Rushed to the Altar (20 page)

“You know best, Hortense,” he said with an easy smile. “And I’m sure Mistress Ordway knows she’s in the hands of an expert.”

“I do have that impression,” Clarissa murmured, running her hand over a bolt of embroidered ivory damask. “This is pretty.”

“Yes, and admirably suited to your coloring.” Hortense held a fold of the material up to Clarissa’s hair. “Over a rose velvet petticoat, I think.” She moved along the table, selecting materials. “This will make a splendid riding habit.” She touched a dark green wool. “Trimmed with gold lace, with a cream waistcoat.”

Clarissa followed in her wake, listening, nodding, and only once objecting when a floating muslin was selected for an afternoon dress. “I don’t care for that particular shade of yellow. It makes me look sallow.”

Hortense looked at her with interest. “Does it . . . why, yes, I believe you’re right.” She lifted a fold of the bolt and held it up to Clarissa’s face. “So right, my dear. In fact I suspect yellow is not your color at all.”

“I tend to avoid it,” Clarissa said.

Jasper sipped his claret, musing gently on what circumstances had permitted Mistress Ordway to pick and choose the colors of her wardrobe.

Finally they were finished to Madame Hortense’s satisfaction. She set down the last bolt of material. “I will have everything made up in the latest fashions, adapted, of course, to Mistress Ordway’s particular frame. Some prevailing fashions will not look well on her at all. But I dare to believe, my lord, that you and Mistress Ordway will be well pleased.”

Jasper nodded. “I don’t doubt it. But before we leave, Hortense, do you have anything to hand that could be adapted for Mistress Ordway to wear now?”

“Her own gown is sadly outmoded,” Hortense said, nodding her agreement. She frowned, looking closely at Clarissa, still in the peignoir. “I think I might have the very thing. Bella, bring me the apple green robe à l’anglaise . . . the one we made up for the little Heron heiress before she ran off with the ensign.”

Bella disappeared and Clarissa wondered how she was to avoid wearing yet another secondhand gown. But she allowed them to dress her in the pale green gown, which opened over a pink striped petticoat. And when, after some minor adjustments to the neckline, they set
her free, she looked at her image in the long glass and saw someone she was very happy to see.

She had never worn anything so modish, so exactly suited to her coloring, to every curve and indentation of her body. It seemed to require no adjustments, flowing easily over her. Her shoes were a little too sturdy and practical to complement such a frothy garment, but they would have to do. It seemed now as if she had truly entered another world: the world of kept women, gorgeous gowns, and fantastic entertainments.

“Well, my lord.” She turned to Jasper and swept him a curtsy, realizing just a moment too late that she had treated him to the perfect execution of a courtesy that could only be produced by someone well trained in the art.

He smiled, and Clarissa was already beginning to distrust that smile. The Earl of Blackwater was no fool. But if she soldiered on playing the game, maybe he wouldn’t challenge her.

“It’s very well, Clarissa,” he said, picking up her cloak. “Thank you, Hortense. As always you have exceeded all expectations.” He draped the cloak over Clarissa’s shoulders. “When everything is ready, have it sent to the address on Half Moon Street.”

Hortense nodded her understanding. The earl had changed mistresses. “I anticipate a week, my lord.”

Jasper nodded. “That will be perfect. Mistress Ordway will be in residence from Saturday. If you need her for anything, I’m certain she’ll make herself available.” He looked at Clarissa as he said this.

“Of course,” she murmured, drawing on her gloves. She smiled at the milliner, sketching a curtsy. “I thank you for your time, Madame Hortense. And your most excellent eye. Now, if I could just have my own garments back . . .”

“Of course. Amanda will fetch them for you.” Hortense nodded at the girl, who hurried away, returning in a few minutes with a neatly wrapped parcel, which she presented to Clarissa.

