Rushed to the Altar (16 page)

“Good lord,” Clarissa breathed in astonished admiration. “I suppose they’re accustomed in this house to entering a chamber and politely ignoring a couple in flagrante delicto.”

Jasper looked at her oddly. “Of course they are. Why would you sound surprised? You must be used to the
convention. They come in when they’re called and leave as if they were never here.”

Clarissa realized her mistake. She seemed constantly to be making them, which was hardly surprising in the circumstances. Fortunately, for the moment anyway, Jasper was so convinced of her position in Mother Griffiths’s establishment that even while he seemed surprised at some of her innocent remarks, it hadn’t occurred to him to dig deeper.

“I suppose I never really thought of it before,” she said with a light shrug. “Usually I was too busy to notice.”

He seemed to accept this and, slipping his hands beneath her arms, lifted her to her feet as he stood up himself. “I for one am sharp set, so let us see what delectations await us.”

There was a dish of baked crab, a roast duck with a compote of apples, and a dish of buttered salsify. A fresh decanter of wine had also appeared on the table.

Jasper held Clarissa’s chair for her and then took his own. He unfolded his linen napkin and took up his wineglass, smiling at her over the lip. “I trust I’m not overly optimistic in hoping that this meal we can enjoy to its conclusion?”

She caught her lower lip, biting back the urge to defend herself. On both occasions he had adopted a tone that somehow reduced her to a possession, a person of much less value than himself. She was prepared to accept that it was inadvertent, simply springing from an
assumption he considered accurate and comprehensible. But she wanted to put him right and she couldn’t.

“I see no reason why not, my lord.” She helped herself to baked crab and took a hot roll from the breadbasket.

Jasper helped himself, broke his bread, and asked, “What brought you to Mother Griffiths’s establishment, Clarissa?”

“I told you, my lord, I came to seek my fortune.” She took a sip of wine.

“Yes, a little too glibly, I feel.” He cast a quick searching glance across the table. “But let’s assume that’s so; did something other than the desire to make your fortune drive you from the country . . . where was it you said you were from?” Studiously he spread butter liberally on his roll, his eyes on his task.

Clarissa thought quickly. What had she said? “Oh . . . Bedfordshire way,” she muttered, disguising the falter with a cough, reaching hastily for her wineglass.

“Yes, I remember now. So what drove you from Bedfordshire?”

She looked up at him, once more composed. “Need, sir. Certain personal circumstances make it necessary to earn my bread.”

“And may I inquire what those circumstances are?”

“No, my lord,” she stated. If this was to be another truncated meal so be it. He’d gone back to his old ways.

Jasper’s eyebrows disappeared into his scalp at this flat negative, but he controlled the swift rise of his temper and paused for thought. He had agreed for whatever lunatic
reason to court this woman before bedding her, and he was probably not going about it in quite the right way.

He changed the subject, offering her a smile as he reached across the table to lay his hand over hers. “Can we dispense with the formalities, Clarissa? I have a given name; I would like you to use it.”

“Jasper,” she said, accepting the olive branch. “I like the name.”

He chuckled. “That’s certainly fortunate. May I carve you some duck?”

“Thank you.”

Throughout the evening Clarissa’s thoughts veered wildly between the need to concentrate on her companion, the pleasure she took in his company even if it required her to keep on her toes, and planning for the morrow, when she would find Francis. How would she get her brother away undetected? Where would she take him at first? It would be so much easier if she were already situated in the house on Half Moon Street. At least there she would be to some extent her own mistress.

“Do you have a better idea now when exactly I will be able to move into the house on Half Moon Street?”

Jasper blinked at the abrupt non sequitur. He’d been describing a particularly interesting play he’d seen just recently and had thought her attention showed signs of wandering, but not quite so thoroughly.

“Why? Are you in a hurry to be gone from here?” He spooned salsify onto his plate. “It seems comfortable enough.”

“I am anxious to do what has to be done,” she replied. “Particularly after this morning. I must tell you, my lo . . . Jasper . . . that I did not care for your uncle.”

“No, I can hardly blame you, my dear. He doesn’t care whom he offends. But take heart, he offends everyone equally regardless of status or relationship. And I believe he rather took to you.”

“He has a strange way of showing it.”

“That is certainly true. And to answer your question, the house will be ready for you on Saturday.”

Chapter Eight
 

Jasper took his leave shortly before midnight, indulging only in a decorous kiss. He went on his way smiling at the reflection that delaying the consummation of this liaison added a rather exciting frisson of anticipation. It made him feel younger, somehow. And unless he was much mistaken Mistress Clarissa Ordway found him a suitable object for her own desires. He had felt her hesitation when he’d first kissed her, a tentative instant when she’d drawn back a little, but although it had been a good many years since he’d had need of a whore’s services, in his experience of such commercial encounters, kissing was one intimacy they generally withheld from their clients, so Clarissa’s initial withdrawal was natural enough.

But it hadn’t lasted and there was nothing artificial about the little thrill that had run through her when his lips met hers, or the quick flush of her cheeks when his hand lightly brushed across her breast. He wanted to see her naked, to feel her body moving beneath his,
responding to his touches as he knew she would, but in the meantime he would sharpen his appetite with anticipation and allow his imagination full rein.

If he could have seen Clarissa at this point he might have been a little less complacent. Jasper was the last person on her mind. She had, rather cleverly she thought, orchestrated the perfect excuse for delaying the inevitable, and having resolved that issue at least temporarily she put it from her mind and turned all her attention to planning for the following morning.

Her mind raced as she prepared for bed. She would need transport to Wapping, as much as anything because she hadn’t the first idea how to get there. She knew where east was, since the sun rose there every morning, but if the East End of London was anything like where she was now it would be a convoluted tangle of narrow streets and dark alleys. She would never negotiate them alone.

