Rushed to the Altar (33 page)

“Jest get up there an’ shut it up yerself,” her father growled, raising a threatening fist.

The girl ducked away and headed out of the kitchen towards the wail, which had now been joined by a chorus of others.

“Damned brats,” Dirk grumbled to his brother-in-law. “Screechin’ all day an’ all night. A man’s entitled to some peace an’ quiet in ’is own ’ome, seems to me.”

“Aye, right enough.” Ed took a deep draft of ale. “But ’tis a good little business our Bertha’s got goin’. Keeps you in gin an’ idleness, lucky bugger.” He grinned.

The kitchen door flew open, letting in a blast of freezing air. Bertha came in on the gust, carrying a tiny bundle in a thin, ragged blanket. “Well, this one’ll not last long. Its mam’s gone.” She set the bundle in a wicker basket beside the fire. A thin cry rose from the blanket, then died away. “We’ll be buryin’ it by morning.” She nodded at Ed. “Not seen you in a while, Ed.”

“No, been busy,” he said. “How’re you doin’, our Bertha?”

“Can’t complain. You?”

“Nah, can’t complain. I jest come about that lad what the gent placed wi’ you. “ ’Ow’s ’e doin’?”

“Lor’, Ed, ’e’s bin gone since yesterday, as your gent knows full well, seein’ as ’ow ’e sent fer ’im.”

“What?” Ed looked startled. “Why ’d he send me to check up on ’im then?”

“ ’Ow should I know?” Bertha shrugged. “Alls I know, this fine, lardy-da lady comes visitin’, says ’e wants the lad back, an’ I give ’im to ’er.” She cast a warning glance at her husband. If her brother found out about the golden guinea, he’d demand his share as payment for having placed the boy with them in the first place.

“You give ’im to ’er. Just like that?” Ed looked incredulous. “Didn’t she ’ave no letter or summink?”

Bertha turned to the dresser, taking up the ale jug. “Fat load o’ good that would do, seein’ as I can’t read a word.”

“Well, the gent’s goin’ to be in a right state when ’e ’ears this.” Ed held out his tankard. “Give us a drop more then, lass.”

Clarissa took Jasper’s hand and stepped out of the carriage outside the Drury Lane theatre. The crowd of theatregoers jostled at the doors, which stood open to the foyer. The strains of music from the orchestra drifted from deep within the theatre.

Jasper glanced at her, wondering if she was nervous at this first seriously public outing. If she was, she gave no sign of it. Of course, if she had been an established member of one of the nunneries, she would have spent many an evening in the pit of the theatre, touting for custom from those playgoers whose main interest was the whores rather than the play itself. “I daresay you’ve spent many evenings here?” he observed, taking her arm to ease her through the crowd to the doors. He was curious as to how she would deflect the assumption.

“No.” Clarissa shook her head. “Never. Why would you think so?”

“It’s a popular spot for whores to find customers and customers to find whores.”

“Oh, well, yes, of course, but as it happens I never found myself looking for custom here.” She thought she’d made a quick recovery, and a covert glance at his expression gave her no reason to think otherwise.

The theatre was a blaze of light from the many chandeliers and sconced candles around the gilded walls. The buzz of noise was almost deafening as people talked and shouted across rows of the audience, and the calls of the orange girls, pamphlet sellers, and whoremongers rose above the cacophony, while the orchestra gallantly tried to make itself heard.

Jasper steered Clarissa up a curving flight of stairs, along a corridor, and through a small door, which opened onto a box high above the pit, looking directly down at the stage. He took her opera cloak and pulled out one of the velvet-covered seats with gilded arms that were positioned just behind a broad cushioned balcony rail.

“Sit down and look out into the theatre,” he instructed softly, “but try not to make eye contact with anyone. Remember we’re after mystery tonight. I want you to be the subject of every supper table after the play. Use your fan . . . yes, exactly so.” He nodded his approval as she unfurled her fan and partially covered her face with it, leaving only her eyes clearly visible.

“What if someone decides to visit us?” she murmured, leaning forward to rest one hand on the padded balcony.

“There’s no time before the first act. And we’ll leave before the interval.” He raised a hand in greeting
to a woman in a box opposite who was waving her fan at him.

“Who’s that?”

“Lady Mondrain. An inveterate gossip, but a useful woman to have as a friend. You’ll meet her soon enough.” Jasper’s smile was fixed to his lips as he acknowledged the smiles and waves directed their way from around the theatre. He watched with satisfaction as heads bobbed in conversation interspersed with covert glances. The orchestra fell silent, and the buzz in the theatre died down somewhat, but not completely, as the first act of the play began.

Clarissa lost interest in the audience and turned her attention to the stage. She was among the minority. The theatre was as brightly lit as ever, and the actors had to fight for the audience’s full attention. Conversations continued; orange girls moved up and down the rows throwing fruit to buyers, who passed the necessary coins along the row. And every now and again one of the actors would have to shout to make himself heard.

“It seems very unfair,” Clarissa muttered indignantly from behind her fan. “Why do people come here if they’re not interested in the play?”

