Finessing Clarissa
Page 1
M. C. Beaton is the author of the hugely successful Agatha Raisin and Hamish Macbeth series, as well as a quartet of Edwardian murder mysteries featuring heroine Lady Rose Summer, the Travelling Matchmaker and Six Sisters Regency romance series, and a stand-alone murder mystery, The Skeleton in the Closet – all published by Constable & Robinson. She left a full-time career in journalism to turn to writing, and now divides her time between the Cotswolds and Paris. Visit www.agatharaisin.com for more.
Praise for the School for Manners series:
‘The Tribbles, with their salty exchanges and impossible schemes, provide delightful entertainment.’
Publishers Weekly
‘A welcome new series . . . the best of the Regency writers again offers an amusing merry-go-round of a tale.’
Kirkus
‘The Tribbles are charmers . . . Very highly recommended.’
Library Journal
‘A delightful Regency sure to please . . . [Beaton] is a romance writer who deftly blends humour and adventure . . . [sustaining] her devoted audience to the last gasp.’
Booklist
Titles by M. C. Beaton
The School for Manners
Refining Felicity • Perfecting Fiona • Enlightening Delilah
Animating Maria • Finessing Clarissa • Marrying Harriet
The Six Sisters
Minerva • The Taming of Annabelle • Deirdre and Desire
Daphne • Diana the Huntress • Frederica in Fashion
The Edwardian Murder Mystery series
Snobbery with Violence • Hasty Death • Sick of Shadows
Our Lady of Pain
The Travelling Matchmaker series
Emily Goes to Exeter • Belinda Goes to Bath • Penelope Goes to Portsmouth
Beatrice Goes to Brighton • Deborah Goes to Dover • Yvonne Goes to York
The Agatha Raisin series
Agatha Raisin and the Quiche of Death • Agatha Raisin and the Vicious Vet
Agatha Raisin and the Potted Gardener • Agatha Raisin and the Walkers of Dembley
Agatha Raisin and the Murderous Marriage • Agatha Raisin and the Terrible Tourist
Agatha Raisin and the Wellspring of Death • Agatha Raisin and the Wizard of Evesham
Agatha Raisin and the Witch of Wyckhadden
Agatha Raisin and the Fairies of Fryfam • Agatha Raisin and the Love from Hell
Agatha Raisin and the Day the Floods Came
Agatha Raisin and the Curious Curate • Agatha Raisin and the Haunted House
Agatha Raisin and the Deadly Dance • Agatha Raisin and the Perfect Paragon
Agatha Raisin and Love, Lies and Liquor
Agatha Raisin and Kissing Christmas Goodbye
Agatha Raisin and a Spoonful of Poison • Agatha Raisin: There Goes the Bride
Agatha Raisin and the Busy Body • Agatha Raisin: As the Pig Turns
The Hamish Macbeth series
Death of a Gossip • Death of a Cad • Death of an Outsider
Death of a Perfect Wife • Death of a Hussy • Death of a Snob
Death of a Prankster • Death of a Glutton • Death of a Travelling Man
Death of a Charming Man • Death of a Nag • Death of a Macho Man
Death of a Dentist • Death of a Scriptwriter • Death of an Addict
A Highland Christmas • Death of a Dustman • Death of a Celebrity
Death of a Village • Death of a Poison Pen • Death of a Bore
Death of a Dreamer • Death of a Maid • Death of a Gentle Lady
Death of a Witch • Death of a Valentine • Death of a Sweep
Death of a Kingfisher
The Skeleton in the Closet
Constable & Robinson Ltd
55–56 Russell Square
London WC1B 4HP
www.constablerobinson.com
First published in the US by St Martin’s Press, 1989
This paperback edition published by Canvas,
an imprint of Constable & Robinson Ltd, 2012
Copyright © M. C. Beaton, 1989
The right of M. C. Beaton to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or to actual events or locales is entirely coincidental.
