Rushed to the Altar

by Jane Feather

  She swallowed, tears pricking behind her eyes. She couldn’t think of anything she’d like more than to spend the rest of her life with this man. He completed her. When she was with him she felt whole, as if all the little disparate bits that made the whole Clarissa Astley were fitted neatly together. When he wasn’t with her, she was bereft, lonely. But without giving him the truth, she couldn’t possibly marry him except as a charade. She couldn’t live a lie for the rest of her life. After they were married and Francis was safe, she would tell him the truth, but that would be the end of any feelings he would have for her. How could he love someone who had deceived him just to achieve her own goal? It would be different if he had deceived her, but he had never been anything but honest.

  Jasper waited for an answer, and when he didn’t get one, he reached for the bellpull. Maybe he was wrong and she didn’t feel what he did. If she didn’t there was no point hoping she would confide in him. He’d pressed as far as he wanted to. He didn’t know whether anger or disappointment was uppermost as he said curtly, “Sally will help you dress. I’ll wait in the drawing room.”

  He left her and went into the drawing room, waiting until he heard Sally enter the bedchamber. Then he left, going downstairs and into the kitchen.

  Mistress Newby nearly dropped the trivet she was carrying from the range to the table when his lordship appeared in her kitchen. “Oh, lord love us, m’lord. What can we do for you? Sally’s gone to Mistress Ordway.”

  “I am aware, Mistress Newby.” His gaze fell on Frank, hovering near the back door. “My business lies with this young gentleman.”

  “Lord, what’s the lad done, sir?”

  “Nothing, to my knowledge,” Jasper said. “But I’d like a word.” He approached the child, who looked ready to run. “Let’s go into the yard, Frank.” A hand on his elbow, and he had the boy through the door and into the enclosed yard.

  Frank looked up at him, his eyes scared. “You don’t like me.”

  “I don’t know you. I’m not so unreasonable I dislike on sight, child.” Jasper tilted the boy’s face with a finger under the rounded chin. The eyes were hazel rather than jade, the hair brown rather than titian, but a ray of sun caught a glint of gold in the thick thatch. The features were still childishly unformed, but the bone structure was there, the determined line of the jaw, the broad forehead under the widow’s peak.

  Everything about the child shouted breeding, despite his slovenly speech. Just as everything about Clarissa bespoke breeding and education.

  “Sally said you don’t like little boys.”

  “I can’t imagine why Sally should consider herself qualified to make such a statement.” He frowned, wondering how the maid could have come up with such an idea. In general he neither liked nor disliked children. “As it happens I have nothing against small boys unless they annoy me. How old are you, Frank?”

  “Ten.” Francis tried to twitch his chin away from the earl’s grip. The intent scrutiny made him very uncomfortable.

  What was the child to Clarissa then? Certainly no scrap of human flotsam rescued by chance from the street. He could probably force the truth out of the boy, but that would do his cause no good at all. Clarissa clearly adored Frank, whoever he was, and whatever had happened to reduce a sturdy boy to this pathetic scrap of humanity had certainly been brutal. He needed no more coercion in his short life. If he was going to coerce the truth from anyone it was going to be Clarissa. But he had one piece of the puzzle in place now. Frank’s presence in his house was no accident.

  “Very well.” He released his grip and Francis raced back to the kitchen. Jasper watched his departure with a half smile. He had a sudden memory of himself at the same age, fleeing the wrath of his grandfather’s head gardener after he’d stripped the raspberry canes one glorious June afternoon.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Luke Astley dismounted in the yard of the Coach and Horses in the small town of Sevenoaks. He looked around impatiently. A knot of men were throwing dice over by the horse trough and it took a few minutes before they acknowledged the rider’s arrival in the yard. One of them stood up reluctantly and came over to Luke.

  “You puttin’ up at the inn, sir?” He sucked on a wisp of hay as he took the reins of Luke’s horse.

  “Probably,” Luke said. “See he gets a bran mash and a good rubdown. I’ve ridden him from London.”

  “Aye, looks like it too,” the man muttered, running a hand down the animal’s damp neck. The horse was sweating and breathing heavily. He’d clearly been ridden hard.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” Luke demanded, bristling.

