Aunt Helen waited at the top of the stairs, almost dancing in place. The artless little brunette wisps fallen from her upturned hair framed her delighted smile, and she held out her hands as Clara paused, three steps below. Surely Aunt Helen, with her superb taste, hadn’t presumed she’d accept that man?
“Our viscountess-to-be! My beautiful niece, I wish you joy.”
Inexplicable. But horribly true. “In regard to my fortunate escape, I’m sure.” The tart words tumbled forth without thought. But there was no recalling them and while it had been dreadful imagining Aunt Helen’s shock, seeing it only added a cold edge of satisfaction to Clara’s anger.
“You didn’t — you didn’t refuse him? Clara, how could you?”
“With relief and a smile, I assure you. Dear aunt, how could you imagine I’d agree to marry anyone so cold and arrogant?”
“But he is a viscount. The ways of the nobility are not like ours. Great wealth and vast landholdings, dating from generations long gone, give a titled man a sense of entitlement that you and I cannot understand. He would make an excellent husband for you.”
The anger broke her restraint, floodwaters rushing from a collapsing dam. “I am no entitlement. And Aunt Helen, could you marry without love?”
“Oh, Clara—” Aunt Helen tucked the fallen curls behind her ears. “Not that again. We’ve had this discussion over and over—”
“You will never convince me.”
“—and while it’s a wonderful, romantic notion to marry for love rather than for stability, fortune, or position, it’s simply not practical. You must have a husband—”
“An encumbrance I know only too well.”
“—and it will not be the Frenchman.”
That was a new voice, a masculine, booming one, coming from the stairs behind her. Clara whirled. Uncle David had approached to within two steps, and she hadn’t heard his footfall through her temper tantrum and their raised voices. His blue eyes, usually warm despite their cool deep color, now burned like chips of Arctic glacial ice.
“Uncle—”
“We are at war with France,” Uncle David said, “a fact you seem able to forget but which torments my every hour, waking or sleeping. Your father’s ships — your fading inheritance — are being taken, sunk, burned, destroyed, and your father’s sailors are dying and wasting away in Napoleon’s prison hulks.” He stepped closer, and while he wasn’t a tall man, in this tempestuous state he seemed twice as large as life, and she seemed smaller. “I will see you unmarried and disinherited before I allow you to wed a Frenchman.”
His declaration rang through the stairwell and entry. Aunt Helen stepped back, hand to her throat. Clara gripped the banister. He would not make her cry. And she would not allow him to win.
“Viscount Maynard has been so good as to accept my invitation to supper and cards.” Uncle David’s voice, while quieter, surrendered none of its authoritative ice. “We both agreed that not every immediate refusal equates to an absolute no.”
Again her knees threatened to deposit her, this time onto the white marble. And this time was far worse. She would not cry, no matter what he said.
“You will go to your room and consider the viscount’s proposal in greater depth.” He turned and clattered down the stairs, the tails of his claret-colored coat fluttering with each step.
No tears. And he would not win.
* * * *
Clara threw the inoffensive morning dress onto the floor and, in her shift, rang for fresh water. “Take that rag away, Nan, please.”
The maid picked up the muslin, nervous hands folding and refolding it. “Shall I have it cleaned, miss?”
“No. Throw it out. Give it to the poorhouse. Keep it for yourself. But get rid of it. I’ll never wear it again.”
Alone, she sponged the lingering stain of those hungering reptilian eyes from her skin, washing again and again until she finally felt clean. The cold way he’d leered at her, as if she were a broodmare at auction, mouth open to be checked! Clara shivered. Did that ugly, open sort of scrutiny best symbolize the marriage market? None of the gentlemen in her usual set, and certainly none of the Frenchmen she’d met during the too-short Amiens peace, had ever looked at her in such a lewd manner. It was not to be borne.
