by Jane Feather
The earl was interested only in the charade that would bring him his uncle’s fortune. He had no interest in who or what she really was. As long as she fulfilled her side of the bargain, he would be satisfied. How hard would it be for her to play that part?
But there was a snag of course. What else would he expect? Would he expect her really to play the part of his mistress? He believed her a whore; why wouldn’t he expect her to service him in the same way? He’d said he would pay Mistress Griffiths for an exclusive contract, and of course he would expect some of the benefits of such a contract. Of course he would. What red-blooded male would not?
Clarissa sipped her wine and gazed into the fire. How could she legitimately and rationally refuse to give him her body when he’d paid for its exclusive use?
She couldn’t tell him she was a virgin because then she would no longer suit his purposes. He needed a fallen woman. And Clarissa Astley had fallen nowhere. Oh, she’d exchanged a kiss or two with the sons of local gentry under the mistletoe at Christmas. And there had been one particular summer, hot and sultry, when she had imagined herself head over heels in love with a university friend of a neighboring squire’s son. They had indulged in some moments of what had seemed like a grand and illicit passion, but it had not gone beyond intimate fumbling and inexpert kisses.
Maybe to start with she could come up with an excuse for delaying consummation. Perhaps the earl would be sympathetic to the idea that she would like some respite from selling her body. Maybe he would agree that she needed to concentrate on the part he would have her play and understand that the sex would be a distraction.
She was clutching at straws, Clarissa decided. But what else did she have to clutch at? She could start by trying to set her own rules. She would agree to the charade, but to nothing more intimate. If he was as anxious to have her play the part as he appeared, maybe he would be willing to agree. He hadn’t after all expressed any physical interest in her thus far.
It was worth a try. And it was comforting to have a plan at least, something that offered a glow of light in the darkness. Clarissa put more coals on the fire and went to bed, where she lay in the dark, listening to the faint sounds from the Piazza and watching the comforting flicker of the fire.
Five miles away in a house in Bethnal Green, Francis Astley coughed miserably, shivering under the thin blanket that reeked of urine and vomit. All around him he heard coughs, the moans of the very small children, the cries of the babies. Every now and again the woman, or one of her girls, would come in and pour spoons of clear liquid from the brown bottle down the throats of the little ones and the babies, and they would stop their cries and moans. Francis always hurled the spoon away. The liquid tasted foul and smelled even worse. At first they had hit him, and tried to hold his head to force the stuff down his throat, but he’d kicked and bitten and finally they’d left him alone. So he coughed and tossed on the straw mattress, and tried not to think of food. The thin porridge twice a day did nothing to assuage his appetite, and the occasional crust of bread made little difference. He couldn’t understand how he had ended up in this approximation of hell. And he couldn’t understand why Clarissa hadn’t come for him yet.
But that was only when he was feeling feverish and so miserable he couldn’t think clearly. In his lucid moments he knew perfectly well that his uncle Luke was keeping Clarissa from him, but eventually she would find him. This conviction buoyed him through the bad times, even if his misery was so overwhelming at those times that he couldn’t acknowledge it.
Chapter Four
It was midmorning the next day when someone knocked on the door to Clarissa’s bedchamber. It was such an unexpected sound that she jumped. Her landlady yesterday had been her first visitor since she’d taken up residence there. “Who is it? Come in.”
The door opened to reveal two young women in lacy dishabille standing on the threshold. “You should be up and dressed by now,” one of them said, shaking her head at the sight of Clarissa, still in her shift and night robe, perched on the edge of the bed.
Clarissa realized that she’d been sitting in the same place unmoving for what seemed hours. She’d awoken before dawn and managed to rekindle the embers in the grate, after which she’d sat on the bed and stared numbly into the fire. For some reason, she’d been unable to summon either the will or the energy to do more than feed the fire. All her resolution of the previous evening had vanished with the first light of dawn and getting dressed had seemed impossible.
“Probably I should be,” she returned. “I don’t mean to be rude, but why should it matter to you?”
