Rushed to the Altar

by Jane Feather

  Clarissa sat down and took an oyster. She picked up the oyster fork and caught his quick glance. Her eyes went to the bruise on his hand. “You wouldn’t let me go.” She speared an oyster and popped it into her mouth.

  “No, I suppose that’s true.” He speared one himself. “So, can we agree to bury that lamentable incident far in the past, and start a new chapter?”

  Clarissa sipped her wine, rolling the golden flowery liquid around her tongue. It warmed her and she felt some of the tension slide away, a tension that had been a part of her since Luke had appeared in the breakfast room at Astley Hall that dreadful morning.

  “When will I move to the house on Half Moon Street?” The question was sufficient answer to his question.

  It was, however, a slightly awkward question for Jasper. His present mistress was still in situ. Their understanding had been drawing to an acrimonious close for some weeks now as his suspicion that she was sharing her favors with rather more than himself alone became undeniable fact. But as a matter of courtesy he needed to confront her before evicting her. “It will take me a few days to have it refurbished for you,” he temporized.

  Clarissa speared another oyster. “I’m sure I don’t need a newly refurbished house, sir. My tastes are simple. Isn’t it important that we begin this charade as soon as possible?”

  Jasper thought of the house as Gwendolyn had it furnished. It was an ornate muddle of opulent swags, gilded furniture, a bed so deep in feathers he felt he was drowning whenever he joined her in it, and he had regretted giving her carte blanche with it from the moment he had first walked through the front door, although in the early days of their lustful passion he had deliberately ignored his reservations.

  But lust had faded as it so often did, and his own sense of obligation to his mistress had ended abruptly when it had become abundantly clear to him that she had not the same sense of loyalty to her protector. He had dismissed the early whispers as malicious gossip, and somehow, probably because of his apparently nonchalant understanding, Gwendolyn had decided that he was a blind fool, to be used and manipulated as she chose. From then on the vulgar opulence of his so-called love nest had irritated him beyond bearing. Thus far, indolence had stopped him from confronting his mistress and dealing with the resulting unpleasantness. He had had no mistress to put in Gwendolyn’s place, so it didn’t really matter, but now the situation was very different.

  Half Moon Street would become a love nest that would suit Clarissa Ordway, a woman so unlike Gwendolyn Mallory it was almost impossible to imagine them in the same room.

  “It is important,” he agreed. “But before I establish you there are other steps to be taken. First your wardrobe . . . you need clothes, fashionable clothes that don’t smack of the nunnery, if society is to accept you. Nothing too modest, of course, nothing like that bronze muslin or the gown you were wearing yesterday, but—” He broke off as the tavern maid came in with a cauldron, which she set on the table. She lifted the lid and fragrant steam rose from the contents.

  They didn’t resume the conversation until she’d ceremoniously set a crusted bottle of burgundy on the table with two goblets, which she wiped over on her grimy apron; bowls; and utensils. “There y’are then. That’ll do you, I reckon.”

  “It will, thank you.” Jasper gave her a nod of dismissal, then lifted the ladle. “Pass your bowl.”

  Clarissa did so, wondering how many elegantly dressed earls ladled mutton stew from tavern cauldrons as a matter of course. Jasper St. John Sullivan certainly seemed to know his way around a ladle and a mutton stew. He filled her bowl, selecting choice pieces of meat and vegetables, and discarded anything with fat or gristle. He passed the bowl back and then helped himself.

  Clarissa took a small spoonful, watching with a degree of amusement as he ate with relish, breaking bread into the gravy and eschewing all the finer points of table manners. Although there was nothing distasteful about his table manners, they were just the straightforward, hungry conduct of a man at a country table. She’d seen her own father eat with such enjoyment after a day hunting or in the fields with his tenants. And it made her instantly comfortable. She dipped again into her bowl and gave herself up to the sheer pleasure of good plain food.

  Until she remembered Francis. Her spoon drifted down to her bowl and she crumbled her bread between her fingers, fighting back tears.