Jasper said very little on the drive back to King Street; his gaze seemed fixed on the road ahead, and he hummed a little to himself, a pleasant tune that Clarissa guessed, judging by the tiny private smile on his mouth, suited his reflections. It made her, on the other hand, rather uneasy.

“Are you and Madame Hortense lovers?” she asked abruptly, wanting to divert his thoughts.

She succeeded. He stopped humming and looked at her sharply. “Why do you ask?”

She shrugged with apparent nonchalance. “Just a feeling I had, watching you together. You seem very close.”

He inclined his head in acknowledgment. “We have been close—very close—in the past.”

“But not now?”

“We are friends, very good friends.”

“How long ago were you lovers?”

He frowned at her. “Why so curious?”

She felt herself blush a little. “I don’t know. I’m not really. I just wondered. She’s a very handsome woman.”

“Oh, yes, she is certainly that.” A reminiscent smile hovered on his lips.

“She seems a lot older than you.” Clarissa wondered why she was pursuing this, but once she started it seemed impossible to stop.

He nodded, shooting her a glance of amused inquiry as he said teasingly, “What an inquisitive one it is. But yes, Hortense is older than I. She taught me much about the ways of love and lust, for which I shall always be grateful.”

“I expect your other lovers are too.”

Jasper gave a shout of laughter. “Let’s leave the matter there, shall we, before you find yourself hip-deep in indiscretion?”

Clarissa subsided, now only too happy to let the subject drop. Jasper kept his eyes on the road ahead and said nothing more, his mind fully occupied. Was this innocence of hers a ploy of some kind, or could it possibly be genuine?

Chapter Ten
 

“Who did you say?” Luke Astley stared with jaundiced eye at the manservant. A long night at the gaming tables and copious quantities of brandy had left him with a pounding behind his temples, blurred vision, and a woolly brain that seemed unable to absorb anything. “Well, speak up, man.”

The servant was familiar with his master’s temper at these times and stood prudently by the door of Luke’s bedchamber, his hand on the latch ready to make a speedy escape. Luke himself was sitting up in bed, the waxy pallor of his complexion further evidence of his condition.

“A Master Danforth, sir. A lawyer, he said. Wishes to speak with you on a matter of some urgency, sir.”

Luke’s countenance seemed if possible to grow more pallid. “What the devil does he want?”

“A matter of some urgency, he said, sir,” the man repeated, slowly lifting the latch at his back as he readied himself for the explosion that seemed imminent.

“Well, you may tell him I’m indisposed . . . not receiving visitors at present.” Luke glared at the servant. “Well, go on. What’re you waiting for?”

The man slipped backwards through the door and Luke flung himself against his pillows. What could Danforth want with him? He didn’t know the man, had met him only once at the reading of the will. Was this something about the will, some clause that had slipped past at the initial reading, some vital bequest he had forgotten to mention?

Whatever it was, it boded ill. Lawyer Danforth had no ordinary business with his old friend’s brother and no reason to pay him a friendly visit. Luke’s head began to throb even more fiercely and he felt a wave of nausea wash over him.

He reached for the tumbler of brandy he kept ready by his bed for these morning emergencies. His hand shook so much the glass knocked against his teeth as he took a steadying gulp. It steadied his hand and the nausea faded, but the pain in his head didn’t abate and his vision was blurred as he stared down at the quilted counterpane, trying to focus his eyes on the intricate oriental pattern. He had liked the pattern at first but too many mornings like this one had made him loathe the thick, bright reds, blues, greens, and golds of the plumaged birds and exuberant flora.

“What is it?” he growled at another knock at the door.

The manservant entered again. “Master Danforth, sir, says he would be happy to wait upon you in your
bedchamber, sir. Or he will wait below until you are ready to join him.”

Luke closed his eyes for a moment. “Tell Master Danforth that I will be down to join him within the hour.”

“Yes, sir. And should I offer the visitor refreshment?”

“Of course, you idiot.”

“Should I bring your breakfast up, sir?”

