THREE HEROES

by Jo Beverley

  Madame Mystique had warned of death…

  She came to a sudden stop, then stepped hastily into Manchester Street. After a moment, she carefully peered around the corner. On the opposite side of the Marine Parade, the distinctively straight and drab figure of Miss Hurstman was talking to a blond man.

  To Nicholas Delaney!

  He was already here, because Miss Hurstman had summoned him. And it must have been at least two days ago, perhaps because Hawk was courting her. The Hawk. Miss Hurstman had been alarmed to hear that he was a skilled investigator.

  Clarissa headed up Manchester Street to come down Broad Street from the other end.

  Mr. Delaney was here, so she could go to him and tell him about Madame Mystique. If she trusted him. She could also assure him that she was no danger to him. Would he believe her?

  He’d been kind to her once. He’d been the only one to realize that night that she had been ignored. Beth was being comforted by the marquess, Blanche by Major Beaumont, but she had been left shivering alone. He’d taken her in his arms and somehow given her the feeling that it wasn’t so bad and that everything would be all right.

  But still, what was she to expect of a man who entered a bloody scene of murder and complained that he’d “missed the action”?

  She paused outside the door to her house, vaguely understanding people who threw themselves into the ocean to escape a dilemma. She would not be so weak, though. She had to do the right thing—the right thing for Beth and Blanche, and also for herself. She did not want to die over this.

  She slipped in but did not make it upstairs undetected. Althea came out of the front parlor. “Have you been out? I thought it must be Miss Hurstman. She received a note and went out. There’s a message here from Lady Vandeimen.”

  At least Althea didn’t ask where Clarissa had been. Clarissa took the note and opened it. “We’re invited to walk with them again.”

  “And Major Hawkinville?” teased Althea.

  Everything stopped for Clarissa, then moved again in new patterns. “And Major Hawkinville. I will send an acceptance and then change into a prettier dress.”

  As she went to the desk she asked, “Where did Miss Hurstman go?”

  “She didn’t say. Where did you go?”

  “I wanted a bit of fresh air before the crowds.”

  Clarissa dashed off the note and summoned the footman to take it. Then she called for Elsie and went to change. She chose the rust-and-cream dress she’d worn on the first day, and took her parasol as well. It had so little chance to be useful.

  Hawk. The one person she could trust was Hawk. Well, she trusted Althea, but Althea was of no use in this predicament. In fact, she was another burden for Clarissa. Althea must not become embroiled in this.

  With Hawk, Clarissa knew exactly where she was. He was a fortune hunter. Other than that, he was as honorable as could be. And he was the Hawk. He would protect her.

  Especially, she thought suddenly, if they were married. Once they were married his interests would entirely match hers. She would have to tell him the truth, of course—but not until they were married. For Beth, and Blanche, and the Rogues, she could not tell him the truth before.

  She grieved for that, for she would like to marry him with full honesty between them, but it was the only way. And she couldn’t believe that it would be a terrible blow to him. After all, he’d said he wished he could kill Deveril for her. No one could look on Deveril’s death as a wrongful act. Except perhaps a court of law.

  So. Enough of playful games. She must bring Hawk to the point of offering for her hand, which surely could not be so very hard. Then she would have to insist on a rapid marriage. The thought of marrying Hawk, of capturing him for her own, was enough to put a golden glow around all the darkness. If she could persuade everyone, it could happen within the week!

  Miss Hurstman returned and made no objection to the outing, though she declined to go herself. “Mindless gallivanting,” she said, but she looked a little grim.

  “Was there something in your message to distress you, Miss Hurstman?” Clarissa asked.

  “No.” But that was all she said, and since the Vandeimens and Hawk arrived at that point, Clarissa could not probe. She doubted it would do any good anyway, though she’d love to know exactly what Miss Hurstman and King Rogue—as Nicholas Delaney was called— had discussed.

