Three Heroes (22 page)

“Doubtless something to do with the company he kept,” she said, “and well deserved. The point is, Thea, that I’m a little worried about being accepted by society.”

Althea took her hand. “None of it was your fault.”

“That is not how people will see it. What I am thinking,” Clarissa plunged on, “is that I would feel easier with a companion. A friend.” She looked at Althea, realizing that her words were true. “With you. If I go to Brighton, Thea, I ask most sincerely that you accompany me for a little while.”

“Me?” Althea gasped, eyes wide. “Clarissa, I couldn’t! I know nothing of fashionable circles.”

Clarissa gripped her hand. “Your birth is respectable, and you have excellent manners, and unquestioned beauty.”

Althea broke their handclasp. “I’m only twenty. I’m not old enough to be your chaperone in a place like Brighton.”

“But I don’t want you to be that. I want you to come as a friend, to enjoy Brighton with me. Do say you will.”

Althea blushed and covered her cheeks with her hands. “It’s still impossible, Clarissa. I don’t have the sort of clothes that are needed in a place like Brighton, and I certainly can’t afford to buy them.”

Clarissa absorbed the truth of that. She knew her trustees would not allow her to buy Althea new clothes. She considered sharing, for she would have to buy a new, fashionable wardrobe herself. But she and Althea did not suit the same colors, and her friend was a good few inches shorter.

An idea burst upon her. She seized Althea’s hand and dragged her out of the room.

“Where are we going?”

“To the attic!”

“Why?”

“To look at my London clothes!”

They clattered up the narrow stairs into the storage rooms. In the dusty gloom, Clarissa eyed the two hardly used trunks. She didn’t want to open them and stir revolting memories, but she’d do it. For Althea.

At the very least Althea deserved a few weeks of pleasure in Brighton. At the best, with her beauty, virtue, and sweet nature, she might attract a wonderful husband.

A lord. A duke, even!

So she lifted one heavy lid and pushed back plain muslin to reveal a froth of pale blue trimmed with white lace.

“If you’re going into society, you’ll need these clothes,” Althea protested.

Clarissa pulled out the blue and passed it over. “I’ll never wear these again.” She tossed aside that layer of muslin and unfurled the second. The pink.

She shuddered. She’d been wearing that when Deveril had kissed her. Her mother had screeched about the trouble of getting the vomit stains out of it, but it seemed someone had managed it.

“These were all chosen by Lord Deveril and paid for by him,” she said, tossing the ruched and beribboned gown to Althea. “Anything connected to that man revolts me, and they don’t even suit me.

Imagine me in that shade of pink! If you don’t take them, I’m giving them to the maids for whatever they can get for them.”

Althea put down the blue and studied the pink. “The color would suit me, but it’s a bit…”

“Overdone? In bad taste? Oh, definitely.” Overcoming her distaste, Clarissa held the dress in front of her friend. “The shade is lovely on you, though.”

“Won’t it bother you to see me in these dresses?”

Foul memories were swirling with the attic dust, but Clarissa pushed them away. “Everything will have to be altered. You’re slimmer and shorter. We can strip off the trimming at the same time.” She gave Althea the dress. “A wardrobe is here for you, if you’re brave enoughs to come adventuring with me.”

“Adventuring?” echoed Althea, but her eyes were bright and her color high.

Heartbreaking that her Gareth wasn’t here to enjoy the Thea he’d known and loved, but Clarissa resolved that she would find her friend someone almost as good. Not just an adequate husband, but another chance at heaven.

“Well?” Clarissa asked. “Will you do it?”

Althea stared into a distance, and perhaps for a moment she thought of Gareth, for she sobered. But then again, perhaps he spoke to her, for she smiled in a steadier, no less glorious way. “Yes. I’ll do it.”

The next day Hawk rode slowly down a driveway clumped with foot-high weeds, taking in his father’s hard-won inheritance. One chimney of Gaspard Hall had crashed down onto the roof, partly accounting for the broken and missing tiles. A substantial crack ran up one wall, suggesting that the foundations had given way, and the wood around the broken windows flaked with rot.

He directed Centaur carefully around the side of the house, keeping to the grass rather than the drive.

