by Jo Beverley
Only Clarissa would be perpetually absent.
Was there any chance that she would relent once the shock wore off? He couldn’t bear to hope. If he did, he thought he would be frozen in time, waiting.
He heard a footstep and turned.
Van’s fist caught him hard on the jaw and flung him backward into the river.
He sat up spluttering, hand to his throbbing jaw, tasting blood from the inside of his cheek. Van waited, icy.
“If you hit me again,” Hawk said, “I’ll have to fight back.”
“You think you can win?”
“Would anyone win?”
Van glared at him, but the ice was cracking a little. “What’s this claptrap about Clarissa going to Lady Arden’s lying-in?”
Hawk decided he could probably stand up without having to kill Van and did so. “As a story it can hold if not challenged too strongly.”
That was a hint, and he saw Van take it.
“What did happen?”
His boots were full of water. “I tried to elope. I evaded pursuit, but made the mistake of staying the night in Arden’s home village.”
A crack of laughter escaped Van. “Wellington would have your guts!”
“The thought has occurred to me. I forgot, I assume, that I was at war.”
The ducks chose that moment to scoot quacking along the river, perhaps drawn by the splash. One duckling scuttled over to peck at his boots.
Hawk looked down contemplatively. “It seems to be my day for being attacked by animals.”
“Are you referring to me?”
Hawk smiled slightly. “Is a demon an animal?”
With a shake of his head, Van stuck out his hand. Hawk took it and climbed out of the river to drip on the bank.
“What happened?” Van demanded. “The whole truth.”
“I’m not going to add pneumonia to my other follies. Come inside and I’ll tell you as I change.”
Hawk discarded his boots by the back door and left wet prints as he padded along the flagstoned corridor and up the stairs. “Mind your head,” he said as he went into his room.
Van ducked just in time, then flung himself into the big leather chair with old familiarity. The three of them had rarely chosen the manor over Steynings or the Court, but they had spent some time here, mostly in this room.
“You gave me your word that you wouldn’t ruin Clarissa.”
Hawk stripped, piling his sodden clothes in his washbasin to spare the wooden floors. “I said, if I remember, that I would not ruin her that day.” He kept a careful eye on Van’s fists. “I did not mean to be specious, but as it happens, I kept to the letter of my promise.”
“And yesterday?”
“And yesterday, I did not.” He toweled himself dry. “We were, however, on our way to our wedding. Except that we were stopped.”
“By Arden. You don’t seem to have been bruised before now.”
“My golden tongue.”
“Against Arden, when he found you bedding a woman he has to regard as being within his protection?”
“We weren’t bedding at that moment,” Hawk pointed out, pulling clean clothes out of drawers. “And,” he added, “Con was there. And Clarissa.”
“Didn’t want to create a fuss in front of her?”
“Couldn’t get through her would be more exact. This was before she realized the truth, of course.” He pulled on his breeches, fastened them, and sat down. “She had no idea the will was a forgery, Van. No idea at all.”
Van looked at him for a moment, unusually thoughtful. “What now?”
“Now I pay off Slade with Arden’s money. It must be pleasant to be able to afford such lordly gestures, and it seems the Rogues wish to arrange to cover it.” He explained the arrangements.
“But what of your father? He accosted me in the hall, chortling about outranking me. And going on about a grand fete to beat my wedding celebration.”
Hawk sighed. “I deserve a penance, and I certainly have one.”
After a moment, Van said, “At least you’re free of that Mrs. Rowland. She packed her household into Old Matt’s cart yesterday and headed away.”
The part of him that was still the Hawk stirred at that. “Do we know why?”
“Not that I know. The general feeling is, good riddance.”
“I agree, but I meant to visit her poor husband in case something could be done for him.”
“I tried a few weeks back. I forced it as far as a glimpse into his room. I think he’s done for. Haggard and frail. I gather there was a dreadful blow to the head.”
