by Jane Feather
Clarissa was aware of a little frisson of excitement at the prospect. They were playing a game, a game with high stakes, and she knew she could play her part to perfection. “Is anyone to know that I’m supp—” She broke off, chose her words again. “That I came from a nunnery?”
“They will know that,” he said smoothly, pretending he hadn’t noticed her slip. “I shall make sure it gets out, but you have no need to behave as you did with Lord Bradley. You will show the world only the impeccable demeanor of a lady of taste and breeding.”
“How else will they accept me as a reformed whore?” she murmured, setting aside a well-gnawed chicken leg.
“How else indeed?”
Clarissa looked sharply at him but his expression was calm as he stirred the punch, before ladling it into goblets.
He raised his goblet in a toast. “To our venture, Clarissa.”
“Our venture.” She drank. Francis was safe upstairs; she would do her part here for as long as necessary.
A carriage delivered Clarissa’s wardrobe late the following morning. Jasper had left after breakfast, saying he would be back with the horses later. Two footmen obeyed the instructions of the two young women who had helped Hortense with the fittings, carrying the gowns up to the bedchamber, where the women hung them in the armoire, smoothing down the folds with reverent hands.
Clarissa was astounded at the quantity of garments. She had listened to the catalogue that Hortense and Jasper had considered necessary for life in the Polite World, but hadn’t quite managed to envision what that meant.
Sally entered into the spirit of it with boundless enthusiasm, helping to hang the gowns, folding away shawls, placing hats on shelves. Francis stood in the shadows, gazing openmouthed at the proceedings. He was dressed in a shirt of good homespun, jacket and britches of a coarse but serviceable woolen cloth, good stockings, and a pair of boots that were a little too small for him, so he kept scrunching his toes. But he was perfectly happy in his new situation, and rapidly learning his way around the kitchen and servants’ quarters. He knew exactly how to cajole a piece of cake from Mistress Newby, and he and Sammy had already developed a friendly rivalry over who could fill a coal scuttle quickest.
Hortense’s assistants had left when Jasper once again let himself into the house to no greeting. This time, however, he merely gave a mental shrug, discarded his sword and his outer garments, and mounted the stairs, following the sound of voices to the bedchamber.
Clarissa was standing in front of a pier glass buttoning the waistcoat of a riding habit of dark green wool. She saw Jasper in the mirror, as he stood in the doorway surveying the scene, and said with a seductive smile, “So, my lord, what do you think? Will I disgrace you on the tan this afternoon?” She held out her arms so that Sally could help her into the tightly fitted jacket.
He laughed and came into the room. “Is everything here?”
“Oh, you’ve never seen the like,” she said, waving an expansive hand. “There must be at least forty ball gowns, forty-four day dresses, a hundred walking dresses—”
“Absurd creature.” He caught her up against him, holding her in the air for a moment. “It’s no laughing matter, I’ll have you know.” He let her slide down between his hands until her feet touched the floor again. “Finish dressing and we’ll go for a little ride in Green Park.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Do you doubt my expertise, sir?”
“No,” he said calmly. “But I would still like to satisfy myself before we try it in public. The horses are below. Finish dressing. I’ll wait in the drawing room.” He turned to leave and his astounded gaze fell on Francis. “What the devil are you doing in here?”
Francis, head down, shot out of his corner and through the door without a word. Jasper looked across at Clarissa. “How long has that brat been in here?”
She shrugged carelessly. “Oh, I don’t know. He probably followed Sally in. He’s only a child, Jasper. He means no harm.”
“I don’t give a damn what he means. But I’d better not see him outside the servants’ quarters again. I suggest in his own interests that you impress that upon him.”
Clarissa bit down on the words of protest that bubbled to her lips. She said quietly, “As you wish, my lord. Sally, would you make sure Frank stays below stairs?”
“Aye, Mistress Ordway. I’ll look out for him next time.” She cast a scared look at the earl, who merely nodded and stalked away.
“Oh, dear,” Clarissa murmured. “I don’t think his lordship cares overmuch for children . . . pass me the boots, Sally.” She sat down in front of the dresser mirror and extended one slender foot.
