by M C Beaton
“Fustian!” cried Frederica, made bold by her adoration of the Captain. “Go take a damper.”
The much overwrought Clarissa darted forward and boxed her sister’s ears and then burst out into noisy tears.
“Pray control yourself, Miss Sayers,” said the Captain in a calm voice. “You do not want to spoil those beautiful eyes by making them red.” This and the fact that the Captain was looking at her in a new speculative way, had the effect of making Clarissa dry her tears. She did not want to lose an admirer. She hugged Frederica and apologized in a pretty, soft voice which had the desired effect of bringing the warmth back to the Captain’s eyes. And only Frederica was aware of the vicious pinch on the arm which Clarissa gave her as they approached the box.
Once again the Captain had to go to Frederica’s rescue. Mrs. Sayers would not believe that a Marquis could be capable of any misconduct. By the time he had soothed her the Captain felt considerably older. Then as he caught Clarissa’s eye, he noticed that she was looking at him with that particular intimacy which she seemed to share with him alone.
He bent over Clarissa’s hand at the end of the evening. “I shall call on your mama in the morning,” he whispered softly.
Clarissa immediately cast down her eyes but the Captain put it down to maidenly modesty and, well-satisfied, took his leave.
Frederica had caught the whisper and wondered if she could possibly reach the privacy of her bedroom before she burst into tears.
Chapter Three
It had never dawned on the Captain that Mrs. Sayers might be absent from home on the following morning. The butler showed him into the downstairs drawing room, volunteering the information that Miss Sayers was at home.
The Captain paced up and down nervously, feeling as if he were in some kind of exotic, striped cage. Broad crimson and gold stripes embellished the upholstery, broad crimson and gold strips raced up and down the wallpaper and barred the heavy curtains. A French landscape portraying a long country road lined with poplars was hung above the fireplace to add the finishing touch to the horizontal effect. Mrs. Sayers had forgotten the color scheme at floor level and Chinese rugs in delicate blues and whites seemed to cringe before their noisier rivals.
He turned abruptly as the butler announced Clarissa and then retired leaving the door punctiliously open. With a fast-beating heart, the Captain strode forward and took her hand. She had faint blue shadows under her eyes which seemed to enhance her fragile beauty rather than detract from it.
Captain Wright made a move to take her into his arms but she retreated a step and said in a cold voice, “State your business, sir. I am engaged to drive with Lord Percival this morning.”
“What!” cried the Captain, outraged. “After last night. How could you, Clarissa?”
“I was not aware that I had given you permission to use my Christian name,” she retorted in chilly accents.
The Captain shook his head in a baffled kind of way. This was not going at all the way he had planned. Then he suddenly smiled. Of course! She was just as nervous as he!
He led the reluctant girl to the sofa and sat beside her and began, “After last night, Miss Sayers, I am no longer in any doubt that my feelings are reciprocated. Will you do me the inestimable honor of accepting my hand in marriage?”
She bowed her head and traced the pattern in the rug with one slippered foot.
“No,” she said baldly.
“But, my dear…” began the Captain.
Clarissa got to her feet. “My dear sir,” she said lightly and hurriedly, “I fear you have placed too much importance on a stolen kiss by moonlight. I am extremely honored by your proposal but,” here she stifled a yawn, “I infinitely regret I cannot accept it.”
“May I hope that you may change your mind?” said the Captain stiffly.
Clarissa stole a look at him from under her lashes. He was so handsome. She was tempted to keep him dancing on her string. But then her pretty face hardened. He deserved to be punished for dragging her through the bushes in that hurly-burly way.
The spiteful side of her nature, of which only Frederica was aware, surfaced. Rising to her feet she tugged at the bellrope, and then turned to him, her face alight with an almost hellish amusement.
“I did not remain unwed this long, my dear sir, in order to throw myself away on a mere Captain. Me! Plain Mrs. Wright to end my days serving tea to your boring regimental friends and their boring little wives. I shall be my Lady Clarissa and I shall settle for no less.”