A copy of the British Library Cataloguing in
Publication Data is available from the British Library
ISBN: 978-1-78033-313-7 (paperback)
ISBN: 978-1-78033-468-4 (ebook)
Typeset by TW Typesetting, Plymouth, Devon
Printed and bound in the UK
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1
Disasters come not singly,
But as if they watched and waited,
Scanning one another’s motions,
When the first descends, the others
Follow, follow, gathering flock-wise
Round their victim sick and wounded –
First a shadow, then a sorrow,
Till the air is dark with anguish.
Longfellow
The tall house in Holles Street was filled with the sounds of bustle and activity as the Tribble sisters prepared for the arrival of the Honourable Clarissa Vevian, daughter of Viscount and Viscountess Clarendon.
Clarissa was the Tribbles’ latest client, for the sisters were in business, and that business was to school seemingly impossible young ladies and make them fit to take their place at the London Season and find a husband.
Amy and Effy Tribble, spinster twins in straitened circumstances, had hit upon the idea of advertising for ‘difficult’ girls. They had been very successful with their three latest charges but had feared they would never get another. No parent wanted to let the polite world know that their daughter was so impossibly unmarriageable that they had to hire outside help.
Effy, silver-haired and dainty, was still in a state of happy euphoria at the prospect of having a new charge to bring out. Amy Tribble, horsey and mannish, was beginning to be plagued with worries. It was now well known that the girls they chaperoned were difficult. So what was up with this Clarissa that had made her parents send her all the way from Bath to be schooled?
But she kept her doubts to herself. If she voiced them to Effy, then Effy would at first protest, then weep, and then take to her bed, leaving Amy with all the work of preparation.
Amy’s gaunt and stern exterior belied a soft and feminine interior. She felt she would like a strong man to lean on. There was, of course, Mr Haddon, their old friend who had returned from India a rich nabob, but of late, Effy had more and more appropriated Mr Haddon as her property. Mr Haddon seemed quite charmed by Effy’s flutterings and flirtatious ways and Amy felt rejected and unwanted.
‘You will probably find there is nothing up with this Clarissa at all,’ said Effy, arranging a bowl of spring flowers in a vase. ‘I have not seen dear Georgina, her mother, you know, in this age, but she was a delicate, fairy-like creature. We have had our difficulties with the others, but it all turned out well, did it not?’
‘After a great many hair-raising adventures and upsets,’ pointed out Amy sourly. ‘Our last charge was nearly raped but was saved by Yvette, who stabbed that rogue to death.’ Yvette was the Tribbles’
resident French dressmaker who had added to their worries by becoming pregnant by a Frenchman who had subsequently run off to France and left her.
‘Oh, it will all be splendidly easy,’ trilled Effy. ‘Do you not remember Georgina?’
‘Vaguely,’ said Amy, stretching her legs and looking gloomily at her large feet. ‘We’ve done so many Seasons ourselves, years and years of ’em.’
Effy frowned. She did not like to be reminded of all their failures. She maintained the fiction that their spinster state was by choice. She had been a plain girl and was now a very pretty middle-aged woman, her sandy hair being now silvery-white and her figure trim.
‘Mr Haddon,’ announced the butler.
Effy snatched a flower out of the vase and held it to her cheek and assumed a dreamy pose.
‘Won’t do,’ said Amy waspishly. ‘You look silly.’
Mr Haddon was ushered in. He was a thin, spare man dressed in neat but plain clothes.
‘All ready for your next client, ladies?’ he asked.
‘As ready as we’ll ever be,’ said Amy sourly, for Effy had put the flower back in the vase and was fluttering up to Mr Haddon.
Mr Haddon sat down and surveyed Amy’s face with shrewd eyes. ‘I shall just go and see if they know to serve those caraway cakes you like so much, Mr Haddon,’ cooed Effy. Her dress had a short silk train at the back and Effy hoped Mr Haddon noticed the exquisite line of it as she left the room.
‘Something is troubling you,’ said Mr Haddon to Amy. ‘What is it?’