The marriage market. That was Diana Mallory’s term for it, this desperate seeking for a powerful, rich, fashionable husband, and Diana had seen enough of it in London to not complain when her parents moved her to Plymouth. So long as they returned to London for the season, of course. And oh, the horrifying stories she’d told; poor Harmony Barlow’s jaw had hung open like a fly trap. It had seemed so hilarious from that safe distance. Now, her giggles were quite gone.
Hands trembling still, Clara pulled on a clean shift — Nan could have the old one, as well as the dress — short stays that tied in front, and a petticoat. When she reached into the wardrobe, it wasn’t to her other morning gowns, on the left, but to the walking gowns, in the center. She crushed her favorite grey sarsnet to her bodice. Uncle David had told her to go to her room and think. He hadn’t told her to stay there. And she was finished thinking, at least as far as the viscount was concerned. Yes, she’d vanish for a while, until the household’s broiling emotions cooled and soothed. Too bad she couldn’t simply vanish and return, happily married to the perfect man, on the day before her nineteenth birthday, five months hence.
She tugged on the round dress, the colorless color of diffused shadows and trimmed with light dove crepe, added the matching bonnet, silk wrap, and kid gloves, grabbed her lace-making kit for luck, and snuck down the back stairs. The housekeeper and Nan bustled past in the hallway, gossiping in such low tones that all Clara could hear was her name; indeed the blasted woman had listened outside the drawing room door for quite long enough. Once the horizon was clear, Clara slipped out the back window, guilt and smug naughtiness fighting for dominance. She hurried across Ker Street in the face of an oncoming hackney coach and joined the pedestrian flow toward Plymouth Dock.
The fresh breeze tried to snatch her shawl away, billowing the silk behind her, and she tightened it about her arms. The bonnet’s brim shaded her eyes from the noonday light, but welcome summer warmth reached her face when she tilted up her chin. Behind her, the assembly hall and shops tempted, a promising source of news and fun. Perhaps the latest fashion plates had arrived from Paris, and if so, Harmony and Diana would have something droll to say about them. But it was likely the viscount had discussed his intended marriage with his friend, Colonel Durbin, who would of course tell Mrs. Durbin, which meant Miss Dersingham and therefore everyone else in town knew about it, too. Better to avoid the popular places until she felt more capable of speaking rationally on the subject; Harmony and Diana would consider her scrape just as worthy of their wit. While there was a ridiculous side to the affair, she wasn't yet prepared to discuss it.
It was impossible to think on private woes while walking a public street. She hurried on, determinedly keeping her mind and features a composed, sociable blank. As she neared the Dock, the ocean’s scent counterbalanced the horses and coal-smoke. The houses crowded together and the streets narrowed. But before respectability deteriorated too far, a mews opened to the side. Clara ducked inside, away from the lane. Halfway down the long, low building stood a faded yellow door, locked, of course. But Paul, Papa’s stable boy, had taught Harmony and her how to open it during their long-ago hoyden days. A shake of her wrist while turning, one hard push, and the door clacked open in defeat.
Inside was dark as the darkest night, quieter than the streets, and the slice of brilliant sunshine cutting through the open door revealed dust cloth-covered lumps — long sofas and loungers, high-backed, old-fashioned wingchairs, stubby little tables for teas long gone. She and Paul used to peer beneath the white sheets at the fine old furniture, giggling and sneezing as dust flew about them, Harmony worrying her fingernails and hanging on her heel in the doorjamb, ready to run at the first hint of trouble and adamant no dus
t would touch her white gossamer gown. No one had ever come near, though.
They’d had so much fun together. But then Papa had died, all the horses but two had been sold, Paul had been let go, Harmony had convinced her to turn up her hair and attend to fashion, and high-society Diana had taken Paul’s place in their little trio. When Uncle David had written Paul’s reference, he’d printed finis to her childhood.