Captain Wright clenched his fists. He had a sudden overwhelming desire to slap her hard. The hard, vindictive face before him was so unlike that of the soft and beautiful girl he knew that he half wondered if he were going mad.
He gathered the rags of his dignity. “I give you good day, ma’am,” he said, making his best bow. The sound of Clarissa’s icy, mocking laughter rang in his ears as he left the house, and seemed to follow him all the way across Clarence Square.
Clarissa yawned and stretched like a cat as she moved slowly up the stairs to prepare for her morning’s drive. She found herself confronted on the upper landing by Frederica. The girl was trembling and faced her with a desperate appeal in her wide eyes.
Clarissa smiled wickedly and gave her little sister’s hair a playful yank. “Oh, you should have seen the so-dear Captain,” she trilled. “Turned down flat. I left him on his knees, Frederica. Crying, actually crying. Me, marry that nobody! Such presumption. He would do very well for you, of course. But who would look at you after me.”
Frederica did what the Captain had wanted to do—she gave her beautiful sister a resounding slap across the face. Clarissa promptly went into strong hysterics, accentuated by the sound of her mother’s arrival.
Frederica was given six of the best with the birch rod and locked in the schoolroom, after which energetic effort Mrs. Sayers turned her energies to soothing Clarissa and telling her she had done just as she ought.
The cause of all this drama strode into his lodgings in Harvey Street—apparently deaf to his man’s entreaties that he had visitors—and into the living room where he hurled his riding crop into the corner and roared for the decanter. His friend, Lord Archibald Hefford, uncoiled his length from the armchair and stared at the Captain in dismay. “Never say she refused you!” he declared in amazement.
The Captain tossed down a bumper of brandy and collapsed into the chair opposite. “The fair Clarissa not only refused me. She enjoyed doing so. She is hanging out for a title. Made no bones about it, Archie! You should have heard the hell cat. How on earth could I have been so blind? How could I have been such a damned fool?”
“You never saw past her beauty,” said his friend simply. “I can’t blame you either; the way that minx was making up to you. And you could have had your pick of any female in London without patronizing the mushroom class. Is your heart broken?”
Captain Wright gave him a sudden rueful smile. “No. That is still intact. But I swear to you, Archie, my pride has taken a hell of a beating.”
“I ain’t much in the petticoat line,” said Lord Hefford slowly, “but I swear to God, Henry, I would like to make a play for that chit and then jilt her.”
The Captain looked at his friend with affection. As dark as the Captain was fair, Lord Hefford was a Top-Of-The Trees Corinthian and a clipping rider to hounds. He could drive to an inch and pop a flush hit over no less than the famous Jackson’s guard as well as being possessed of a handsome face, figure and fortune. But the Captain shook his head. “You’d need to rig yourself out like a Jack-a-Dandy before she’d look your way. She favors the Tulips and the Bond Street beaux.”
“But I have the title,” grinned Lord Hefford. “I think I may just lay seige to the fair beauty.”
The Captain sighed. “Did you ever read Mary Wollstonecraft’s ‘A Vindication of the Rights of Woman’? No? Well, I wish the gentler sex did have the same rights as men at this moment for I would surely call the beautiful Miss Sayers out!”
“Duns?” queried Lord Hefford, looking alarmed. “You ain’t in ‘queer street,’ Henry?”
“Not yet,” he grinned.
Stubbs coughed again. “I believe the gentlemen to be of the legal class. They said the matter they had to discuss with you was of national importance.”
The Captain made his way through to the adjoining parlor, leaving his friend with the decanter.
Three middle-aged gentlemen in sober black suits and old-fashioned bagwigs arose at his entrance and bowed so low that their heads nearly touched the ground. The fattest of the three seemed to be elected spokesman. “My lord Duke,” he began, “we represent the firm of Rundell, Bruton and Sims. I am Mr. Rundell, on my left is Mr. Bruton and on my right is Mr. Sims. We have called to inform Your Grace…”
“Hold hard,” said the Captain. “You have come to the wrong address. I am Captain Henry Wright, late of the Seventh Hussars and…”
“Just so,” interrupted Mr. Rundell. “We… ah… are… um… aware… of the… ah… er… fact, Your Grace. We have here the will of the late Duke of Westerland, your distant relative. You are no doubt aware that since the late Duke had no offspring and no nearer kin, that you er, succeed to the… ah… title.”
