Rushed to the Altar

by Jane Feather

  “Yes, my lord” came the mumbled response.

  “Father Cosgrove, for his sins, is hearing my life’s confession,” the old man informed Clarissa with a wickedly beatific smile. “Not only is he hearing it, but he is writing it down for posterity. If such an account of one man’s wicked ways can serve to deter another after him, then my work is well done. Isn’t that so, Father Cosgrove?”

  “If God so wills it, my lord.”

  “Bring the book here, man. I would take a look at the last chapter.”

  The priest returned to the fireside carrying a bound sheaf of papers. He laid them on the arm of the old man’s chair. “If you have no further need of me at the moment, my lord, I will go to my devotions now.”

  “Send my nephew in to me.” The viscount sat up straighter and took the papers onto his lap. “Put a rug around my shoulders, my dear, over there on the chair. I’ve no desire to contract a quinsy.” He patted the papers in his lap and chuckled. “Father Cosgrove finds my confessions require that he go frequently to his devotions to cleanse his soul from the taint of debauchery.”

  Clarissa wondered why the old man took such malicious delight in discomfiting the priest when, judging by the rosary on the table beside him, he belonged to the same church. She fetched the fur-trimmed rug from the chair and arranged it over the old man’s shoulders. He reached up to adjust it, a massive ruby carbuncle glowing in the candlelight against the slender white fingers. A thick gold signet ring adorned his other hand.

  Jasper came into the chamber, closing the doors behind him. “You wanted me, sir?”

  “Aye, I wish to talk to you alone. Send the whore into the antechamber.”

  Clarissa’s nostrils flared at the sudden hostility in the old man’s voice. A moment earlier he had been laughing with her, paying her compliments, and now he was dismissing her as if she were a piece of flotsam in the kennel. She rose to her feet and without so much as a glance in the viscount’s direction stalked from the chamber before Jasper could reach the door to open it for her.

  “Was that necessary, sir?” Jasper asked, his voice even but his eyes glittering with anger.

  “Hardly necessary, dear boy, but what does it matter? The woman’s a whore, a gold digger. Prettier than most, I grant you. You’re a meal ticket as far as she’s concerned. Why did you bring her to me? You don’t ordinarily parade your whores for my inspection.”

  “I had thought to make Mistress Ordway my project for conversion, sir.” Jasper took a deep chair with earpieces on the opposite side of the hearth. He crossed his legs and regarded his uncle with a sardonic smile. “Unless, of course, you don’t consider her suitable.”

  The viscount chuckled. “A whore is a whore, and if she’s under Mother Griffiths’s protection then that’s what she is. Let’s see if you can persuade society that a whore can see the error of her ways and become a model of Christian propriety and a devoted wife.” He shook his head. “You’ll have your work cut out for you. I’ve met many a fallen woman in my time, and none have managed to get up from the gutter for long; the life gets into their blood, they don’t understand honest emotion, they’re always looking for a trick of some kind.”

  He began to riffle through the papers in his lap. “There’s many an example in here, all the beautiful women who’ve crossed my path; some even lingered awhile, but they all proved faithless in the end.”

  He looked up and across at his nephew with a malicious gleam in his old eyes. “You know what I have here? My life story, my life’s confession. By the grace of God and Father Cosgrove I shall go to my death when the time comes well shriven.” His laugh was a cackle that turned into a violent fit of coughing. He struggled to catch his breath, the papers falling in a shower to his feet. Jasper hurried to him, ringing the handbell on the table beside his uncle before helping him to sit forward.

  A liveried servant came into the room. “I’ll take care of his lordship now, my lord.” He carried a brown apothecary’s bottle and poured a dose into a small cup, holding it to the viscount’s lips. “Swallow this, sir. You know it’ll help.”

  “Foul muck, it’ll poison me more like,” the old man gasped through a spasm, but he swallowed the mixture and after a moment it seemed to bring him ease. He fell back in his chair with a sigh and closed his eyes.

  Jasper remained for a few moments, then, thinking his uncle asleep, he bent to pick up the scattered papers, trying to put them in order. As he did so, a passage caught his eye and he read on, turning the pages slowly, his eye scanning the lines. He forgot for a moment where he was, so absorbed was he in his reading, and then, after a minute, he looked up.