  The groom shrugged, spat his wisp of hay onto the cobbles at his feet, and led the horse towards the stables.

  Luke cursed his impudence as he strode to the inn door. He knew he had ridden the horse hard for longer than the animal could comfortably handle, but he hadn’t the money to change his mount halfway through the journey, and by the same token he didn’t want to pay for an extra night on the road.

  The landlord came out of the taproom, greeting him with a bow. “Welcome to the Coach an’ Horses, sir. How can we serve you this evening?”

  “Dinner,” Luke commanded curtly. “I’ll take it in the ordinary.”

  “Aye, sir, there’s a toothsome rabbit pie in the oven.” The landlord opened the door to the common dining parlor, where a group of men were already seated at a round table, drinking ale. “Dinner’ll be on the table in ten minutes, sirs.” The landlord bowed Luke into the parlor and returned to the taproom.

  Luke nodded at his fellow diners and took a seat. He poured himself a tankard of ale from the pitcher on the table.

  “You come far, sir?” one of the men inquired. He had the look of a farmer in homespun britches, leather waistcoat, and heavy riding boots.

  “From London.” Luke buried his nose in the tankard.

  “Oh, aye? Long ride that. ’Tis market day in Sevenoaks, so we’re takin’ our dinners afore goin’ home,” the farmer offered. “You goin’ far?”

  Luke shook his head. “Not tonight. I’m heading for Shipbourne in the morning. Visiting some friends there.”

  “Oh, aye.” One of his fellow diners looked up from his own tankard. “I heard tell there was some trouble, Shipbourne way.”

  Luke looked sharply at him. “What kind of trouble?”

  The man frowned. “Summat to do wi’ a missing lass. One of the gentry folk.” He shook his head. “Can’t rightly remember.”

  The conversation was interrupted by the landlord’s arrival with the promised rabbit pie. He set it in the middle of the table. “There you go, gents. Best rabbit pie this side of Canterbury. An’ there’s a suet puddin’ to follow, better’n any your mams ever made, I’ll wager.”

  Luke waited impatiently while his companions helped themselves before saying, “There’s the squire’s family in Shipbourne—Artley? Ashby? Something like that.”

  “Astley, that’s it,” the farmer declared, slurping gravy. “Aye, I think ’twas that lass what’s gone missing. Quite a brouhaha, there was. Talk of setting the runners onto it.”

  “Was —is she back then?” He buttered a piece of bread lavishly.

  The man shrugged. “Not as far as I know . . . but I haven’t been that way in a while. Anyone else know?” He glanced interrogatively around the table.

  “The housekeeper’s a friend of my missus,” a man offered. “Last I ’eard the lass had still not turned up. They was talking of draggin’ the village pond.”

  Luke nodded. Where the hell was she then? If she hadn’t come home with Francis, then it stood to reason they were still in London. But how was he to find them? Perhaps she had written to Danforth or to the doctor.

  He spent a restless night at the inn and left first thing next morning, riding the short distance to the village of Shipbourne. The squire’s stately manor house stood at the end of the main village lane, surrounded by a redbrick wall. Iron gates gave entrance to the long driveway that
led straight to the long, low, thatched-roof house. Everything seemed in order, the lawns well tended, the flower beds free of weeds, the shrubs neatly trimmed. But there was a strange air of desolation about the place, as if it was empty, although of course it was not. A full staff of servants kept it running smoothly.

  Luke hesitated, then he turned to the gatekeeper’s house and banged on the door with his whip. It opened promptly and the man looked at him in surprise. “Why, Master Astley, we wasn’t expecting you.”

  “I see no reason why you should be,” Luke declared. “My movements are hardly the business of a gatekeeper. I’m going up to the house. Open the gates.”

  The man retreated into his house and returned with the great brass key. He unlocked the heavy gates and pushed them open, standing to one side as Luke rode through them.

  Luke dismounted at the front door and banged the knocker. It was opened by a footman, who stared at him first in surprise, then in hope. “Master Astley, sir? Is there news of Mistress Clarissa?”

