by Jane Feather
Clarissa responded to the fierceness of the kiss with her own need. The intensity of the kiss was a burning brand against her lips; his tongue was savagely possessive in her mouth, fencing with her own, establishing its presence within her. She could sense the residue of his anger as she could sense her own, and the kiss became a battleground of sorts, scouring their shared ill feeling in the heat of passion.
At last the fierce grip on her face eased and his hands moved down her back to hold her hips. His lips softened against hers, and his tongue explored her mouth gently, no longer invading. When he raised his head, his eyes held a rueful smile as he stroked her swollen lips with a fingertip.
“I don’t know quite what that was,” he said softly. “But I have been thinking of you all day.” Which was entirely true, he reflected wryly, although his thoughts had not been particularly loving.
She leaned into him, resting her head for a moment on his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart. Somehow she seemed to draw strength from his closeness. “I have missed you all day.” Only as she said it did she realize how true it was. Even though she had been completely absorbed with Francis, at the back of her mind had been the sense of unease she had felt when he had left her that morning . . . a need to see him again, to reassure herself that things had not changed between them.
“When you weren’t rescuing stray chimney sweeps,” he said lightly, tucking a stray tendril of hair behind her ear. “Where’s the boy now?”
“Still in my bedchamber. I’m going to make up a bed for him in the dressing room.”
“Oh, no, that is not going to happen,” Jasper stated firmly. “You may hurl accusations of brutality at my head if you wish, but I will not have that child—any child—sleeping in the room adjoining the bedchamber. He can sleep in the servants’ quarters. They’re comfortable enough, and I’m sure he’ll think them a palace compared to any bed he has slept in hitherto.”
Reluctantly Clarissa acknowledged to herself that Jasper was right. Francis’s presence in the dressing room would be inhibiting to say the least. She raised her head from his chest and took a step back. “I’ll talk to Sally.”
Jasper reached for the bellpull. “If we’re going to continue this evening as originally intended, then it’s time we started afresh.”
Sally answered the ring with a parcel in her arms. “Here’s the clothes, Mistress Ord— Oh, my lord, I didn’t know you was here already.”
“Since you weren’t here to greet my arrival, it’s not surprising,” he said with a dry smile. “I trust you’re now prepared to resume your duties.”
“Jasper, that’s not fair,” Clarissa protested, seeing Sally’s discomfiture. “It was my fault Sally was not here, and anyway, you arrived an hour earlier than you’d said.”
“Clearly something that should not become a habit.” He smiled suddenly, the smile as always transforming his countenance. “Forgive me, Sally. I was just teasing you a little.”
Sally curtsied, still blushing. “Yes, m’lord. Here’s the clothes, Mistress Ordway.” She held out the parcel.
“Thank you, I’ll get him dressed straightaway.” Clarissa took the bundle.
“No, you won’t.” Jasper took it from her and handed it back to Sally. “Sally, would you mind seeing to the child? Take him down to the kitchen fire, and make him up a bed in the servants’ quarters.”
“Oh, the poor little mite can sleep with me.” Sally took the parcel. “I sleep with my little brother at home. I’ll look after him, don’t you worry.” She hurried to the door, saying over her shoulder, “Oh, Mistress Newby says dinner will be served in five minutes, sir, if that’s convenient.”
“Well, that seems a satisfactory solution,” Jasper said as the door closed behind the girl. “I trust you think so?” He raised an interrogative eyebrow.
Clarissa smiled vaguely. “I’m sure he’ll be very comfortable with Sally.”
Jasper frowned a little. “Should I expect any more lost souls?”
“Maybe you think it strange in me to want to help him, but when I saw him I thought of the child I lost. I thought how I would hope that if my child was in trouble someone would be kind to him.” It wasn’t entirely an untruth, Clarissa told herself. It was certainly how she would have felt in those circumstances.
