Rushed to the Altar

by Jane Feather

“What part of the country are you from?” He leaned forward, sweeping crumbs off the table with his glove, before resting his forearms on the surface. His black eyes looked closely at her, but there was nothing unfriendly or dangerous in the look, Clarissa decided.

  “Bedfordshire way,” she said with a shrug. “I came to make my fortune.” It seemed a reasonably vague explanation, one that could mean either any number of things or nothing at all. A throwaway comment. She laughed. “A fond hope, you might say.”

  “Not necessarily.” He paused as the tavern girl leaned over his shoulder to put a platter of opened oysters in the middle of the table, the pearly gray mollusks glistening against the opalescent shells. She put two pewter tankards of golden wine beside the platter and backed away.

  “Oysters are supposed to be an aphrodisiac,” Jasper remarked, slurping one from the shell, savoring the liquid as it slipped down his throat. “But of course you know that.” He reached for his tankard, drank deeply, watching his companion the whole time.

  Why would she know that? Clarissa wondered, taking an oyster from the platter. It certainly wasn’t a fact either her mother or her governess had felt necessary to impart. She sucked the oyster neatly from the shell with a flick of her tongue, and then took another. She paused with the shell held close to her lips, wondering why he was looking at her so closely, before flicking her tongue again and sucking the fishy morsel out of its shell.

  Jasper was momentarily mesmerized. It was the most audaciously seductive gesture, and if she was setting out to capture a wealthy client she was going about it in a very skilled fashion. But for some reason the seductiveness, which in another woman would have amused and enticed him, didn’t suit this one, and he realized that he did not like it one bit.

  “What’s the matter?” she demanded, setting down the empty shell and reaching for another. “Why’re you looking at me like that?”

  “Oh, don’t play the innocent with me.” He laughed with a touch of scorn and took another oyster. “I prefer my women to be straightforward, and my . . .” He hesitated, looking for the right word. “My arrangements . . . shall we say . . . to be equally so. A commodity is for sale, a price agreed, and all parties are satisfied.”

  Oh, sweet heaven, why in the world had she thought her response a clever way of dissipating curiosity? She’d come to make her fortune. How had she expected him to interpret that? It was time to bring an end to this charade; she was out of her league and just digging herself deeper and deeper into the cesspit.

  She spoke with quiet vehemence. “I’m sure your women are more than happy to satisfy your demands, sir. I, on the other hand, don’t come into that category and have absolutely no interest in them.” She pushed back her stool, preparing to get up, but his hand shot out, pinning her own hand to the table.

  “Just a minute, Clarissa. We both know what this is all about, so let’s not play games. Believe me, if you hope to increase your price with such artifice it won’t work. I don’t find it amusing or appealing.”

  Clarissa, incredulous, stared at him in silence. But her incredulity was directed more at herself and her own stupidity. Of course she should have expected a proposition on these lines. He’d found her wandering the Piazza among the whores; she had not exactly denied that she lived in one of the nunneries—well, in honesty that would be hard to deny, but the circumstances were so different. She had to extricate herself as quickly as possible.

  “Let me go, please.”

  He didn’t move his hand, merely said impatiently, “My dear girl, you came with me to discuss a proposition. I could only have meant one kind of proposition, so don’t pretend to be insulted.”

  Clarissa reached with her free hand for the tiny oyster fork and a second later the Earl of Blackwater, with a bellow of pain, brought his bleeding hand to his mouth. Clarissa was gone on the instant, her stool clattering to the floor with the violent speed of her exit.

  Jasper stared after her, then with an oath he jumped to his feet, nearly colliding with the tavern wench bearing a crusted bottle of burgundy and a venison pie. He paused long enough to throw a coin on the table, then pushed his way through the taproom and out onto the Piazza. He searched the crowd looking for the girl and thought he caught sight of her disappearing around the corner of the colonnade. He set off in pursuit, his long stride eating up the yards.

