‘Were there ever any love letters in that box?’ pursued Bella.
‘There never were and there are certainly none here now. See for yourself,’ said Clarissa crossly. She raked aside the jewels. The oilskin packet was black and so Bella thought she was seeing the bottom of the box.
‘I was only funning,’ she said. ‘You should be grateful I am speaking to you at all, after the way you behaved.’
‘Lord Greystone is convinced the fire was not due to my clumsiness,’ said Clarissa.
‘Well, he would say that, would he not?’ said Bella, her eyes bright with malice. ‘He always did have a penchant for lame ducks.’
‘I am not a lame duck!’ cried Clarissa.
‘Oh, no? Then why are you with the Tribbles? In any case, Crispin has better fish to fry. He has taken Chloris Deveney and her mother driving.’
‘Then I trust he enjoys a pleasant outing. Do go away, Lady Bella. You do not like me one bit, so don’t waste my time by trying to goad me.’
‘Tut, tut. Temper, temper. Chloris is divinely fair, is she not?’
Clarissa looked ready to throw something, so Bella nipped quickly from the room.
So that’s that, thought Clarissa. He is fond of me as he would be fond of a stray dog. I wish this Season were over. Mama and Papa must come to terms with my spinsterdom.
Clarissa did not know that the ambitious widow, Mrs Deveney, had been promenading up and down Holles Street with Chloris until they saw the earl emerge. Mrs Deveney had begged him to drive them to Pall Mall, saying her carriage was being repaired.
She went down to the drawing room to see Amy and ask when her lessons, which had been cancelled for that day, were to be resumed.
Not only was Amy in the drawing room, but Effy, Mr Haddon, Mr Randolph . . . and Lady Angela.
Angela was sitting in the middle of the sofa with a gentleman on either side. Mr Randolph was carding wool for her while Mr Haddon was pouring tea. Amy and Effy stood forgotten by the window.
Clarissa cast them a quick look of understanding sympathy and then went to stand in front of Angela. ‘Lady Angela,’ she said, ‘you must not embarrass our poor guests by making them work.’ She deftly lifted the wool from Mr Randolph’s fingers. He rose and bowed and went to join Amy and Effy. ‘And Mr Haddon. I am perfectly able to pour tea as well as to card,’ said Clarissa.
In a fury, Angela watched Mr Haddon escape as well. Clarissa smiled at her sweetly. ‘What a pretty shade of wool,’ she said.
Angela was seething. She had quickly discovered that both Mr Haddon and Mr Randolph were rich nabobs and was determined to secure one or the other for herself. A doting husband would buy her all the fripperies that Crispin would not. Crispin had declared that he would choose the colours, curtains, and furnishings for the ruined drawing room himself. He had been acid, biting and humiliating about the fire. Angela shuddered when she remembered that row. Then there was the worry that Crispin might find Clarissa attractive. Clarissa made Angela feel dull and faded. There was just too much of Clarissa. Her fingers holding the wool were long and slim and white. Her bosom was generous, and her figure, tall and slim. Her generous mouth was too large for beauty but her eyes were fine and well-spaced. Admittedly she had a great amount of luxuriant hair, but it was red – most unfortunate for Clarissa, thought Angela, trying to comfort herself.
Angela turned her head and smiled at Mr Randolph. ‘La, sir,’ she said, ‘I feel I should beg you to return to my side. Miss Vevian is such a great giant of a creature that I feel quite dwarfed.’
Mr Randolph had been talking to Effy. He broke off and said, ‘You, like me, Lady Angela, envy people of height. How I long to be as tall as my friend, Haddon. He makes me feel an insignificant little dab of a fellow.’
‘Height in a man is very well,’ said Angela, ‘but a great disadvantage in a woman.’
‘We are trying to train Miss Vevian in correct social behaviour, Lady Angela,’ said Amy. ‘I fear if you go on like this, she will think veiled malice is the order of the day.’
‘Well, really!’ said Angela, leaping to her feet and knocking over the sugar bowl. ‘Now look what you’ve done,’ she snapped at Clarissa. ‘Pick it up. I am going to my room and I shall tell Crispin on his return that I am not wanted here!’
