Rushed to the Altar

by Jane Feather

  Luke descended, Francis held against his chest, the knife still pressed against the soft vulnerable point behind his ear. “Go up to the door and knock.”

  Clarissa obeyed. Every instinct screamed that all would be lost if they went into the house and that door closed behind them, but she could see no way out. Not while Luke held the knife to the child’s neck. The door opened and with a sense of dread inevitability she stepped into a narrow, musty-smelling hall.

  Luke and Francis came in behind her and the door closed. The only natural light in the hall came from a fan-shaped window above the door. She looked around, trying to fix her surroundings in her mind.

  “Upstairs.” Luke jerked his head to the narrow flight of stairs and Clarissa went up them, Luke pushing Francis behind her. At the top he directed them to a further flight, which took them into the attics. He told her to open a door, which led into a garret bedchamber of sorts. Poorly furnished, uncarpeted, with only a bed, a broken dresser, and a stained chamber pot sticking out carelessly from beneath the bed, it was bitterly cold, with wind gusting through an ill-fitting window.

  Luke released Francis and pushed him down onto the bed, then he turned back to the door. “You’ll remain in here while I arrange your future accommodations.” He smiled at Clarissa. “I have the perfect solution for you, my meddling niece, but it will take me a few hours to put in place. Until then, I trust you’ll be comfortable.” He went out, closing the door, and the key grated in the lock.

  Francis looked dry eyed at his sister. A bead of blood stood out against the white skin behind his ear. “What will he do?”

  Clarissa forced a smile. “We’ll have to wait and see, love.” She went to the tiny window. It looked down on a narrow alley three floors below. She could see no drainpipe, no hand- or foothold. There was no way out there.

  She turned back to her brother. Sitting beside him, she drew him tight against her, rocking him until after a while he fell into an exhausted sleep, his head in her lap. She stroked his hair and stared sightlessly into the middle distance, for once in her life unable to think of any way out of her situation. Bleakly she wondered what Jasper would think when he discovered she’d gone. He’d never find her, probably wouldn’t even bother to look. Of course, if she’d confided in him . . .

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Lawyer Danforth was at his breakfast when his servant brought in the mail. “This come on the night mail from London, sir. Cost threepence postage.” He laid a letter on the table. “Can I fetch you another kipper, sir; Cook says she’s got two more on the go if you’d like ’em.”

  “And exceptional kippers they are,” the lawyer said, rubbing his hands with a beaming smile. “Thank Cook, and tell her I’d be glad of another one.”

  He picked up the letter beside his plate and instantly his gaze sharpened. The writing was Clarissa’s distinctive script. He had almost given up hope of hearing from her and had assumed that Luke had tracked them down on the road from London; presumably an accident to the carriage had delayed them. It happened often enough on the rough roads. With a sense of foreboding that he couldn’t quite explain, he took a knife and slit the wafer, unfolding the single, closely written sheet.

  A frown darkened his customarily cheery countenance as he tried to make sense of what Clarissa had written. There was no mention of an aborted journey home with her supposedly homesick brother, no explanation for Luke’s search for them. She wrote that instead of staying with her uncle, she had moved into a lodging house on Half Moon Street with a most respectable landlady. Luke’s house was too small to accommodate both her and her brother comfortably, and since she wished to remain close to Francis, at least until he was properly settled, this seemed like a good arrangement. The tutor’s family hadn’t proved suitable for her brother—he had found it hard to make friends with the other children—so he had returned to his uncle’s house. They were both well, and she was enjoying London. Her quarterly allowance was sufficient for her present expenses. And she had signed off with all the customary respectful greetings.

  The lawyer set the letter aside and turned his attention to dissecting his newly arrived kippers. The delicate activity helped to order his thoughts. After a few moments he rang the handbell beside his plate. “Send to the stables for my horse, Paul,” he instructed the servant when he arrived in answer to the summons.

  A meticulous man, he finished his breakfast to the last mouthful before draining his ale tankard, tucking the letter into the pocket of his waistcoat, and leaving the table. He collected his hat, whip, and gloves from the hall and went out to his horse, which was waiting for him outside the front door.

