Clarisse didn’t have the desire, or probably the ability, at that moment, to argue.
She had come home elated, the first tinges of what could be a serious attraction to Lord Woodridge in her fluttering heart, and now she was angry and tired and, once again, vexed.
“May I go to bed?”
Her father blinked in surprise, obviously not expecting her to decide that the conversation was over.
“Your father may wish to speak more,” Helena said sharply.
“No, it is fine:” Clarisse’s father was, she knew, working quickly to avoid an argument. He smiled at his daughter. “Off to bed with you then,” he said.
“Goodnight Father.”
Clarisse swept from the room.
When she was in her chamber and her maid had helped her dress for bed, she dropped down, overwhelmed. The tears came to her quickly, as she considered the day. She lay in her bed, staring at the canopy above her, and let the tears sting her eyes. How had her father taken that woman’s side? It had just been he and Clarisse for so long, and now… he was abandoning her. He was trying to force her out of his home.
It all felt so unfair. He made her feel as if she had done something wrong, when she had hoped that they would approve – even if the manner of her meeting with Lord Woodridge had been not quite within the bounds of propriety – but instead, her news had been received with condemnation.
Sleep was slow in coming, and when it did, it was haunted by the memory of Lord Woodridge’s bright spring green eyes.
~~~~~
Frederick was surprised to find that his nerves seemed to rattle as he stepped down from the carriage and went to call upon Clarisse Weston. He had seen war, his ship had almost been lost at least a dozen times, yet he was afraid to knock upon a front door and escort a young lady on a simple drive. It didn’t make sense.
Of course, Frederick had spent so much of his time in the Navy that he hadn’t had much experience with the things that other men his age had, those who’d stayed behind, or the ones who had spent just enough time in the military to be seen to have done their patriotic duty, and had then sold out and come home as fast as they could.
Frederick had never been one for Balls and soirees, for picnics and drives in the park with a woman. His year of mourning had provided an excellent excuse to avoid them. The glittering events of the ton had seemed a false world, compared to war, and one in which there was little advantage to him. And he rarely did anything that did not advantage him.
There had been women of course, at this port and that. But they hadn’t been of high society, they had been simply entertainment, a reminder of the fact that life held pleasures as well as war. There was no code to follow, no wrong thing to say or do. It was just physical, temporary. But now that he was Earl, he had a duty to the title, a duty to not only get himself a wife, and breed an heir, but a duty to find a woman who came with a sizeable dowry, which would restore the fortunes of his estates.
If the girl he found was pleasing to the eye, and not a flighty demanding high society piece, he would be satisfied with that, so long as she came with money.
He rapped upon the door and it was answered in an instant by a maid.
“Good day. I am Lord Langerden, I believe that I am expected.”
“Please come in, my Lord. Mr Weston is in the parlour if you would care to join him.”
Frederick followed her through the impressive foyer of the house, and up the stairs to a pleasant parlour.
“Langerden,” the older man poured two drinks from a nearby sideboard, and handed Frederick one. The scent of high quality brandy drifted from the glass, and Frederick raised it appreciatively.
“Mr Weston, my thanks for this.”
He took a sizeable sip of the brandy, with a quick tilt of his head.
“Clarisse should be down presently,” the older man said, inclining his head toward the door, and the staircase beyond.
“I look forward to meeting her.”
“She is all excited,” Mr Weston said, rocking back onto his heels, as though he could hardly contain his own excitement. “I admit, the girl and I have grown close, and I did little to stop it from growing out of hand, but something like this, it is exactly what she needs.”
“It is what I need as well,” Frederick said, allowing the old man to refill his glass. “I find myself cooped up, retreating from the bustle of society, thinking of my father, and of the sea, all too easily.”
“My boy, your father was beyond proud of you and your service. What was it like, being there? In the war I mean.”
Frederick thought for a moment. Often people asked him of this, and he knew that they meant well, but there was no good answer. How could he tell someone what the war had really been like?
He could not adequately paint a picture with his words to explain what it had been like to come upon that half sunken ship, the water red around the wreckage where the survivors simply tried to stay afloat, their injuries leaking their life’s blood into the water. Or how a man on his deck had been reduced to nothing but a fine red spray after a cannonball catapulted across the bow of the ship. And truly, he did not think that those who asked really wanted to know – the reality was far too gruesome.
“It was-” Frederick started, and he paused for a moment, trying to think of what he should say, but he was saved doing so by the arrival of Miss Weston.
“Clarisse, may I introduce Frederick Caulfield, the Earl of Langerden?”
Frederick took her hand and bowed.
“I am delighted to meet you, Miss Weston.”
“Good day, my Lord, I have been looking forward to meeting you.”
“You look radiant,” Frederick said, and it was true. The girl wore a dress of a pale blue, with delicate embroidery at the hem, topped by an elegant pelisse in a darker blue, and a bonnet upon her head, well suited to shade her complexion from the sun.
“Thank you, my Lord,” she said softly, as though she couldn’t quite find her voice.
“My curricle awaits outside, with my tiger. Shall we be off?”
