. “She married a merchant, but she was born into a good family. She’s a connection of mine!”

  Lady Violet’s lips tightened, but she shrugged. “A woman moves to her husband’s level upon marriage. First trade. And a foreigner. Then a demon.” She allowed a pause for effect before continuing, “According to my brother, in the army he was known as Demon Vandeimen.”

  Everyone was now leaning forward avidly, and Clarissa felt wretched for having started this. Lord and Lady Vandeimen were both properly behaved and kind, and obviously in love. Someone else who was being tarnished by association with her.

  “My brother says that they’ve been close friends forever,” Violet continued, lapping up being the center of attention. “Vandeimen and Amleigh. And,” she added with a sly look at Clarissa, “Major Hawkinville.”

  Clarissa smiled back in a way that she hoped said she was politely bored to death.

  “All born and raised near here,” Violet continued.

  “Reggie said that they each have a tattoo on their chest.” Someone gasped. “Said he’d seen Lord Amleigh’s in the army, and been told about the others.”

  She looked around, licking sugar off her fingers. “A hawk for Major Hawkinville, a dragon for Lord Amleigh.” Then she added, pink tongue circling her lips, “And a demon for Lord Vandeimen.”

  The synchronous inhalation made a kind of oooh around the room.

  “What a pity,” said Miriam, “that we are unlikely to ever see that.”

  But Clarissa was thinking how wonderful it would be to see that, because it would mean she was seeing Hawk’s naked chest. Impossible, of course, short of marriage.

  Marriage.

  It was all very well for Miss Hurstman to talk about reason, and waiting, and thinking of the years of marriage, but could she bear not to do it? Wouldn’t she regret it all her life, wondering what it might have been? Whether it might have been true heaven…

  “… Hawkinville.”

  With a start, she realized that they were talking about Hawk—as if he were a piece of meat on a butcher’s slab.

  “Handsome.”

  “Perhaps a little lightly built.”

  “But wide shoulders.”

  “And excellent thighs!”

  Thighs! Sally Highcroft had been looking at Hawk’s thighs?

  “Delicious blue eyes.”

  “I prefer brown myself,” said Violet.

  Clarissa was astonished to find that her fingers were trying to make claws.

  It was Althea, however, who spoke up. “I don’t think it at all seemly to talk about a gentleman in this way.”

  Violet laughed. Her practiced laugh that said that others were silly, unsophisticated ninnies. “They do it about us all the time, according to my brother.”

  “Ladies,” said Althea, “should set a higher standard. And we should be more respectful of those who fought for us in the war.”

  This did subdue everyone, and Clarissa flashed Althea a grateful smile.

  “But did he fight?” asked Violet, who never stayed subdued for long.

  “Quartermastering, I believe.” Again Althea was there first. “Such administrative matters are extremely important, Lady Violet. My late fiance was in the army, and he often said so.”

  “You cannot deny that an officer who was often in battle is more dashing.”

  “No. But I can deny that dash is the most important thing about any gentleman!”

  Althea was in her Early Christian Martyr mood, and clearly ready to throw herself to the lions. Or turn into one. Poor Florence was looking close to tears, so Clarissa rushed in. “There are any number of eligible names being discussed he
re who never went to war at all. We can surely assess each gentleman as to his qualities.” Remembering Miss Hurstman’s words, she added, “Their qualities as husbands over the next twenty, forty, sixty years.”

  “Lud!” exclaimed Florence, but with a grateful look, “what a dismal thought. They’ll all be boring, bulging, and bald by then.”

  “So will most of us,” said Althea, still looking militant.

  “Not bald,” Clarissa pointed out.

  “Gray, then,” said Althea, but she relaxed.

  “Thank heavens for the dye pot—”

  Violet was interrupted by a maid, and Florence leaped up with obvious relief. “Speaking of futures, I have a special treat for us. The fortune-teller Madame Mystique has been engaged to give us each a reading. I’m sure one of the things she will be able to predict will be our marital fate. Now, who would like to go first?”

