by Jane Feather
“Maybe I ’ave ’eard summat . . . maybe I seen a lad. Like I said, who wants to know?”
“His sister. I work for her, she sent me to see how her brother was doing.” It was a gamble but one worth taking.
“Where’s your mistress now, then?” The peddler still looked suspicious.
“Back at the inn. She doesn’t want her uncle to know she’s in town.”
The packman seemed to consider this before he nodded slowly. “Well, you tell your mistress the laddie’s with a baby farmer in a house near the stairs at Wapping.”
Clarissa’s heart leaped. “Did you send my mistress the note?”
“Maybe I did, ’n’ maybe I didn’t.” He looked anxiously down the street. “I’m saying nothing . . . more than my trade’s worth.”
Clarissa nodded impatiently. “Tell me the address. Is Wapping in London?”
“Course it is, down the east end, on the river. But I don’t know the street, just it’s by the stairs.”
How big was Wapping? “What stairs?”
He gave her a pitying look. “River stairs, of course.”
Of course. “How will I . . . my mistress . . . how will she find it?”
“ ’Tis a house hard by the Eagle an’ Dove. If she asks around, someone’ll tell ’er.” He hesitated, then said, “Best if she gets ’im out of there quick. He’s doin’ all right, but there’s infection an’ all sorts around there.” He hoisted his pack further up his back and started off again up the hill.
“Just a minute . . . please . . . just one more question.” Desperately Clarissa ran after him. “How do you know he’s all right? Have you seen the boy?”
“Aye, a few days ago. Gave ’im some gingerbread.”
She grabbed his arm. “Could you take me there?”
He shook his head. “Not on my rounds for another month, girl. But you tell your mistress what I said an’ to find him quick.” His expression softened a little. “Nice little lad, ’e is. Don’t know what that uncle of ’is thinks he’s doin’, but he’s a bad one and no mistake.” He spat into the kennel, then continued on his way and this time Clarissa let him go.
Wapping? How was she to get there? Would a chair take her? It didn’t sound like the kind of place frequented by chairmen. She looked around helplessly and then froze. A hackney carriage turned into the street at the bottom of the hill and drew up outside Luke’s house. She moved closer into the shadow of a house, watching as her uncle descended from the carriage, paid the jarvey, and disappeared into the house. Only then did she breathe easily.
The hackney was coming up the street towards her and she moved out of the shadows, raising a hand. The jarvey pulled his horses to a halt and scrutinized her with the eyes of experience. In general respectable women did not hail hackneys alone. But this one wore a good cloak and good shoes. “Where are you bound, mistress?”
She hesitated. Could she tell him to take her to Wapping, to a tavern called the Eagle and Dove hard by Wapping Stairs? But it was growing dark and she would be wandering alone in an unknown and more than likely dangerous part of the city. She couldn’t help Francis if she was lying in the street with her throat cut. It would have to wait until daylight.
“Covent Garden.” Her voice was haughty, the set of her head arrogant, as if defying him to draw any conclusions from her destination.
He looked at her again, his eyes narrowed. “Show me your coin.”
Clarissa controlled her anger at his insolence and withdrew her purse from the deep pocket of her cloak. She selected a silver sovereign and held it up. “I daresay this will compensate you for your trouble.”
He nodded and grinned down at her. “Aye, that it will, missie. Take you anywhere for that. Hop in.”
Clarissa climbed into the dirty, stale-smelling interior and sat gingerly on the stained leather squabs. The jarvey cracked his whip and the horse moved off, the iron wheels bouncing over the cobbles. She caught a faint whiff of perfume from the leather behind her head. It was Luke’s; she’d smelled it many times before. Her hands clenched inside her muff and she shifted to the far corner of the bench. It wasn’t going to be sufficient simply to rescue Francis; somehow the man had to be brought to account.
The bright lights of the Piazza with its attendant sounds and smells soon penetrated the uncurtained window aperture of the carriage. She leaned out of the window. “You may set me down here, jarvey.”