  “What is it, Clarissa?” He leaned over the table. “You look stricken, what is it?”

  She bit her lip. “A memory, a bad memory. Forgive me, my lord. It intruded.” She gave a tiny unconvincing laugh. “They do, on occasion.”

  “Certainly they do.” He looked at her closely. “Will you not tell me what it is?”

  It was too soon, too soon even to give him the fabrication she had finally developed of her own child lost in childbirth. “A piece of history,” she said lightly. “Nothing to concern us.” She forked a piece of mutton and smiled at him.

  Jasper was unconvinced, but he was also convinced that at this point he had no right to probe. Of course the woman had a past, of course she had complications in her life; everyone did. He didn’t need to know them, understand them, or attempt to solve them. He was paying her to perform one part; everything else about her was of no interest, unless it interfered with her ability to perform satisfactorily.

  “As you say,” he conceded, refilling his glass. “And to get back to your wardrobe . . . after we’ve eaten I will escort you to a milliner I know, a very skilled woman with a good eye. She’ll know what to do for you.”

  “It’s just possible, my lord, that I will know what to do for myself,” she said, her tone sharp. “I haven’t lived my life in a byre.”

  “No, of course you haven’t, I never intended to imply such a thing,” he denied, somewhat startled by her vehemence. “But you cannot know anything much about prevailing town fashion; it’s not as if you’ve been frequenting fashionable London these last weeks. What is appropriate for the Piazza will not do in society’s salons and drawing rooms.”

  Clarissa flushed with annoyance. “I am well aware of that, sir. Credit me with some sense.”

  He held up his hands in a gesture of surrender. “Enough said. We will go and visit Madame Hortense and you may share your views with her.”

  Clarissa frowned. “Must it be this afternoon?”

  “I see little point in delay. Why, do you have something else, something more important, to do this afternoon?” He raised an interrogative eyebrow as he leaned over to refill her wineglass.

  He sounded as if it was impossible that she should have. Clarissa, still frowning, stared into the ruby contents of her glass. He’d want to know what it was that was so important she couldn’t spend the afternoon in his company, and she could hardly tell him she was impersonating a Bow Street Runner whenever she wasn’t impersonating a prostitute. But to let a day slide by without furthering her search for Francis seemed like the worst betrayal. “I’m rather fatigued,” she said finally. “I would like to rest this afternoon.”

  Jasper regarded her for a moment, wondering why he was unconvinced by such an excuse. It was not unreasonable; her life had turned topsy-turvy since the moment she had run into him the previous day. She probably needed some time to herself. And yet he had the feeling she was not telling him the truth. However he merely nodded. “As you wish. I’ll send a carriage for you in the morning to take you to Madame Hortense’s establishment.”

  “Thank you.” Clarissa set down her spoon. “If you’ll excuse me now, my lord, I would return to King Street. I have no need of an escort. It’s just around the corner.” She pushed back her stool.

  Jasper rose to his feet, observing drily, “You seem to have the habit of unceremonious departures from the dinner table, Clarissa. But I do insist that I accompany you to your door. Wait here while I settle up with mine host.”

  “I would not take you from your dinner, sir.”

  He dismissed her protest with a brusque gesture and went into the tap
room. Clarissa grimaced; she couldn’t really blame him for being annoyed. But in truth she didn’t think she could face another mouthful of food or another moment of inaction. She wrapped herself in her shawl and went into the taproom.

  Jasper turned from the bar counter, where he was talking with the landlord. “Come along then.” He ushered her through the noisy crowd and out into the Piazza. His displeasure was obvious and he walked so fast that she almost had to trot to keep up with him. At the house he sounded the knocker and waited, tapping his foot until the door was opened by the steward. “Until tomorrow then,” he said with a curt nod, then turned on his heel and left her on the doorstep.

  Clarissa took a half step after him, then thought better of it. He was angry and entitled to be so by her discourteous haste to be rid of him. On the morrow she would try to make amends. She waited until he had disappeared around the corner onto Bedford Street, then entered the house, intending to fetch her cloak and coin purse before setting out for Ludgate Hill.