  It was a brisk, sunny winter morning but he took little pleasure in it, barely acknowledging the greetings of those he passed as he rode through the village. He drew rein outside a substantial redbrick house on the opposite side of the village. His old friend Doctor Alsop was deadheading a bush of late-flowering camellias as Danforth rode up the drive.

  “What brings you so early, George?” John Alsop waved his pruning shears. “Nothing wrong, I trust.”

  “I don’t know, John.” The lawyer dismounted, tethering his horse to the post at the door. “A letter from Clarissa . . . rather a curious missive. I’d like you to take a look.”

  “A letter at last . . . thank God for that.” Doctor Alsop hurried to the door ahead of his friend, stamping his feet on the mat before entering the hall. A fire burned in the grate, and the air smelled of beeswax and potpourri. “Ah, Eleanor, my dear.” He greeted his wife, who emerged from the kitchen regions just as they entered the house. “George has come on business concerning Clarissa. At last the girl has written.”

  “Oh, I’ve been so worried,” his wife said, patting her plump bosom in agitation. “What does she say, John?”

  “All in good time, my dear. We’ll go into my office. Would you send in some coffee . . . or . . .” John cast a professional eye over his visitor. “Perhaps something stronger would be in order . . . something to keep out the cold?”

  He ushered his friend into his office. “A glass of this fine port should do the trick. A bottle from our dear departed friend’s cellars. He gave me six for Christmas last year, and I’ve been drinking them sparingly, savoring every drop.” He poured two glasses. “To Francis, may he rest in peace.”

  Both men drank the toast, then the lawyer drew Clarissa’s letter out of his waistcoat pocket and laid it on the mahogany desk, smoothing out the crease. “This arrived by the night mail this morning. What d’ye think of it?”

  The doctor put on his pince-nez and read the script. “A lodging house? What the devil’s the girl doing in a lodging house? Francis must be turning in his grave.”

  “My thoughts exactly. This Half Moon Street . . . it’s a respectable enough part of town but not given to lodging houses, I would have thought.”

  “Maybe Astley found it for her. He is her guardian, after all. He’d not willingly see his ward in less than respectable circumstances.”

  “Maybe not.” Danforth looked thoughtful. “But given Clarissa’s concerns . . .” He let the rest of the sentence slide and the doctor pulled his side-whiskers and stared down at the letter as if he could read more into it than the simple words themselves.

  “Perhaps we should go and see for ourselves.” The doctor had little difficulty in finishing his old friend’s sentence. “It’s a rum business whichever way you slice it.”

  Danforth nodded. “I’ve some business to finish up, but I’ll be ready to leave this afternoon. We can put up for the night at Orpington and be in Half Moon Street late tomorrow morning.”

  “I’ll ride over at around two o’clock. I’ve a few patients to see on my rounds this morning. Ah, Eleanor, my dear . . .” He greeted his wife as she came in with a tray of coffee. “I’ll be going to London with George this afternoon. Could you put up a few necessities for me?”

  “This is to do with Clarissa?” His wife set the tray on the desk.

  “Rea
d for yourself.” Her husband passed her the letter.

  After a few moments she looked up and said briskly, “The sooner you get up there the better, sir. Something is not right here. We may have no official responsibility for Clarissa and her brother, but we owe it to Francis to have a care for them. Make all haste.” On which definitive instruction she hurried from the room.

  “Jasper, my friend, it’s your play.” Charles Ravenswood leaned back in his chair, idly twisting the stem of his wineglass between his fingers as he watched his friend absently fingering his cards. “Where’s your head these days, man? I’ve won three games of piquet, and normally I can barely wrest a single game off you.”

  Jasper shook his head with a murmured apology and called his card. With a degree of shock as they counted the points he realized he had just missed the utter humiliation of being rubiconed by only ten points. He tossed his cards on the table and pushed back his chair. “My apologies, Charles. I’ll send your winnings to your house this afternoon.” He walked away, barely noticing the greetings of his friends in the dimly lit card room at Whites.