  He saw her as soon as he’d turned the corner from James Street. She was some way ahead and once paused to look back. He ducked behind a pillar and when she started off again, he followed, keeping his distance. He didn’t know why he was bothering with this girl; there were plenty like her in the city. But he’d never come across one with quite such an arresting countenance, he amended. And there was something about her spirit, a quickness of wit that would make her the ideal player in the charade. And he was piqued by her quixotic behavior. Why would she treat a potentially well-paying client with such discourtesy? He rubbed his throbbing hand, conscious of a vengeful impulse to get his own back. She’d deprived him of his burgundy and venison pie into the bargain.

  She had reached her destination. He stood in the doorway of a bagnio and watched as the girl disappeared into a discreet house on King Street. It was a nunnery run by one Mother Griffiths. A top-flight brothel catering to the highest class of client, certainly, but a house of ill repute nevertheless.

  So much for Mistress Clarissa’s protestations of innocence. Jasper smiled to himself. Whatever game she was playing, he could deal a better hand. He strolled across the street and lifted the brass knocker on the front door.

  Chapter Two

  Clarissa entered the square hallway and heard the steward close the door behind her with a little sigh of relief. She felt exhausted, as if she’d just run from a pack of hounds. She had made a big mistake, somehow believing that she could look after herself in this depraved and bewildering city. What on earth had made her think she could tangle with a man like the Earl of Blackwater? Enter some kind of bargain with him?

  Sounds of laughter, soft voices, and the faint strains of a pianoforte came from behind double doors leading off the hallway. Some of the girls must be entertaining already, although it was early in the day for their work to start. But most of them had regular clients whom they entertained with all the gracious hospitality of a lady of the manor. It was a very strange business, this matter of selling flesh.

  She made her way up the broad stairs to the wide second-floor landing, and then up a much narrower stair to the attic floor, where she had her own sanctuary, such as it was.

  It was a small chamber high under the eaves with a dormer window looking down onto King Street. It was a maid’s room, furnished simply enough with a cot against one wall, a rickety-legged dresser on which reposed a cracked basin and ewer, and a low chair by a small grate, empty now, but she would have to pay for coal once winter set in, pay for it and haul it up three flights of stairs from the basement coal cellar.

  But by the time winter came, she and Francis would be settled somewhere safe and secluded, far away from the city. Clarissa sat down on the cot to untie her kerchief and kick off her shoes. Really she should have been back on the streets searching for a more salubrious lodging, but her feet ached after her round-trip trek to Ludgate Hill, and for the moment she couldn’t summon up the energy. At least here she was alone and unthreatened, however inappropriate the environment.

  Clarissa had found her present garret just after her arrival in London by responding to an advertisement in one of the pamphlet shops in the Piazza. Of course, with hindsight she should have realized that rooms for rent in Covent Garden were intended for a particular type of lodger, one who was expected to pay her rent on her back. After this morning’s debacle, it seemed she still hadn’t learned the facts of Covent Garden life.

  Mother Griffiths, after her initial astonishment at being applied to by a young woman who was clearly not a prostitute, had laughed heartily and agreed to rent the garret if Clarissa paid the same as the working girls in the
house. Tired and alone in a city that scared her as much as it confused her, Clarissa had been comforted by her landlady’s friendly disposition and accepted the arrangement. But now she knew she couldn’t continue to stay there. She had already had several difficult encounters with stray clients on the stairs, and the prospect so unnerved her that she found it hard to garner the courage to leave her chamber in the evening.

  And now, like some naïve idiot, she had given the impression to a strange man that she was open to any proposition that would be acceptable to any of the usual inhabitants of the bagnios and nunneries lining the Piazza. Well, it had been a narrow escape and another lesson well learned. And she’d lost Luke into the bargain. Although she thought now that it was unlikely his destination in Covent Garden would have revealed anything about Francis’s whereabouts. Luke had had pleasure of some kind in mind; why else visit the Piazza?

  In the morning she would renew her watch on his house and hopefully she would have better luck then. Until then, there was a whole afternoon and evening to get through, listening to the squeals, the bangs, the creaking beds, the occasional cry, footsteps up and down the stairs, all the sounds of a lively brothel at night.