She burst into tears. Mr Randolph made noises of distress and ran forward to comfort her. Amy got there first and put a firm arm around Angela’s shoulders and urged her from the room.
Soon Angela was confiding her troubles to Bella. ‘Those two old frumps will not let me get nigh one of their precious nabobs. Darling Bella, one of us must marry soon. Crispin holds the purse-strings much too tightly. You know my gown for the Pomfreys’ ball? Well, I wanted to purchase fine lace for the edging, and do you know what Crispin said? He said I already had yards and yards of priceless lace and did not need to buy any more. Miser! But we must not make him angry again. You have not been seeing Sir Jason, have you?’
‘No, Mama,’ lied Bella. ‘You know I told you I was tired of him. Let us hope we are out of here before the Pomfreys’ ball, for that would mean we would have to go with the Tribbles and I do not want the stigma of being associated with them.’
‘They are a couple of quizzes, dear, but terribly good ton.’
‘But any young girl seen with them must be damned as one of their ‘impossibles’. Do try to persuade Crispin to let us go to a hotel.’
Dinner that evening was an awkward meal. The earl found himself wishing that just one other gentleman were present. He felt swamped by warring femininity. Angela was furious because he had refused point-blank to move to an hotel. Amy and Effy were jealous of Angela and feared she might succeed with Mr Haddon or Mr Randolph where they had failed, and Clarissa wished the earl would pay her more attention and not look so cross.
After dinner, the company agreed to go to bed early. Clarissa went down to the library to get a book. She was coming up the stairs again and past the drawing room when she heard Amy say, ‘Miss Vevian is a thoroughly pleasant and attractive lady, Lord Greystone. Do you not think so?’
Heart beating hard, novel clutched to her bosom, Clarissa stood outside the door and listened for the earl’s reply.
‘Yes, she is a fine lady,’ she heard the earl say, and her heart leaped with gladness. But then he added with a laugh, ‘In fact, she is very like the sister I always hoped to have.’
Well, that was that. Clarissa’s dreams crumbled. And that was all they had been, she thought – dreams. She would end her days being thought of as a ‘good sort’, like Amy Tribble, the sort of female to whom men confided their hopes and dreams of marrying someone else.
She felt very silly, sad, and disappointed, but, at the same time, strangely relieved. She would no longer need to tremble at the sound of his voice or scan his face in the hope of seeing some tenderness there. She was to go to the Pomfreys’ ball. She had been excited, nervous, frightened, and elated at the prospect. Now she had nothing to worry about. It would be another evening to be endured, as she had endured so many in Bath.
But on the night of the ball itself, Clarissa found it almost impossible to remain calm. As she stepped out into Holles Street, the very air seemed to be charged with excitement. She knew her evening gown of white muslin decorated with a gold key pattern and cut in simple Grecian lines became her well. She had a wreath of artificial honeysuckle on her head and pretty gold sandals on her feet. The sky was paling to smoky blue behind the tall buildings and the air smelled of the ladies’ perfumes. The earl’s coachmen and footmen were in their best livery. The coach itself gleamed in the rays from the light above the door with its crested varnished panels and rich scarlet-and-gold hammer-cloth. In a house across the street, they were holding a musicale and a German tenor’s voice, liquid and heart-breaking, came to their ears, singing of lost love. The London evening was warm and balmy, holding the promise of a splendid summer to come.
It was a night to dream of love and romance, and Clarissa dreamt o
f some young man who would be waiting at the ball, ready to fall in love with her. She had firmly come to terms with her feelings for the earl. She had been mistaken. One could not dream about or entertain yearning feelings for a man who thought of one as a sister. A little part of her treacherous mind noticed how very handsome, how very fine he looked in evening dress, but the rest of her brain concentrated firmly on the evening ahead.
They entered the carriage, all feeling a trifle cramped, although neither Mr Haddon nor Mr Randolph was of their party. Effy suffered most from the competition presented by Lady Angela. Until the arrival of Angela, Effy had been complacently proud of her fine silvery hair. But Angela’s glossy-brown and youthful curls gave her a pang of pure envy. Fear of cosmetic poisoning stopped Effy from wearing blanc, but no such fears had obviously entered Angela’s mind. Even her bosom and arms were painted with white lead. Effy’s gown had swathes of gauze filling in the neckline to disguise the sad sagging of ageing flesh. Angela’s gown was cut low, exposing the top halves of two youthful-looking breasts. How does she do it? thought Effy, quite wretched with jealousy.