She nodded, hurried over to her father to give him a peck on the cheek, and then took Frederick’s offered arm.
Frederick assisted Clarisse up onto the seat of the curricle, while the tiger held the horses. He settled himself beside her, and took up the reins, waiting a moment for the tiger to climb up to his small seat at the back, and then urged the horses forward.
“Where are we going?”
He smiled.
“Simply for a drive into the city, and into Hyde Park. That is what all of the fashionable people do, and I wondered if you would enjoy it. It will be quite some distance to reach it from here, so we will not stay there long, but still…”
“Oh! I have heard much of the ton parading there. I never imagined that I would be amongst them. After all, I am a merchant’s daughter. I do not mind the distance, I have often gone into London for the day, with my father. I will simply enjoy the sun, and watching the world go by.”
Frederick had wondered if he would be able to successfully make conversation with Miss Weston, or if it would be a stilted and uncomfortable activity. In the end, conversation came easily, and the distance passed rapidly as they talked. Frederick took the opportunity to draw her out, to discover more about her – to see if she really was as agreeable as her father insisted that she was. He spoke briefly of the Navy, and of how his father had recently passed away, in response to her questions.
For her part, she spoke of her father warmly, and her stepmother in a manner reserved enough that Frederick felt it confirmed her father’s statement that all was not well between the two.
Soon, the streets of the outskirts of London were passing them, and they saw the estates of the wealthy give way to more compact, although still imposing, houses. Eventually, they turned in through a large gate, and found themselves immediately swept along in a great flow of carriages and riders, all moving slowly, all stopping randomly for people to greet each othe
r. Miss Weston was gazing at the rich attire of the people, and the impossibly glossy horses with an expression of awe.
“They come here to see, and be seen. To display their wealth and importance in the quality of the clothing and of their horseflesh. I find it all rather excessively affected, personally.”
“But still, they are amazing, I have never seen such finery, all in the one place.”
“It’s like this, every afternoon during the Season. I come here sometimes to remind myself of the life I now need to fit in with - it is a vast contrast to the sea, and war.”
Miss Weston nodded.
“I cannot imagine what war must be like. I’m sorry for what you had to go through, for the suffering of all who went to war to keep us safe.”
Frederick was taken aback. Everyone always pressed him for details, as though the war had been an adventure. Here was a young girl telling him that she was sorry for the horrors he had faced and thankfully, overcome.
“Thank you,” Frederick said. It was all he could manage.
They circulated in the stream of wealthy people for some time, until Miss Weston seemed to tire of it all, and then Frederick gratefully turned the horses back away from the city, towards more peaceful spaces.
When at last they returned to Miss Weston’s home, the girl was smiling as he assisted her down from the carriage, while the tiger held the horses’ heads.
“Thank you, my Lord, for a wonderful day, I have truly enjoyed myself.”
Frederick nodded and kissed her hand, turning it over and pressing his lips to her palm, lingering over it for a moment. Suddenly, she seemed a little breathless. She was, as far as he could tell, utterly an innocent – that made her very different from the women he had spent any time with. It seemed charming, if a little disconcerting. He was pleased – this was a woman he could happily spend time with, he suspected, a woman with a large dowry. That was all that was required for a suitable marriage.
“I hope that I may call upon you again?”
“You may,” Miss Weston said, with a quick curtsey, and then turned and was gone into the house.
~~~~~
Having so far managed to resist the call of the horse races since winning on the grey horse, Gervaise decided to reward himself with a hand or two of cards. He knew that he shouldn’t… but surely, just a little wouldn’t hurt? He still had funds locked away in investments, which would not be touched. Surely risking a little was not too much?
If he chose the right table, he could keep the stakes low and, while he would gamble a bit, he wouldn’t allow himself to be carried away. The sky above him was dark and littered with pinpricks of light as he made his way towards a game. He pushed all thought of his father’s disapproval aside as the carriage rolled into town.
His favorite gaming hell was a small place in the city called The Brass Tiger. The entrance was a narrow door in a dingy brick wall, with a sign hanging above it made of brass and in the shape of a stalking tiger.
He directed his coachman to return for him in three hours, then made his way inside, nodding at the man who guarded the front door. He was well enough known that he was permitted immediate entrance. It was not, he thought, really a good recommendation that it was so.
In a back room there were a few tables set up, with men sitting around them, cards in their hands, cigars in their mouths, and drinks at their elbows.
Gervaise didn’t smoke often, but he ordered a drink and then carried it with him to a table with an open spot.
He sat down and the usual excitement filled him. He began to play, and his awareness of time disappeared. An hour or more passed and Gervaise found himself holding a substantial profit.
He was pleased – he had not risked too much, he had played carefully, and he was winning. He ignored the little voice in his mind that encouraged him to ‘risk it all again, and make it larger’ – he was done for the night. It had been a good night thus far, but little did he know that it was about to become much worse.
“I never would have believed it if someone had told me that you would show your face here again, Woodridge,” a voice said, from behind Gervaise.