  Jasper walked briskly, the crisp air cooling his temper somewhat. He was not accustomed to being dismissed so abruptly by anyone, let alone someone in his employ, and there were no two ways about it; he had paid good money for the services of Mistress Clarissa Ordway. He realized after a while that he was walking to Half Moon Street without having made a conscious decision as to his destination. Well, in his present mood, he would relish the inevitable confrontation with his mistress. It had to come sometime in the next day or two.

  It was a longish walk but it served to clear his head and restore his equilibrium, so that he was once more his calm, dispassionate self when he unlocked the front door of the pretty little house where he kept his mistress and entered the small square hall. The maid who looked after Gwendolyn came through the baize door that led down to the basement kitchen regions as the earl closed the front door behind him.

  She bobbed a hasty curtsy and her eyes darted side to side as if she were afraid to meet his gaze. “My lord . . . we wasn’t expectin’ you. I’ll run up and tell madam.”

  “No, don’t bother, Sally,” he said. “I’ll announce myself.” He walked to the stairs and then paused, his eye falling on a hat, cane, and gloves on the bench by the door. The girl followed his eyes and stepped hastily in front of the bench.

  “Madam gets powerful cross, my lord, if I don’t announce folks.”

  Jasper crossed the small space. He reached out and indolently caught the girl’s chin in his palm, tilting her face so that he could examine her countenance. He shook his head gently. “Sally, your loyalty is admirable but quite unnecessary. You may return to your work. I will take these to their owner.” He released her chin, picked up the hat, cane, and gloves from the bench, and continued on his way upstairs.

  Outside the door to the drawing room he paused, listening to the subdued murmur of voices within. A grim smile touched his lips as he identified the voice of Gwendolyn’s visitor. He opened the door without ceremony.

  Gwendolyn and the Honorable Henry Lassiter were sitting cozily on the daybed before the fire. Too cozily for mere friendship.

  “Good day, my dear.” He entered the drawing room, a smile on his lips that came nowhere near his eyes. “Lassiter, yours, I believe.” He dropped his burdens onto a chair. “There’s a chill wind, you will need them.”

  It was clearly a dismissal and the Honorable Henry, who had jumped up from the daybed at the earl’s entrance, looked at the woman as if for an answer to his next move. He looked back at the earl, standing impassively holding the door open.

  “Perhaps I didn’t make myself clear,” Jasper said amiably. “I bid you farewell, Lassiter.”

  “You have no right to dismiss my visitors, Jasper.” Gwendolyn rose to her feet, her countenance flushed. “As it happens I wish Henry to remain.”

  “And I wish him gone, my dear.” The earl’s voice was as pleasant as ever, but his eyes were cold and hard. “I believe it to be my prerogative to decide whom I wish to entertain under my own roof. Just as it will be my pleasure to assist your guest down the stairs should he so wish it.”

  Lassiter went swiftly for his belongings. He cast one last glance at Gwendolyn, who was still standing beside the daybed, her expression a mixture of dismay and anger, then left, sidling past Jasper, who was still holding the door.

  Jasper closed the door at his back and surveyed his mistress with that same smile. “Do sit down again, my dear. May I pour you a glass of Madeira?”

  “No, I thank you.” She sat down, arranging her taffeta skirts carefully. “That was very discourteous, Jasper. It’s unlike you.”

  He inclined his head. “Do you really think so? I think most men would show a degree of incivility when their possessions are usurped.”

  She flushed. “I am not your possession.”

  “No, indeed you’re not, my dear. But this house is and I retain the right to decide who spends time under its roof.” He stood before the fire, resting an arm along the mantel as he looked at her. She was a very handsome woman. But even so she could not hold a candle to the lovely Mistress Ordway. Gwendolyn was older in many ways but that added to her appeal. She was well versed in the ways of the world and knew how to please him where it mattered. But she had no loyalty and he had long ago sworn to himself that he would never be duped by a woman again. Once was enough. He must be the only man in her life for as long as their arrangement lasted.