The thought of food brought a fresh wave of nausea. “No. Just refill the brandy decanter and bring up hot water.”

The man took up the empty decanter and hastened from the room. Luke lay back against the pillows willing himself to swing his legs over the side of the bed. With a groan he managed to maneuver himself to the edge of the bed, the room spinning around him. He was on his feet, somewhat shakily but at least upright, when the servant returned with a jug of hot water and the recharged brandy decanter.

“Should I shave you, sir?” The servant glanced knowingly at his master’s shaky hands.

“Get on with it, man.” Luke sat down at the washstand. “But pour me a glass of brandy before you start. It steadies my nerves.”

It was hardly his nerves that needed steadying, the servant reflected as he brought the glass over to his master before sharpening the razor on the leather strop.

Luke closed his eyes and let the man do his work. The warm water and the soothing strokes of the razor restored some measure of physical well-being, and by
the time he was dressed he felt sufficiently clearheaded to face his visitor.

He allowed his manservant to tie his cravat, however, unsure whether his hands were steady enough to achieve the delicate operation himself, and when he examined his reflection in the long glass found it satisfactory. His tall, thin figure had a certain natural elegance, lending itself to the lavish brocades, gold braid, and giant buttons that Luke affected. His rather scrawny calves did not show at their best in the clocked stockings that were all the fashion, but that was a minor sartorial detail. A man must be in fashion, after all. He took up a fan of painted chicken skin with ivory sticks, adjusted the pomander at his waist, tweaked his cravat one final time, and sauntered down to the parlor.

Lawyer Danforth was a patient man and had occupied himself while waiting for his host in examining the contents of the room. The books and periodicals he judged to be lightweight, of interest only to a fashion-obsessed flibbertigibbet who felt he needed to be able to discuss the latest
on-dit
in the fashionable world. The artwork was mediocre, the various objets d’art similarly so. It was as if the present inhabitant of the house had furnished it with a job lot from some auction. It had a distinctly temporary feel to it. The location of the house itself had struck Danforth as oddly out of the truly fashionable area of the city, the five square miles occupied by aristocratic London. He had concluded that Master Astley was not a man of means, but then he had been the younger son so it was
hardly surprising. But there were ways for even younger sons to augment their income. Marrying an heiress was the most usual, and there was nothing in Master Astley’s pedigree to render him an unsuitable match.

He set down a small figurine as the door opened behind him and turned to greet his host with a bow. “Master Astley. I give you good morning. I am sorry to disturb you when you’re indisposed, but the matter is of some urgency.”

“So I understand, Master Danforth.” Luke sounded a trifle petulant as he returned the bow. “Did my servant bring you refreshment?”

“I asked for coffee, sir, and he was obliging enough to bring me a pot.” Danforth gestured to the coffeepot on the sideboard.

“Pray sit down, sir, and tell me what I can do for you. Is this something to do with my brother’s will?” Luke sat down, tapping his closed fan against his knee.

The lawyer chose to remain standing, his feet planted firmly slightly apart, his shoulders square to the fireplace. “I understand Clarissa is visiting you and her brother,” he stated.

Luke felt a cold sweat on his brow. He offered a noncommittal smile and flicked open his fan, plying it languidly.

“However according to your servant, she’s not under your roof,” Danforth pointed out. “Clarissa explained that you had placed Francis with a tutor and his family. Could she perhaps be staying there with him?”

Luke ignored the question for the moment. “I judged it right and proper that the boy should receive the education fitting his status, and should have the company of other boys of good family.” Nothing in his composed expression indicated the frantic racing of his muzzy brain.

“Yes, I would agree with you there. We all would.” Danforth rocked slightly on his heels, his hands clasped at his back. “I don’t believe even Clarissa would quarrel with you on that score.”

Another noncommittal smile while Luke waited to hear something that would tell him exactly what he needed to know in order to deal with this situation.