by Brooke, Meg
But as Clarissa watched Lord Stowe make his way from the chamber, pausing to shake hands with a few men, she felt a surge of hope. Here was a man whose voice would be heard no matter what. And here, now, was an opportunity to finally do something.
As she rushed to meet Lord Stowe in the Peers’ Lobby, Clarissa concentrated on the masculine walk she had practiced. She had spent long hours observing men on the street, noting the way they walked, the way they tipped their hats, the way they sipped their tea. In order to achieve her greater goal, she would have to accomplish the smaller feat of maintaining this farce. She would have to put her whole being into the character of Clarence Ford now. There were great things to be achieved, and Clarissa intended to be there when they were.
It was dark when they climbed into the Stowe carriage for the ride back to Belgravia. Anders looked with satisfaction at his secretary. Ford had done well today. He had certainly lived up to the claims he had made two days ago when he applied for the position.
“I’ll have to go to a few parties tonight,” Anders said. “You might as well take the night off.”
“Thank you, My Lord.”
“There’ll be more invitations coming in now the session is opened. I’ll rely on you to choose the ones you’ll show me. Anything that sounds like a fashionable squeeze should be discarded immediately. I only want to see the invitations for the gatherings where real business will be done, do you understand?”
“Of course, My Lord.”
The carriage was pulling through the gate at Stowe House. Ford exited first and stood at attention while Anders got out. He really was a correct little man, Anders mused. “You don’t have to be so...official with me, Ford. Makes me feel ancient, and I’m only five years your senior.”
“Yes, My Lord,” Ford said seriously, but there was a wry smile on his face as he followed Anders up the stairs to the study. He opened the case and very carefully laid the papers that had been brought back from Westminster into the piles on the table. “I’ll take these three home with me and have summaries ready for you in the morning.”
“Very good,” Anders said. As he was leaving the study to dress for the evening, he turned and fished two sovereigns out of his pocket. “Ford,” he called, and he flipped the coins through the air. The secretary caught them clumsily. “There’s no session tomorrow. Take a few hours in the morning and find yourself a couple of new suits.”
Ford blushed bright scarlet to the roots of his pale hair. “Oh, no, My Lord, I couldn’t—”
“Nonsense,” Anders cut him off. “Of course you could, and you will. I can’t have you following me around Westminster in threadbare second-hand suits. But be here no later than ten.”
The secretary, still red in the face, stuffed the coins in his pocket. “Yes, My Lord. Thank you.”
As Clarissa walked through the darkened streets of Belgravia, she fingered the sovereigns in her coat pocket. It was a tremendous gift. Not, perhaps, to Lord Stowe, but to her it represented almost half a week’s wages. She could buy several suits with such a fortune at one of the consignment shops. But the gift also strengthened her determination to excel at her job. If Lord Stowe was putting such faith in her, she would have to live up to his expectations.
She let herself into her silent flat and made herself a cup of tea. She sat in her men’s clothing on the divan and drank it slowly, trying to reconcile the odd feeling of being a man in a woman’s flat. She would have to get used to the dissonance, she supposed. With a sigh she got up and went into the bedroom to turn herself back into a woman.
It was only as Clarissa was undoing the last pin curl that she realized she had left one of the documents she meant to read that evening in the office at Westminster. Cursing herself, she decided there was nothing for it but to hire a hackney back to retrieve it, especially now.
Sighing, she dressed her hair simply and put on one of her better dresses. She could not bear to go through the whole ritual of turning herself into Clarence again, and there would be few people about the Palace of Westminster at this late hour. She found the key Lord Stowe had given her and buttoned her pelisse.
As she rode back to Westminster, she wondered about the parties Lord Stowe would attend that evening. There would be other members there, of course, and she was sure he would spend most of his time cloistered in smoky sitting rooms with them, arguing the case for the important work Brougham planned. But there would also be ladies there, women in beautiful gowns with elegant hairstyles and tinkling laughs. Would he flirt with them? She wondered if there was a young lady he was pursuing. He had said he was five years older than her, and twenty-nine was a ripe old age for an unmarried, titled gentleman. Was he searching for a bride?
Where did that thought come from? she wondered. But she could not lie to herself. He was an attractive—no, attractive was not descriptive enough—he was a dangerously handsome man, with his dark, Roman beauty and knowing grins. When he had tossed her those coins, Clarissa had blushed not because of the poor condition of her clothes but because it meant that he had been looking at her, studying her appearance. In a way she was glad that under even such thorough scrutiny she appeared to be no more than a smallish young man. But in another corner of her mind lurked the disappointment she felt at knowing he would never see her as a woman. She was, of course, too far below his social station to attract his notice for long, but if their paths had crossed before, when her father still lived, she wondered if he would have found her pretty. Would he have flirted with her at a garden party? Would they have passed each other in Hyde Park?