“As you wish.” He reined in his horse and Clarissa jumped down, thankful to be out of the insalubrious interior of the hackney. She handed up a shilling, saying calmly, “You know as well as I do that a sovereign is daylight robbery and you can be fined for extortion. But while I doubt the journey was worth more than sixpence, I’m prepared to pay you a shilling.”
He took the coin with a muttered imprecation, spat his disgust to the cobbles, and urged his horse forward. Clarissa had made him set her down on the corner of Russell Street and the Great Piazza. It was a only short walk to 32 King Street and she reached the house in a few minutes. As she was about to raise the door knocker, the door opened under her hand and she found herself looking up into the Earl of Blackwater’s disgruntled countenance.
He stared at her. “There you are. Where have you been? You said you needed to rest.” He was clearly put out and Clarissa realized for the first time what it meant to be living under the protection of a man who considered he had paid for her to be at his beck and call.
“Forgive me, my lord, but I didn’t fully understand that I was to have no freedom of movement under this arrangement,” she said stiffly. “Am I to be confined within doors waiting until you choose to seek out my company?”
The anger in her jade eyes would have scorched a lesser man. But Jasper only drew back for a second from the heat and returned to the fray now with the utmost good humor. “Of course not, but I felt sadly deprived. I was certain you would be here as you had said you would be, and how was I to know you had changed your mind?” He made his tone plaintive as his eyes smiled at her.
He hadn’t realized how pleased he would be to see her. Her cheeks were pink from the cold, the anger in her eyes made them shine like emeralds, and he wanted more than anything to strip the thick folds of her cloak from her and let his imagination savor that dainty figure in the thin muslin gown.
“I needed some fresh air,” Clarissa said, mollified by both the conciliatory tone and the appreciative gleam in his eye. “What did you want with me, my lord?”
“I wished to sup with you, in the peace and solitude of your own chamber,” he responded. “So far every attempt I’ve made to enjoy a meal in your company has been somewhat truncated. I thought if it were on your own terms, as it were, we might even manage to savor dessert. I seem to remember that Mistress Griffiths’s cook makes a most delectable syllabub.”
“Does she?” Clarissa took the opportunity to step past him into the hall as he moved slightly to one side.
“You haven’t tasted it?” He sounded astonished, following her back into the house. “None of your clients has—”
“If you don’t mind, my lord, I would prefer to leave the subject of my other clients out of our dealings,” she declared. “After all, it’s agreed I shall have no others for the duration of our arrangement.”
“That is true.” He began to divest himself of his cloak and hat. “Well, now you are returned, we may resume our plan to sup together.”
“Our plan, sir? I don’t believe I had any part in its making.” She moved to the stairs. “You will forgive me if I decline the invitation. I am fatigued and would seek my bed early.”
“No, I will not forgive you. The invitation is not yours to decline, Clarissa.” His voice had changed, hardened. “I will sup with you this evening.”
Clarissa stood with one foot on the bottom step, her hand resting on the banister, as she contemplated her response. Before she could say anything, however, Mistress Griffiths came into the hall from the salon. “Ah, Clarissa, there you are. His lordship was desirous of suppin
g with you. You told no one where you were going when you went out.”
Clarissa sighed. “I didn’t realize it was mandatory to do so, madam. I have explained to his lordship that I would prefer to seek my rest early tonight and I beg his indulgence.”
Nan looked at her sharply. Either the girl was getting cold feet, or she was playing another game altogether. Nan suspected the latter. The readiness with which she had accepted the earl’s offer of protection had convinced her that, whatever she would have others believe, Mistress Ordway was no virgin and had not arrived on her doorstep by accident.
“In this house, Clarissa, we do everything to please our clients. You will, if you please, go up to your chamber and ready yourself to receive his lordship. Your supper will be served whenever you ring for it.” Her voice was icy, but she was all smiles as she turned to Jasper. “If you will wait for a few minutes in the salon, my lord, Marianna is playing the pianoforte and I have a particularly fine claret if you care to sample it. Clarissa will be ready for you directly.”
Jasper bowed his acquiescence and went into the drawing room. He slightly regretted Nan’s involvement, which he knew would include coercion if necessary, but at the same time he wasn’t prepared to play ducks and drakes with Clarissa.