Amy’s jealousy was not quite so intense. Still anxious to make up for the initial time lost in grooming Clarissa, she had spent all the time up to the ball in Clarissa’s company, supervising her tutors and trying to train her to move slowly and gracefully at all times. Ever since the earl had said he thought Clarissa was like the sister he would have liked to have, Amy had decided he was a lost cause. No hope there at all. Outright dislike would have been easier to combat. There was nothing any woman could do about brotherly affection. To her relief, Clarissa did not appear to entertain any warm feelings towards the earl at all.
For his part, the earl was quiet and thoughtful on the road to the ball. The day before, he had called on the Prince Regent to pay his respects. The prince was in an affable mood and showed a desire to gossip. ‘Has Your Royal Highness seen anything lately of Sir Jason Pym?’ asked the earl at last.
The prince pouted, looking like a sulky child. ‘We have not seen him this age.’ He shifted restlessly. ‘His demands for money began to embarrass us.’
‘But he appears to be extremely wealthy now,’ said the earl. ‘And yet, as far as I recall, he was not granted any land with his knighthood.’
‘We do not know how he gains his money, but we suspect it is at the card tables. Demme, Greystone,’ said the prince, dropping the royal ‘we’, ‘I am sure that fellow is a card sharp. Something vulgar about him. Sort of fellow who preys on the young and silly.’
The earl now turned the prince’s words over in his mind. He had not had much opportunity since the fire to be on the look-out for possible spies. It also seemed an extraordinarily difficult task. He had only asked about Sir Jason because he feared Bella might be seeing the man on the sly and because he had wondered if he had been too harsh on Jason. After all, there was a lot of malicious gossip about other people who had found royal favour, most of it unfounded.
Could Sir Jason be one of those aristocratic spies the War Office was searching for? What was Sir Jason’s background? Certainly not aristocratic. The earl cast his mind back to his Oxford days. Ah, he had it. Jason’s father had been a successful furniture-maker who had social ambitions for his son. He had sent him to Oxford University in the hope the lad would make aristocratic connections rather than to further his education. Gossip again. But probably reliable. Might be worth looking the father up. His business was in Kensington, set somewhere among the nurseries that supplied London with fruit and vegetables.
The carriage jolted to a halt and the earl returned to the present. He was glad Bella and Angela had given up being spiteful about Clarissa. Repairs to the drawing room were going on so quickly that they should be able to return to the town house in a few days.
The Pomfreys had packed in as many people as they could. The edges of the ballroom were crowded with people standing and gossiping.
The earl, like the Tribbles, hoped Clarissa would have at least a moderate success. Like them, he watched anxiously as a young captain led her onto the floor where the set for a Scottish reel was being made up.
At first Clarissa danced very well, moving easily through the intricacies of the reel. He caught her eye and smiles. Clarissa bumped into the person next to her with such force that the man nearly fell over. From then on, she repeatedly lost her place, trod on people’s toes, and was in a state of abject misery by the time the reel finished.
‘Have you ever seen such a clumsy girl?’ crowed Angela to Bella. ‘Who is going to dance with her now?’
‘Look!’ hissed Bella. ‘Who is that divinely handsome man who has approached her?’
Angela looked across the ballroom in surprise. A young man, only about an inch shorter than Clarissa, had gone up to her. He had thick brown hair arranged in The Windswept and deep blue eyes in a fine aristocratic face. His figure was excellent.
Bella’s next partner came up to claim her and Angela slipped off to find out the identity of Clarissa’s new partner.
‘I am Sandford,’ the young man was saying. ‘Lord George Sandford, and you are the Honourable Clarissa Vevian.’
‘How do you know my name?’ asked Clarissa.
‘I made it my business to find out.’
Clarissa sighed. ‘After my disgraceful performance in the Scottish reel, I am sure everyone made it their business to find out. I cannot dance with you, sir. I am too nervous and will forget the steps.’
‘It is the waltz. I will guide you. Come, Miss Vevian. You know what they say when you fall off a horse? You must get up immediately and try again.’