  Soon Clarissa was alone with the man she needed to marry, but found herself alarmingly tongue-tied. Hawk could fluster her with a look, but she was generally able to keep her wits. Now, knowing she was hunting him, she couldn’t think what to say.

  She found a safe subject. “How is the cat, Major Hawkinville?”

  He offered his arm as they went down the shallow steps. “Thriving on a diet of liver and cream. It caught three mice last night, and has become the cook’s pet.”

  “Then why didn’t it please the ratters?” They turned to stroll down toward the seafront.

  “Pure pride. Would you have worked for them?”

  She returned his smile. “Oh, I approve!”

  “I have called it Jetta from its color, and because it was thrown.”

  “Jettisoned. I hope it has a better future.”

  “Do you want the cat?”

  “I? I have no place to keep a cat just now.”

  “You have more of a place than I do.”

  Clarissa realized that they’d slipped into their usual easy exchange, which was not likely to take them to marriage. A conversation about homes might, however.

  “But you have a home in Hawk in the Vale, do you not?” she asked.

  “That is my father’s.”

  A strange thing to say. “A father’s home is generally thought of as his son’s home. Especially his heir’s.”

  “Perhaps my years away have made it less homelike to me.”

  “Then where will you live, when you settle down?” There. That was a hint.

  He didn’t seem to notice it. “I have to live there for a while. My father is not well and needs help in managing his affairs. Jetta can return with me to Hawkinville when I go.”

  They crossed the road to the seafront, where the bathing machines were still doing poor business. Clarissa, however, was fixed on other matters. “Do you plan to return soon?”

  If her concern showed, all the better.

  He glanced at her. “I cannot stay away for long periods. What of your home, Falcon? When the season ends here, will you go to live with your guardian?”

  When the season ended—she hoped to be married to him. “I don’t think so. I don’t know what I’ll do.”

  How exactly did a woman edge a man into proposing?

  “Will Miss Hurstman stay with you?”

  Not if I have anything to do with it. “I don’t know that, either. I haven’t been looking very far ahead. After all,” she said with a twirl of her parasol, “something might occur…” Like marriage, she thought at him.

  As usual, Althea was being swarmed by suitors, and the Vandeimens had stayed with her. Clarissa wondered if she should go back, but she couldn’t do much to help decide which gentleman should have the honor.

  “Perhaps you will stay with Lady Arden,” Hawk said.

  Clarissa stared at him. Surely she’d never spoken of Beth to him.

  “Why do you suggest that?”

  But of course. He was the Hawk. And that was part of the reason she must marry him. If only he’d get around to asking her! He was doubtless acting the proper fortune hunter, but here she was, like a deer in his sights with a label on saying, Shoot me, and nothing was happening!

  “She was a teacher at Miss Mallory’s,” he said. “It was a simple assumption that she asked her father-in-law to oversee your affairs.”

  “I suppose I could stay with her for a little while,” she said. “By then her baby should be born and past its first weeks.”

  “But you do not want to? She is still the harsh schoolmistress?”

  Clarissa laughed at
that. “She never was.”

  “But… ?”

  She looked at him. “You’re very persistent, Hawk. What is this to you?”

  He smiled. “It pleases me to see you challenging.”

  “Does it please you to answer?” Something about his manner unsettled her.

  “But of course. I would not want you moving to, for example, County Durham.”

  His manner was flirtatious, which was promising at least.

  Clarissa turned away, as if fascinated by the sea. “I have no relatives in County Durham, as best I know.”

  “It’s surprising what you can find on the family tree,” he said in a tone that made her wonder what it meant. Before she could ask, he added, “But you ease my heart.”

  Aha! She turned back. “Heart, Hawk?”

  But the moment was shattered by a sharp yapping and a tug at her skirt. A ball of white fur had its teeth in her dangling fringe.

  “Stop!” She tried to drag her skirt free, and Hawk swooped to capture the dog. But when he picked it up, the skirt came with it.

  “Hawk!” Clarissa shrieked, trying to hold her hem down.