“It doesn’t,” the second one said cheerfully. “But Mother Griffiths sent us up to see how you’re doing. She’s sent you up a gown. She wants you to wear it when his lordship comes.” She stepped into the room and laid a gown of sprigged muslin on the bed. “Pretty, isn’t it?”
Clarissa stared at it. “Where did it come from? I have clothes of my own; I don’t need this.”
“Well, Mother said you don’t have much in your armoire, and this’ll suit you when you meet with his lordship.” The girl grinned. “She always likes us to dress up for a contract. Lucky you, snagging Blackwater. He’s one big catch, isn’t he, Em?”
“That he is,” her friend said.
It seemed the entire house knew of it, Clarissa thought. She’d never been introduced to any of the other inhabitants, indeed had barely seen them except occasionally as figures disappearing through a door in a silken rustle. Now it seemed they were ready to embrace her as one of their own.
“Let’s see what we can do with your hair.” Em had a pair of curling tongs in her hand. “Fetch the hairbrush over here, Maddy.”
“No.” Clarissa recoiled as the two approached the bed. “I don’t even think I’m going to meet with the earl.”
Her visitors stopped in their tracks. “Lord, you must be daft in the head. You can’t say no to Mother Griffiths.”
“I most certainly can.” Clarissa stood up. “And while I appreciate the offer, Em . . . Emma . . . Emily . . . ? I can also dress myself in my own clothes.”
“It’s Emily,” the girl said. “What’s yours?”
“Clarissa.”
“Clarissa.” Emily nodded. “Is that your real name, or one you use for the business?”
“How long have you been in the business?” Maddy chimed in.
“I’m not in the business and never have been.” Clarissa could hear a note of desperation in her voice.
Disconcertingly they both laughed. “Oh, we all say that at first,” Emily said. “We all think, It’s only for a week, it’s only to get over this rough spot, but then you realize you’ve been at it for months and it’s really not so bad after all. This is a good house. We’re looked after, no rough stuff unless you’re willing.”
“And Mother Griffiths will only have the best class of client through her door,” Maddy added. “And when she negotiates a contract, it’s always fair. We get our fair share. She keeps a good table, plenty of good wine, and there’s regular health inspections, so if you get a dose of the clap you take the physic and don’t have to work until the physician says you’re clean.”
“ ’Tis nice to have a rest once in a while,” Emily chimed in. “We none of us mind that bit, do we, Maddy?”
Clarissa was torn between fascination at this insight into a world she knew next to nothing about and revulsion at the idea that as far as these two women were concerned she was as much a part of it as they were.
She was about to put them right in no uncertain terms, then stopped, swallowing the hot denial as it came to her lips. If she wanted the earl’s protection he had to believe she was a harlot. Which meant that everyone must believe it. Walls had ears after all.
“I’ll wear my bronze muslin,” she stated. She was not going to wear a gown that came from God knows where. And she was not going to be beholden to Mistress Griffiths in any way. It seemed, however, as if her earlier paralysis had dissipated. She we
nt to the armoire and drew out the gown, laying it on the bed.
“Oh, the sprig muslin’s much prettier,” Emily said, tilting her head as she compared the two. “This is rather prim, don’t you think, Maddy?”
It was true that the neckline of the sprig muslin was much lower than Clarissa’s own gown, but there wasn’t much call for daring décolletage in the country. “That may be, but it’s mine and I intend to wear it.” She cast aside her night robe and stepped into the bronze muslin, lacing the bodice. “Thank you for the offer, but I truly don’t need your help. I’ve been dressing myself since I was five years old.”
They both looked disconcerted. “We always help each other when it’s an important meeting,” Maddy said. “We’re all in this together, Clarissa. You’ll realize soon enough that you need friends.”
“Oh, leave her be if she’s too good for us.” Emily walked to the door.
