by Jane Feather
A man stepped out of a house across the street. He doffed his hat and bowed to Clarissa as he walked towards Piccadilly. A maid was polishing the brass on a house two doors down. A small boy with a nursemaid came from the direction of Green Park. He was bowling a hoop along the side of the street and Clarissa saw Francis doing the same thing. Francis playing in Green Park, bowling a hoop, sailing a toy boat on the pond. She blinked rapidly and resolutely turned back to the door of the house, where the coachman was banging the shining brass knocker.
The door opened the instant Clarissa reached it. “Good morning, Mistress Ordway.” A young maidservant curtsied. “We was expectin’ you. His lordship said as how you’d be along afore noon.” She stepped back, allowing Clarissa entrance into a small square hall. A narrow staircase rose from the rear.
“You must be Sally.” Clarissa smiled at her.
“Aye, ma’am.” Sally was regarding her with ill-concealed curiosity. “Should I show you around the house?”
“Yes, if you please. But I should like to meet the housekeeper first.” Clarissa wondered if she should consider the conspicuously absent greeting from the woman responsible for the smooth running of the household some kind of a statement on her own parlous social position. She drew off her gloves, looking around the well-appointed entryway.
“Oh, Mistress Newby’s having a bit of a barney with the butcher, ma’am. Trying to pass off a piece of scrag end for best end of neck, he was. Should ’ave known better,” Sally confided cheerfully. “No one can put one over on Mistress Newby. I’ll just show you what’s what down ’ere, and then we’ll go upstairs. Mistress Newby’ll be along as soon as she’s told off the butcher.”
“I’ll be leaving Mistress Ordway’s portmanteau ’ere then, Sally.” The coachman set the valise down inside the door. “If that’ll be all, ma’am.” He touched his forehead in a half salute in Clarissa’s general direction.
“Yes, thank you.” Clarissa dismissed him with a smile. This was all familiar ground and she was already beginning to feel like herself again, in charge of her own establishment. She may not have known how to behave like a whore, but she did know how to conduct herself in these circumstances.
“This here’s the dining parlor, ma’am.” Sally opened a door to the right of the front entrance. “ ’Tis not very big, but his lordship doesn’t do much entertaining here.”
Clarissa absorbed that in silence. It sounded as if the current occupant of the house on Half Moon Street was not expected to entertain guests for herself. But what did she know of the mores of kept women? She peered dutifully into the room. It was pleasant, neutral, furnished as one would expect of a dining parlor. She followed Sally, who had hoisted the portmanteau, upstairs with rather more interest.
“This here’s the drawing room, ma’am. Looks a bit different now, it does.” She opened the door onto a room at the front of the house.
“A bit different from what?” Clarissa walked past her into the room.
“Oh, from when Mis—” Sally stopped abruptly, blushing to the roots of her hair. “Beggin’ your pardon, mistress.”
“That’s quite all right, Sally.” Clarissa looked around and liked the room instantly. It was furnished with a mixture of understated elegance and comfortable simplicity. The curtains at the long windows were a rich blue damask, held back by gold tasseled ropes, and the colors in the Axminster carpet echoed the blue and gold. “What did it look like before?” She couldn’t resist the question.
“Oh, it was all a bit Turkish,” Sally said. “Silk cushions everywhere and gold scrolls on the sofas. And there were little things everywhere. The devil to dust, it were. Madam took all that stuff with her; good riddance is what I say.”
Clarissa hid her smile. The house might have been sophisticated but the servant was down-to-earth enough. She was about to express again her wish to meet with the housekeeper when the woman herself came into the room, slightly breathless, wiping her hands on her apron.
“Oh, I beg your pardon for not greeting you, Mistress Ordway, but the butcher—”
“Was trying to pass off scrag end as best end of neck,” Clarissa finished for her with a warm smile. She held out her hand. “Mistress Newby, isn’t it?”
“Aye, that it is.” The woman took the proffered hand somewhat hesitantly as she bobbed a curtsy. “He’s a new butcher . . . he’ll know better next time.” The declaration was accompanied by a firm nod and a grim smile.