“I daresay his lordship isn’t accustomed to them.” Sally knelt to help Clarissa into the tight-fitting leather riding boots, lacing them up with deft fingers.
“Well, perhaps we can accustom him gently.” Clarissa held out one foot after the other, examining the boots with a critical air. “They feel comfortable. How do you think they look, Sally?”
“Most elegant, ma’am. The last word,” Sally said in admiration. “And here’s the hat.” She took up a high-crowned black beaver hat with a handsome green plume. She ran the plume through her fingers. “Madame Hortense has a perfect eye.”
“So it would seem,” Clarissa agreed. She swiveled on the stool to face the mirror and set the hat on her head. The clustered ringlets beneath the brim were most attractive, she decided, turning from the mirror to take the gloves from Sally. “Now, we’ll see what kind of riding horse my lord has selected.”
After what Jasper had said about mild-mannered ladies’ horses she was rather expecting a broad-backed, sedate old mare, and was pleasantly surprised by the pretty dappled mare in the care of the groom on the street outside. The groom also held the reins of a handsome black gelding, who tossed his head when Jasper appeared, and pawed the ground.
“The gelding’s feeling his oats,” Clarissa observed as she went to the mare’s head. She stroked the velvety nose and ran a hand over the animal’s neck. “She’s pretty, Jasper. Does she have a name?”
“Dancer, I believe. Do you like her?”
She turned her head against the mare’s neck and smiled at him. “She’s lovely, very dainty. ‘Dancer’ suits her.”
“Well, let’s put you up and see how she goes.” He cupped a palm and tossed Clarissa into the saddle, his eyes sharp as he watched to see how she handled the maneuver. It seemed second nature to her, he decided, watching covertly as she settled into the saddle, slipping her booted feet into the stirrups, taking up the reins with practiced hands. “How are the stirrups?”
“They need shortening a little.”
He nodded. “See to it, Tom.” He swung onto the gelding and took up the reins.
The groom adjusted the mare’s stirrups and checked the girth. “That better, ma’am?”
“Yes, perfect, thank you.” She nudged the mare’s flanks with her knees and the animal started forward. Clarissa was aware of Jasper’s watchful eyes as they rode towards Green Park. When they crossed Piccadilly, he moved the gelding up close beside the mare, and she could see that he was ready at any moment to seize the bridle should her mount take fright at the traffic.
“I am quite competent, you know,” she said mildly. “If she starts, I can hold her.”
“Mmm.” It was a noncommittal sound. “Where did you learn to ride? Your illicit childhood tutor perhaps?”
“When I wasn’t working I used to hang around the stables a lot. I’ve always liked horses. It amused the grooms to teach me,” she said with a casual shrug. “And, yes, I did go out riding with the son sometimes. Is that so strange?”
“Unusual, certainly.”
Clarissa sucked on her lower lip. She was beginning to feel perilously as if she’d bitten off far more than she could chew with this deception. But as long as Jasper didn’t challenge her outright, then she could muddle through it one invention at a time.
Chapter Sixteen
Ed sat comfortabl
y in Bertha’s kitchen, his feet propped on the fender, an ale pot cradled in one huge fist. “So, when’s your old lady due back then, Dirk?”
“Said she’d be back in ’alf an hour. Some lass needs ’elp wi’ a birthing down by the docks. Bertha’ll bring the babby back ’ere like as not.” Dirk tipped the gin bottle to his lips. The shrill wail of a baby pierced the kitchen and he swore, yelling, “Eh, Jude, you lazy bitch . . . do summat about that racket.”
“All right, Pa, all right.” A young girl staggered in from the kitchen yard with a scuttle of sea coal, which she set down with a thump in front of the fire. Her hands were thick with coal dust, and she brushed lank hair out of her eyes with her forearm. “It’ll shut itself up in a minute.”
“Jest get up there an’ shut it up yerself,” her father growled, raising a threatening fist.
The girl ducked away and headed out of the kitchen towards the wail, which had now been joined by a chorus of others.