“No . . . no, forgive me.” Clarissa spoke in a rush, realizing abruptly how much she did need friends in this strange world and how ungracious she had been. “I am truly grateful for your help. This is all new to me, and I really don’t know what to expect.”
“You really are new to the business?” Emily looked astonished. “How could you have attracted Blackwater if you haven’t been around?”
“An accident.” Clarissa improvised quickly. “I was hoping to find some custom in the Piazza because Mother Griffiths had said I could have the room but none of the house services until I could pay her a proper rent. I needed to find some regular customers of my own. And then . . . well, while I was walking I suppose I took the earl’s eye, because he followed me back here and made an offer for me.”
She was astonished at how easily the story tripped off her tongue. And she could see that it had satisfied her visitors.
“Oh, that’s all right.” Maddy put a reassuring arm around her. “We all know what it’s like at first. But you struck lucky first time, so let Em do your hair. She’s a magician with the curling iron. Your hair’s a gorgeous color, but it needs a touch of curl, don’t you think, Em?”
Emily was already heating the curling iron in the fire’s glowing embers. Clarissa had often wondered how she would look with curled hair; now might be the time to find out. She sat back on the bed. The faint smell of singeing hair perfumed the air while Emily worked, but after a few moments she stood back and declared, “There now. Lovely, isn’t it, Maddy?”
“Beautiful,” Maddy agreed. “Are you sure you won’t wear the sprigged muslin, Clarissa? Those ringlets would look lovely drifting over your shoulders. They’d draw the eye to your boobies just perfect.”
Clarissa was about to protest that drawing the eye to her rather insignificant bosom had never been the primary purpose of her wardrobe choices, but then reflected that since she was playing this charade, she should probably make it as authentic as possible. “I’ll try it,” she conceded, unlacing her bodice.
The sprig muslin was unlike any gown she possessed. It was laced at the back, and by the time Maddy had tugged and tied until Clarissa could barely breathe it fitted like a glove. She looked down at the pronounced swell of her breasts over the lace edging to the neckline, if, indeed, you could call it a neckline; it was so low it barely concealed her nipples. She felt almost naked. Her breasts were quite small, but in this gown they seemed the most prominent aspect of her appearance.
“I don’t know,” she muttered doubtfully. “I don’t feel like myself.”
“You’re not supposed to. Wait here.” Maddy disappeared and reappeared in a few moments with a mirror of beaten copper. “Now look, see the ringlets against your skin . . . it’s so white.”
Clarissa looked. She thought she could get accustomed to the ringlets—they did frame her face in an attractive manner—but she was not happy with the expanse of flesh exposed by the gown. She shook her head firmly. “No, the hair’s nice, but not the gown. I’ll wear my own.” She reached behind to struggle with the laces.
“I think it’s a mistake, but if you insist . . .” Doubtfully Emily helped her loosen the bodice and Clarissa stepped out of the gown with a sigh of relief. She stepped into the bronze muslin again, laced it up, then looked at her reflection in the copper mirror.
“That’s better; I least I can recognize myself. But thank you.” She smiled at the two young women. “I do appreciate your help.”
“We’ll see you later then.” Maddy gathered up the rejected gown, smoothing it over her arm with a rather regretful air. “I expect the earl will buy you an entire wardrobe of gorgeous gowns.”
“And jewels too,” Emily put in as she went to the door.
“Yes, but once he’s tired of you, he’ll want those back,” Maddy declared matter-of-factly. “So enjoy them while you have them.” The sound of their footsteps on the stairs receded and quiet once more descended upon the attic.
But not for long. Mother Griffiths bustled in a few minutes later looking distinctly annoyed. “Why wouldn’t you wear the gown?”
“It’s not mine,” Clarissa said simply. “And it didn’t suit me. I prefer to wear my own clothes.”
The woman raised her eyebrows and examined Clarissa’s appearance with disapproval. “That gown’s all very well for a vicarage tea party, but it won’t attract a man’s interest.”
“I think I’ve already done that,” Clarissa returned.