  Everyone politely urged Florence to be first, and when she left, Clarissa led a determined foray into talk about fashion. Violet would still be a cat, but it was unlikely to become quite so personal.

  Florence returned blushing, and Violet leaped up to go next.

  “Well,” Sally asked, “what did she say? Are you allowed to tell?”

  “It’s not like a wish, Sally.” Florence sat down among them. “She spoke of a man of honor and good family. And she mentioned his high brow.” She looked around, blushing. “That does sound rather like Lord Arthur Carlyon, doesn’t it?”

  So, that was where Florence’s interest lay. A pleasant man who was showing signs of losing his hair. A high brow. Madame Mystique was clearly tactful, and clever as well.

  They had played at fortune-telling at school, so she understood how it was done. If possible, the fortuneteller learned about her clients beforehand, and, of course, certain things could please almost everyone. Promises of happiness in love and of good fortune. Flattering comments about strength and wisdom. In addition, and most important, a fortune-teller watched to see what random comments triggered a response.

  Having been engaged for this event, Madame Mystique would have learned about Florence, at the very least. She might even have been given the guest list. Clarissa assumed she would be told about Hawk. Handsome, honorable, and a war hero, and perhaps something cryptic about a bird.

  Violet returned not so pleased, having been told that the ideal husband for her was not highborn, but wealthy. “The woman is a charlatan!”

  But Miriam returned with high hopes of Sir Ralph Willoughby. “But Queen Cleopatra said I must be bolder with him!”

  “Queen Cleopatra?” Florence asked.

  “Apparently sometimes Queen Cleopatra speaks through Madame to give a special message. She said that if I want Sir Ralph to show the depth of his feelings, I… must not be so nervous of being alone with him.”

  She looked around for advice.

  Clarissa, thinking of her time at the fair with Hawk, knew that Queen Cleopatra had the right idea, but she wouldn’t say so with Violet listening.

  Althea said, “She is right, after a fashion, Miriam. I have, after all, been engaged to marry. Some men find it hard to show their feeling when constantly under the eye of others. This does not mean that you should go far apart with him, or put yourself in danger.”

  “Oh,” said Miriam, her thoughts obviously churning. Her eyes flickered around the group. “She also said…”

  “Yes?”

  “That touch could encourage a gentleman.”

  Touch! Clarissa couldn’t imagine Miriam sliding her hand into Sir Ralph’s pocket.

  “She said that when most touches are improper, they can have great power. That since ladies are generally gloved, our naked hands have”—she looked at her own pale hand—“sensual power.”

  “Naked!” exclaimed Florence, looking at her own hand. “I suppose we are gloved when out of the house. So we make an excuse to take off our gloves—”

  “And then touch his skin,” said Miriam, who looked as if she didn’t quite believe what she was saying.

  Clarissa thought about the fair, about sticky buns, and Hawk’s hand on her wrist. A naked wrist…

  “Lud!” said Lady Violet. “You’re all talking like Haymarket whores. The woman is depraved.”

  Miriam flushed. “We’re only talking about touching hands, Violet!”

  “Or faces, I suppose,” said Florence, eyes bright with mischief. “Hands and faces are the only naked spots available, aren’t they? No wonder men go around so wrapped up. It’s probably like armor.”

  They fell into a laughing view of a world where men were terrified of attacking female hands, but then it was Clarissa’s turn to visit Madame Mystique.

  Chapter Twelve

  She was smiling as she followed the maid to the room set aside and hoping that she, too, would be advised by the naughty Queen Cleopatra. The dispensing of such titillating advice doubtless explained the woman’s popularity.

  The maid opened the door to reveal a curtain. Clarissa pushed it aside and entered the room.

  Gloom halted her. If this room had windows, the curtains were drawn, for there seemed to be no natural light.

  There was some light, however. Hanging oil lamps with dark, jewel-colored glass turned the room into a mysterious cave of swaying shadows. The oil must be perfumed, for a sweet, exotic tang wafted through the air, making this place like an otherworld, nothing to do with fashionable Brighton at all. Clarissa shivered, then reminded herself that this was all theatrics.

