by Nicole Byrd
Gemma drew a deep breath. “Then we must fight back.”
“How?” Clarissa asked.
Lady Gabriel arched her fair brows and waited.
“We must go ahead with your formal coming-out party, Clarissa.”
“But I don’t want to face the Ton, especially not now, with this rumormongering about to begin—” she started.
Gemma shook her head. “No, that’s exactly why we must do it now, not wait for it to be too late. We must face them down, Clarissa.”
Clarissa stared at her. Gemma had had her own experience with social rejection, she knew. And her tone was resolute.
Clarissa nodded. She must be brave, as well. “Very well,” she agreed. “I will do it.”
“We shall plan a dance, a ball,” Gemma said. “Within two weeks, I don’t think it can be done properly more quickly. But we will get the invitations out at once, and that will divert people’s attention a bit, or so I hope.”
“If you would permit me,” Lady Gabriel put in. “Would you allow me—my husband and I—to host the ball? We are family, after all, and we wish to support Clarissa, too. We could have it at our country home, which is not a long journey from town, and it is larger than the London house. In Kent, we have a spacious ballroom, as well as rooms for overnight guests. We could make a weekend party of it, and be really festive. If you wish to make a splash in Society, let’s make it a big one!”
“Oh, Psyche, that is very good of you,” Gemma exclaimed. “That would be lovely. Don’t you think so, Clarissa?”
Clarissa swallowed her trepidation and repeated Gemma’s thank-yous. “Very generous, indeed.”
And if the thought of a weekend party was even worse than one night of merrymaking—and how merry could one be when one had a habit of tripping over one’s own feet on the dance floor and was awaiting rumors accusing one of being a murderess?—she tried to put on a brave face.
Matthew had taken a bullet for her; the earl had risked his life, as well. Before such sacrifice, how could Clarissa do less? She could damn well risk the less mortal but almost as painful on-dits of malicious Society matrons.
“We will do it,” she agreed, and managed to keep her voice from quivering.
To her annoyance, Clarissa had to leave the sleuthing to the earl while she threw herself into helping Gemma with frenzied preparations for her coming-out ball. They had lists to make, invitations to write out and send, ideas to discuss about decoration, and the all important ball gown to design.
Clarissa tried to look appreciative of all the effort her family and friends were devoting to this event. It was certainly very kind of Lady Gabriel to offer her country estate so that the ball could be put on properly. Matthew and Gemma’s London house, though perfectly comfortable in most respects, was only of moderate size and didn’t offer scope for anything more than a few couples and a quiet dinner dance.
On the other hand, having a genuine ball simply made Clarissa more anxious about her performance. And now that she genuinely wanted to perfect her dancing skills, her elusive dance instructor was nowhere to be found.
“Probably departed hastily for the Continent,” Lord Whitby told her. “Afraid that we are on to him.”
“Do you think he knows that we know?” Clarissa asked.
“Impossible to be sure. On the night of the robbery at Lady Sealey’s it was too dark to see him clearly. Still, he seems afraid to show his face here, and that tells us something!” the earl pointed out.
To her relief, despite his vow to avoid any further intimacy, the earl still came to see her and share any tidbits from the reports given to him by the runners he hired, and on his own investigations, although his conduct was depressingly proper.
“The rest of the gang have been convicted of robbery,” the earl told her a few days later. “Two have been sent to prison, and two others deported. They were lucky not to hang.”
She shivered.
“Two that we know of got away, in addition to the ringleader. But eventually, we will ferret him out, so do not worry. In addition, I believe we’ve convinced the magistrate that he is the one to blame for the matron’s death, or at least given the court enough evidence that they will not pursue a case against you.”
Clarissa nodded a little absently. At the moment, the criminal charge was not the main subject on her mind, though she was sure it should have been.
“What is it?” Lord Whitby asked. “Are you still troubled about the courts? You should not be.”
She grimaced. “It is a small thing compared to my neck, but—but I still don’t know all the dance steps, and my brother is not yet allowed up—”
He grinned at her, but said, “Perhaps I could stand in for your errant tutor?”
She blinked. “I can hardly make you into a dancing master! The great earl of Whitby—whom all the Ton look up to? That would be too bold a request even for me to make, my lord.”
He laughed out loud. Across the room, Gemma looked up in surprise, and he suggested that they should have some dance practice.
Looking startled at the suggestion, Gemma agreed and called for a footman to roll up the rug. She sat down at the pianoforte and played for them, and the earl took Clarissa’s hand and led her to the center of the room.
As a dance instructor, the earl was much superior to her departed tutor, Clarissa thought. True, he made her whole body tingle from his touch, and passing so close to him made her aware of his nearness in every inch of her being. But he guided her surely, caught her missteps before she could make them, and induced such a sense of well-being that dancing was, for the first time, a genuine pleasure. She felt as if she could float off the polished floor, and under his sure guidance, she could bask in a delightful illusion of competence and grace.
“Oh,” Clarissa exclaimed impulsively. “If I could dance only with you, this would be no problem at all!”