“They come to see and be seen,” Jasper returned. “And to ensure that they’re up to date on the latest play, actor, opera, musician. It’s human nature, my dear. But when Garrick plays, then you can hear a pin drop.”

“I should like to see him onstage.” She sounded wistful.

“And so you shall,” Jasper stated. “All in good time.”

Clarissa wafted her fan and took another glance around the theatre. Her wafting fan wavered. She drew back a little into the shadows of the box. Luke was in the pit, looking around the boxes, quizzing glass to his eye. Her heart lurched, then resumed its normal rhythm as she reminded herself that he would never recognize her, dressed as she was with her hair piled high in an extravagant coiffure, decorated with plumes, and her fashionable evening gown of gold-embroidered black taffeta. And, of course, her escort.

She told herself again that the best place to hide was always right under the nose of the seeker. Most people saw what they expected to see. And Luke would never expect to see his countrified niece in a theatre in Covent Garden under the auspices of the Earl of Blackwater. She leaned forward with more confidence and let her gaze roam around the audience.

Jasper had noticed the quick withdrawal, her sudden pallor, then the recovery. He leaned forward, resting his arms on the balcony, and swept the scene with his quizzing glass. He could see nothing out of the ordinary. So what had caused that? He glanced at his companion, who gave him a bland smile.

An instant before the orchestra struck up for the intermission, Jasper took Clarissa’s arm. “Come now.” He hurried her out of the box, down to the foyer, and out onto Drury Lane. His coachman was waiting a few yards up the street and Jasper swept Clarissa ahead of him.
“Others will be leaving and I don’t wish to be detained.”

Clarissa climbed in, but to her surprise Jasper didn’t follow her. “I have another engagement. Jake will drive you home.”

“Oh.” She felt rather bereft. “Will you come later?”

He shook his head. “No, not tonight. I am engaged with friends, but I’ll bring you some visitors tomorrow morning. Dress accordingly.” He blew her a kiss, closed the door, and stepped back as the coachman set the horses in motion.

Clarissa leaned back, watching the lights of Covent Garden flicker past the window. There was no reason why she should expect him to spend every night in her bed, and she was quite surprised that she had. A mistress could no more expect her lover to live in her pocket than a wife could her husband. Of course Jasper had friends, a life outside the house on Half Moon Street, but she couldn’t deny how much she had wanted another night in his arms. His company filled her with a pleasure as deep as did his body. The prospect of lying alone in the bed that had brought her so much delight in the last two days brought a wash of dismay and a disgruntled sense of loss.

Jasper waited until the carriage had turned the corner, then he strolled to 32 King Street. It was time to ask some serious questions of Nan Griffiths.

Luke left the theatre in the interval in the company of friends. “Women or cards?” the Honorable Lucien Talbot asked, sniffing the air of Covent Garden like a scenting foxhound. “Greek shop or bagnio?”

“Why not both?” a lanky young man asked, casting an eye up and down the street. “Let’s to Archer’s on Charles Street. The faro tables play high and the women are better than most.” He passed his hands through the air in a lewd illustration.

Luke took mental inventory of his present funds. The stakes at Archer’s were too rich for his blood; most tables insisted on stakes of fifty pounds or more. But one solid win would set him up for the month. And faro was his game. He acceded with a nod and the small party surged down Russell Street and into Charles Street.

They were greeted by the liveried and bewigged footman at a discreet house on Charles Street. “Gentlemen, welcome.” He took their cloaks and hats, and waited while they divested themselves of their swords. Weapons were not permitted at the tables, with good reason. He ushered them into the first of the gaming salons.

Luke strolled around the tables, looking at the play, listening to the groom porters calling the odds, trying to get a feeling for which one would bring him luck. He took a bumper of rum punch from a waiter’s tray and finally settled in to play.

The rest of the evening passed in a haze of rum
punch and a gradually seeping knowledge of disaster. He laid down one IOU after another. The banker accepted them all without demur, and Luke watched the little pile of paper grow. He became aware of one of his friends standing at his shoulder.

“Odd’s blood, man. Call it a night. It’s enough,” Lucien remonstrated. “We’re all rolled up for tonight, it’s time to drown our losses between a pair of sweet thighs. Come, Luke. Give it up now.”

Luke waved him away. “One more. I can smell a win in the next hand. You go on, and I’ll see you later.”

The Honorable Lucien shrugged and left.

Luke won the next hand and, emboldened, played three more. He lost them all and finally rose from the table unable to comprehend the extent of his losses, but vaguely aware in his befuddled brain that he faced disaster.

He staggered out into the cold night air and immediately felt dizzy. He leaned against the wall until the world stopped spinning. As soon as the brat was dead, everything would come right. As soon as it was known he was heir to the Astley fortune, his creditors would step back. They would be only too happy to offer him as much credit as he wanted.

True, gambling debts were debts of honor. He couldn’t expect them to be extended. But once he had firm expectations the moneylenders would be more than happy to accommodate him. He walked through the Piazza, seeing little of what was going on around him. If Francis hadn’t
yet succumbed, then he was going to have to do something more to encourage it . . . and that quickly.