  She lay back on the cot, trying to ignore the fact that she was hungry. Two oysters didn’t go far and she could find it in her to regret missing not only the rest of the oysters but the venison pie and the burgundy. Maybe she should have pretended to listen to the earl and at least enjoyed a good meal in return. She closed her eyes.

  Was Francis hungry?

  All desire to sleep vanished and Clarissa sat up abruptly. How could she forget why she was here, even for a second? She was no closer to finding her little brother than she had been a week ago when she’d first arrived. And one thing that was becoming abundantly clear . . . she wasn’t going to find him without help. The city was such a heaving, confusing monster of a place, a maze of twisting lanes and alleys, strange dark courts filled with shadows, and everywhere people, all hurrying, noisy, and rough. Every corner seemed to hide some danger, some sinister threat, and each time she ventured forth, Clarissa had to steel herself.

  She got up from the cot and went to the leather chest that contained the few possessions she had brought with her to London. This was never intended to be an extended visit. Once she had Francis in safekeeping, she would shake the dust of this grim city from her heels and they would find a safe haven, somewhere where they could hide for the next ten months. Kneeling in front of the chest she lifted the lid and took out the letter. It was an ill-written, misspelled scrawl, but the message was clear enough. If only she could find the anonymous messenger . . .

  The steward who answered the Earl of Blackwater’s imperative knock at the door bowed deeply. “My lord. May I say what a pleasure it is to see you?”

  “You may.” The earl handed him his hat and cane as he strode into the hall. “Is Mistress Griffiths at home?”

  “Yes, my lord. I’ll tell her you’re here at once. Would you wait in the parlor?” The steward opened the door onto a small, pleasantly furnished chamber, where gentlemen callers were accustomed to await their ladies. The room was empty and Jasper walked across to the window, looking idly out into the street, his hands clasped loosely at his back.

  The door opened again in a very few minutes. “Why, my lord Blackwater, this is a rare pleasure indeed.” A woman in a billowing sacque gown of a startling shade of yellow, her hair piled high beneath the folds of an elaborate striped turban, closed the door behind her and regarded her visitor quizzically. “Dare I hope you are come to do business at my humble establishment, my lord?”

  Jasper turned from the window, a slight smile on his lips. He bowed. “Good afternoon, Nan.” He put up his glass and remarked, “You are in remarkably good looks, madam.”

  “Oh, flatterer.” She waved a hand at him. “I’m fagged to death if the truth be told. Will you take a glass of Madeira?”

  “With pleasure.” He took a seat in the corner of the sofa, regarding her still with that faint smile. Margaret Griffiths, known to her intimates as Nan, was a woman of a certain age whose heavily painted face did little to hide the ravages of a life lived at the edge of debauchery. Her gown was suited to a much younger woman and the bubbling swell of an overripe bosom lacked the pristine creaminess the deep décolletage was designed to show off. But no one would make the mistake of dismissing Mother Griffiths as a raddled old hag past her prime. She was one of the sharpest businesswomen in the city.

  He swung his quizzing glass idly back and forth as he asked, “So, talking of business, how is it these days?”

  “Oh, well enough, as always.” She handed him a glass and took a seat opposite. “There are always customers for the commodity I am selling, in good times and in bad.” She sipped her Madeira. “But you, Jasper, have not been one of them, at least not since you attained your majority.”

  Jasper smiled slightly. He was remembering his first visit to Mother Griffiths’s establishment at the age of sixteen, escorted by his uncle Bradley on one of the viscount’s rare returns to England from his business empire in India. Lord Bradley had been horrified to discover that his nephew was still a virgin and had set about repairing the omission with a dedicated enthusiasm. That, of course, had been quite some years before his lordship had decided to return to the fold of the Catholic church. And Jasper was still unconvinced of that particular conversion.