  He laughed and went to his knees, grabbing the growling dog’s jaws to force them open. Clarissa was laughing at the absurd scene, but burningly aware of being the focus of all eyes and still showing too much leg.

  “Button, no!” a woman cried, running over and leaning to slap the dog’s muzzle. “Let go! Let go!”

  And the dog obeyed, wriggling frantically in Hawk’s hands toward its mistress.

  It was Blanche Hardcastle, dressed as always in white, but stunningly flushed pink with annoyance and exertion.

  She held the small dog close, and she and Clarissa stared at each other. Major Beaumont and another couple were nearby, but everything was, for a moment, frozen and silent.

  For a panicked moment Clarissa felt that Hawk would immediately know all the truth about Deveril’s death. But then sanity returned, and her only concern was scandal. Blanche was an actress, and though she was highly regarded in her profession, the world knew that her past was not unblemished. She’d been Lord Arden’s acknowledged mistress, for a start.

  However, it revolted Clarissa to think of snubbing the woman who had been so kind—more than kind. “Blanche,” she said with a smile. “Is that monster yours?”

  Blanche looked a little worried too, but she smiled back. “Alas, I found him abandoned, and he is white, but I cannot teach him manners.”

  “That’s because you’re not firm enough with him,” said Major Beaumont.

  Blanche retorted, “You’d doubtless like to thrash the poor mite.”

  But the smile they shared took any sting out of it. Clarissa was genuinely delighted to see the two of them so relaxed and happy. She certainly couldn’t let anything destroy that.

  Major Beaumont turned to her. “Miss Greystone, you have to take some blame. That fringe of yours is designed to provoke madness in males.”

  It made her laugh, even though she was frantically thinking, He was involved too! Would there be anything in that for Hawk to weave the truth from?

  “I confess it,” she said as lightly as she could. “Do you know Major Hawkinville?” She performed the introductions, noting that the other couple had wandered off. Probably other actors being discreet.

  Hawk and Major Beaumont exchanged some comments about the military, which seemed to establish each other in a few words. There was time for Blanche to say, “You’re looking splendid, Clarissa, and your ‘Hawk’ is very handsome.”

  Clarissa blushed to think that she’d shrieked that in front of half the world, but she agreed. And here was someone she could go to for advice. Blanche knew all the secrets, and she had worldly wisdom for ten.

  “Could I come to see you?” Clarissa asked.

  Blanche’s eyebrows rose, but she said, “If it won’t get you into trouble. I’m in Prospect Row. Number two. I’m performing here at the New Theater.” With a watchful look, she added, “In Macbeth.”

  Clarissa knew she gaped for a moment, but covered it. She smiled at something Major Beaumont said, but inside she was wondering whether she could even depend on Blanche.

  Madness to play Lady Macbeth!

  She was sinking into the past, to Blanche saying, “I have always wanted to do Macbeth.” Even Lord Arden had been shocked by that after hearing her quote from the play earlier. Who would have thought the old man to have had so much blood in him?

  A squeeze on the hand pulled her back. It was Blanche. “I hope my little pet didn’t frighten you, Clarissa.”

  She laughed. “No, of course not!” And she told the story of the ratters the day before.

  “So that was you,” said Major Beaumont. “There’s an account in today’s Herald, but the names of the lady and gentleman are not given.”

  “Not known, we hope,” said Hawk, and after a little more chat, Blanche and her major walked on.

  “May I be curious?” Hawk asked. “A famous London actress is an unusual friend for a Cheltenham schoolgirl.”

  Clarissa had expected it, and had prepared a response. “It is a strange connection, and slightly scandalous. Can I trust you with it?”

  To her concern, he seemed to think about it, but then said, “Of course. I’m no gossip.”

  They strolled back toward the Vandeimens and the well-attended Althea. “Blanche was the mistress of the Marquess of Arden until just before his marriage. You might think that this would create a rift between her and the marquess’s wife—”

  “I’d think it would make any meeting impossible.”

  “Ah, but you don’t know Lady Arden.”