“Go along upstairs, girl. I don’t know what this nonsense is but it had better finish here. Tidy yourself up for his lordship. You’ll find something suitable in the armoire.” Nan gave Clarissa a nudge up the stairs and for a moment Clarissa had to resist the need to push her back, to stand tall and tell her who and what she was, the daughter of Squire Astley and Lady Lavinia Astley, no penniless whore without friends or family. But she couldn’t do that. Not yet, not until she had Francis safe.
Without a word, she went up the stairs to the chamber that had been allotted to her. Wax tapers were lit, rich velvet curtains drawn against the encroaching night; a fire burned in the grate. A round table was set for two in the window embrasure, a decanter of wine in the center. Her eyes darted to the bed. The bed curtains were drawn back, the coverlets turned down in clear invitation. She went cold. How was she to stop this?
Slowly she peeled off her gloves and shrugged out of her cloak. The muslin gown had lost its pristine crispness since the morning; the lace edging to the décolletage was limp and lifeless, the folds of the gown hanging creased and formless over a starched petticoat that had lost its stiffness. She was beginning to understand why ladies of fashion changed their gowns so frequently.
She went to hang up her cloak in the armoire and looked in disbelief at the taffeta chamber robe hanging beside her own clothes. Presumably that was what Nan had meant by something suitable. Suitable for entertaining gentlemen in one’s bedchamber à deux. She fingered the material, which was a rich deep emerald with a delicate tracing of pale gold leaves; long, full sleeves ended in lace ruffs, and a series of tiny ribbon bows fastened the gown at the front. Where had it come from? Did Mother Griffiths keep a costume room to cover all eventualities?
She took it out and laid it on the bed. The robe was altogether delightful, surprisingly tasteful, and Clarissa could find nothing about it to object to beyond the immutable fact that it wasn’t hers.
Thoughtfully she unlaced the sprig muslin and hung that in the linen press, where with luck the creases would hang out. She poured water from the ewer into the basin on the washstand and washed her face and hands, surprised at how grimy she felt. A day spent in taverns, crowded streets, and dirty hackney carriages would do that to you, she reflected with a wry grimace. Her hair, so carefully curled that morning, was rapidly returning to form, hanging now in a straight curtain to her shoulders. But at least it still shone. She pulled her hairbrush through it with slow, almost dreamlike strokes, wondering how on earth she was going to get through this evening intact.
She sat down to take off her shoes and stockings, and wriggled her bare toes in the warmth of the fire, then stood up abruptly. She couldn’t pretend she could stop the world turning just by doing everything so slowly. She needed a strategy for the evening, a way to keep the earl at arm’s length.
She slipped into the chamber robe, fastening the little ribbon ties down the front. The garment hung in loose pleated folds from a waistline set just beneath her breasts; the lace-trimmed neckline was square cut and higher, she was relieved to find, than that of the sprig muslin. She looked at her reflection in the long pier glass. She presented a most elegant figure, and not in the least provocative, except for her bare feet.
A brief knock at the door made her jump and she turned to face it, her heart thudding against her rib cage. She still had no strategy.
Jasper stepped into the chamber. “I trust I’m not intruding, madam.” He bowed formally even as his eyes assessed her, a glow of appreciation in their depths. For a moment his gaze lingered on her bare feet and he smiled slowly. “How delightful. How utterly charming, my dear.” He closed the door behind him and stepped up to her.
Clarissa stepped back. “My lord, please. May I pour you a glass of wine?”
He looked at her, his eyes narrowed. “You intend to refuse me?”
“I thought I had explained . . . explained how I would like some respite.” And then it came to her. She clasped her hands, regarding him earnestly. “My lord, just once I would like to have a proper liaison, one conducted with some grace. I would like us to progress as . . . as ordinary people do in the world outside this . . . this . . .” She waved an expressive hand around the hushed and silken chamber of lust. “I would like to be able to believe that we are not in a bordello.”
She let her clasped hands fall against her skirts and offered a tentative smile, her head slightly tilted. “Can you not grant me that one wish, sir?”