“Poor man.” But at the moment Hawk couldn’t feel strongly about it. He couldn’t feel very much of anything except loss and pain.
“Do you love her?” Van asked.
Instinctive defense almost had him denying it. “Yes, but it’s completely impossible. Apart from my behavior, can you imagine her here with my father insisting on being Lord Deveriled at every turn, and complaining endlessly of not enjoying his true splendor at Gaspard Hall?”
“But her money… ?”
“The clear impression is that she would rather eat glass than take a penny of stolen money, and knowing Clarissa, I’m sure she’ll stick to her guns.”
Hawk couldn’t speak of her without becoming maudlin. He surged to his feet and put on his shirt. He couldn’t be bothered to go further than that. “Convey my apologies to Maria. What of Miss Trist?”
“Maria and Lord Trevor returned her to Brighton, I understand. Doubtless not looking forward to explaining the situation to Miss Hurstman.” Van rose too. “Nicholas Delaney is here, by the way. Staying at the Court with his wife and child. I suspect he’ll want a word with you, too.”
“So Con said. I’m sure I have enough unmarked skin to go around. Are you off for Brighton, since Maria’s there?”
“Yes. Will you be coming in?”
“What for?”
Van grimaced, gripped his arm for a moment, then left.
Hawk went to his window to contemplate ducklings.
Clarissa, dressed in one of Beth’s simpler gowns, was attempting to consume a bowl of soup in a spare bedroom while waiting for Con to return with a carriage. She’d suggested that they use the gig, but he’d insisted that she have something better for the journey to Brighton.
The soup was a tasty mix of chicken broth and vegetables, and doubtless nourishing, but she was having trouble finishing it. Tears prickled around her eyes almost constantly, and Hawk’s letter was a sharp-edged presence in her pocket.
After a rap, the door opened and Beth came in.
Clarissa leaped to her feet. “Beth, you shouldn’t be up!”
“Don’t you start pestering me,” Beth said, sitting at the table. “Sit down. Eat.”
“You look very well,” Clarissa said, and Beth did. She was in a loose dressing gown with her hair in one long plait, but she looked much the same as always.
“I am well. It went easily, and I have done considerable research. There is no reason for women to lie around for days or even weeks after a healthy birth. Such a practice quite likely encourages debility. That and lack of fresh air and exercise during pregnancy. I walked at least a mile every day.”
Clarissa chuckled, and some of the sodden sadness lifted. “And the baby?”
Beth’s face lit up. “Perfect, of course. You must come and see him when you’re finished.”
Clarissa had no reluctance about abandoning the soup. “I’m finished. I can’t wait.”
Beth beamed and led the way down the corridor to the nursery. “This is next door to our bedchamber,” she said softly, as a maid rose from a chair by the cradle to curtsy.
She led the way over to the grand gilded cradle swathed in blue satin. Inside, a tiny swaddled baby slept. To Clarissa he looked rather grumpy, but she whispered that he was beautiful.
Beth picked him up, and the tiny mouth opened and shut a few times, but then the baby stilled again. She carried him into the bedroom and
shut the door. “It’s ridiculous, but I feel as if I am stealing him,” she said to Clarissa. “He has a staff of three, and that was only after a battle royal. Lucien can’t imagine why he shouldn’t have his own liveried footman! I have had to be very firm to have time to myself with him.”
Clarissa smiled. “He’s only eight hours old and you’re already at war.”
“I’ve been establishing the rules for months, but they still must be implemented.” She grinned, however, as she sat down in a rocking chair, her baby in her arms.
Once settled, she gave Clarissa a clear look. “Now, tell me everything.”
“Won’t we wake the baby?”
“Not unless you plan to shriek. Anyway,” she said, looking down at her child, “I won’t mind if he wakes. He has the most beautiful huge blue eyes. I’m feeding him, you know. It’s a bit sore at the moment, but it’s wonderful.” She touched the baby’s cheek, and he made little sucking movements but didn’t wake.