“Damned brats,” Dirk grumbled to his brother-in-law. “Screechin’ all day an’ all night. A man’s entitled to some peace an’ quiet in ’is own ’ome, seems to me.”
“Aye, right enough.” Ed took a deep draft of ale. “But ’tis a good little business our Bertha’s got goin’. Keeps you in gin an’ idleness, lucky bugger.” He grinned.
The kitchen door flew open, letting in a blast of freezing air. Bertha came in on the gust, carrying a tiny bundle in a thin, ragged blanket. “Well, this one’ll not last long. Its mam’s gone.” She set the bundle in a wicker basket beside the fire. A thin cry rose from the blanket, then died away. “We’ll be buryin’ it by morning.” She nodded at Ed. “Not seen you in a while, Ed.”
“No, been busy,” he said. “How’re you doin’, our Bertha?”
“Can’t complain. You?”
“Nah, can’t complain. I jest come about that lad what the gent placed wi’ you. “ ’Ow’s ’e doin’?”
“Lor’, Ed, ’e’s bin gone since yesterday, as your gent knows full well, seein’ as ’ow ’e sent fer ’im.”
“What?” Ed looked startled. “Why ’d he send me to check up on ’im then?”
“ ’Ow should I know?” Bertha shrugged. “Alls I know, this fine, lardy-da lady comes visitin’, says ’e wants the lad back, an’ I give ’im to ’er.” She cast a warning glance at her husband. If her brother found out about the golden guinea, he’d demand his share as payment for having placed the boy with them in the first place.
“You give ’im to ’er. Just like that?” Ed looked incredulous. “Didn’t she ’ave no letter or summink?”
Bertha turned to the dresser, taking up the ale jug. “Fat load o’ good that would do, seein’ as I can’t read a word.”
“Well, the gent’s goin’ to be in a right state when ’e ’ears this.” Ed held out his tankard. “Give us a drop more then, lass.”
Clarissa took Jasper’s hand and stepped out of the carriage outside the Drury Lane theatre. The crowd of theatregoers jostled at the doors, which stood open to the foyer. The strains of music from the orchestra drifted from deep within the theatre.
Jasper glanced at her, wondering if she was nervous at this first seriously public outing. If she was, she gave no sign of it. Of course, if she had been an established member of one of the nunneries, she would have spent many an evening in the pit of the theatre, touting for custom from those playgoers whose main interest was the whores rather than the play itself. “I daresay you’ve spent many evenings here?” he observed, taking her arm to ease her through the crowd to the doors. He was curious as to how she would deflect the assumption.
“No.” Clarissa shook her head. “Never. Why would you think so?”
“It’s a popular spot for whores to find customers and customers to find whores.”
“Oh, well, yes, of course, but as it happens I never found myself looking for custom here.” She thought she’d made a quick recovery, and a covert glance at his expression gave her no reason to think otherwise.
The theatre was a blaze of light from the many chandeliers and sconced candles around the gilded walls. The buzz of noise was almost deafening as people talked and shouted across rows of the audience, and the calls of the orange girls, pamphlet sellers, and whoremongers rose above the cacophony, while the orchestra gallantly tried to make itself heard.
Jasper steered Clarissa up a curving flight of stairs, along a corridor, and through a small door, which opened onto a box high above the pit, looking directly down at the stage. He took her opera cloak and pulled out one of the velvet-covered seats with gilded arms that were positioned just behind a broad cushioned balcony rail.
“Sit down and look out into the theatre,” he instructed softly, “but try not to make eye contact with anyone. Remember we’re after mystery tonight. I want you to be the subject of every supper table after the play. Use your fan . . . yes, exactly so.” He nodded his approval as she unfurled her fan and partially covered her face with it, leaving only her eyes clearly visible.
“What if someone decides to visit us?” she murmured, leaning forward to rest one hand on the padded balcony.
“There’s no time before the first act. And we’ll leave before the interval.” He raised a hand in greeting to a woman in a box opposite who was waving her fan at him.
“Who’s that?”
