Rushed to the Altar (44 page)

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.

“Read 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.

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.