  “What do you mean, news?” Luke, his story well prepared, looked astonished. “Is she not here? She and her brother?”

  The man shook his head. “No, sir. Mistress Clarissa disappeared some weeks ago, and we haven’t seen Master Francis since you took him away.”

  “But that can’t be. I saw them off myself, just two days past. In a hired postchaise. They were coming here.”

  The footman shook his head again. “We haven’t seen hide nor hair of them, sir.” He stepped back. “Will you be coming in, sir?”

  Luke frowned. “If they’re not here, there’s no point. I’ll see if Master Danforth knows anything. This is very worrying.” He turned back to his horse.

  He rode back into the village and stopped at the lawyer’s house, which was also his place of business. A substantial house on the outskirts of the village, it sat in a well-tended garden. It was a gray, overcast morning, and welcoming lights showed in the windows. Luke rode up the path and dismounted. He tethered his horse to the hitching post conveniently situated to the side of the door and banged the knocker.

  A plump, rosy-cheeked maidservant opened the door and bobbed a curtsy. “Good mornin’, sir. Are you here to see Master Danforth on business?”

  “I am.”

  “Who shall I say, sir?”

  “Master Astley. It is a matter of some urgency.” Luke stepped past her into a square hall.

  “He has a client with him at present, sir. Will you wait in the parlor?”

  “No, I’ll wait here. Go at once and tell him I am here on a matter of grave importance.” Luke flicked his whip against his boot, as if to underscore the urgency of his errand.

  The girl scurried to a door to the right of the hall and knocked. On invitation, she popped her head around the door. “I beg pardon, Master Danforth, for disturbin’ you, but there’s a gentleman to see you, says ’tis very urgent . . . name of Master Astley, sir.”

  Danforth himself came out into the hall, his expression wreathed in anxiety. “Master Astley, has something happened?”

  Luke looked worried. “Indeed, sir, I don’t know how to answer you. I was hoping you would have news of Clarissa and her brother. They left by postchaise two days ago to come home for a while. Francis was homesick and I thought it necessary for his health that he spend a week here with his sister.” He looked around as if expecting them to materialize from the paneled walls. “They are not up at the manor. Are they here?”

  Dismayed, the lawyer shook his head. “Indeed, no, sir. I had assumed they were still with you, or with the tutor in Bath. I own I am surprised Clarissa has not written—it’s so unlike her—but I assumed that her life in London was so full of amusements that like so many young people these days, she forgot her old friends. Doctor Alsop is very troubled.”

  Luke looked very grave, even as his mind raced. He had hoped that the man would have some news, some clue as to Clarissa’s whereabouts, but clearly he was as ignorant as Luke himself. Which left him squarely back where he’d started from.

  “A hired chaise, you said.” Danforth was pacing the hall, pulling at his chin. “Well, it should be easy enough to trace. They would have taken the London road to Sevenoaks, so they would have changed horses probably at the Rose and Crown at Orpington. How did you come? Horse or carriage?”

  “I rode.” Luke didn’t want this energetic gentleman to take action on his own. “I’ll ride back at once and make inquiries at the coaching inns along the London road.” He turned back to the door. “I’ll send word when I have news.”

  “Do, m’dear fellow. Please do. Alsop and I will be in a fever of anxiety until they’re found. The whole village has been concerned ever since Clarissa left home without so much as a word.” The lawyer followed him outside and waited as he mounted his horse. “Godspeed, sir. Godspeed.”

  Luke raised a hand in farewell and rode fast until he was out of sight, then he reined in his horse to a more gentle trot. There was no need for a breakneck speed, since there was no need to make inquiries at the coaching inns about a nonexistent postchaise. Where were they? Where to look next?

  Lady Mondrain was delighted to receive Lord Blackwater and Mistress Ordway. She had been as curious as everyone else about the elegant, beautiful young woman in the earl’s box at the theatre, and when inquiries had produced the information that the lady in question was in residence in the earl’s house on Half Moon Street, she happily drew the universal conclusion. Jasper had set up a new mistress.

  “How delightful of you to bring Mistress Ordway to visit me, my lord.” She smiled at Clarissa, putting up her quizzing glass. “Your gown is exquisite, Mistress Ordway. It has the look of Hortense.”