“Lady Mondrain. An inveterate gossip, but a useful woman to have as a friend. You’ll meet her soon enough.” Jasper’s smile was fixed to his lips as he acknowledged the smiles and waves directed their way from around the theatre. He watched with satisfaction as heads bobbed in conversation interspersed with covert glances. The orchestra fell silent, and the buzz in the theatre died down somewhat, but not completely, as the first act of the play began.
Clarissa lost interest in the audience and turned her attention to the stage. She was among the minority. The theatre was as brightly lit as ever, and the actors had to fight for the audience’s full attention. Conversations continued; orange girls moved up and down the rows throwing fruit to buyers, who passed the necessary coins along the row. And every now and again one of the actors would have to shout to make himself heard.
“It seems very unfair,” Clarissa muttered indignantly from behind her fan. “Why do people come here if they’re not interested in the play?”
“They come to see and be seen,” Jasper returned. “And to ensure that they’re up to date on the latest play, actor, opera, musician. It’s human nature, my dear. But when Garrick plays, then you can hear a pin drop.”
“I should like to see him onstage.” She sounded wistful.
“And so you shall,” Jasper stated. “All in good time.”
Clarissa wafted her fan and took another glance around the theatre. Her wafting fan wavered. She drew back a little into the shadows of the box. Luke was in the pit, looking around the boxes, quizzing glass to his eye. Her heart lurched, then resumed its normal rhythm as she reminded herself that he would never recognize her, dressed as she was with her hair piled high in an extravagant coiffure, decorated with plumes, and her fashionable evening gown of gold-embroidered black taffeta. And, of course, her escort.
She told herself again that the best place to hide was always right under the nose of the seeker. Most people saw what they expected to see. And Luke would never expect to see his countrified niece in a theatre in Covent Garden under the auspices of the Earl of Blackwater. She leaned forward with more confidence and let her gaze roam around the audience.
Jasper had noticed the quick withdrawal, her sudden pallor, then the recovery. He leaned forward, resting his arms on the balcony, and swept the scene with his quizzing glass. He could see nothing out of the ordinary. So what had caused that? He glanced at his companion, who gave him a bland smile.
An instant before the orchestra struck up for the intermission, Jasper took Clarissa’s arm. “Come now.” He hurried her out of the box, down to the foyer, and out onto Drury Lane. His coachman was waiting a few yards up the street and Jasp
er swept Clarissa ahead of him. “Others will be leaving and I don’t wish to be detained.”
Clarissa climbed in, but to her surprise Jasper didn’t follow her. “I have another engagement. Jake will drive you home.”
“Oh.” She felt rather bereft. “Will you come later?”
He shook his head. “No, not tonight. I am engaged with friends, but I’ll bring you some visitors tomorrow morning. Dress accordingly.” He blew her a kiss, closed the door, and stepped back as the coachman set the horses in motion.
Clarissa leaned back, watching the lights of Covent Garden flicker past the window. There was no reason why she should expect him to spend every night in her bed, and she was quite surprised that she had. A mistress could no more expect her lover to live in her pocket than a wife could her husband. Of course Jasper had friends, a life outside the house on Half Moon Street, but she couldn’t deny how much she had wanted another night in his arms. His company filled her with a pleasure as deep as did his body. The prospect of lying alone in the bed that had brought her so much delight in the last two days brought a wash of dismay and a disgruntled sense of loss.
Jasper waited until the carriage had turned the corner, then he strolled to 32 King Street. It was time to ask some serious questions of Nan Griffiths.
Luke left the theatre in the interval in the company of friends. “Women or cards?” the Honorable Lucien Talbot asked, sniffing the air of Covent Garden like a scenting foxhound. “Greek shop or bagnio?”
“Why not both?” a lanky young man asked, casting an eye up and down the street. “Let’s to Archer’s on Charles Street. The faro tables play high and the women are better than most.” He passed his hands through the air in a lewd illustration.
Luke took mental inventory of his present funds. The stakes at Archer’s were too rich for his blood; most tables insisted on stakes of fifty pounds or more. But one solid win would set him up for the month. And faro was his game. He acceded with a nod and the small party surged down Russell Street and into Charles Street.