“There must be some mistake…”
“Oh, no, Your… ah… Grace,” said Mr. Rundell, crackling a piece of parchment. “No mistake at all! You are the new Duke of Westerland.”
The Captain… or rather the new Duke of Westerland… began to laugh, much to the surprise of the three lawyers. What, thought His Grace, was Miss Clarissa Sayers going to think now!
Blissfully unaware of the aristocratic plum that had just escaped her clutches, Clarissa returned from her drive to find Mrs. Sayers in a high flutter.
The “lady of quality,” bribed heavily by Mrs. Sayers to effect social entree into all drawing rooms, a Mrs. Byles-Bondish, sat unmoved on the striped sofa.
As Clarissa entered the room, Mrs. Byles-Bondish was saying, “I am afraid that is the case, ma’am. I know you are desirous of Clarissa’s attending the Falconer ball since only the creme de la creme will be admitted. But this morning, Lady Falconer made it exceeding plain that she wished Frederica to attend. Lady Falconer is as close as inkleweavers with Mrs. Bannington. Furthermore my lady implied that unless Frederica were to be present, no invitation would be issued to the Sayers family.”
“It’s all on account of that spiteful cat, Mary Bannington,” said Clarissa carelessly.
“It fair chokes me to think of that brat waltzing around the Falconer’s ball,” said Mrs. Sayers with barely controlled venom.
Mrs. Byles-Bondish raised her thin eyebrows in surprise. “My dear Mrs. Sayers,” she drawled. “One would not think that Frederica was your daughter.”
Mrs. Sayers bit her lip in vexation and exchanged glances with her daughter. Clarissa opened her mouth to burst out with something but a warning look from her mother made her close it again.
Clarissa was still flushed with triumph over her rejection of the Captain. “Oh, let her go,” she said. “I will even choose a dress for her. Now pale yellow would be just the thing…”
Clarissa, having neatly chosen the most unflattering color for her troublesome sister, settled back to turn over the Captain’s humiliation in her mind. She hoped he would be at the ball so that she could enjoy the rejected agony on that handsome face.
At that precise moment the Captain’s face was indeed registering agony, but not over Clarissa. He faced the lawyers who had just finished reading the terms of the will and looked at them in horror.
“Marry! I must marry? It cannot be true.”
“I am afraid it is, Your Grace,” said Mr. Rundell portentously. “The old Duke was very bitter at the end of his days about having never married. You may inherit the title and the estates but not his personal fortune unless you are married within a month of the reading of the will. And may I point out, Your Grace, you will need to control the fortune in order to run your property efficiently. I am sure that a young gentleman of your looks and address should not find it an impossible task.”
After the lawyers had left, the new Duke of Westerland strolled slowly into the living room to impart the staggering news to his friend.
Lord Hefford shook his head. “I don’t know whether you’re to be congratulated or commiserated with,” he said. “Being a Duke ain’t easy.” A sudden thought struck him. “I’d lay a monkey to see Miss Sayers’ face when she finds out.”
“That brings me to the hardest part,” said the Duke. “I am to be married before the month is out or I don’t get the old Duke’s fortune.”
Lord Hefford whistled. “Well, there’s plenty that’ll have you for your title. You’d best look high for a woman of breeding who can handle the responsibilities of an abbey. What about Lady Rothence, Haswell’s daughter?”
“Too proud,” said the Duke. “No. Since I obviously cannot fall in love in such a short time, I would prefer some female who would be modest and good company. Some girl who would grow into the position as I will have to grow. Good God, Archie. Where shall I find the time? There is a vast pile in Surrey, that great barracks in Grosvenor Square—not to mention a castle in Scotland and various hunting boxes in the North. The old Duke’s steward will take a lot of the business off my hands but still… dammit, I’ll miss all this.” He looked round his living room, cluttered with mementoes of his school, army, and sporting days.