It would have been plausible enough, Jasper reflected, if he didn’t know that this lost infant was a fantastic invention. What was she trying to hide? Was she a runaway? Wanted by the Bow Street Runners? It seemed ludicrous when he looked at her, but since pretty well everything out of her mouth seemed to be a vivid construction of her imagination nothing was too absurd.
Should he confront her? But every instinct told him that if he wanted to keep her with him, then it was too soon to challenge her. And the one thing he had no confusion about was the fact that he didn’t want to lose her. She intrigued him, and she delighted him. And, most importantly, she was still the answer to the condition of his uncle’s will. He would bide his time and see how the dice fell. So he merely nodded in apparent acceptance and offered her his arm. “Shall we go down to dinner, ma’am?”
The carriage that drew up outside 32 King Street early that evening was of a bygone era. A large, cumbersome vehicle drawn by four horses, it was not made to negotiate the narrow crowded streets of the city. The coachman perched on his high box cursed at every corner, every dog cart, every pedestrian who stared and pointed, laughing, as he fought to guide the carriage around the Great Piazza without scraping the gold paint or the coats of arms on the panels.
Within, comfortably unaware of his coachman’s difficulties, Viscount Bradley sat ensconced beneath fur rugs, his feet on a hot brick, his hands tucked into a bearskin muff. When the carriage finally stopped, the footman jumped from his perch at the rear of the carriage and ran to open the door and let down the footstool. Despite the biting wind, the driver wiped sweat from his brow and grimly contemplated the return journey.
Lord Bradley descended with some difficulty, trailing lap rugs that the footman hastily bundled back into the vehicle’s interior. His lordship wore a thick muffler, a hat with earpieces, and a heavy fur-trimmed cloak. “Get the door open, fool,” he snapped at the footman, who ceased his bundling and ran to the door, pulling the bell rope vigorously.
The viscount, leaning heavily on a stout, silver-knobbed cane, hobbled on gouty feet up to the door just as the steward opened it. He pushed past his footman and the steward and entered the house, where he stood expectantly while the steward closed the door.
It was the steward’s misfortune not to recognize the old man immediately. “What can I do for you, sir?” he asked, regarding the newcomer with some curiosity. The usual clients of 32 King Street tended to be rather more vigorous in body than this frail old man.
The viscount glared at him. “I’m Bradley, you fool. Tell your mistress I’m here, and bring me a cup of negus.” Without invitation he turned aside to the small parlor.
Nan was in the drawing room entertaining a pair of young men who were trying to make up their minds how to choose among the young women waiting to service them. The steward whispered in her ear and her eyes widened in surprise. “Good God, Lord Bradley . . . here?” she murmured. “Where have you put him?”
“He went into the small parlor, madam. He asked for negus.”
“Then fetch it immediately.” She turned back to her prospective clients. “Gentlemen, you must excuse me . . . urgent business. I’m sure Eloise and Natalie will take care of you admirably.” She sailed from the room, the fringe of a paisley shawl wafting behind her.
“My lord Bradley, what a delightful surprise.” She spoke as she entered the parlor.
The viscount was sitting by the small fire, still wrapped in muffler, hat, and cloak. “Nan . . . I’ll wager you never expected to see me darken your doors again.” He chuckled, holding out his hand to her.
She took the hand and curtsied. “Believe me, my lord, I am gratified.” She hesitated, then asked, “Ma
y I bring some of my young ladies for your selection?”
He chuckled again. “You flatter me, Nan. Alas, I doubt I’d get my money’s worth these days, and the young lady in question certainly wouldn’t. Ah, but in the old days, I could satisfy three at once, and then another three in the course of a night.” He shook his head in reminiscence. “Where’s that fellow with the negus? Paltry drink, but all the leeches will allow me.”
“I’ll fetch it myself.” Nan went to the door just as the steward crossed the hall with a steaming goblet on a silver tray. She took it from him and brought it back to the viscount. “Can I take your muffler, perhaps . . . your cloak . . . it’s quite warm in here, my lord.”