Stop it, she told herself. Stop it now. This is foolish. What would her father say if he could see her now? He had always taught her that she was more than her emotions, that even though she was a woman she could overcome her feelings and be the equal of any man. But if she wanted to do that, she had to focus her mind on the work. She forced herself to think only of the dossier waiting at Westminster. The hackney was stopping now, and she paid the driver to wait and slipped out.
Inside, the halls were empty. She stood in the Chancellor’s corridor a moment, trying to remember her way. She turned a corner, knew instantly she had made the wrong choice, and turned back.
“May I be of service, miss?” a man asked as he appeared around the corner.
“Oh,” she said, only now remembering that she was dressed as herself, and not as Clarence Ford. It had been a mistake to come here as a woman. But there was nothing for it. “I...my brother is secretary to Lord Stowe,” she lied. “He left some papers in the office and asked me to come back for them. I have his key here,” she added, holding out her hand.
The man looked at the key and said, “I believe I know the way. Allow me to introduce myself. Richard Whibley, Clerk of the Works.” He held out his hand. Clarissa took it.
“Clarissa Martin,” she said, and instantly wished she hadn’t. But Whibley looked like an amiable fellow, and she would just have to hope he didn’t mention seeing her to anyone.
“Well, Miss Martin, follow me.”
When they reached the offices, Clarissa felt rather foolish for not having found her own way. But she thanked Whibley, who muttered something about tally sticks and disappeared. The folio safely in hand, she slipped back out of the building and into the waiting hackney.
“So Brougham thinks he has the support to carry the abolition measure, does he?” Leo asked as he and Anders found seats in Earl Grey’s drawing room that evening.
“Apparently.”
“Fortuitous, then, you finding Martin’s secretary just now.”
“Why do you say that?” Anders asked, taking a sip of the excellent brandy His Lordship kept on the sideboard.
“Jonah Martin,” Leo said, staring into his own glass, “knew more about the slave trade than almost any other man in England, including Brougham. In fact, Martin was one of Brougham’s principal advisors when he was still just Mr. Henry Brougham, MP. He’ll be a useful chap to have around this session, I don’t doubt.”
“Indeed,” Anders said, nodding politely to the Duke of Wellington.
“Baron Teynham means to bring up the Poor Laws next week. Have you had a chance to read the bill?”
Anders sighed. “I have, Leo, and I think some changes need to be made.”
Leo frowned. “It’s the language, isn’t it? I know it’s rather inflammatory.”
“To say the least. Are you open to changes, then?”
“I suppose I am, though I can’t say we’ll get anywhere with it this year if Brougham has his way. It’ll be the disturbances in Ireland and abolition straight through to July.”
“All the same, I’ll have Ford make some changes and bring it by. It’s a noble cause, Leo, and one we should continue to support.”
“You trust him, then?”
“Who, Ford?”
Leo nodded.
“If Martin did, I don’t see why I can’t.”
“Hard to believe it’s been a year since he died. What a loss to the Commons. Do you know, by the way, whatever became of his daughter?” Leo asked.
“His daughter? I never heard he had one.”
“Hmm,” Leo said. “He did. Pretty little thing, too. I met her at a few parties, and I think I saw her at one of those meetings Brougham arranged a few years ago. Just as passionate an abolitionist as her father, I’d wager.”
“Do you think she’s still in London? I’d like to pay my respects if she is.” Anders honestly could not remember ever meeting Jonah Martin’s daughter, though he had seen the man often enough in society. But if she was still in the city, he thought it only right to look in on her and make sure she and her family were all right. Jonah Martin had not struck him as a man of means.
“No idea.”
“I suppose Ford would know if she is,” Anders said, and he made a mental note to inquire about it the next day. “Ah, there’s Norfolk.”
“Good morning, dearie!” Mrs. Simms cried as Clarissa stepped into the shop. “We didn’t expect to see you back again!”
“Neither did I,” Clarissa admitted. She had originally planned to visit a shop in Knightsbridge, but had decided against it lest someone recognize her. She looked around for Mr. Simms, but he appeared to be absent. “I need a few new suits, Mrs. Simms, and I’m wondering if you’d have anything that would fit.”
Mrs. Simms glanced nervously out the front window. “Come into the back, dearie,” she said, and she put out a hand to usher Clarissa behind the counter.
When they were in the back room, Mrs. Simms disappeared once more into the maze of shelves. While she was gone, Clarissa looked at the dummy in the corner. The beautiful gown she had seen there the other day was gone.
“Here we are,” Mrs. Simms called as she brought a few boxes out. She saw Clarissa looking and the dummy. “You noticed that gown, did you? It was a lovely thing, but it made me sad to look at it, so I put it away.”
“It made you sad?” Clarissa asked rather awkwardly. She was not used to making small talk with women. Even she had her girlhood friend Cynthia had always talked about levers and pulleys and natural laws.