Without her consent, tears blurred the mounded shapes around her. She left the door on the latch for what little light it offered and slipped through the silent aisles, her wrap catching on a dressing table and raising dust that tickled her nose toward a sneeze. In the nearest corner, a large, cone-shaped bundle hung from the rafter, covered from hook to bottom with aged canvas and bound with cleverly knotted ropes. Clara slid beneath the canvas’s folded and stitched edge, twisted beneath the binding — tighter than it used to be, or was she larger? She squeezed inside anyway. Beneath the covering, rippling softness slid across her cheek and clavicle, and she settled cross-legged within the hanging chair’s satin draperies. Here, in her secret place, gently rocking, away from everyone, with no sights or stray sounds to distract her, finally she could think.
Why, why had Papa written that odious clause into his will? She wanted his money, of course she did — it was her inheritance by birthright. But she would only inherit if she married before her nineteenth birthday, less than half a year away, and that meant she had to marry with Uncle David’s permission and approval. Her time was running out. And the only man she’d ever want to marry was so far out of her reach, he might as well be dead.
Sobs broke through and she crumpled her handkerchief to her face. Phillippe. Captain Phillippe Levasseur, beyond elegant in his pristine white breeches and blue uniform coat trimmed with bullion and lace. Those careless auburn locks, cut short in the modern Brutus manner, had cascaded over his smooth-cream forehead and his commanding dark eyes had never left hers as he bowed over her hand when Diana’s older brother introduced them in the assembly room. She’d been weak-kneed then, oh, indeed. If he’d commanded her to wed him at that moment, she’d have taken his arm without hesitation.
Everyone in her set knew he was perfect, had said so time and again. He’d danced the first six with her at the Mallorys’ ball, setting tongues wagging throughout the three towns, and Uncle David had scolded her for the imprudence. Phillippe had taken to calling on the Barlows every Tuesday, when he knew she’d be there, too, and they hadn’t been able to claim their meetings at the assembly room were accidental for long. Of course his political views were odd, republican and democratic and so on, but surely his charm and delightful manners made up for all that. And the possibilities once she owned a chateau and vineyard in France!
But the peace had collapsed more than a year ago. She’d heard nothing, nothing from him since then. Fashion plates could cross from France, Royal Society fellows traveled back and forth as they pleased. But the tear-stained notes she wrote him could only be burned.
How could an odious viscount, or even a duke, compare with perfection? And how could Uncle David expect her to marry that brute? Uncle David had been so kind when he’d first arrived in Plymouth to care for her, sitting quietly in the music room while she’d poured out her heart through the harp and pianoforte. He’d told her stories of Papa’s years at sea, during the American war and the early days of the revolution in France. But he’d grown quieter during the brief year of peace and as she’d neared her penultimate birthday, he’d set himself to select her husband. As if he couldn’t wait to be shot of her. And as if she couldn’t be trusted to select her own husband perfectly well.
She wiped her eyes and fought the tears. Viscount Maynard was out of the question. But she did need a husband. She could pray for peace, final, blessed peace, and wait for Phillippe. But if peace took too much time, she’d lose Papa’s home, the rooms where they’d played and watched ships in the harbor, everything he’d intended for her.
Or she could marry someone less than perfect.
Hinges creaked, not nearby. A hollow boom echoed in the warehouse’s cavern. Clara gasped. Even her tears froze as footsteps approached. No one had ever interrupted before, in all the years she’d visited the warehouse. It almost seemed a sign.
“Right, that one there.” The Cheapside voice made no pretension toward being anything but mercantile. “And these. They’re to go to the Topaze, out in the Sound. Oh, and that hanging thing. Be careful with it, clumsy Joe.”
The chair swung, rocked, rocked again, jolted up and back. Clara grabbed the wooden frame, her heart pounding so loudly it seemed impossible they didn’t hear it.
“Heavier than it looks, mate.”
And then the hanging chair floated free, the unseen footsteps’ owners carrying it — and her — away.
It would be humiliating, but she had to say something before she wound up on board a ship. She opened her mouth.
No sound emerged. Her voice refused. She closed her mouth, rolling her lips together.
A ship. A ship could take her anywhere. Including France. Across the seven seas, in search of her perfect Phillippe.
She could vanish for more than a few hours, indeed for as long as it took. She could find him, marry him, bring him home to Uncle David, a fait accompli.