  “You are free to do as you please, Gwendolyn,” he continued, watching the color ebb and flow in her cheeks. “But you are not free to live under my protection and enjoy the favors of other men.” He shrugged. “You may consider me old-fashioned in my need for an exclusive arrangement. So be it.”

  “What are you saying?” She stood up again, her hands restlessly opening and closing her fan. “Are you telling me it is over between us?”

  “Yes, I believe that is what I’m saying. You may take whatever you wish from this house but I would like you to vacate it by the end of the week. I’m sure Lassiter can find a suitable property for you in the next few days. Unless, of course, there is someone else who might be preferable?” His tone was as cynical as his raised eyebrows.

  Gwendolyn was very pale now. “I will promise never to see Henry again.”

  He shook his head. “Much as I would like to believe that, my dear, I know how impossible you would find it. I know you too well. You need variety, the excitement of new conquests. Leave the house by the end of the week, if you please.” He moved to her and lifted her hand, lightly brushing a kiss across the back. “I have enjoyed our association, Gwendolyn, but it’s time to bring it to a close before things become ugly.”

  Releasing her hand, he bowed and walked quickly from the room.

  Chapter Seven

  Clarissa tentatively approached the rear steps at her uncle’s house on Ludgate Hill. She couldn’t decide whether she dared risk a direct approach to the kitchen door at the base of the steps. Someone had sent her the note, and it seemed a reasonable assumption that that someone lived in the house, or was intimate at least with the household. But she risked exposure if she asked questions of the wrong person, a member of the household loyal to his master.

  The door below suddenly opened and lamplight poured forth into the small gloomy yard at the base of the steps. Although it was still only midafternoon the sky was heavy with cloud, making the basement kitchen even more in need of lamplight.

  Clarissa moved hastily away from the top of the steps as voices rose in cheerful farewell and an elderly packman emerged into the yard. He carried a basket on his back and a tray around his neck displaying his selection of pins, ribbons, pieces of lace, buttons, and other trifles.

  “Don’t be a stranger now, Bert,” a voice called from the kitchen.

  “Never fear, Clara, I’ll be back for more of that there mulled ale an’ lardy cake,” the peddler shouted back as he made his way up the steps to the street.

  Clarissa darted across the road before he reached the street. It s
eemed, judging from what she’d overheard, that he was a frequent visitor to the back door and a welcome one. Whenever he visited he would be offered refreshment as he laid out his wares to the entire household gathered in the kitchen, and he would hear the household gossip. It might be safer, with less risk of Luke hearing of it, if, instead of approaching her uncle’s household directly, she talked with someone who visited often. She knew from her own experience that the packmen who made their regular rounds peddling the trifles and trinkets necessary to the smooth running of a household and to the pleasure of servants who had little enough to please them were au fait with the most intimate details of some of their habitual households, as were the tinkers, cobblers, and knife grinders who paid regular calls.

  She glanced up and down the street, wondering if her uncle was in the house, looking from a window maybe. But perhaps he hadn’t returned from wherever he had been going that morning, which meant that at any moment he could turn the corner of the street on his way home. He couldn’t find his niece loitering outside his front door.

  The packman was shuffling his way up the hill towards the bulk of St. Paul’s, a dramatic edifice against the darkening sky. It was getting colder, a hint of early frost in the sharp wind, and Clarissa huddled into her thick woolen cloak as she hurried half running after him. He heard her quick footsteps and turned round, his expression startled.

  “Forgive me, I would like to talk to you for a moment.” Clarissa reached him, slightly out of breath. “You were visiting Master Astley’s house just now.”

  “What if I was?” He looked at the hooded, cloaked young woman in surprise.

  “I was wondering if anyone ever mentioned a young boy living in the house . . . or if you’d ever seen him. A lad of about ten, Master Astley’s ward.”

  The peddler frowned. “Who wants to know?”

  “I will tell you that, if you’ll answer my question first,” she said, her eyes wary.