Clarissa was sure Beth didn’t really want to hear about the distressing debacle. But then Beth looked up, all schoolteacher. “Out with it, Clarissa. What have you been up to?”
By the end of the story the baby had awakened, squawked a little, and been put to the breast, with some winces. Beth had told her to keep telling her tale.
Now she asked, “What is your intention now?”
“Not to take any of that money. I’m resolved on that. I still can’t believe the Rogues would steal.”
She thought that Beth was wincing at the suckling, but then she said, “It was my idea, actually. Forging the will.”
“Yours!” Clarissa exclaimed, close enough to a shriek for the baby to jerk off the breast and cry. By the time Beth had him soothed and on the other breast, Clarissa was calm again. Astonished, but calm.
“Why?”
“Why not? Everyone said Deveril had no heir. You needed money. I was afraid even Lucien wouldn’t be able to stop your parents from selling you in some way or another.”
“But it’s a crime.”
Beth pulled a laughing face. “I must be of a criminal inclination, then. I even took part in the planting of the will at Deveril’s house. Blanche and I acted the part of whores.”
Clarissa gaped, and Beth chuckled. “Lucien was dumbfounded too. I wore a black wig, lashings of crude face paint, and a bodice that just barely covered the essentials.”
“Dumbfounded” summed it up, especially since Beth seemed to be recalling a delightful memory.
“Do you think I should keep the money, then?”
Beth sobered. “It is more complicated now, isn’t it? There is a new Lord Deveril, and without our interference he would have inherited it all.” She considered Clarissa. “I am not clear how you regard Major Hawkinville at this time.”
“Probably because I’m not clear either. My heart says one thing. My mind shouts warnings. We were warned often enough at school about the seductive wiles of rascals and the susceptible female heart.”
“True,” said Beth, but with a rather mysterious smile. “But it’s as much a mistake to expect perfection from a man as it is to tumble into the power of a rake. After all, can we offer perfection? Do we want to have to try?”
“Heaven forbid. He wrote me a letter.”
“What did it say?”
“I haven’t read it yet.”
“There’s no need to make a hasty decision, my dear, but reading the letter might be a good start.”
The door opened then and Lord Arden walked in. He halted, and looked almost embarrassed, perhaps because he was in an open-necked shirt and pantaloons and nothing else. Not even stockings and shoes.
But then he looked at his wife and the baby, and Clarissa saw that nothing else mattered.
As he went over to Beth, she slipped out of the room, certain of one thing. She wanted that one day. To be a new mother with the miracle of a child and a husband who looked at her and the child as Lord Arden had looked.
And she wanted it to be Hawk.
She went back to her cold soup to read his letter, then cooled the soup some more with tears. Neat, crisp folds and neat, crisp phrases, but then those poignant perhapses.
Or were they simply the pragmatic analysis of the Hawk’s mind?
If only she had some mystical gift that would detect the truth in another person’s heart.
Chapter Twenty-seven
The trip by carriage took a lot less time than the wandering journey that had carried Clarissa and Hawk to the fateful village. Con, wonderful man, did not attempt conversation, but eventually she weakened and asked him about Hawk.
His look was thoughtful, but he talked. She saw their childhood from another angle. The bond was still there, and the fun, but they were shaded by Con’s exasperation with his wilder friends. Lord Vandeimen, it was clear, had always been given to extremes, inclined to act first, think second. Hawk, on the other hand, had thought too much, but relished challenges. He had also lacked a happy home.
She learned more about his parents. Though Con was moderate in his expressions, it was clear that he despised Squire Hawkinville and merely pitied his wife.
“She was hard done to,” he said, “but it was her own folly. Everyone in the village agrees that she was a plain woman past any blush of youth. Would the sudden appearance of a handsome gallant protesting adoration not stir a warning?”
He clearly had no idea how his words hit home to her.
“He must have been very convincing,” she said.
“Such men usually are. When the truth dawned, she would have been wiser to make the best of it.”
