by Jo Beverley
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.
Chapter Five
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.”
She covered the housekeeper’s fluster with some idle comments about Brighton’s beauty, wondering where their chaperone was.
“Ah, you’ve arrived,” a brusque voice barked. “Come into the front parlor. We’ll have tea.”
Clarissa turned to the woman standing in a doorway. It couldn’t be!
She was middle-aged, with a weather-beaten face and sharp, dark eyes. Her graying hair was scraped back into a bun unsoftened by a cap, and her gown was even plainer than Clarissa’s simple blue cambric.
“Don’t gawk! I’m Arabella Hurstman, your guide to depravity.”
The ELK must have run demented. This woman could never gain them entree to fashionable Brighton!
“I’ll bring tea, ma’am,” said Mrs. Taddy to no one in particular and hurried away. Clarissa felt tempted to go with her, but Miss Hurstman commanded them into the room.
It was small but pretty, with pale walls and a flowered carpet, and Miss Hurstman looked completely out of place. This was ridiculous. There must have been a mistake.
The woman turned and looked them over. “Miss Greystone and Miss Trist, I assume. Though I can’t tell which is which. You”—she pointed a bony finger at Althea—“look like the heiress. But you”—she pointed at Clarissa—“look like the simmering pot.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Don’t starch up. You’ll get used to me. I gave up trying to act pretty and pleasing thirty years ago. Someone described Miss Greystone as a simmering pot, and I see what he meant.”
“Who?”
“Does it matter? Sit. We have to plan your husband hunt.”
Clarissa and Althea obeyed dazedly.
“I gather you’re a protegee of the Marchioness of Arden,” Miss Hurstman said.
Clarissa didn’t know what to do with that statement.
“Lady Arden was a teacher at Miss Mallory’s School,” Althea said, filling the silence. “She was kind to Clarissa last year in London.”
Clarissa supposed that summed up a very complex situation.
“That explains Belcraven, then,” said Miss Hurstman. “He must be thanking heaven to see his heir married to a woman of sense.”
Mrs. Taddy hurried in then with a laden tea tray and put it in front of Miss Hurstman.
“London,” continued the lady, pouring. She handed Clarissa a cup. “Lasted all of two weeks there, and got yourself engaged to marry Lord Deveril. At least you ended up with his money, which shows some wit.”
“He was hardly my choice,” Clarissa stated, wondering what would happen if she ordered the woman out of the house. She had a burning question first. “Why would anyone describe me as a simmering pot?”
A touch of humor flashed in the dark eyes. “Because a simmering pot needs to be watched, gel, in case it bubbles over. ‘Bubble, bubble, toil and trouble’? Oh, I expect trouble from you two.” Miss Hurstman switched her gimlet gaze to Althea, who almost choked on a cake crumb. “You’re a beauty. Here to catch a husband?”
“Oh, no—”
“Nothing wrong with that, if it’s what you want. If you don’t like your choices, I can find you a position. One where you won’t be abused. Bear that in mind. There are worse things than being a spinster.”
“Thank you,” said Althea faintly.
“What about you?” Miss Hurstman demanded of Clarissa. “You want a husband too?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Why should I? I’m rich.”
“Sexual passion,” said Miss Hurstman, causing Clarissa and Althea to gape. “Don’t look like stuffed trout. The human race is driven by it, generally into disaster. If you wait long enough, it cools, but in youth, it simmers.”
Clarissa felt her face flame. Surely whoever had said she was a simmering pot could never have meant that.
Who could it be? The duke? Hardly. Lord Arden? She didn’t think so.
Major Hawkinville?
That thought proved her mind was spinning beyond reason.
“There’s all the romantic twaddle as well,” the astonishing woman continued. “That alone can turf man or woman into an unwise marriage.”