“Is it?” He shook his head. “I’m never warm these days. You can take the muffler and gloves.” He handed both to her, then took the goblet between his long white hands, inhaling the spiced fragrance. “Well, it’ll warm me, at least.”
Nan sat down and waited for the purpose of this visit to be revealed. The viscount sipped his negus, then said, “M’nephew came to see me the other day . . . brought a rather fine piece with him . . . understand he got her here.”
“Clarissa Ordway, you mean.” Nan nodded. “Lord Blackwater has taken her under his protection. I believe she is living in the house on Half Moon Street.”
“Mmm.” The old man nodded. “Bright young thing, she seemed. Not in the common way.”
“She’s certainly lovely, and has a fine figure,” Nan agreed cautiously.
Bradley waved a dismissive hand. “Oh, that’s true enough I daresay, but there was something else, something I couldn’t put my finger on. Where’d she come from?”
Nan chose her words carefully. “She came to me from the streets, looking for employment in a Covent Garden house. I took her on for her looks. She’s not as experienced as most of my girls, but there are men who like that. I thought it was worth giving her a trial.”
“You always knew your own business, Nan.” The old man looked at her, and his eyes were sharp and shrewd. “What’s her history?”
Regretfully Nan shook her head. “I don’t know, my lord. She said she was up from the country, had fallen on hard times . . .” She shrugged. “It’s the usual story, I hear it ten times a day. She had something unusual about her, so I took her on. Your nephew saw her in the Piazza and was struck by her.”
“So I gathered.” The old man rocked a little in his chair. “Well, what my nephew does is none of my business, but I’d like to discover more about the girl. D’you think she might have confided more about her history to the other girls here?”
“I don’t know, my lord. She wasn’t here very long before Lord Blackwater took her away. I doubt she had time to find a confidante.”
“Well, ask around, Nan. And anything you discover, send it to me. I’ll pay well for any information.”
Nan rose to help the viscount as he began to struggle up from his chair. She was intrigued herself now. Why was the viscount, whose wealth was fabled, taking such an interest in the country lass his nephew had taken as his mistress? Jasper was a grown man, master of his own independence.
The viscount wrapped his muffler around his neck. “Did your other clients find her satisfactory?” he asked, inserting his fingers into his gloves.
Nan hesitated. If she admitted that Clarissa had had no other customers except the earl it could lead to uncomfortable questions about whether she had had the right to claim commission for the girl’s sale to Jasper. “I didn’t hear any complaints,” she said, temporizing.
He gave her another sharp look, then shrugged and picked up his cane. “Tell that footman of mine to come and help me out.”
Nan curtsied and hurried away, hoping she hadn’t said anything inadvertently to jeopardize her ownership of Clarissa Ordway’s services. It would have helped if she’d known more about the girl, but in the haste of the transaction with Jasper she hadn’t thought it important.
Viscount Bradley climbed back into his coach, swearing at the footman when he jogged his gout-swollen foot as he removed the footstool. He settled into his corner, frowning. It wasn’t particularly surprising that Nan knew so little of the girl’s history; it wouldn’t have interested her in the least, as long as the whore did her work well and brought money into the house. But there was something smoky about the girl. She looked the part, for the most part acted it, but the look she had given him as she stalked from the room after he had admittedly and quite deliberately insulted her had not been the look of a whore, however outraged.
Jasper slid from the bed and padded soundlessly across the room to put more wood on the fire. A single candle still burned on the mantel.
Clarissa spoke suddenly. “Are you leaving so soon again?”
He turned, his naked body illuminated by the spurt of flame from the fire behind him. “I hadn’t thought to do so.” His eyes roamed over her as she leaned back, resting on her elbows, gazing at him with those huge jade-green eyes. The sheet was tangled around her ankles and her skin was peaches and cream in the glow of the candle, the pink crowns of her breasts drawing his gaze.
“Would you wish me to?” He came over to the bed, leaning over her to trace a fingertip down between her breasts, to circle her nipples, smiling as, instantly responsive, they peaked and hardened.