Mother Griffiths frowned. Then her eyes narrowed, her expression sharpened. “So, how will you answer his lordship? I’ll tell you now, you’d be a fool to turn down such a proposition.”
“I won’t turn him down.”
Nan’s expression relaxed. “Now that’s a sensible girl. But in that case I really think you should dress to please him.”
“The earl didn’t express any objections to the gown I was wearing yesterday,” Clarissa pointed out. “Maybe he was in the mood for something different.”
“I suppose it’s possible. Men do take some strange fancies on occasion. Well, if he’s in the mood for a little virginal innocence, I’m sure you can supply it, my dear. Maybe his lordship fancies a little schoolroom play; they do sometimes.” She nodded her head. “Just play it by ear, dear, and give him what he wants. The earl is one of the easy ones to please. He won’t make any unpleasant demands.”
“I’m relieved,” Clarissa murmured. Once again she felt as if she were living in someone else’s world. What she was doing was ridiculous, and yet it wasn’t. If she was to protect Francis in this vast city she needed more resources than she alone possessed. If the earl should question the sudden appearance of a small boy in the house occupied by his mistress, she could concoct some story about a lost child, a stolen child, that would wring the heart of the most hardened individual.
In fact, it could be her own child. Now that would really tug the heartstrings. And the existence of an illegitimate baby would make her whoredom even more convincing. It would provide the perfect excuse for her arrival in London, and it would sail close enough to the truth to make her deception all the easier to carry off. But that wouldn’t work, of course, since she couldn’t possibly have a ten-year-old child; however, she could come up with something along those lines.
“Come down now. You should wait for his lordship in the parlor.” Nan went to the door. “You’ll leave the contract negotiations to me. There’ll be no need for you to say anything, and his lordship won’t expect you to.”
She had plenty to say, Clarissa reflected, following her landlady downstairs, but she would bide her time; no point antagonizing Mother Griffiths at this point.
“Now, there’s sherry and Madeira; his lordship is partial to both.” As they entered the parlor, Nan indicated the decanters on the sideboard. “And some savory tarts. You will offer the hospitality of the house while I deal with the business side of the matter. And then once everything’s settled I’ll leave you to his lordship. He’ll tell you then what he wants of you.”
Clarissa murmured something vaguely appropriate and went to the long
windows that looked out onto the street. After the night’s boisterousness King Street was quiet, deserted except for a beggar limping alongside the kennel turning over garbage with his stick. A mangy dog rushed at him, barking, before snatching up a piece of rotting meat and disappearing into an alley.
A slatternly woman emerged from a doorway pushing down her skirts and a man stepped out behind her, fastening his britches. The woman dropped a coin into her bodice and without exchanging a word, she turned up the street and he turned down it towards the Great Piazza.
Clarissa suppressed a shudder. Then she stiffened. A familiar figure was strolling towards the house swinging a silver-knobbed cane. For a moment she reveled in the indulgence of the unseen watcher. She could take in his appearance now without distraction, and it was an appearance every bit as attractive as she remembered. In fact, even more so. Everything about him bespoke wealth and privilege, from the green striped silk of his knee britches and full-skirted coat to the gold edging on his black tricorne hat. But despite the elegance of his clothes, and the leisurely fashion in which he strolled down the street, everything about the Earl of Blackwater, about his physique and his manner, warned that this was not a man to tangle with. His free hand rested on his sword hilt; his posture was alert, his eyes sharp and quick, missing nothing. She hadn’t noticed before quite how powerful his shoulders were, but the close-fitting coat set them off to perfection, as plain dark stockings did for a pair of well-muscled calves.
A little frisson of excitement crept up Clarissa’s spine. She turned from the window, saying calmly, “His lordship is coming down the street, madam.”
“Good, punctual as always. Stay here, I will greet him in the hall.” Nan examined her reflection in the mirror above the fireplace, deftly pinched her cheeks to produce some color, and ran a dampened fingertip over her eyebrows before hurrying from the room.