“I’m certain he will.” Clarissa looked around the room. “Who else helps out in the house, Mistress Newby?”
“Oh, there’s just Sammy. He does all the odd jobs, cleans the shoes, brings in the coal, black-leads the range. If we need help with the heavy work, his lordship sends one of his own servants to help out. Sally and me manages the rest quite well.”
A cozy little nest indeed, Clarissa reflected. “I hope I won’t add too much to your burdens.”
The woman looked at her in gratified surprise. “ ’Tis no trouble, Mistress Ordway. You just say what you need.” She added in a whisper, “That last madam was a right tartar an’ no mistake.”
Clarissa hid a smile and, curious though she was, let the statement lie. “Could I see the rest of the house?”
“Sally’ll show you. I’ll be getting on with your dinner. If you’d like a pot of coffee send Sally down for it.” Mistress Newby bustled away.
“So, where to now, Sally?”
“The bedchamber is across the hall, mistress.” Sally led the way to the door directly opposite the one to the drawing room. She opened it with a flourish.
Clarissa stepped inside. It was furnished in very much the same style as the drawing room, comfortable, luxurious even, but lacking in flamboyance. The pale rose damask of the bed hangings matched the curtains at the windows; the carpet was a deep emerald green. A daybed beneath the window was upholstered in apple-green silk, with emerald-green cushions, and the two armchairs on either side of the fire matched the cushions.
“Is this room different too?”
“Oh, yes, ma’am. Quite different. The whole house is different. They was workin’ all day yesterday, from dawn to midnight. Pretty though, innit?” Sally beamed as if she had been solely responsible for the transformation. “The dressing room’s through here.”
She opened a door in the far wall. Clarissa followed her into a small, intimate chamber, furnished with a chaise longue, a washstand, a mirrored dresser, a linen press, and an armoire. Clarissa’s first thought was that it would be perfect for Francis. He could sleep on the chaise, or better still, a cot. That would be easy enough to furnish. Quite how she was to explain the urgent need to keep a rescued urchin at her side at all times, she hadn’t worked out, but she was beginning to trust her powers of invention.
“This is lovely, Sally. When my wardrobe from Madame Hortense is delivered, it will be most handsomely housed.”
“Oh, that it will, madam. And I’m a dab hand with the flatiron and needle and thread, so I’ll look after everything all right and tight.”
“I’m sure you will, Sally.” Clarissa untied her hat, setting it down on the dresser, before she went back into the bedchamber. “I would like a bath,” she said. “Could that be contrived, Sally?”
“Oh, yes, ma’am. There’s cauldrons on the range already. I’ll get Sammy to bring up some jugs.” Sally opened the door of a recessed cupboard and pulled out a copper hip bath. She hauled it over in front of the fire. “It’ll be nicer in ’ere, rather than the dressing room. I’ll just fetch the sheets for the floor.”
Clarissa sat on the long bench at the bottom of the bed as Sally spread thick sheets on the floor beneath the bath. A young boy came in, touched his forelock with an embarrassed smile at Clarissa, and poured water into the bath. He made four journeys with steaming jugs before Sally told him to go back to the kitchen and heat more water, she’d call him when they needed it.
Clarissa allowed Sally to help her undress and then with a little sigh of pleasure she
stepped into the bath, sliding down into the hot water, closing her eyes.
“There’s lavender oil, if you’d like.” Sally pulled the stopper out of a small vial. “An’ there’s rosemary too. An’ if you was wantin’ to wash your hair, there’s orange flower water for the rinse.”
“All of those, thank you,” Clarissa said dreamily, sliding into the water to wet her hair.
Jasper spun on the ball of one stockinged foot and pressed his advance with a thrust in tierce. Steel rang on steel and his buttoned foil slipped beneath his opponent’s blade, sliding under his arm to press lightly against his flesh. His opponent stepped back, raising his épée in surrender. “Touché, Jasper. Well placed. I’m a damn fool not to have seen that coming, it was always your favorite thrust.”
“A matter of saving face, dear boy. You had me on the run a few minutes ago with that feint and counterfeint.” Jasper wiped the sweat from his brow with a towel and tossed it to an attendant. He fitted his foil into the rack on the wall of the fencing salon and rolled down his shirtsleeves.