  His uncle was watching him, a knowing gleam in his eye. “Makes titillating reading, don’t you think, Nephew?”

  “I’m not sure that’s the word I would use, sir.” Jasper put the papers together and placed them carefully on the table. “But I can find it in me to feel pity for Father Cosgrove.” He bowed and moved to the door. “I’ll leave you to your rest.”

  Chapter Six

  Clarissa was pacing the antechamber, still struggling to regain her composure. She couldn’t imagine what had caused that insulting volte-face and she wanted only to shake the dust of this ornate palace from her shoes and have nothing more to do with either the house or its vile owner.

  She had almost made up her mind to walk out and find her own way back to King Street when the sound of voices from the gallery outside gave her pause. She stopped pacing and listened. Men’s voices, cheerful and interspersed with laughter, were drawing closer. Instinctively she moved into a far corner of the room, half-concealed behind an easel-mounted painting of a black-eyed, dark-skinned odalisque.

  The door opened and two young men entered, flaxen haired, blue eyed, tall and slender, almost impossible to tell apart except for their clothes. One was dressed in a flamboyant suit of crimson and gold lace, his tight-fitting striped waistcoat a riot of scarlet satin; jewels sparkled off the heels and buckles of his shoes, and he carried a tricorne hat sporting a magnificent ostrich plume. The other was more soberly clad in a suit of plain dark blue, with a cream-colored waistcoat; both buckles and heels of his shoes were as unadorned as his hat.

  “So, do you think Jasper’s started on his rush to the altar yet, Perry?” the flamboyant one asked, going to a sideboard on the far side of the chamber away from Clarissa and examining the decanters through his quizzing glass. “Lord, you’d think the old man could run to a decent port or cognac once in a while, wouldn’t you? Nothing here but sherry.”

  “I suspect he keeps the decent stuff for himself. I haven’t seen Jasper for a couple of weeks; who knows what he’s doing? But I’d lay odds he’s not letting the grass grow.” The speaker wandered over to the fireplace, kicking at a falling log. “You know our esteemed brother, Seb.”

  “Jasper’s all right,” Sebastian said. “He’s always stood by us.”

  His twin raised his hands in a defensive gesture. “I never implied otherwise. He’s a great gun. Oh, thank you.” He took the glass of sherry his brother handed him. “Might as well fortify ourselves before we enter the den. How’s your search progressing?”

  Sebastian’s smile tried to be secretive. “Oh, little by little,” he said vaguely, but his brother was not fooled.

  “Come, Seb, tell. You can’t pull the wool over my eyes. Where have you found your sow’s ear?”

  “I’m not ready to divulge that yet, brother.” Sebastian grinned. “But unless I’m much mistaken, this sow’s ear will make a most elegant silk purse.”

  Clarissa looked desperately for a way to get out of the chamber without these two, clearly Jasper’s twin brothers, knowing she had been eavesdropping. If only she’d had the sense she was born with and stayed clearly visible. If she’d been wearing her own clothes, it would never have occurred to her to hide. Perhaps she could sidle behind the easel and along the paneled walls to the door, keeping in the shadows. There were so many objects in the room, maybe a flicker of movement wo
uldn’t be noticed.

  And then the door from the viscount’s chamber opened and Jasper came out. “Seb, Perry, how are you?” He greeted his brothers without much surprise. “You’ve timed a visit to the old man rather poorly, I’m afraid. He’s in one of his worst moods, irascible and ready to insult anything that moves. Talking of which . . .” He looked in puzzlement around the antechamber. “Where . . . ? Oh, there you are. Why are you hiding behind an odalisque?”

  “I wasn’t hiding.” Clarissa denied it with as much dignity as she could muster as she emerged. “I was looking at the paintings.”

  The twin brothers were looking at her in ill-concealed amazement, then Peregrine came to his senses and bowed. “Madam, forgive us, we were not aware of your presence, otherwise we would have introduced ourselves. Peregrine Sullivan at your service.”

  Clarissa curtsied, remembering just in time her adopted name. “Clarissa Ordway, sir.”

