Rushed to the Altar (14 page)

Jasper walked briskly, the crisp air cooling his temper somewhat. He was not accustomed to being dismissed so abruptly by anyone, let alone someone in his employ, and there were no two ways about it; he had paid good money for the services of Mistress Clarissa Ordway. He realized after a while that he was walking to Half Moon Street without having made a conscious decision as to his destination. Well, in his present mood, he would relish the inevitable confrontation with his mistress. It had to come sometime in the next day or two.

It was a longish walk but it served to clear his head and restore his equilibrium, so that he was once more his calm, dispassionate self when he unlocked the front door of the pretty little house where he kept his mistress and entered the small square hall. The maid who looked after Gwendolyn came through the baize door that led down to the basement kitchen regions as the earl closed the front door behind him.

She bobbed a hasty curtsy and her eyes darted side to side as if she were afraid to meet his gaze. “My lord . . . we wasn’t expectin’ you. I’ll run up and tell madam.”

“No, don’t bother, Sally,” he said. “I’ll announce myself.” He walked to the stairs and then paused, his eye falling on a hat, cane, and gloves on the bench by the door. The girl followed his eyes and stepped hastily in front of the bench.

“Madam gets powerful cross, my lord, if I don’t announce folks.”

Jasper crossed the small space. He reached out and indolently caught the girl’s chin in his palm, tilting her face so that he could examine her countenance. He shook his head gently. “Sally, your loyalty is admirable but quite unnecessary. You may return to your work. I will take these to their owner.” He released her chin, picked up the hat, cane, and gloves from the bench, and continued on his way upstairs.

Outside the door to the drawing room he paused, listening to the subdued murmur of voices within. A grim smile touched his lips as he identified the voice of Gwendolyn’s visitor. He opened the door without ceremony.

Gwendolyn and the Honorable Henry Lassiter were sitting cozily on the daybed before the fire. Too cozily for mere friendship.

“Good day, my dear.” He entered the drawing room, a smile on his lips that came nowhere near his eyes. “Lassiter, yours, I believe.” He dropped his burdens onto a chair. “There’s a chill wind, you will need them.”

It was clearly a dismissal and the Honorable Henry, who had jumped up from the daybed at the earl’s entrance, looked at the woman as if for an answer to his next move. He looked back at the earl, standing impassively holding the door open.

“Perhaps I didn’t make myself clear,” Jasper said amiably. “I bid you farewell, Lassiter.”

“You have no right to dismiss my visitors, Jasper.”
Gwendolyn rose to her feet, her countenance flushed. “As it happens I wish Henry to remain.”

“And I wish him gone, my dear.” The earl’s voice was as pleasant as ever, but his eyes were cold and hard. “I believe it to be my prerogative to decide whom I wish to entertain under my own roof. Just as it will be my pleasure to assist your guest down the stairs should he so wish it.”

Lassiter went swiftly for his belongings. He cast one last glance at Gwendolyn, who was still standing beside the daybed, her expression a mixture of dismay and anger, then left, sidling past Jasper, who was still holding the door.

Jasper closed the door at his back and surveyed his mistress with that same smile. “Do sit down again, my dear. May I pour you a glass of Madeira?”

“No, I thank you.” She sat down, arranging her taffeta skirts carefully. “That was very discourteous, Jasper. It’s unlike you.”

He inclined his head. “Do you really think so? I think most men would show a degree of incivility when their possessions are usurped.”

She flushed. “I am not your possession.”

“No, indeed you’re not, my dear. But this house is and I retain the right to decide who spends time under its roof.” He stood before the fire, resting an arm along the mantel as he looked at her. She was a very handsome woman. But even so she could not hold a candle to the lovely Mistress Ordway. Gwendolyn was older in many
ways but that added to her appeal. She was well versed in the ways of the world and knew how to please him where it mattered. But she had no loyalty and he had long ago sworn to himself that he would never be duped by a woman again. Once was enough. He must be the only man in her life for as long as their arrangement lasted.