  “And how do you know of these things?”

  How did she explain that? She hadn’t thought this through.

  “It slipped out.” It wasn’t entirely a lie. She looked at him. “I’m not an innocent, Hawk, and I won’t pretend to be with you.”

  His lips twitched. “I hope not. So, how did these two unlikely ladies meet?”

  “Beth heard about Blanche and contrived a meeting.”

  “Strange. Mrs. Hardcastle seemed unscratched.”

  Clarissa frowned at him. “You would of course think that two ladies would fight over a man. In fact, they discovered they shared an interest in the rights of women and the works of Mary Wollstonecraft, and became firm friends. The marquess,” she added, “was somewhat disconcerted.”

  Hawk laughed. “An understatement, I’d think.”

  “Definitely.” Clarissa’s smile widened and she lost herself in thinking how very handsome he was when he laughed…

  “And Lady Arden introduced you?”

  She collected her wits. “Yes. Though I went to Blanche’s house only once.”

  She prayed not to show how that once had changed her life.

  He was studying her. Why? “Are you a follower of Mary Wollstonecraft?”

  She almost laughed with relief at such a prosaic concern. “Would you mind?”

  “I would have to study the lady’s writings to be sure. But the proof is in the product, I think.”

  He was looking at her, surely, with warm approval. She stopped, waiting, hoping…

  “And Major Beaumont?” he asked. “How does he come into the picture?”

  Clarissa was hard-pressed not to scowl. “He’s a close friend of the marquess’s from their school days. And as you see, he now has a special relationship with Blanche. According to Beth, he wants to marry her, but Blanche thinks it unsuitable. She clearly thought speaking to me unsuitable, too. Sometimes our world does not please me.”

  Especially having to play these silly games!

  His brows rose at her sharp tone, but he said, “I see you as too much of a free spirit, Falcon, to be severely constrained by society.”

  That could almost be an opening for her to propose to him, but Clarissa’s nerve failed her. What if he said no? What then? Perhaps he would say no on principle if she broke the rules so thoroughly.

  She
took a cowardly escape. “I’m trying to be good for Althea’s sake. We should rescue her.”

  “From admirers? Will she thank you?”

  “Definitely. She becomes flustered by too much flattery, and men will insist on saying the most absurd things.”

  Unlike you. She’d felt so certain that he was at least pursuing her fortune, but now sickening doubt invaded. Was he slow to capture her because he didn’t find her appealing after all? Was she completely fooling herself?

  “Perhaps men say absurd things because women like it?” he commented. “Would you be offended to be told you are like a golden rose?”

  She stared at him. “Skeptical, perhaps,” she said with a dry mouth and a racing heart.

  “You would accuse me of lying?”

  “Of flattering.”

  “In fact,” he said almost prosaically, “you do remind me of a golden rose. Not red, which is too deep and dark, nor white, which is too calm. Nor even pink, which is too coy and blushing, but golden, like warm sunshine, brightening what you touch.”

  She had to lick her lips, and she knew she was blushing. She should protest again that it was not true, but she wanted it to be. She wanted him for any number of reasons, but she wanted to be loved by him more than anything in the world.

  Because she loved him.

  Breath-stealing, panic-building, but true. She loved him. She could not bear to lose him.

  In the end, she simply said, “Thank you,” and prayed for more.

  Hawk wondered what demented demon had taken control of his tongue. He’d come out today to learn more about Clarissa and the Ardens, and had succeeded beyond his hopes because of that chance encounter.

  He had not come out to break her heart even more. He feared he could read the glowing expression in her eyes.

  “Miss Trist,” he reminded her, turning toward her friend.

  He sensed her disappointment, but after a moment she spoke calmly enough. “With such eligible men around her, you’d think Althea would be developing a preference.”

  Strong Clarissa. If only… “Do you think that perhaps she dislikes the fuss of it?” he asked.

  She looked at him in surprise, in control. “Dislikes being the toast of Brighton?”