  Sebastian moved forward, offered a bow. “Sebastian Sullivan at your service, Mistress Ordway.”

  She curtsied again. “Sir.” The ritual was so comfortingly familiar that for a moment she forgot her appearance, but then Sebastian’s fascinated gaze fixed upon her bosom brought it back to mind with unpleasant reality. She looked at Jasper. “Are we ready to leave, my lord?”

  “Certainly,” he said pleasantly. “If you would go down to the hall, I will join you in a few minutes.” He held open the door and Clarissa took her cue and left, hearing the door close quietly behind her.

  Jasper turned back to his brothers. “So, my dears, questions?”

  “Where did you find her, Jasper?” Sebastian sounded awed. “She’s delicious, so beautiful, so perfect for Uncle Bradley.”

  “I believe Mistress Ordway has all of those qualities,” Jasper agreed with a complacent smile. “Let us just say that we ran into each other.”

  “Where is she established?”

  “Nan Griffiths’s nunnery.” He poured himself a glass of sherry and regarded his brothers with an ironic smile. “For what it’s worth, I think our esteemed uncle has two quivers to his bow with this diabolical scheme. I think he’s searching not only for revenge on the family, but also for his own redemption through our efforts.”

  “How so, Jasper?” Peregrine, perched on the deep windowsill, regarded his brother with an air of uncertainty.

  “Take a look at his confession when you get the opportunity.” Jasper chuckled. “Father Cosgrove has all my sympathies.”

  “What d’you mean, Jasper? No, seriously, you can’t walk away and leave us with that.” Sebastian was indignant as his brother set down his empty glass and appeared ready to depart.

  Jasper laughed. “Our reprobate uncle is writing of his past indulgences and iniquities in the most graphic, intimate detail, and our innocent Benedictine novice is transcribing each and every one. It’s Bradley’s idea of a final confession, so that he will meet his maker properly shriven. And by paying us to save a lost soul apiece, he has the twisted idea that he will achieve his own redemption.”

  “You’ve read this confession?”

  “I glanced at a few pages that had fallen to the floor. It was enough, believe me.” Jasper regarded his brothers with a flickering smile. “So, how are your bride searches progressing?”

  His brothers exchanged glances, then looked at him, their discomfort obvious. “Not as well as yours,” Sebastian confessed. “I have a lady in mind, but she’s proving hard to land.”

  “And I have yet to find my quarry, let alone bring her to the bank.” Peregrine shrugged. “I don’t like it, Jasper. We’re playing a game of our uncle’s. He’s baited the hook and he’s playing us like trout. For two pins—”

  “For two pins, Perry, you’d leave us all floundering in the quicksand,” Jasper interrupted, his voice harsh. “Are you prepared to see the Sullivan name sink into infamy? Blackwater Manor collapsing in ruins? Everything this family has stood for over the generations lost to memory because our father gambled away every last hectare? There are generations of Blackwater tenants dependent upon us—upon me—for the roof over their heads and the bread on their tables. I will not pass up the opportunity to put that right, and neither will you, Peregrine, neglect your family duty. Find yourself a wife. I don’t give a damn how you do it, but do it you will. Is that understood?”

  Peregrine was ashen as he listened to his brother’s cold, hard statement. He glanced at his twin and saw no reassurance there. Sebastian was pale but resolute. Slowly Peregrine nodded. “Understood,” he said.

  Jasper nodded. “Come to dinner next week, both of you.” It was an instruction rather than an invitation and his brothers murmured an assent.

  Jasper left them. He found Clarissa waiting in the hall below, tapping an impatient foot. “Forgive me, I needed a few words with my brothers,” he explained as he ran down the stairs. “Find us a chair, Louis, will you?” The servant went off at a run, a whistle in his hand. “Why were you hiding, Clarissa?” Jasper came up beside her.

  “I wasn’t,” she said, denying it again. “Your brothers caught me unexpectedly while I was looking at a painting behind the odalisque. They were already in the middle of a conversation and I couldn’t find the right moment to step out and make myself known.”

  “And what was their conversation?” he inquired, draping the shawl across her shoulders before taking his hat and cane from the bench.

  She shrugged. “I don’t know, just chat between brothers, I suppose.”