  “Yes, you did enjoy your visits then,” Mistress Griffiths said, reading his mind and the significance of the reminiscent smile. “What was her name, that young filly who took your heart? Meg . . . Mollie . . . Millie . . .”

  “Lucille.” Jasper corrected with a dry smile. “Lucy.”

  “Oh, yes, I remember.” She nodded. “Took your heart and broke it too, as I recall.”

  “I was a naïve simpleton.” Jasper shook his head. “It never occurred to me, foolish lad that I was, that a lady of the night couldn’t afford to let her emotions confuse the transaction.”

  “And you’ve avoided such ladies ever since, as I understand it.” She lifted an eyebrow.

  “I prefer these arrangements to be exclusive,” he agreed. “And that, my dear Nan, brings me to the point of this visit . . . not, of course, that your company alone isn’t incentive enough.”

  She laughed. “Such pretty words, m’dear; you always did have a smooth tongue, even as a stripling.” She reached for the decanter beside her and refilled their glasses. “So, to the point.”

  “I came across one of your young ladies in the Piazza a short while ago.”

  “Oh?” Her eyes narrowed. “I wasn’t aware anyone had left the house thus far today. For the most part they’re either still abed getting their beauty sleep or preparing themselves for the evening. Only Anna and Marianna are entertaining in the salon.”

  “This is a rather unusual young lady,” Jasper said slowly, taking a sip of his wine. “Rather plainly dressed, but far from a plain countenance. By the name of Clarissa, I believe.”

  Nan Griffiths’s face was abruptly swept clear of all expression, something Jasper remembered from the past. When it came to discussing and negotiating business, Nan Griffiths had the ability of the most gifted gamester to conceal her thoughts.

  “Clarissa,” she murmured. “Yes . . . very fresh . . . a newcomer . . . a country girl.”

  “So she said.”

  “You spoke with her at length?”

  “I tried to, but something I said offended her.” He glanced ruefully at his hand. An ugly bruise was developing around the two tiny pinpricks of the oyster fork. “I’m not sure whether it was what I said, or the manner in which I said it. Either way, she reacted somewhat vehemently. I had been intending to make her a proposition but she ran from me before I could begin. I followed her here.”

  “Did she . . . did she say she worked here?”

  He shook his head. “Not in so many words, but as I said I followed her. I saw her come in and assumed . . . unless . . .” He stopped, frowning
. “Is she in domestic service . . . a maidservant?”

  “No . . . no, not that.” Nan tapped her painted fingernails against the wooden arm of her chair. “You wished to make her a proposition . . . what kind of a proposition?”

  “I would prefer to make that directly to Clarissa,” he said. “Forgive me, Nan, but it’s a rather delicate matter. I would, of course, pay your usual commission.”

  “And her services would be exclusively yours.”

  He nodded. “Without question.”

  Nan rose to her feet. “If you’ll excuse me for a few minutes, Jasper.” She sailed from the room, her loose train flowing behind her. She went upstairs and into the small chamber that served as her office, closing the door firmly. She sat down at the secretaire and gazed into the middle distance. She had never turned down the opportunity to make money and she didn’t intend to turn down this one. But the girl in the garret was not one of her employees.

  Nan was well aware that that astonishing beauty compounded by a fresh-faced innocence would attract the very highest bidders. It was inevitable, of course, that she would lose the innocence, but there were plenty of sophisticated buyers who would then pay a small fortune for an experienced courtesan with that elegance of form and beauty of countenance. Mistress Clarissa could have a satisfactorily long career if she played her cards right. But Nan had sensed that the girl was not alone in the world, for all the vulnerability of her present position, and natural caution had kept her from attempting to persuade, or coerce, her into the harlot’s life until she had found out more about her.

  But this put a different complexion on things. Jasper St. John Sullivan, fifth Earl of Blackwater, was the kind of protector any girl would be lucky to have. He had no deviant appetites, unless he’d developed them in the last ten years, and he was known to honor his commitments. He would pay the procuress well, and the girl would be well looked after for the duration of whatever arrangement Jasper had in mind.