His opponent followed suit, and they sat side by side on the bench running the length of the long narrow room to put on their shoes. “Where to now, Robert?” Jasper stood up, reaching for his coat, which was held by the waiting attendant.
“I’ve a thirst on me after all that exertion.” Robert Delaney shrugged into his own coat. “I’m for Whites and a gallon of claret. Will you come?”
Jasper shook his head. “Not this afternoon, m’dear. I’ve a more pressing matter to attend to.” A tiny smile touched the corners of his mouth and Robert’s eyes narrowed.
“I know that look, you sly devil. Some lady’s waiting for you, I’ll be bound.”
Jasper laughed, saying airily, “Oh, maybe.” He took his own sword from the wall rack, sheathing it at his hip. Unlike the previous weapon, it was no prettily buttoned fencing sword but an épée that was meant for business. “I’ll walk with you to Piccadilly.” He took up his hat, gloves, and cane.
The two men went down a narrow flight of stairs and out onto Albemarle Street. A brisk wind whistled around the corner from Grafton Street and Jasper glanced up at the gathering clouds. “Looks like rain.”
His companion merely grunted an acknowledgment. “So, who’s the lady, Jasper? Are you setting up a new mistress?”
“What makes you think that, Robert?”
“It’s common knowledge you’d tired of the little Mallory.”
“Oh, more likely she had tired of me,” Jasper amended.
Robert chuckled. “She had a roving eye, I grant you that. I understand young Lassiter is her latest victim.”
Jasper shrugged. “It’s nothing to me, Robert.” There was a note in his voice that Robert marked well. His old friend had a very strong code of honor and could never be drawn into a derogatory discussion, most particularly when it concerned a woman who had once lived under his protection.
They reached Piccadilly and parted company, Robert to walk to his club on James Street, Jasper to stroll down Piccadilly to Half Moon Street. He walked briskly but barely felt the biting wind. His mind was pleasantly occupied in contemplation of the final steps in the seduction of Mistress Ordway.
He let himself into the house and Sally burst from the door to the kitchen regions as soon as she heard his step. “Good afternoon, m’lord.”
“Afternoon, Sally.” He smiled at the curtsying girl as he unfastened his sword belt. “Did Mistress Ordway arrive safely?”
“Oh, yes, sir. She’s above stairs . . . in her chamber, sir. I’ll run up and tell her your lordship’s arrived.”
He held up a hand. “No, don’t do that. I’ll announce myself.” He laid his sword on an oak bench by the door.
Sally looked nonplussed. “Oh, but Mistress Ordway’s in the bath, m’lord.”
Jasper raised a speaking eyebrow as he handed her his hat and cane. “I hardly think that’s a matter of any moment.” He drew off his gloves, slapping them lightly into the palm of one hand. “Do you?”
“No . . . no, of course not, sir.” Sally hastened away with her burdens and Jasper, smiling, took the stairs two at a time. He paused for a moment outside the door to Clarissa’s bedchamber, listening. His smile broadened; she was singing in her bath. He lifted the latch soundlessly and stepped into the room.
A screen stood in front of the fire protecting the bather from drafts from the door, and also from prying eyes. The room was bathed in candlelight from the branched candelabrum on a table by the window and two others on either side of the mantel. Jasper walked softly across the room and peered over the top of the screen.
The bather had her back to the door and was at first oblivious of the unseen observer. His gaze followed the sweep of her back as it curved beneath the water. Her bent knees broke the surface of the water, and he thought distractedly that they were as beautiful as the rest of her. She raised her arms to pour water over her hair, which hung in damp strands to her smoothly sloping shoulders and halfway down her back. He gazed in delight at the lovely line of her arms, the elegant curve of her forearms.
If Bathsheba had given David this much voyeuristic pleasure, Jasper reflected, it was no wonder he sent the woman’s husband into the jaws of death. Suddenly Clarissa’s movements stilled, her arms came down. “Is that you, Sally?”