“You are free to do as you please, Gwendolyn,” he continued, watching the color ebb and flow in her cheeks. “But you are not free to live under my protection and enjoy the favors of other men.” He shrugged. “You may consider me old-fashioned in my need for an exclusive arrangement. So be it.”

“What are you saying?” She stood up again, her hands restlessly opening and closing her fan. “Are you telling me it is over between us?”

“Yes, I believe that is what I’m saying. You may take whatever you wish from this house but I would like you to vacate it by the end of the week. I’m sure Lassiter can find a suitable property for you in the next few days. Unless, of course, there is someone else who might be preferable?” His tone was as cynical as his raised eyebrows.

Gwendolyn was very pale now. “I will promise never to see Henry again.”

He shook his head. “Much as I would like to believe that, my dear, I know how impossible you would find it. I know you too well. You need variety, the excitement of new conquests. Leave the house by the end of the week,
if you please.” He moved to her and lifted her hand, lightly brushing a kiss across the back. “I have enjoyed our association, Gwendolyn, but it’s time to bring it to a close before things become ugly.”

Releasing her hand, he bowed and walked quickly from the room.

Chapter Seven
 

Clarissa tentatively approached the rear steps at her uncle’s house on Ludgate Hill. She couldn’t decide whether she dared risk a direct approach to the kitchen door at the base of the steps. Someone had sent her the note, and it seemed a reasonable assumption that that someone lived in the house, or was intimate at least with the household. But she risked exposure if she asked questions of the wrong person, a member of the household loyal to his master.

The door below suddenly opened and lamplight poured forth into the small gloomy yard at the base of the steps. Although it was still only midafternoon the sky was heavy with cloud, making the basement kitchen even more in need of lamplight.

Clarissa moved hastily away from the top of the steps as voices rose in cheerful farewell and an elderly packman emerged into the yard. He carried a basket on his back and a tray around his neck displaying his selection of pins, ribbons, pieces of lace, buttons, and other trifles.

“Don’t be a stranger now, Bert,” a voice called from the kitchen.

“Never fear, Clara, I’ll be back for more of that there mulled ale an’ lardy cake,” the peddler shouted back as he made his way up the steps to the street.

Clarissa darted across the road before he reached the street. It seemed, judging from what she’d overheard, that he was a frequent visitor to the back door and a welcome one. Whenever he visited he would be offered refreshment as he laid out his wares to the entire household gathered in the kitchen, and he would hear the household gossip. It might be safer, with less risk of Luke hearing of it, if, instead of approaching her uncle’s household directly, she talked with someone who visited often. She knew from her own experience that the packmen who made their regular rounds peddling the trifles and trinkets necessary to the smooth running of a household and to the pleasure of servants who had little enough to please them were au fait with the most intimate details of some of their habitual households, as were the tinkers, cobblers, and knife grinders who paid regular calls.

She glanced up and down the street, wondering if her uncle was in the house, looking from a window maybe. But perhaps he hadn’t returned from wherever he had been going that morning, which meant that at any moment he could turn the corner of the street on his way home. He couldn’t find his niece loitering outside his front door.

The packman was shuffling his way up the hill towards the bulk of St. Paul’s, a dramatic edifice against the darkening sky. It was getting colder, a hint of early frost in the sharp wind, and Clarissa huddled into her thick woolen cloak as she hurried half running after him. He heard her quick footsteps and turned round, his expression startled.

“Forgive me, I would like to talk to you for a moment.” Clarissa reached him, slightly out of breath. “You were visiting Master Astley’s house just now.”

“What if I was?” He looked at the hooded, cloaked young woman in surprise.

“I was wondering if anyone ever mentioned a young boy living in the house . . . or if you’d ever seen him. A lad of about ten, Master Astley’s ward.”

The peddler frowned. “Who wants to know?”

“I will tell you that, if you’ll answer my question first,” she said, her eyes wary.

“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.”