He turned to find himself face to face with a large muscular man with a neck so thick it equalled the girth of his thigh. The strong man was known as Clancy - Gervaise was unsure if he had a surname, if he did, it had never been mentioned.
Clancy made a business of loaning money to hopeless gamblers, and then took back much more than they had borrowed.
Gervaise had owed him money for some time, although not as much as he’d owed him more than a year ago. That debt had been paid. The more recent one had not. He knew that he’d been a fool not to pay it out, as soon as the grey horse had won, but he’d not wanted to come anywhere near the place, in case he gambled instead.
It said a lot about how bad the craving had become, that he’d come here tonight, and not even considered that Clancy would find him.
“Ah, Clancy!” Gervaise said brightly, slapping his hand onto the man's shoulder. “So glad you are here, I came to settle with you, of course.”
“You came to settle with me? It looks as though you’re playing cards.”
“Why not both?”
Clancy was not in the mood for talking, something he communicated by balling his meaty hand into a fist and sending it smashing into Gervaise's face. In a place like The Brass Tiger, it only took one punch for a brawl to break out. And so it did.
That evening Gervaise returned home to find himself without money, his winnings having been taken by Clancy. He should, he supposed, be grateful that his winnings of the evening had been enough to settle that debt. It was one more thing that could no longer come back to damage his life.
But paying it had left him short of easily accessible funds. Again, the insidious voice in his thoughts suggested that gambling more was the solution. He forced himself to ignore that idea. The state of his body was quite enough to remind him of exactly why it was a bad idea. He groaned as he lowered himself into a chair next to a roaring fire in the parlour, and let himself drift to sleep.
When he next woke the light was shining through the parlour window and the fire had burned down to nothing but embers, glowing orange among the soot in the grate.
“My Lord?”
He went to move, and groaned in pain.
“Hattam. I believe I need your assistance.”
The valet came to him, and assisted him up the stairs to his chambers. Once he had lowered Gervaise into a chair by the window, Hattam stepped back.
“From the look of you, my Lord, a good hot bath, some fresh clothes, and then breakfast is what’s required.”
“Indeed. I believe that I have, yet again, been rather unwise.” Gervaise sighed. “My head is nothing but misery.”
He pressed his palms to his temples.
“Too much drink, my Lord?”
“This is not due to drinking, it was Clancy.”
“Ah. I see.”
Hattam went and sent a footman to arrange the bath water to be brought, then turned back to Gervaise, his expression sad. He had been with Gervaise for a considerable length of time now, and was privy to the worst of Gervaise’s habits.
“I gather that you gambled again, then?”
“I played a hand or two of cards, just cards,” Gervaise said, anger rising in his voice. Then he stopped himself. “Sorry Hattam, it’s never that simple, is it?”
“No, my Lord, it’s not. But I am glad to see you, if that’s where you’ve been, with no greater damage than you bear – to your person, at least. Is there greater damage to your finances?”
“No Hattam, nothing more than a temporary shortage of ready coin. And what I did tonight paid off the last of the debts I still carried. You will not need to lie to my father on my behalf.”
“Thank you, my Lord. I am grateful for that fact.”
Chapter Four
Clarisse had enjoyed her outing with the Earl of Langerden so much that she had scarcely thought ab
out Gervaise Belmont, Lord Woodridge - at least until the man presented himself at her father’s home.
Clarisse was sitting in the garden, reading, when the footman came to her.
“You have a caller Miss, I have shown him to the parlour.”
“Thank you, please send Abby down to sit with me whilst I greet him.” Clarisse said, closing the book. She deposited the book on the hall table and went through to the parlour. She was expecting Lord Langerden, but when she saw Lord Woodridge she was pleased.
“Lord Woodridge,” she said as she man bowed to her.
“Miss Weston. I’m sorry for calling unexpectedly, but I was hoping that you would do me the honour of walking with me in your beautiful gardens, and conversing for a while.”
Clarisse was about to answer in the affirmative when she started.
“Your face!” she exclaimed.
There was a soft purple bruise on one side of Lord Woodridge’s head. He smiled and waved a hand through the air.
“It is nothing,” he said. “An accident.”
Clarisse tilted her head to one side, not convinced that she believed his story, but she decided to let the matter rest.
“Who is this?” her father’s voice boomed from behind her, and she watched the two men shake hands while Lord Woodridge introduced himself.
“Ah yes,” Mr Weston said. “I was sorry to hear about your mother, there seems to be too much loss going around.”
“Thank you, and what do you mean?” Lord Woodridge asked.
“My daughter has another suitor of late, and he has lost his father but a year ago.”
Lord Woodridge glanced at Clarisse. “Oh, I see,” he said. “Yes, even losing one loved one is too much.”
“You wish to spend time with my daughter?” Mr Weston frowned, and Clarisse wondered, for a moment, if he was going to forbid her from spending time with Lord Woodridge. But then he smiled, as if coming to a decision.
Betting on a Lady's Heart: Sweet and Clean Regency Romance (His Majesty's Hounds Book 14) Page 3