  He had been wrestling with himself all morning and into the afternoon. He was bitterly regretting his harshness, wishing the words unsaid. He was still hurt, still angry, but he was beginning to believe that maybe Clarissa’s secrecy, the elaborate deceptions, had a reason that transcended his own need for her trust. He didn’t think he could have mistaken her true feelings for him. Not even Clarissa could pull off quite such a monumental counterfeit.

  He walked out of the club and stood for a moment on the pavement, then with an imperceptible shrug he yielded to the urge he’d been fighting all day and set off towards Piccadilly and Half Moon Street. He didn’t know what he was going to say to her, didn’t know whether finally he was going to force her confidence, he only knew that he couldn’t continue in this limbo. He turned the corner from Piccadilly onto Half Moon Street just as his brothers came up the street towards him.

  “If you’re in search of the fair Clarissa, Jasper, you’re out of luck,” Sebastian called cheerfully. “We’ve just been turned disconsolate from her door.”

  “Why? Is she not receiving?” Jasper could well believe that Clarissa was in no mood for visitors.

  “Wasn’t there,” Perry said. “Sally said she and that little lad had gone off to Green Park this morning—why she’s taking an urchin to play in the park is anyone’s guess, mind you—and haven’t come back yet.”

  Jasper felt something cold squeeze his chest. “This morning?”

  “So the girl said.” Sebastian looked at his brother with concern. Jasper had gone rather pale, his face suddenly tight and drawn. “What’s the matter, Jasper?”

  “Nothing,” he said shortly. “Why should there be?” He raised a hand in brusque farewell and strode off down the street.

  “He didn’t look too happy,” Peregrine observed. “Odd that she should go off like that without a word, though. Don’t you think, Seb?”

  “Mmm.” Sebastian was staring after his brother. “Something’s not right, Perry. Can’t put my finger on it, but something’s not right.”

  “Well, Jasper doesn’t take kindly to anyone poking around in his business,” his twin reminded him. “If something’s wrong he’ll tell us when he’s good and ready.”

  “You don’t think we should go after him then?”

  Peregrine shook his head vigorously. “I’m not inviting the rough edge of his tongue. You can, if you choose, but I have a greater care for my skin.”

  Sebastian shrugged and rather reluctantly turned away from the house, accompanying his brother back to Piccadilly.

  Jasper let himself into the house and felt Clarissa’s absence instantly. The house felt oddly empty, although Sally appeared the instant he stepped into the hall.

  She bobbed a curtsy. “Oh, my lord, Mistress Ordway’s not in, sir.”

  “So I understand from my brothers. When did she go out?” He laid a hand on the banister preparatory to mounting the stairs.

  Sally looked puzzled and discomfited. “Just afore nuncheon, my lord. She took the lad, Frank, to the park for a walk. She said he needed to run off the fidgets. We expected them back for nuncheon . . . Mistress Newby made apple fritters for Frank—he’s right partial to them—but they’re not back yet, sir.”

  That cold fist squeezed harder in his chest. “Oh, I expect she met a friend in the park,” he said lightly, and went upstairs to the drawing room. He could find nothing in the room out of the ordinary, nothing missing. In her bedchamber, everything was in order. The diamonds were in their box on the dresser, and even as he checked he despised himself for even the faintest suspicion. As far as he could see all her garments were in the armoire and the linen press. Her brushes were on the dresser. She had gone, but she had taken nothing with her except the child.

  So she had left him. His unkindness had driven her away. He had wanted more from her than she was prepared to give, so she had simply given up on him. He had thought that beneath the surface deception, Clarissa had true feelings for him; he had allowed himself to believe that because he’d wanted to. He’d wanted to believe she returned his feelings. What a fool he was. He’d been so careful, ever since his youthful heart had been broken by Nan’s young whore, not to lose his heart to any woman. He’d loved lightly when he’d loved and had accepted the inevitable end of a relationship from the moment of its inception. And he had never been hurt again. Until this enigma had stormed into his life, thrown all his resolutions into chaos, turned his rational self topsy-turvy, and then quite simply walked away from him.