She exchanged the seductress’s chamber robe for her own rather plain but warm woolen one and snuffed the candles on the mantel, leaving only the one by the bed burning, then went to draw back the heavy curtain at the window. She needed a few inches of morning light to penetrate, otherwise she was afraid she might sleep until noon. As she pulled the thick velvet aside, she had her second brilliant idea of the night.

Of course. The river. That was the obvious way to reach her destination. The watermen went anywhere accessible along the mighty thoroughfare of the Thames,
and she needed the river stairs at Wapping. They would take her right to her destination. From there she would ask in the Eagle and Dove about a woman who took in babies. If the baby farmer was hard by the tavern as the peddler had said, then she should be easy to find. But how to make her approach?

She turned back to the chamber, deep in thought as she shrugged out of her chamber robe and tossed it at the foot of the bed. She climbed into bed, propping the pillows up behind her. The deep featherbed was a vast improvement on the narrow maid’s cot in the garret and she had a moment of pure indulgent pleasure settling herself under the feather quilt. Of course, the comfort of the bed was for the added pleasure of the nunnery’s clients rather than the cosseting of the inhabitants themselves, but for the moment that did nothing to inhibit her hedonistic enjoyment as the firelight flickered on the ceiling and the bedside candle cast a soft golden pool onto her pillow.

How to approach the baby farmer? Who would ordinarily approach such a woman? People who needed to dispose of an unwanted child, obviously. Supposing she pretended to be a pregnant lady’s maid, desperate not to lose her situation? She needed to make arrangements for the child’s care after its birth so that she could continue to work.

That was the perfect story to tell a baby farmer. It would get her into the house at the very least. What happened next was in the lap of the gods, but now that she
knew where Francis was, Clarissa felt the dreadful sense of powerlessness slide away. She was in control of her life, of her brother’s life, again.

She leaned sideways to blow out her candle and lay in the flickering dark as her eyes grew heavy and for the first time in weeks she fell into a deep, dreamless, restful sleep.

She awoke with the sound of the first iron-wheeled cart rolling over the cobbles beneath her window. The light was gray, promising another chilly and overcast day, but such considerations were unimportant. Clarissa allowed herself to wake slowly, listening to the sounds of the house around her, except that there were no sounds of life, only the creakings and settlings of a sleeping house.

Early mornings were not well known to the inhabitants of 32 King Street, who rarely found their beds before dawn. Even most of the servants, out of the same consideration, started late.

Clarissa swung herself out of bed and sat on the edge, pushing her feet into her slippers. She reached sideways for her chamber robe and wrapped it around herself. Her first order of business was breakfast. She let herself out of the chamber and stepped into the deserted hallway. Sconced lamps burned low along the wall as she made her way to the staircase.

A sudden blast of cold air swept the hall as the front door opened and a child with chapped cheeks and hands came in with a pail of dirty water and a scrubbing brush. She
stared mutely at Clarissa, the door banging shut behind her.

She must have been scrubbing the steps, Clarissa thought with quick sympathy. She didn’t look more than ten years old in her down-at-heel clogs, holland pinafore, and grimy apron, her hair caught up under a mob cap. Her nose was running, which added to the general air of desolation.

“Is anyone up below stairs?” Clarissa asked gently.

The child nodded. “Cook an’ the scullery girl.”

“Have you had breakfast?” Clarissa tried a smile.

The child shook her head, sniffing vigorously before wiping her nose on her sleeve. “Not till I done the fireplaces, mistress.”

“
All
of them?” There must have been at least half a dozen in the downstairs reception rooms alone.

Another nod and the child trailed off towards the grand salon, dragging her bucket.

Clarissa headed for the back stairs. She found the cook stirring pots in the kitchen and the scullery maid scrubbing pans in the scullery. No one else had yet made an appearance. “Good morning, Cook.” She greeted the woman as she would have greeted her own cook at home at Astley Hall. “Would you mind if I help myself to a piece of bread and cheese?”

“Aye, miss, that I would,” the woman declared bluntly. “I’ll send you up a proper breakfast and a pot of hot chocolate directly.”

“But no one’s up yet,” Clarissa protested. “Indeed I am perfectly happy to take care of myself.”

“Not in my kitchen, miss. You go back to your bedchamber now.”

Clarissa knew better than to interfere in a cook’s territory and with a smile of thanks returned upstairs. She was half-dressed in her own countrified linen gown and apron when a scratch on the door produced the scullery maid with a tray of fried eggs, toasted bread, and a pot of hot chocolate.

“Cook says this was all she could manage at present.” The maid set the tray on the table and scurried away before Clarissa could even express her thanks.

She ate hastily, wondering if her early morning encroachment on the kitchen regions would reach the ears of Mistress Griffiths. It seemed unheard-of for an inhabitant of the above-stairs regions to visit the below. But on Saturday she would be out of this place and her own mistress once again.

Her appetite satisfied, Clarissa examined herself in the mirror. How to make herself into a convincing lady’s maid? Pregnant, a little down at heel . . . ? She had to look like someone else so that Luke would not be able to recognize his niece from any description. Her hair was her most obvious feature. She pulled it back from her face and plaited it tightly, pinning the plait into a coil at the nape of her neck, and then tied a kerchief around her head, so that not a single distinctive red-gold strand was visible. Her eyes seemed larger than usual without the softening of her hair. Experimentally, she dipped a finger into the ash in the grate and smudged the skin beneath
her eyes, giving them huge dark shadows against her cheekbones. It was an amazing transformation. But not quite enough.