  Clarissa, who had been brought up to think such personal comments and such calculating scrutiny to be the height of vulgarity, hid her surprise with a demure curtsy and a cool smile. “Indeed, Lady Mondrain, I hadn’t realized that her designs are so easily identified. Thank you for pointing it out to me. I believe I must in future look for a dressmaker a little out of the common way.”

  Jasper bit back a reluctant grin as her ladyship’s eyebrows crawled into her scalp. Meg Mondrain prided herself on speaking her mind and didn’t give twopence whom she offended. The eldest daughter of a duke, she considered herself well above the mundane social constraints of lesser mortals. But her self-consequence was mitigated by a rich sense of humor that could as easily be directed at herself as at others.

  “Well, when you find her, my dear, I daresay she will quickly cease to be out of the common way,” she said, continuing to examine Clarissa through her quizzing glass. “Anyone who dresses you will immediately find a following.” She dropped her glass and turned back to Jasper. “She’s quite charming, Jasper.”

  “You are too kind, ma’am.” Clarissa spoke with an edge to her voice. She didn’t care for either the quizzing glass or a conversation about her that excluded her.

  Lady Mondrain turned back to her. “Oh, dear, now I have offended you. Forgive me.” She held out her hands to Clarissa with a warm but rueful smile. “I do like to speak my mind.”

  Clarissa took her hands with her own smile. “I have something of the same failing, my lady. So I should be the last to take offense.”

  Jasper gave a shout of laughter. “Meg, my dear, I think you might have met your match.”

  “Indeed, maybe I have.” Meg laughed and put an arm around Clarissa’s waist, urging her to a chair by the fire. “Come, you shall tell me all about yourself. Jasper, go and play piquet with Mondrain. He’s moping in the library.”

  Jasper bowed and promptly took his congé. Clarissa had proved she could look after herself.

  “So, you are residing on Half Moon Street, I understand?” Her ladyship rang the little handbell at her side. “How do you like it? A pleasant part of town, I always find . . . ah, Bateman, champagne, if you please.” She gave Clarissa a smile. “I do find a glass of champagne in the afternoon to be most invigorating, almost as much so as a little na
p. I am most partial to napping in the afternoon.”

  “Indeed, ma’am.” Clarissa could think of no other comment.

  Meg laughed. “You, of course, have far too much energy to find that appealing. You are very young, my dear.”

  “I am ten months shy of my majority, ma’am. Not so very young.”

  Meg gave her a shrewd look. “That rather depends on the life you’ve led hitherto . . . ah, thank you, Bateman.” She took the glass of champagne offered by the butler. “To you, my dear.” She raised the glass and sipped.

  Clarissa took a sip of her own, wondering if Jasper had been wrong and she was now about to be subjected to a barrage of questions about her history. But her hostess began to talk of the concerts at Vauxhall Gardens and she relaxed somewhat, listening attentively, prepared to pick up whatever useful nuggets of information about society life that were dropped.

  Their tête-à-tête was interrupted after half an hour by the arrival of an elderly dowager and her two daughters. Clarissa had an instant’s panic. Would they know she was Blackwater’s mistress? Not every lady would be as broad-minded as her hostess. She curtsied as she was introduced to Lady Morecombe and the ladies Eleanor and Emily.

  “You’re new to town,” Lady Morecombe declared, waving away the offer of champagne. “No . . . no, I’ll take tea. Ordway . . . don’t know the name. Where’s your family from?”

  “The Ordways are from Bedfordshire,” Clarissa responded. “A small village some way outside Bedford.” She silently prayed she wouldn’t be asked to name the village in question as she didn’t know any.

  She needn’t have worried. Lady Morecombe sniffed and waved a dismissive hand. “Oh, a small village. Country folk, I daresay.” She turned her attention to her hostess, who was listening with a half smile that had just a hint of malice. Lady Morecombe was a stickler for convention and if she realized that not only was she chatting amiably with Lord Blackwater’s mistress, she had placed her daughters in close proximity to the debauched creature, she would have fainted dead away.