Less danger of potholes or falling debris.

A couple of years ago, with farming prices high and industry profitable, this place might have been worth something for the land alone. The end of the war had brought hard times, however. Trading routes were open to competition, and prices had fallen, sometimes to disastrous levels. In various parts of the country farms were even being abandoned.

Gaspard Hall in its present state was nothing but an extra burden. There must be tenants here still, and others dependent on the place, all hoping that the new Lord Deveril would help them.

At the back of the house he found the deserted stableyard. He swung off the horse and led it to a trough and pump. As expected, the pump was broken.

“Sorry, old boy,” he said, patting Centaur’s neck. “I’ll find you water as soon as possible.”

He looked around and called out, “Halloo!”

Some birds flew out of nearby eaves, but there was no other response.

A quick check of the stable buildings found only ancient, moldy straw and rat-chewed wood. From here, the back of the house was in as bad a state as the front.

It offended his orderly heart to see a place in such condition, but it would take a fortune to restore it. He wondered why the late Lord Deveril hadn’t spent some of his money here. He assumed he simply hadn’t cared.

Hawk could easily go back in his mind fifty years or so, however, and see a pleasant house in attractive gardens and set amid excellent farmland. A family had lived here and loved this place as he loved Hawkinville Manor. That raised the strange notion of there once being a pleasant, wholesome Lord Deveril. Lord Devil had likely been born here fifty years ago or so. Had he been a normal child? What had his parents been like? His grandparents?

He put aside idle speculation. The plain fact was that Gaspard Hall offered nothing. No money to pay off even part of the debt. No home for the squire without a fortune being poured into it. He was back to the duty he was trying to escape.

He led Centaur back the way they’d come. There’d be an inn in the nearby village where he could stay the night. Tomorrow…

Tomorrow he should return to Cheltenham and seduce the secrets out of Clarissa Greystone. But he turned and ran from that. He’d return to Hawk in the Vale and hope that she came to Brighton. It might be easier to hunt and destroy her amid that tinsel artificiality.

July, Brighton, Sussex

Clarissa and Althea arrived in Brighton in a grand carriage with outriders. Her guardian, the Duke of Belcraven, had sent his own traveling coach and servants to ensure her comfort and safety. Her trustees, Messrs. Euston, Layton, and Keele, whom she called the ELK, had arranged every other detail in magnificent style.

This was all rather unfortunate when she still didn’t have any stylish clothing, and Althea did. At every stop, innkeepers and servants had groveled before Althea and assumed that Clarissa was the maid. She’

d found it funny, and at one place had even slipped off to hobnob with the servants in the kitchen. Poor Althea, however, had been mortified.

The problem should be fixed soon. A stylish Brighton mantua-maker had all her measurements and should have a complete wardrobe, chosen by Clarissa herself, ready except for the final adjustments.

Despite a number of fears, she could hardly wait for any of this adventure. Now, looking out at the lively, fashionable company strolling along the Marine Parade in the July sun, she felt like a bird taking its first terrified but exhilarating flight.

Or perhaps like a bird being pushed out of the nest and desperately flapping its wings!

From the first, impulsive decision, everything had been snatched from her control. Miss Mallory had completely approved. Althea had bubbled with excitement. The duke and the ELK had immediately put the idea into operation. All that had been left for her to do was consult fashion magazines and samples of fabric and choose her new clothes.

Major Hawkinville’s recommendation had not been necessary. The ELK had assured her that there were always houses available for people willing to pay handsomely for them, and they had engaged Number 8

Broad Street, which boasted a dining room, two parlors, and three best bedrooms.

It seemed a lavish amount of space for two people— but then there was also the lady hired to be chaperone and guide to society, a Miss Hurstman. Clarissa had been somewhat surprised that the lady was a spinster rather than a widow, but she had no doubt that the ELK would have chosen the very best.

The lady had been described as “thoroughly cognizant of the ways of polite society and connected to all the best families.”

The ELK had also arranged for a lady’s maid and a footman in addition to the staff that came with the house. Clarissa had chuckled over this entourage, but in truth it made her nervous. In her parents’

penny-pinched household, one overworked upstairs maid had had to attend to the house and play lady’s maid as well.