‘It’s this girl, Clarissa,’ said Amy, shifting restlessly. ‘I haven’t said anything to Effy because she would fuss so and then take to her bed. But I cannot help feeling there must be something really awful wrong with her. I mean, what kind of parents would send their daughter here, after there has been murder done in this house, if they were not absolutely desperate?’
‘Now, Miss Amy, do not vex yourself. You know what the aristocracy is like. They turn their children over to the care of nurses and governesses from the day they are born and have little to do with them after that. You will probably find she is plain and did not take at the Bath assemblies and so has been sent to you.’
‘The Viscount Clarendon is very rich,’ said Amy. ‘That means the girl’s got a large dowry. When in this day and age did a girl with a large dowry have to have anything in the way of looks?’
‘Well, perhaps she is a romantic and reads too many novels and falls in love with quite unsuitable beaux. That is easily corrected. You will find it is something manageable.’
‘Trouble’s coming to this house,’ said Amy. ‘I can feel it. When that Berkeley creature was murdered . . .’
‘He was not murdered,’ said Mr Haddon gently. ‘He was killed by your brave dressmaker in order to save Delilah. Quite another thing.’
‘Well, death. Anyway, I feel disaster is upon us.’
‘The east wind is all that is upon us,’ said Mr Haddon, ‘and that always causes disorders of the spleen. Rally, Miss Amy. Rally!’
Amy grinned. ‘You may have the right of it. I’ve been blue-devilled lately.’
‘When does the Honourable Clarissa arrive?’
‘This evening sometime, or so her parents said when they last wrote. They are not coming with her. She’s been sent off with only her maid for company. Seems odd.’
‘It is of no use worrying,’ said Mr Haddon comfortably. ‘We shall know what she is like soon enough.’
‘Perhaps you might like to stay until she arrives?’ asked Amy.
Mr Haddon had arranged to meet an old friend from India that evening at his club. But he took a look at Amy’s anxious face, and said, ‘Yes, of course I shall stay. I have a letter to send to a friend cancelling an engagement and then I shall be free.’
‘If you would really rather go . . .’
‘No, no, Miss Amy. I, too, am anxious to find out what Clarissa is like.’
Effy on her return was delighted to hear Mr Haddon had elected to stay. She rushed off again to order a special dinner – just as if, thought Amy sourly, she is in the way of arranging the meals when she knows it is I who manages the household when there isn’t a man around to impress!
Dinner was held back an hour in the hope that Clarissa might arrive. They finally sat down, each one beginning to feel anxious. What was keeping the girl?
The new Earl of Greystone was a much-envied man. He had a stately home near Marlborough and fertile, rolling acres of land.
But the earl considered himself most unfortunate. He had returned from the wars in time for his father’s funeral to find not only his stepmother, Angela, but her children, Bella, eighteen, Tom, seventeen, and Peregrine, aged eight, had been left to his care. He himself had had a strict and harsh upbringing, but his father, the late earl, had doted on his second wife and had let her spoil their children. The dowager countess, Angela, was, he sometimes felt, even more spoilt than her detestable offspring. She had been a vulgar woman when his father had married her and was now an extremely vulgar widow, given to throwing scenes when she did not get her own way.
He had suggested that a season in Bath would be sufficient for Bella, but Angela had wept and sobbed until she had made him promise to open up the town house for the London Season and present Bella there.
The earl was thirty-two, but looked older. His black hair was streaked at the temples with lines of silver. His harsh, strong face had a brooding look and his pale-blue eyes were like winter ice. He was well over six feet tall. Angela told everyone who would listen that he was a tyrant and quite a few believed her and said that as the Earl of Greystone looked like Satan, then it must follow that he behaved as devilishly as his stepmother claimed.