Jasper scratched the bridge of his nose. He looked at her in momentary incomprehension, then he said, “You would be courted then? You would have me woo you?”
Slowly she nodded. “It will be new for me. I have never been courted.”
He began to laugh, softly but with deep amusement. “Oh, my dear Clarissa, if that is your wish, then I will put aside my admittedly rampant desire and play the game of courtly love. If I can remember how,” he added with another chuckle. “It’s been a long time since I went a-courting. But if those are your terms, then I accept them.”
He strode to the table and filled the wine goblets, bringing them back to the hearth. He handed her one, then linked his arm through hers, bringing his glass to his lips as she raised her own. “To courtship, Mistress Clarissa.”
“To courtship, Lord Blackwater.” She drank, filled with a heady sense of relief, but also excitement, realizing for the first time how much she enjoyed being with him, how she seemed to be more of everything in his company. Brighter, quicker, prettier even, despite the edge of antagonism that sharpened their exchanges. His body was so close to hers now, she was enveloped in his heat, and she could somehow feel every line of her own body clearly delineated as he would feel her against him beneath the delicate taffeta robe.
Jasper disentangled their arms and took Clarissa’s glass, setting it down with his own. He slid an arm around her, drawing her up against him as with his free hand he tipped up her chin. “Kisses are perfectly acceptable courtship behavior,” he murmured, and brought his mouth to hers.
Clarissa was momentarily startled, momentarily dismayed, and then she was aware of nothing but the sensation of his mouth on hers, his body against hers. This was a kiss unlike any she had experienced before. The clumsy fumblings of her earlier forays into the world of passion bore no relation to this masterly caress. She could feel the hard muscularity of his thighs against her own, the steady beat of his heart against her own breast. His lips were firm and pliable, and the scent of his skin, earthy with just the slightest hint of lavender, seemed to envelop her. Her arms found their way around him, her hands on his back, because where else were they to go when it came to this business of kissing, and everything seemed perfectly right, perfectly natural, indeed utterly inevitable.
When he released her and stepped away she felt bereft and had to resist the urge to pull him to her again. “Courtship is a time of slow and gentle pleasures,” Jasper said, smiling. “I think I’m going to enjoy it.” He took her hand and drew her to the fire. “Are you hungry? Shall I ring for supper?”
Clarissa glanced towards the bed, glaring in its invitation. “In a moment, if you please.” She went over and swiftly pulled the curtains around the bed, closing it off from the room.
Jasper hid a smile, saying with mock gravity, “Well, that makes it plain enough.” He reached for the bellpull before picking up his wineglass and taking one of the armchairs on either side of the fire.
Clarissa took up her own glass, sat opposite, and commenced civilized drawing room conversation. “I trust you spent an enjoyable afternoon, my lord?”
A look she couldn’t interpret crossed his countenance, to be instantly dismissed. He said blandly, “I accomplished a disagreeable but necessary task.” He sipped his wine. “And you, Mistress Clarissa? A pleasant walk, I believe you said.”
“A fruitless errand,” she improvised. “I wished to purchase some ribbon, but unfortunately I could not find the particular shade I need. It’s to trim a bonnet,” she added, astonished at her powers of invention.
“When you visit Madame Hortense in the morning, you will be able to see if she can be of assistance,” Jasper said. “Of course, you should feel free to direct my coachman to take you anywhere you wish. You might find what you seek in one of the silk warehouses. What is the exact shade you require?”
Clarissa’s lips twitched. It was all too absurd. Jasper, Earl of Blackwater, engaging in a discussion of ribbon trimming for a nonexistent bonnet. “A straw color,” she murmured, her voice quivering with laughter. “A most particular blond tint. It must be exactly right, you understand, sir, other—”
Her sentence ended in a squeak as he leaned forward, seized her hands, and abruptly pulled her across the intervening space to land on her knees in front of him. “You have something of the devil in you, Mistress Clarissa,” he declared, his eyes alight with laughter. He pulled her up a little so that she was kneeling against his knees and lightly kissed the corner of her mouth.