Something in his eyes made her pause, and she felt her cheeks grow hot. She struggled for the proper words. “That is, I mean, I hope we will have the honor of your company at the ball, my lord. I know your presence is much sought after . . .”
“Of course I will be there, goose,” he told her, leaning closer to speak into her ear. “I have my bet to win, you must remember.”
But the gleam in his eyes lingered, and she did not think he was concerned about a trifling wager. By this time, she knew she should be most insulted that two gentlemen would bet over her ladylike conduct, or lack of it, but she didn’t care. Just knowing that he would be at the ball stilled her nervous qualms, and she breathed again.
“I will do what I can,” she whispered back, and didn’t care that across the room, Miss Pomshack frowned to see them share such intimate conversation.
That afternoon, they went, not to Gemma’s usual dressmaker , but to a couturier that Lady Gabriel had recommended. Although Clarissa protested at the extravagance, her brother and sister-in-law were determined to spare no expense when it came to her coming-out ball.
“No, we shall go back to Madam Lovalle for the other dresses, but this gown must be perfect.”
So they went together to sit in the exclusive dressmaker’s parlor and look over designs for the gown, while the great woman, in her turn, looked Clarissa up and down. Clarissa soon found herself in her shift, being measured for the ball gown. When she was released, she was able to dress and rejoin her sister-in-law. She found them examining fabrics.
But although Gemma fingered the delicate swathes, the dressmaker shook her head. “No, Lady Gemma, these are well enough, but they will not do.”
“But—” Gemma was not allowed to finish.
“Most young ladies making their debut wear white or pale pink or another pale color, but your young lady, with the so-fair hair with its glint of reddish gold and such an ivory complexion and clear eyes, ah, she deserves more than yet another ordinary white dress,” the modiste continued.
“We don’t want to be too ostentatious,” Gemma pointed out, her tone polite but a l
ittle dubious.
Clarissa nodded. It was going to be hard enough to be the center of all eyes at her formal presentation. If on top of that, she suffered any doubts about her dress, she would likely die of anxious qualms.
“Of course not—we do not wish the scandale—”
Clarissa had to press her lips together to hold back a nervous laugh. No, a scandal was indeed what they did not want!
“—but I have a cloth particulier in mind,” the couturier said. She conferred briefly with her assistant and the younger woman left the room. She returned shortly with a bolt of fabric in her hands.
Clarissa drew a deep breath. She had never seen anything quite like it.
It seemed to be a lustrous white silk, but it was woven through with a fine gold thread that made the whole fabric seem to shimmer. Anyone who wore a dress made of this would look like a princess from a fairy tale. Who could deserve such a gown—certainly not Clarissa, who did not, even now, feel like a genuine lady. . . . But she gazed at the fabric entranced by its beauty.
“Oh,” Gemma said, obviously spellbound as well. “It is lovely. You don’t think it will be too much for a young lady making her coming-out?”
The couturier looked affronted. “I would not have suggested it, else!”
“Of course not,” Gemma said quickly, her tone soothing. “Oh, it is certainly beautiful. What do you think, Clarissa?”
“It’s lovely, but surely too much?” she answered, her voice faint.
But Gemma seemed to make up her mind. And when the dressmaker’s assistant held up the fabric to Clarissa’s face, the other ladies gazed at her in open admiration.
“Quelle effet!” the couturier muttered.
“Breath-taking,” Gemma agreed.
How could Clarissa argue further? She glanced across at the tall looking glass in the corner and sighed in appreciation of the lovely silk.
They made an appointment for the fitting, and not until they had been handed back into their carriage did it occur to Clarissa that the fee for such a gown must be exorbitant.
Conscious-stricken, she turned to her sister-in-law. “Oh, with such fabric, this will cost much too much. We should go back to the other dressmaker, instead!”
Gemma smiled at her. “First of all, your brother would never hear of it. Second, when I made discreet inquiries about what the final cost would be, I was told that Lady Gabriel has insisted on paying for the ball gown, as her and my brother’s gift to you.”
“Oh,” Clarissa said faintly. “This is very, very kind of them.”
“Yes, you must write them a thank-you,” Gemma agreed. “And, Clarissa, don’t mention this part to your brother just now. His first impulse may be to dispute the gift, and that would sound ungrateful, indeed.”
Clarissa agreed. When they reached the house, she sat down in the drawing room to write out both the thank-you note and the final invitations, and she worked until her fingers were stained with ink. By the time dinner was announced, she had finished the list that Gemma and Lady Gabriel had compiled between them.
The next day the invitations were put into the post, and they were committed. Lady Gabriel came to discuss the decorations with Gemma and Clarissa, and Matthew, as soon as he was allowed out of the house, his arm still in a sling so as not to strain his wound, departed in the carriage to make a purchase of his own.
He returned with a velvet-covered box and presented it to Clarissa. “For the ball,” he said simply.
She opened it to find a circlet of pearls, lovely and simple and elegant, just right to match the pearl ear drops he had given her for her birthday. “Oh, it’s beautiful, Matthew,” she said. “Thank you!”
He smiled at her delight. “The jeweler assured me that this is just what you need for your first Season. And Gemma tells me your dress will be white with gold trim, so this will do nicely.”