She surveyed the plate and chose a piece of seedy cake. “I was young once, and reasonably pretty, though I doubt you believe it, and I remember. I decided early not to marry, but I was still tempted a time or two. And I wasn’t fool enough to visit Brighton in the summer, where romantic folly is carried on the breeze. What’s worse,” she added with a look at Clarissa, “you’re an heiress. You’ll have to fight ‘em off.”
Clarissa eyed the woman coldly. “Isn’t that your job?”
Miss Hurstman gave a kind of snort. “If you really want me to. You probably won’t. You’ll probably scramble after the most rascally ones around. Young fools always do. I’ll have no scandal, though. No being caught half naked in an anteroom. No mad dashes to Gretna Green. Understand? Now, you two go off and settle yourselves in. There’s nothing we can do today.”
Clarissa found herself on her feet, but regrouped. “Miss Hurstman, my trustees employed someone”—she emphasized the word—“to gain us entree to the highest circles. I appreciate—”
“You think I can’t? Don’t judge by appearances. If there’s a member of the ton here I’m not related to, they probably have shady antecedents. And though I don’t spend much time in their silly circles, I know most of ‘em, too. If you want to waltz with the Regent at the Pavilion, I can arrange it. Though why you’d want to is another matter.”
“Even though I’m the Devil’s Heiress?” Clarissa challenged.
“Stupid name. Concentrate on the heiress part. That’ll open every door. A hundred thousand, I understand.”
Clarissa heard Althea gasp. “More. It’s been well invested, and I’ve been living simply.”
“Obviously.” Miss Hurstman looked her over. “With a fortune to hand, why are you dressed like that?”
“You are,” Clarissa pointed out sweetly.
“I’m fifty-five. If you want to be a nun, enter a convent. If you want me to introduce you to Brighton society, dress appropriately.”
Clarissa desperately wanted to state that she’d wear plain gowns forever, thank you, but she could see a pointless rebellion when it was about to cut off her nose. She admitted to the clothes waiting for her at Mrs. Howell’s.
Miss Hurstman nodded. “Good. We’ll go there first thing tomorrow and hope no one of importance sees you before you’re properly dressed. You should have borrowed something from Miss Trist. Off you go.”
Clarissa longed to sit down again and refuse to be removed, but that was pointless too. As she went upstairs with Althea she muttered, “Intolerable!”
“Perhaps she’s able to do what she’s supposed to do,” Althea
suggested.
“If so, she can stay. Otherwise, out she goes.”
“You can’t!”
Clarissa wasn’t sure she could either. Moving Miss Arabella Hurstman might require the entire British army and the Duke of Wellington to lead it. But could she endure much more of Miss Hurstman? The woman was going to turn this delightful adventure into misery.
She went into the front bedroom that Mrs. Taddy indicated, finding their luggage already there and a sober-faced maid beginning to unpack.
“Who are you?” Clarissa demanded.
The woman dropped an alarmed curtsy. “Elsie John, ma’am. Hired to be maid to Miss Greystone and Miss Trist.” She, too, was clearly having trouble deciding who was who.
“I’m Miss Greystone,” said Clarissa, beginning to lose patience with this farce. “That is Miss Trist.”
The maid rolled her eyes and turned back to her work. Clarissa sucked in a deep, steadying breath. She had failed to stand up to Miss Hurstman, so she was taking out her anger on the innocents.
Then Althea said, “Would you mind if I lie down, Clarissa? I have a headache.”
“No, of course not. It’s probably because of that dreadful woman.”
Clarissa knew, however, that it was as much her fault as Miss Hurstman’s. She reined in her temper, and even found a smile for the maid. “Elsie, you may go for now.”
She helped Althea out of her gown and settled her in the bed with the curtains drawn, but then didn’t know where to go. She couldn’t stay here and be quiet. She didn’t feel at all quiet. She needed to pace and rant.
She left the room, closing the door quietly. There were supposed to be three bedrooms, and there were three doors. What if the third was the housekeeper’s? She crept downstairs, but she suspected the only rooms below were the front parlor and the dining room. She headed for the dining room.
“Ah, good!”