  Madame Mystique sat behind a table covered with a pale, shimmering cloth. She wore some kind of dark silken robe and a veil over the lower half of her face. Her hair was covered by a helmet of silver coins that hung down to her shoulders in back and to her eyebrows in front. Her large eyes were heavily outlined in black.

  “Sit,” she said in a soft foreign voice, “and I will reveal the secrets of your heart.”

  Clarissa knew that running away now would make her look the fool, so despite a flash of irrational panic, she took the few steps and sat down across the table from the woman.

  There was nothing to fear here, and yet wariness was tightening her shoulders and causing her heart to pound. Perhaps it was simply the intent look in the woman’s eyes, but, of course, she would only be studying her for things to use in her “predictions.”

  There was no crystal ball. Instead, the table was scattered with an assortment of items—well-used cards with strange designs, carved sticks, disks with markings, unpolished stones in many shapes and colors, and ornate ribbons, some of them knotted.

  “Surely I know the secrets of my own heart,” she said as lightly as she could. “I would rather you tell me something I do not know.”

  “Indeed? Then consider the items on the table,” the fortune-teller said with an elegant sweep of a beringed hand, “and pick the three that interest you most.”

  Clarissa stared at the objects, wondering what each meant. She didn’t believe in fortune-telling, but even so she was suddenly nervous of letting this woman probe. She picked ordinary, unrevealing things—one stick, a plain length of ribbon, and a clear chunk of crystal.

  Madame Mystique took them, holding them. “You have secrets. Many secrets. And they trouble you greatly.”

  Clarissa stiffened with annoyance. Of course someone who picked the plainest items was trying to hide things. “Everyone has secrets.”

  “Not at all.” The large eyes smiled. “Have you not noticed how many people long to tell their secrets if they can only find an excuse? You, however, have true secrets. You would be afraid to whisper them into the ground for fear that the growing grass would speak of them.”

  Clarissa almost rose to leave, but she remembered in time that any sharp reaction would tell Madame Mystique that her guess was correct. She produced a shrug. “Then I am managing to keep them secret from myself as well.”

  But why was the woman touching on such matters?

  Was it possible she truly did have powers? That could be disastrous!r />
  Cradling the items, the woman asked, “What did you come here to learn?”

  “I didn’t. You are simply a party favor.” She intended it to be a slight.

  The woman was as impassive as the Sphinx, however, and Clarissa realized that her eye decoration was in the Egyptian style. “But you came. What brought you here? What do you wish to learn?”

  After a moment, Clarissa said the obvious. “Something about my future husband.” That should not lead to dangerous matters.

  “Very well.” The fortune-teller let the objects fall on the table and picked up the three cards they landed on. She laid them in front of Clarissa, each with a sharp snap. “He will be handsome. He will be brave…”

  Snap. “He will be poorer than you.”

  Clarissa stared, her heart thundering now. Few young ladies married poorer men. But then she almost sagged with relief. Madame Mystique had done her preparatory work and knew Clarissa was the Devil’s Heiress.

  “How tedious,” she drawled. “Can you tell me nothing more?”

  “What do you truly wish to know?”

  Will Hawk offer marriage? Should I accept? Will he stir the issue of Deveril’s death to our destruction? Whom can I trust?

  Unable to ask the questions that mattered, Clarissa stared at Madame Mystique.

  The woman exclaimed with exasperation. “Ah! You are so guarded. Knotted. You will strangle yourself!”

  She seized Clarissa’s right hand to peer at the lines. Clarissa thought of fighting free, but part of her had to know what the woman would say next.

  “Ah,” said Madame Mystique again, but softly this time. “Now I see. I see blood. I see a knife.”

  Clarissa began to drag her hand away, but then she remembered. The woman was fishing for a reaction. That was how fortunetellers worked. That and prior knowledge.

  But a chill swept over her, as if the cold wind outside was whistling through the curtains. What strange waters to fish in.

  She calmly pulled her hand free. On the slight chance that Madame Mystique might have the true sight, she must get away from her.