Feeling a flicker of guilt at the mention of the dress, Clarissa nodded and allowed him to fasten the clasp of the necklace. When it was in place, she glanced at herself in the looking glass on the wall and then turned back to hug him gently, remembering to avoid the still-healing gunshot wound.
“Thank you, Matthew,” she said again. “For the necklace, and for everything! You are much too good to me.”
“I could never be that,” he told her. “And considering that I was not there for so many years when you needed me—”
She shook her head at him. “You must not say that, ever again. Look, I am here, and I am safe and happy. You must put away your regrets.”
He sighed. “That is harder to do than to say, but I will try. I thank God for the happy outcome, and that you are indeed safe. And I know this is not easy for you, either, Clarissa. You are brave to face the Ton and any lingering gossip; I pray it will not turn out to be a difficult task. You know we are always beside you.”
“I know,” she said, and rose on her tiptoes to kiss his cheek. “I am very fortunate.”
A true statement, and it appeared that as part of her great good fortune, she was not, despite all their fears, likely to be charged with murder, Clarissa told herself later, when she had gone upstairs to show Matty the lovely necklace.
While her maid exclaimed over the gift, Clarissa answered absently, still thinking. Was there going to be a happy end to her struggles with propriety’s demands, after all? Could they really make a silk purse out of a sow’s ear? Or a social success out of an awkward former serving girl? Could she make sure the earl won his bet?
Could she win his heart?
One thing at a time, she told herself. First, survive the ball.
Fifteen
After the earl’s promise and the arrest of most of the gang of thieves and the disappearance of Monsieur Meidenne, her nightmares had subsided. But, perhaps because of her tensions over the fast approaching dance, Clarissa was chagrined to find them returning. She woke more than once to brush aside the visions of the children watching her from the darkness, their malicious chants ringing in her ears.
But she was safe, surely, from a false charge of murder. Was this the late matron’s curse on her, the woman’s final revenge? Was Clarissa never to be free of these terrifying visions? Perhaps it was true what the earl’s abhorrent aunt had said, that Clarissa was mentally deficient, scarred by her unusual and painful experiences.
Clarissa rubbed her eyes and tried to ease the tenseness of her muscles so that she could sleep again. She had told Matthew to put aside the past and its bad memories; she must do the same. The earl had told her she would know how to face her fears, but she had done all she could, surely. Was there something she had missed?
Sighing, she closed her eyes and prayed that the nightmare would not return.
Gabriel slowed his horse to a walk as he entered the village and looked over the small street lined by shops and houses. He noted only one tavern at the middle of the street’s length, and it would likely be the center of most gatherings. Sighing a little—how many villages of small stone houses and just this appearance had he visited in the last week?—he slipped off his horse and tied up the reins.
Giving the beast a pat on its neck, Gabriel went into the taproom.
A stout man in a spotted apron came up. “A pint of ale, sir?”
“If you please,” Gabriel agreed. He looked about the small room, which smelled of a smokey fireplace and lingering odors of long past meals of mutton and home-baked bread. “And perhaps some bread and cheese for a hungry traveler.”
The man filled a tankard, then called to the kitchen for the foodstuffs. He returned and leaned on the wooden counter. “Not from these parts, are ye, sir?”
Gabriel shook his head. “I’m from Kent, originally,” he agreed. “What about you?”
“Ah, I been ’ere these twenty years, sir. But yes, I was born and bred in Londontown. My wife’s father had the inn, you see, and it seemed worth coming north for, when ’e died.”
Gabriel motioned to the drink. “Will you not have a drink with me, landlord?”
“Thank’ee kindly, sir,” the proprietor said, and promptly filled another mug.
This was a stroke of luck, finding a gregarious innkeeper, Gabriel thought. He had found, to his frustration, that the usual Yorkshire inhabitant tended to be close of mouth and suspicious of mind, especially when it came to strangers.
“What brings you into the North Country, sir, if I may ask it?”
“I’m looking for a man named Smith, on a matter of old but pressing business,” Gabriel explained, choosing his words with care. He had found that if he made the matter sound too urgent, people pulled away. Even now, the man glanced at him, his brows knitting.
“Owes you money, does ’e?”
Gabriel grinned and pushed across coins for their drinks and the food that was coming. “No, that’s not it. But he has some information I am seeking. Are there any men by that name in the village?”
A young girl brought out a pewter plate holding a round brown loaf, still warm from the oven, and some hard cheese. Gabriel broke the loaf and took a bite, schooling his own expression to one of patience.
The landlord chuckled. “Lor’, sir, how many do you need? Old Jamie Smith, at the farm on the North Riding, for one; ’e has two sons, and they have a bunch of little uns, too. And then there’s Thomas, at the smithy. ’E’s only got a bunch of girls at home, but there’s ’is nephew, who left to go to sea during the war and came ’ome with a wooden leg, poor sod.”
Oh, hell. Gabriel would have to speak to them all, except the children, of course, and they would all know nothing useful; he would bet upon it.
It was going to be another fruitless few days wasted, and still he had not found any link to his unknown father.