Clarissa laughed. ‘Just for a little,’ she said. ‘But you may return me to my seat if I prove too difficult a partner. First, I must ask the permission of my chaperones.’
She turned towards where Amy and Effy were sitting and both nodded their approval at the same time.
‘Although he should have asked us first, don’t you think?’ said Amy.
‘It’s youth,’ sighed Effy. ‘So gay, so impetuous!’
‘You really have been neglecting your duties,’ said Amy crossly. ‘We are both supposed to be chaper-ones. We will need to find some way to stop Clarissa from mangling her partners. Oh, no! I cannot bear it! There she goes again!’
Clarissa had just trodden on Lord Sandford’s toes. He winced. ‘You see?’ said Clarissa miserably. ‘It is impossible. I am impossible. You may retire, my lord.’
He pressed his hand more firmly against her waist. ‘If only you knew how much like a Greek goddess you look, Miss Vevian, then you would behave like one.’
‘Come, my lord, you are teasing me.’
‘Not I. That is why I immediately asked who you were. Your hair is like dark fire and your eyes like silver.’
‘You can take your hands away from your eyes,’ said Effy. ‘She is dancing very prettily.’
Amy peeked through her fingers and then slowly lowered her hands. ‘Well, I declare it’s a miracle,’ she said. ‘She looks quite a different creature. And what a divine-looking man. And young! Greystone was too old for her anyway.’
Effy sighed. ‘Ah, I can remember when the young men used to look at me in just the same way as Lord Sandford is looking at Clarissa.’
‘Really?’ said Amy waspishly. ‘How odd that none of them ever asked you to dance.’
‘Oh, your poor old addled brain,’ said Effy. ‘You have been having quite frightening lapses of memory of late. Still, it is only to be expected.’
‘We are twins and therefore of the same age, or had you forgot?’
‘La, no! But I have noticed that unfeminine women age much more quickly than ladies who take care of themselves.’
‘If being feminine means covering your face with mud of a night and tying up your chin so that you look like a Gothic fright, then I am glad I am not feminine. Nothing more sad than a faded beauty – nothing more dreadfully sad than a faded woman who thinks she has any claim to beauty.’
�
�I could strike you dead!’ hissed Effy, raising her fan.
Amy put up her fists. ‘Just you try!’ she jeered.
‘Ladies,’ came Clarissa’s voice. ‘Lord Sandford wishes to escort me to the supper room.’
The two raging Tribbles immediately pinned smiles on their faces. ‘Of course, my dear,’ cooed Effy.
‘What are we fighting about?’ demanded Amy when the couple had walked off. ‘Look here, Effy, we should be supporting each other. That vulgar trollop Angela is about to thieve one of our nabobs.’
‘What chance has she?’
‘Every chance. She is a titled lady and comparatively well-looking for her age. If we continue to fight, then she will sneak off with one of ’em when we’re not looking. She may even be seeing one of them on the quiet now.’
‘They are both much too sensible to be taken in by such a creature.’
‘We both know gentlemen like addle-pated clinging women,’ said Amy. ‘Truce, Effy. We must plan how to trounce her.’
Effy looked gloomily to where Angela, instead of sitting among the chaperones like themselves, was dancing with a well-preserved colonel. ‘Truce,’ she said in a hollow voice.
Clarissa was behaving very well in the supper room. Greek goddesses do not drop things. That compliment gave her poise. She asked Lord Sandford a great many questions about himself and was content to listen. Lord Sandford thought his mission was going to be much easier and pleasanter than he had expected. He told her about a famous race he had taken part in to Box Hill and how he had won. He told her how Gentleman Jackson himself had praised his prowess in boxing. Clarissa listened with rapt attention to all this bragging, for he managed to talk with a sort of engaging self-deprecation as if perpetually ruefully surprised at his own success. His blue eyes gazed warmly into Clarissa’s and she felt relaxed and happy.
The Earl of Greystone had meant to dance at least one dance with Clarissa. But Sir Jason was present and in the card room. The earl followed him there to study what he did and whom he spoke to. There appeared to be nothing sinister about Sir Jason. He was foppish and conceited but hardly the type of man who would murder a widow on Brighton beach or risk being hanged for treason.
Finessing Clarissa Page 9