In fact, she was still rather uncomfortable with all the lavish spending, especially when she didn’t really feel she deserved Deveril’s money. She’d loathed the man, and it was only a quirk in the wording of his will that had led to her inheriting it. At least there was no one else entitled. When she’d expressed her doubts, she’d been told that he’d died without an heir. Without the will, the money would all have gone to the Crown.

To provide more gilded onion domes, perhaps, she thought, catching a glimpse of the Prince Regent’s astonishing Pavilion. She couldn’t wait to visit it, but she couldn’t regret not having funded it.

She couldn’t regret any of this, and in part that was because of the secret anticipation of meeting Major Hawkinville again. She’d discouraged Althea from talking about him, pretending that he was of little interest, but now, as the carriage rolled along the Marine Parade, the sea on one side and tall stuccoed buildings on the other, she surreptitiously fingered the oblong card that she’d tucked into the pocket of her simple traveling dress.

Hawk in the Vale, Sussex. She’d looked it up in a gazetteer. It lay about six miles out of the town. Not far, but perhaps he didn’t visit here very often.

Or perhaps he did.

Perhaps they wouldn’t meet. Perhaps when they did she would find him less fascinating, or he would not be interested in her.

Or perhaps not.

After all, if he was a fortune hunter he would find her and pay her assiduous attentions.

She did hope so!

The gazetteer had mentioned his home, Hawkinville Manor, an ancient walled house with the remains of an earlier medieval defense. Picturesque, the author had sniffed, but of no particular architectural elegance.

Would she see it one day?

Then she noticed the attention they were attracting. A number of tonnish people were turning to watch the grand coach and outriders pass along the seafront, ladies and gentleman raising quizzing glasses to study it. Mischievously, Clarissa waved, and Althea pulled her back, laughing.

“Behave yourself!”

“Oh, very well. Did you see the bathing machines drawn into the water? I intend to sea-bathe.”

“It looks horribly cold to me, and they say men watch, with telescopes.”

“Do they? But then, men bathe too, don’t they? I wonder where one buys a telescope.”

Althea’s eyes went wide with genuine shock. “Clarissa!”

Clarissa suppressed a grin. She loved Althea like the sister she had never had, but like sisters, they were different. Althea would never feel the wild curiosity and impatience that itched in Clarissa. She didn’t understand.

But Clarissa knew she had to control that part of her. It would be hard enough to be accepted by society. For Althea’s sake, there must be no hint of scandal.

The coach began to turn, and she looked up to see the words “Broad Street” painted on the wall. “At last. We’re here.”

“Oh, good. It’s been a long journey, though it seems ungrateful to complain of such luxury.”

“And not a highwayman to be seen.”

“Praise heaven!” Althea exclaimed, and Clarissa hid her smile.

Despite its name, the street was not very wide, and the massive coach took up a great deal of it. The terraced houses on either side were three stories high, and with bay windows all the way up. All that stood between the house and the road, however, was a short flight of stairs and a railed enclosure around steps down to the basement servants’ area.

Clarissa had glimpsed even narrower streets nearby, however, and knew this was indeed grand by Brighton standards.

The coach rocked to a stop outside number 8, an ELKishly perfect house, with sparkling windows, lace curtains, and bright yellow paint on the woodwork. The door opened to reveal an ELKish housekeeper, too. Plump and cherry-cheeked.

One of the outriders opened the door and let down the steps, then assisted them from the coach. Clarissa went toward the house feeling rather like a lost princess finally finding her palace.

“Good afternoon, ladies,” said the housekeeper, curtsying. “Welcome to Brighton! I’m Mrs. Taddy, and I hope you will feel perfectly at home here.”

Home.

Clarissa walked into a narrow but welcoming hall with a tile floor, white-painted woodwork, and a bowl of fresh flowers on a table. Home was a singularly elusive concept, but this would do for a while; indeed it would.

“This is lovely,” she said to the woman, but then found that Mrs. Taddy was looking at Althea, also assuming that she was the heiress. What a powerful impression clothes made.

“I’m Miss Greystone,” she said with a smile, as if merely introducing herself, “and this is my friend, Miss Trist.”