She shook her head. “No, but you did last night. You said you preferred to wake in your own bed.”
“That is sometimes true,” he agreed. “But not always.”
She looked relieved. “I was wondering if something was wrong . . . if I’d done something wrong, when Sally said you often stayed the night, and you’d told me something else.”
He straightened. He had been angry then, but now he no longer felt deceived by her. He had been angry at the sense of being manipulated, but now he was in control of the situation. For the moment he would let her continue to believe that her deception was unchallenged.
“I was awake and restless this morning. I didn’t want to disturb you.” He made his tone light. “But now I have an urge for a bowl of punch. Will you join me if I fetch the makings from the kitchen?”
“A midnight feast.” She kicked away the sheet, swinging her legs off the bed. “I’ll come with you. I’m hungry.”
“From what I’ve seen, you and that brat have similar appetites,” he observed, turning to pick up the chamber robe that lived permanently in the armoire. His back was turned to her, so he didn’t see the startled flush flooding her cheeks.
Clarissa slipped her arms into her own robe, keeping her own face averted until she felt the flush die down. She was going to have to learn not to react to innocent remarks of that kind. It wouldn’t take long. It couldn’t take long. “The difference being that he’s half-starved and I’m not. I’ll probably end up fat as a pig.”
He gave her a mocking smile over his shoulder as he opened the door. “On the whole I’d rather you didn’t. At least until you’ve worn out your new wardrobe.”
She laughed and followed him down to the kitchen. He seemed to know his way around the shelves and pantry, fetching the punch bowl and ladle, an orange and lemon, the cloves, nutmeg, and brandy bottle.
“Are you an expert at punch making?” she asked, rummaging in the pantry.
“I’ve made many a bowl in my time.” He took a paring knife and began to peel the zest from the fruit. “My father was partial to it. He taught me to make it when I was quite small, and then when he became an invalid he would insist I make it for him whenever I was home from school. No one else would do.”
“How old were you when he died?” She emerged from the pantry with two cold chicken legs, regarding him curiously.
“Twelve.” He shrugged. “Rather too young to ascend to an earldom, however impoverished, but fortunately my brothers were able to prevent it giving me an inflated sense of my own consequence.” He put the freshly peeled zest into the punch bowl.
“What about your mother?” She perched on the edge of the kitchen table, absently gnaw
ing on a drumstick.
“She died a couple of years later.” He began to squeeze the juice from the fruit into the bowl. “She had been ailing for a long time, really a shadow in her children’s lives. Her death didn’t make a lot of difference to our day-to-day existence.”
“So you and your brothers were left quite alone?”
“We had each other,” he said with a quiet smile. “It was enough.” He began piling his ingredients on a tray. “We were luckier than you in that respect. Your parents’ deaths left you without any family.” He threw out the comment, not expecting a response, since she had already told him her parents had died when she was little more than a baby. He had no idea whether that particular fact amongst the farrago of invention happened to be true, although he rather doubted it.
“Yes, I suppose so” was all she said as she grabbed a hunk of cheese before following Jasper back upstairs. She cast a glance towards the attic stairs, hoping that Francis was sound asleep, warmly nestled next to Sally’s comfortable frame.
Jasper stirred the punch slowly over the fire. “I expect your wardrobe will arrive in the morning. I acquired a well-mannered lady’s horse for you at Tattersalls this afternoon, so if you feel comfortable riding, I would like us to ride in the park tomorrow afternoon. Again I don’t wish you to engage in conversation with anyone, only this time you should acknowledge a bow with one of your own. Just a slight inclination of the head. Do you think you can manage that?”
“It sounds simple enough.” She couldn’t quite keep the hint of derision from her voice.
Jasper contented himself with a raised eyebrow. He stirred nutmeg into the bowl. “In the evening we shall go to the theatre. There, again, we shall avoid any introductions. We’ll arrive just as the first act begins, and we’ll leave in the interval before people start visiting the boxes.” He smiled. “The whole town will be abuzz with speculation.”