  He looked at her with narrowed eyes but let it go. “It’s long past noon, and I for one am hungry. I suggest we return to the Angel and see if we can reproduce yesterday’s dinner, which we so abruptly abandoned.”

  Was it only yesterday? So much had happened in the last twenty-four hours, Clarissa wasn’t sure she was still the same person, but she was sure she was hungry and her present appearance would draw no attention in the Piazza, so, with a nod, she acceded.

  Louis returned slightly out of breath. “Chair’s outside, m’lord.”

  The chair stood before the door, two sturdy chairmen at the poles. Jasper handed Clarissa in and then walked beside the chair as the chairmen trotted back to Covent Garden.

  The deserted quiet of the morning was a mere memory, and the Piazza was as crowded as ever, business being transacted on every street corner and behind every colonnade. Raucous voices floated on the steam billowing from the bathhouses and outside a tavern a man was selling his wife. He had set the woman on a rickety table, a rope around her neck, as he called out the bidding to the crowd of jeering carousers surrounding them. The woman’s expression was one of desolate desperation.

  Clarissa closed her eyes, feeling sick. She unfurled her fan and plied it vigorously, trying to shut out the noise and the image. Jasper glanced into the chair and frowned. “Are you unwell? You’re very pale suddenly.” Indeed, even beneath the white powder, her pallor was noticeable.

  “No . . . no.” She waved her fan at him but still didn’t open her eyes. He looked around, wondering what had affected her. He could see nothing out of the ordinary.

  The chair stopped outside the Angel and Jasper handed her down. The tavern was thronged but the tavern wench recognized the earl immediately and came over to them. “You want that special burgundy now, sir? ’Cause if ’n you do, Jake says as ’ow you should ’ave it in the back room.” She jerked her head towards a door at the rear of the taproom. “Can’t ’ave everyone after it. We’ve a good mutton stew to go with it, and as many oysters as you can eat.”

  “Then lead the way.” They followed the girl into a small deserted chamber behind the bar warmed by a fire in an inglenook hearth.

  “I’ll bring oysters then, shall I?”

  “And a flask of Rhenish.” Jasper tossed his hat and cane onto the pine bench beneath the small window. “Come to the fire, Clarissa.”

  She obeyed, huddling into her shawl, trying to rid herself of the chill that had struck deep at the sight of the wife sale in the Piazz
a. Jasper frowned at her crouched figure, bending to the fire, hands outstretched. The bright red spots of rouge on her cheeks stood out as if she were in the grip of a fever.

  He went to the door and beckoned to the wench, who was filling a flagon with Rhenish wine at the bar. “Bring a towel and a bowl of water, girl.”

  “Aye, sir.” She set the flagon on the bar and went to satisfy this strange requirement. She set them down on the deal table against the wall. “I’ll bring the Rhenish and the oysters now, sir.”

  He nodded, intent on the task at hand. He dipped the towel in the bowl and came over to Clarissa. “Let me get this stuff off your face, you’ve no need of it now.” He tilted her chin and scrubbed vigorously at the rouge on her cheeks. It came off with some difficulty, then he soaked the cloth again, but before he could apply it to her lips, Clarissa took it from him.

  “Thank you, my lord, but I can wash my own face.”

  She sounded much stronger, so much more like herself that he relinquished the cloth and went to pour the wine that the tavern wench had just brought.

  Clarissa was scrubbing at her nipples, an expression of such acute distaste on her face that Jasper was startled. There were women all around them dressed and painted as Clarissa had been. But it wouldn’t be necessary again, he decided. He certainly didn’t care for it, particularly on a woman as youthful and fresh faced as she was. She was right to dislike it, to know that it didn’t suit her. But it had served its purpose.

  Clarissa became aware of his gaze as she scrubbed at her bare breasts and realized with a shock that she had thought nothing of washing her nipples in front of him. What was happening to her? She seemed to be changing into someone else without volition. Hastily she tucked her breasts back into the gown, pulling up the neckline, then swathing herself in the shawl. Instantly she felt more like herself.

  “Oysters?” Jasper inquired, having watched this hasty readjustment with interest. He gestured to the table.