He had had a flaming row with Tom that very day. His half-brother had demanded money to buy a new hunter. The earl had pointed out that the young man already had a fine hunter and Tom had pouted and claimed that a horse which Gully Banks, in Marlborough, had on offer, was as fine a beast as could be found going for a song outside Tattersall’s. The ‘song’ turned out to be eight hundred pounds. The earl had said calmly he knew Gully Banks to be a villain. Tom had howled that the earl held the purse-strings so tight, it was a wonder they even had anything to eat. The result was Tom had been ordered to his room and told to stay there until further notice.
Dinner was a dismal meal. Angela liked country hours and so dinner was served at four. She said that poor Tom was so wretched he would do himself a mischief and then proceeded to sob noisily throughout the meal. Then young Peregrine enlivened the scene by letting off a firework in the dining room that blasted a hole in the plaster of the ceiling. Bella shrieked with laughter but Angela simply shrieked and shrieked as the earl cuffed Peregrine and sent him to his room.
The earl threw down his napkin and made his escape. He decided to look in on Tom and make sure that young man was not up to any mischief.
Tom’s room was empty. A copy of a book entitled Famous Highwaymen lay face down on the floor, along with little bits of black velvet and a pair of scissors. The earl’s lips tightened. He went straight to the gunroom, where his worst fears were resolved. A long box that had held two duelling pistols lay open and empty on the table in the middle of the gun room.
He changed out of the evening dress which he always wore for dinner into his riding clothes, called for his horse, and set out into the night to rescue this infuriating half-brother who had obviously decided to turn highwayman.
The Honourable Clarissa Vevian was beginning to enjoy herself. The day had been quite dreadful, with Mama holding back the coach because Clarissa’s new wardrobe was not ready and then deciding that Clarissa should spend two nights at posting-houses on the road. She would be late arriving in London, one whole day late, but the viscountess was sure the Tribbles would understand.
As soon as the coach rolled out of Bath, Clarissa took out a small damp face cloth that she had wrapped in oilskin and vigorously scrubbed every bit of white lead paint from her face and then
threw the cloth out of the window.
‘Miss Clarissa,’ admonished her maid, Hubbard, sternly, ‘you know my lady does not like you to go out in the world unpainted.’
‘Well, Mama isn’t here to see it,’ said Clarissa cheerfully. And the fact that Mama would not be around to see anything for quite some time sent her spirits soaring. Clarissa adored her dainty mother, but Lady Clarendon crushed Clarissa’s spirits more than a less affectionate parent might have done. Lady Clarendon tried so hard to beautify her daughter, unfortunately choosing for her fashions that would have looked splendid on her own trim figure, but made her giantess of a daughter appear even more gauche. It was very lowering to the spirits, reflected Clarissa, to have a mother who was always so sadly disappointed in one. Now the maid, Hubbard, was fat and cross and dumpy and made Clarissa feel quite pretty in comparison. Of course these Tribbles might turn out to be fearfully elegant and might make her feel like a guy, but for the moment Clarissa was determined to enjoy what little liberty she had.
Her feet hurt, for Lady Clarendon had bought her daughter shoes too small for her in an attempt to make her large feet look smaller. Clarissa bent down and untied the ribbons and eased her feet out of them with a sigh and luxuriously wiggled her toes. Then she took a flat case out of her reticule, extracted a cheroot and a tinder-box and proceeded to try to light it.
‘Miss Clarissa,’ exclaimed Hubbard, ‘don’t you dare.’
‘Do be quiet, Hubbard, I’ve always wanted to try one.’
Clarissa succeeded in lighting the cheroot. She drew in a lungful of smoke and then fell about the carriage coughing and gasping.
The carriage lurched to a halt.
‘Stand and deliver!’ called a voice from outside.
‘Highwaymen!’ screamed Hubbard. ‘We’ll be killed dead.’
‘It can’t be highwaymen. Not on this road,’ said Clarissa.
Still holding the smouldering cheroot, she tugged at the strap and let down the glass and stuck her head out. It was a clear, starry night. There was a masked figure on top of a black horse, waving a pistol in a threatening way.
‘Step down from that carriage,’ called the highwayman, ‘and bring your jewels and money with you or I shall shoot your coachman.’