“Why? To make it easier for him?”
He looked at her. “That was her attitude, I’m sure. But she only made matters bitter for herself, her child, and everyone around her. There was no changing it.”
“And she couldn’t even leave,” Clarissa said. “It was her home.” And perhaps she, too, had loved Hawkinville.
Con said, “It’s made Hawk somewhat cold. Not truly cold, but guarded in his emotions. And he’s never had a high opinion of marriage.”
Clarissa was aware of the letter in her pocket. Guarded, perhaps, but not well. And not cold. And he wanted marriage.
Could it all be false?
She didn’t think so.
Con called for the carriage to stop, and she saw they were at a crossroads. “We can turn off here for Hawk in the Vale,” he said.
“No.”
She wasn’t ready yet. She was determined to be thoughtful about this.
“I was thinking more that we could go to my home, to Somerford Court. We don’t even have to go through the village to get to it from here. Nicholas Delaney is there, and I’m sure he’d like to speak to you. We can send a note to Miss Hurstman and go on to Brighton tomorrow.”
Clarissa was certainly in no rush to return to Brighton. “Why not? I wouldn’t mind a word with him, either.”
The Court was almost as charming as Hawkinville Manor, though centuries younger, but Clarissa was past caring about such things. Con’s wife, mother, and sister were welcoming—Con’s wife insisted on being Susan— but it couldn’t touch her distraction. Nothing in the world seemed real except her and Hawk and her dilemma.
And stopping where he was mere minutes away had not been a good idea.
Nicholas Delaney took one look at her and suggested that they talk, but ordered a wine posset for her. As she went with him into a small sitting room, she said, “I’m not hungry.”
“You need to eat. You can’t fight well on an empty stomach.”
“I’m likely to fight you. This is all your fault.”
“If you wish, but I think the blame can be well spread around. There’s nothing so weak as ‘I meant well,’ but in this everyone meant well, Clarissa.”
“Not Hawk. Hawk wanted my money. I’m not touching it.” That should shake his complacency.
“As you wish, of course,” he said. “I’m sure Miss Hurstman can find you a position pandering to a
not-too-tyrannical old lady.”
She picked up a china figurine and hurled it at him.
He caught it. “It would be foolish to be wantonly poor, Clarissa, and no one has a greater right to that money than you.”
“What about Hawk’s father?” She made herself say it. “The new Lord Deveril.”
“Only by the most precise letter of the law.” He put the figurine on a small table. “Sit down, and I’ll tell you where that money came from.”
She sat, her revivifying anger sagging like a pricked bladder. “From Lord Deveril’s unpleasant businesses, I assume.”
“He might have increased it a bit that way, but even vice is not quite so profitable in a short time.”
Clarissa listened in amazement to a story of treason, embezzlement, and pure theft.
“Then the money belongs to the people this woman got it from. Except,” she added thoughtfully, “they would hardly want to claim it, would they?”
“They could be found. Therese happily gave up a list of their names once she had no more use for them. In the end the government settled for letting them know that they were known. Many of them fled the country, and I don’t think those that remain would want to be reminded of their folly.”
“The Crown, then.”
“The Regent would love it. It would buy him some trinket or other. But by what excuse can the money be given to the Crown?”
She was arguing for the sake of arguing, because she was angry with them all. “When I’m twenty-one, I can do with it as I wish.”
“Of course. I arranged it that way. In retrospect, that was an indulgence. It apparently gave Hawkinville reason to doubt the will.” He smiled. “It does seem unfair that women at twenty-one are considered infantile, when men at the same age are given control of their affairs.”
“That sounds like Mary Wollstonecraft.”
“She made some good points.”
There was a knock on the door, and a maid came in with the steaming posset. When she’d left, Clarissa decided not to be infantile. She sat at a small table and dipped in her spoon.
Cream, eggs, sugar, and wine. After a few mouthfuls she did begin to feel less miserable. “This will have me drunk.”