Uncle David. Aunt Helen. They’d worry when she vanished, when they discovered she was gone. It would serve them right. How could they imagine they knew what was best for her when they refused to even consider her wishes?
It was a wild, a desperate gamble. But her situation was dire.
And she wouldn’t have to see the viscount again.
Simply as that, she had a third option.
Another great read from Vivian Roycroft:
Chapter One
Tuesday, December 8, 1812
The Fleet Street crowd thinned ahead, beside the windowed front of the linen draper’s shop, and there stood sweet Dorcas, one of the most delectable morsels he’d ever chewed. A stray beam of unexpected winter sunlight flashed off her golden curls, and the sudden blaze reflected, sharp and multiplied, in the many little diamond panes of the window beyond. Her gaze meshed with his through the crowd, that split-second, undeniable flash of recognition as bright as her hair in the sunshine. Her equally brilliant smile flashed a moment later.
An indiscreet moment later, to judge by the scowl of her new husband beside her.
And of course their swift, smiling recognition had been spotted. Dear Lady Gower’s hawk-like eyes, glittering beneath an admittedly outré bonnet, glanced back and forth between them from her perch aboard her high-flyer phaeton. When her glance swiveled his way once more, he kissed his hand to her and gave the twice-widowed and adorable predator his most seductive smile. The matched greys smacked the phaeton’s front wheel against the sidewalk’s edge before she returned to her own affairs.
And of course, by then the new husband had whisked sweet Dorcas beyond the Temple Bar. She might be a merchant’s wife now — since March, that was, and her new husband was no longer all that new — but as a former Wentworth-Gower, she was too well-bred to glance over her shoulder at another man while leaning on her husband’s arm, and her fading presence plunged the street again into a dull winter’s day. Ernst Anton Oldenburg, His Grace, the Duke of Cumberland sighed, but didn’t bother to hide his satisfied smile. Dorcas, now Mrs. Robinson, looked lovelier than ever, with her hand resting unconsciously on her almost-done belly, her complexion positively glowing, and Mr. Robinson glowering over her shoulder.
Well, he’d done what he’d intended for her. His Grace could honestly say, he’d made sweet Dorcas’ dream come true.
Leaving him free for a new adventure.
Who sat with her mother in the coffee house across the way.
In the table behind the window, the Honorable Anne Elizabeth Henrietta Kirkhoven, youngest daughter of Baron Wotton of Boughton Malherbe, Kent, sat straight as a sword blade over her cup. Her deliciously delicate face wore the most perfect
rose-hued flesh and her eyes were downcast, but her Cupid’s-bow mouth curved in a smile both demure and knowing. Beside her, Lady Wotton chattered away in the superior manner some still-beautiful matrons claimed as a birthright. As well they should, of course, as much as their daughters’ mischievous innocence allowed.
And yes, there in the deepest shadows of the room’s corner, lurking out of Lady Wotton’s sight, sat the young solicitor the daughter admired and the mother scorned.
Time to play.
His Grace slipped across Fleet Street between carriages — none would dare strike him, of course — and before he could reach for the latch, a footman appeared out of nowhere, bowed, and opened the door for him.
Neither the largest nor fanciest coffee house in the vicinity, this one retained its popularity amongst a certain set less from the quality of the conversation and more from the strength of the brew, as it was invariably provided. Certainly the frilly yellow curtains and unexceptional furniture contributed little to that popularity. But perhaps the owners’ lovely daughters had sewn those curtains; for that reason alone, His Grace would be the last man on Fleet Street to criticize the décor.
As he stepped inside, a hush fell over the clientele, conversational voices fading away to silence before the usual murmuring whispers rustled all around. When he’d first arrived in London, such whispers had disturbed his equanimity; now he accepted them as very much his due. He’d worked hard for his reputation, and with it finally, properly conferred, he intended to enjoy it.
And let the mothers hide their daughters if they didn’t.
Vivian Roycroft Page 12