“No, but I venture to suggest I could serve you just as well,” he responded, resting his forearms on the top of the screen, smiling down at her as she slowly turned her head to look at him.
A hot wave of embarrassment flooded Clarissa and instinctively she ducked down further into the water. It was impossible to achieve full immersion in a hip bath and she was conscious of her breasts, fully exposed above the water. What else could he see? Somehow she had to hide her embarrassment. A true whore wouldn’t give a second thought to her nakedness in these circumstances.
“I can manage quite well, thank you.” Her voice sounded stiff to her ears and she had to fight to keep her hands from covering her breasts. He’d seen them before, after all. Instead she let her hands drift under the water to cover the dark tangle at the apex of her thighs, drawing her knees up even further.
“I could wash your back.” He didn’t move from his casual position leaning over the screen, but his black eyes devoured every visible line of her body.
“No . . . it doesn’t need . . . I have already . . .” With a sense of futility she let the stammering muddle of protest die and reached sideways for the towel that Sally had hung over the fire screen. If she could somehow manage to stand up while wrapping herself in the soft cloth, she could maybe preserve some degree of modesty.
Jasper moved around the screen and twitched the towel from her hand. “Stand up, and I’ll dry you.” He held up the towel invitingly.
There was nothing for it. Clarissa stood up in a shower of drops, keeping her back to him, and reached behind her for the towel.
“Just a minute,” he said softly, holding it away from her. His lascivious gaze ran down the line of her back, over the swell of her hips, the delicious curves of her bottom, and the long sweep of her thighs. It had definitely been worth waiting for, he reflected. Anticipatory imagination had not done her justice. He draped the towel over her shoulders, at the same time turning her to face him. Clarissa instantly wrapped the towel tight around her.
“Must we continue to play this game, Clarissa?” He shook his head in reproof and firmly grasped the sides of the towel, opening it. She stood still, frozen beneath the hungry gaze.
“Dear God, but you are lovely,” he murmured. “Even more than I had imagined.”
He ran a fingertip down from the hollow of her throat, between her breasts, circling her navel, gliding over the flat plane of her belly.
She shivered, but with a strange perverse delight now, as his fingertip burrowed into the tight nest of damp curling hair at the base of her belly, burrowed, found the cleft between the soft lips, moved further, faster. Clarissa gasped at the sensation, a heat, a cold, that
sinking plunge in her belly. Her legs felt weak and she tightened her thighs instinctively, and the sensation grew stronger. She stared up at him, at the slight smile on his lips. He knew exactly what he was doing to her, exactly what was happening to her. And she knew nothing except that it was wonderful and she didn’t want it to stop.
When the wave broke over her it took her by surprise. She cried out, grasped his upper arms as if they were driftwood in a tempest, and her head dropped onto his chest. At last she became aware of the steady beat of his heart as the wave receded, and slowly she came back to herself, to an awareness of her surroundings, of the warmth of the fire against her back, the glow of candlelight, the scent of lavender from his shirt.
The towel had fallen to the floor but she didn’t notice for a moment, until his hands moved down her back in a leisurely caress, stroked over her backside, pressing her nakedness against him. She felt the hardness of his erection through the silk of his britches, pressing against her belly, and it came to her that she should give him something in return for the pleasure he had brought her.
Tentatively she brought her own hand around to cup the hard jut of his penis. It throbbed against her palm. She raised her head from his chest and looked up at him, half-questioningly.
He nodded, lifted her, and carried her to the bed. He laid her on the coverlet, looking down at the white naked body against the rich, rose silk embroidered with a garden of pale green and emerald blossoms, her still damp hair a titian fan framing her face. He undressed slowly, deliberately, removing his coat, his shirt, before he sat on the edge of the bed, bare-chested, to unbuckle his shoes and remove his stockings.
Clarissa gazed with unabashed curiosity at the broad expanse of his chest, the ripple of muscle in his upper arms, noticing for the first time the tensile strength in his wrists, in his long white hands. They were his uncle’s hands, she thought irrelevantly. He stood up and unfastened his britches, pushing them off his hips in one swift movement, unlike the slow deliberation of his earlier disrobing.