Stubbs entered the room with the air of a man who can no longer be surprised. “There is a young lady to see Your Grace. I have put her in the back parlor.”
The Duke swung round and regarded his man with astonishment. “Really, Stubbs, you should know better than to…”
“A most respectable young lady,” interrupted Stubbs. “Her maid awaits below stairs.”
“News travels fast,” shouted Lord Hefford to his friend’s already-retreating back. “They’ll soon be breaking their ankles on your doorstep, mark my words!”
Primly ensconced in the back parlor sat Miss Frederica Sayers. She had removed her bonnet, and the remains of her coiffeur from Vauxhall tumbled about her ears in a sorry mess. She got to her feet at his entrance, closed her eyes firmly and said in a loud voice, “I am come to be your mistress, Captain Wright.”
After a short minute, she opened her eyes. The Duke was standing motionless, looking at her as if he could hardly believe his eyes. “Why this sudden decision, Miss Frederica?” he asked politely, drawing up a chair for her.
Frederica sat down suddenly as if her legs had turned to water. “It’s no use,” she sobbed, “You don’t want me and I don’t know any other gentlemen and I’m too young to be a governess.”
The Duke took her small hand in his. “Begin at the beginning,” he urged. He was interrupted by the entrance of Stubbs. “I took the liberty of bringing some refreshment for the young lady, Your Grace,” he said, placing a tea tray on an occasional table.
Frederica’s eyes flew to his face. “Your Grace…?”
“Yes, indeed,” the Duke assured her. “This is a day of surprises. I have just learned that I am the Duke of Westerland.”
His companion brightened. “But that makes such a difference, Ca… I mean, Your Grace. Now you will be able to help me.”
He eyed her narrowly, wondering if she were as designing as her sister but her words disarmed him. “You will have large households,” she cried. “And surely in one of them you can introduce me to the housekeeper. I am sure you will need an awful lot of maids—Oh, you do not understand. The Falconer ball was the last straw. For some reason, Lady Falconer insisted I be present and… and I am to wear primrose yellow satin. So you see, sir, I had to run away.”
“What is so dreadful about primrose yellow satin?”
“It makes m
e look sallow,” she said, looking at him in surprise. “Surely you must understand why it was the last straw. The beatings, and being perpetually shut in the schoolroom, were as nothing compared to the indignity of that dress. I thought perhaps you might like me as your mistress but I see you do not. But a maid…”
He shook his head in amazement. “I must insist that you drink your tea and return directly to your home. Should anyone have seen you arriving at my lodgings your reputation will indeed be ruined. Mistress! My dear child, you will soon be married and wonder how you ever came to think of such a Gothic plan.”
“Who’s getting married?” hailed a cheerful voice from the doorway.
Lord Archie Hefford strode into the room, his blue eyes sparkling with curiosity. “No one is getting married,” snapped the Duke. “I must ask you to leave, Archie. This is a private matter…”
To his horror, his words had already gone unheeded, for the confiding Frederica, impressed by the large Corinthian with the merry eyes, launched forth on her story.
“I must say your mama seems to treat you uncommon hard,” said Archie as she finished her tale.
“She does not really mean to,” replied Frederica. “She is simply ambitious for Clarissa. You see, she is my stepmother. My own mother died when I was very little. She was never spoken of. Our old housekeeper told me she was Spanish and sickly most of the time, hating the Yorkshire climate and pining for Spain. Shortly after her death, my father married the widow of a Leeds’ banker. My father did not like it known that my mother was a foreigner so he insisted that his new wife and her daughter Clarissa claim me as their blood kin, and moved us all from Leeds to Harrogate so that no one would know. Under the terms of his will, the fiction is supposed to be carried on, but I am the daughter of the house only on sufferance. I have no hope of being married since my stepmother says she will not waste one penny on me. It is not that she actively dislikes me… she simply finds me… unnecessary. So I thought of the demimonde…”
“And you thought of me, miss,” said the Duke severely. “What sort of a loose screw do you think I am to go about seducing respectable young ladies?”