  Jasper went downstairs and let himself out of the house. For the first time since his youth he had the urge to drink himself into oblivion. It wasn’t an urge he was going to indulge, but he needed his own company, the solitude of his own house to lick his wounds.

  “I’m hungry, ’Rissa.” Francis spoke in a small voice, lifting his head from his sister’s lap. His eyes were still heavy with sleep.

  “Yes, of course you are, love. So am I.” Clarissa smiled at him, stroking his hair back from his face. “Let’s see what we can do about it.” She shifted him onto the bed and went to the door. She banged on it with her fist, and when that produced only a resounding silence, she took off her boot and hammered with the heel. Paint splintered. She banged harder and faster. No one in the house could possibly withstand such a racket, she thought, glancing at Francis, who was now sitting on the bed watching her with a mixture of childish delight at the noise she was making and fright.

  Finally she heard steps on the stairs and stepped back from the door, still holding her boot. The key grated in the lock and the door swung open carefully. Luke lounged in the doorway, a glass of brandy in his hand, his eyes bloodshot, his cheeks flushed.

  “What the hell are you doing?” His words were a little slurred.

  Clarissa’s mind worked quickly. Could she manage to knock him aside . . . knock him off his feet long enough to grab Francis and race down the stairs? And then she saw a shadow behind him. A man was standing a few feet away, blocking the head of the stairs. Luke, drunk or not, was no fool. Better to settle for a small victory she was fairly confident of winning. She spoke with icy calm.

  “I’m aware that starvation is your preferred method of inflicting a slow death, sir, but I think in this case it’s unrealistic. It might have worked when Francis was hidden away in that cesspit in Wapping, but starving someone to death on Ludgate Hill is a different matter. We’re both hungry, and unless you want me to go on hammering on the door and screaming out of the window, you’ll provide us with some food.”

  Luke’s eyes narrowed and he gave a short laugh. “Hoity-toity, aren’t we? But you’ll be singing another tune tomorrow, niece.” He stepped back, slamming the door, and the key grated once more in the lock. The sooner he got her out of his house the safer he would feel, but his arrangements for her would not be in place before the morning. Until then, he thought, he’d better keep her quiet.
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br />   Clarissa looked at the closed door, wondering whether to start up the hammering again, but Francis was weeping and comforting him seemed a priority. “Don’t cry, sweetheart.” She sat down and lifted him onto her lap. “I’ll think of something, I promise.” She rocked him, and after a few minutes his tears stopped.

  Five minutes later the key sounded in the lock and the door opened a crack. A tray slid into the room pushed by unseen hands, and the door was closed and locked again. “Ah, see, all is not lost,” Clarissa said cheerfully, going over to the tray. There was bread and cheese and a carafe of water. Hardly a feast but enough to give Francis some heart, and indeed as he ate hungrily he seemed visibly to cheer up.

  “What’s going to happen, ’Rissa?”

  “I don’t know,” she said honestly, nibbling a small piece of cheese. “We’ll have to see what Luke does in the morning, but for now, let’s try to sleep. I’ll get us out of here somehow, love. And I’ll have a better chance if I’ve had some sleep.”

  Francis seemed to find this argument convincing and allowed his sister to tuck him under the thin, dusty coverlet. She climbed in beside him, hugging him close to give him some of her body warmth. It was cold in the attic, the covers were inadequate, and it was not going to get any warmer overnight.

  Jasper lay awake most of the night. Where could she have gone? He couldn’t for the life of him come up with an answer. She had funds, that much he knew. Had she left the city? Stagecoaches went from the Bell Inn at Cheapside to destinations all over the land; she could have been on her way to Scotland for all he knew. He fell into an unrestful doze just before dawn and awoke determined to visit the coaching inn. An elegant young woman and a small boy were distinctive enough to stick in the memory. Someone would have noticed them buying tickets and with luck would remember their destination. If he drew a blank there, then he would try the inns on the main routes out of London that hired postchaises. There weren’t too many of them. He had no idea how much money Clarissa had, but she could well have sufficient to hire a postchaise for a few stages at least.