“It was made for a young woman of quality oh, two years ago now. But her fiancé died just before the wedding, and the gown was never worn. It made its way here, and I’ve had it for a few months now. I don’t suppose anyone would buy it. Bad luck, you know.”
“Oh.” Clarissa said. Her father had always disdained such superstitions, but she could not say that to Mrs. Simms.
The shopkeeper’s wife came over and set the boxes down on the desk. “Now, I know I said I don’t like to pry,” she said as she lifted the lid on the first. “But...you’re not in any sort of trouble, are you, dearie?”
“Oh, no, Mrs. Simms,” Clarissa promised. “Don’t worry. I know this seems very strange, but I am perfectly safe, I assure you.”
Mrs. Simms pursed her lips and gave Clarissa a good long look. “Very well,” she said at last. “Now, get behind that screen and let’s see how these trousers fit. I don’t blame you one bit for finding them more comfortable than the silly sleeves you young ladies wear nowadays.”
It didn’t take long to find a few suits that needed only a little tailoring. Mrs. Simms lengthened the sleeves on one of the jackets herself while Clarissa slipped back into her dress. Shortly after, she left the shop with her parcels and began searching for a hackney. But just as she spotted one, someone called her name.
“Miss Martin!”
She whirled, praying that it wasn’t one of her father’s acquaintances. But it was Mr. Whibley, the Clerk of the Works who had guided her to Lord Stowe’s offices the night before. “Good morning,” she said politely.
“How odd to see you here. Do you know I was just thinking of searching out your brother today to enquire after you? Do you live near here? May I walk you home?”
“That’s very flattering, Mr. Whibley,” Clarissa said, blushing a little and trying to remember his other questions. She had never been sought out by a man before. “I do not live nearby, unfortunately, but it’s very kind of you to offer.”
She thought he would say good-bye then, but instead he stared at her for a long moment. He had an open, pleasant face, Clarissa thought, and he seemed charming enough.
At last, Mr. Whibley said, “Miss Martin, this may seem rather untoward, but...would you like to meet me for tea some afternoon next week?”
Clarissa blinked at him. She had so few friends now, but she still did not think it wise to court scandal. “I...I would like that very much, Mr. Whibley. But I don’t think I should. It would not be proper.”
“Then perhaps I might walk you home from church on Sunday?”
She thought about it for a moment. She could see nothing wrong with it, and since Sunday was her free day, she would not have to think of some excuse to absent herself from her duties to Lord Stowe. “I suppose that would be all right. I attend Holy Trinity in Brompton Square.”
He smiled, and it made him look even more charming. “I’ll look forward to it, Miss Martin.” He tipped his hat and was gone. Clarissa breathed a sigh of relief. It made her nervous to have her two lives so close to one another. But she could see no danger in seeing Mr. Whibley again. Her father had been gone a year, and she was out of mourning. Perhaps she deserved to live a little. It would do no harm to let him escort her back from church, and it would not interfere with her duties as Mr. Ford.
Thinking of her alter ego made her realize that if she did not get home and change at once, she would be late to Stowe House. She flagged down a hackney and climbed inside, all thoughts of Mr. Whibley forgotten as she began to mentally review the dossiers she had read the night before.
SIX
January 31, 1833
“So it’s to be Manners-Sutton for Speaker?” Anders asked when Ford found him in the members’ tearoom the next afternoon.
“I have it on good authority,” Ford said, grinning.
“For God’s sake,” Charles Bainbridge, Marquis of Cayleigh swore, “it’s been Manners-Sutton the last, what, twelve years? Where’s the suspense in that?”
“I believe it’s been sixteen this year, My Lord,” Ford corrected.
“How you lot find any excitement in this, I’ll never know,” Bainbridge grumbled, stuffing a cucumber sandwich into his mouth as he spoke. Anders smiled. He had known Charles Bainbridge almost as long as he had known Leo, and he still wasn’t sure if there was anything the man did find exciting. He seemed to take universal displeasure in everything and everyone he encountered.
Leo, on the other hand, was ever cheerful. He laughed now. “Your turn will come, Bain.”
“As my father has every intention of outliving me, I doubt it will, and for that I remain profoundly grateful to the old man.”
“Unfortunate for us, though, as it deprives us of a member who would be useful to our side.”
“I like that!” Bain cried. “You assume I won’t side with the Tories, then?” Leo shot him a withering look. Bain laughed hearti
ly. “I suppose you’re right.”
“Still, I had thought perhaps the Whigs would manage to oust him this year, what with all that to-do after the Reform Act passed last year,” Anders said, his mind still on the choice of Speaker.
“Do you think we could talk about something other than Parliament for a few moments?” Leo asked.
“We are in the Palace of Westminster tea room,” Anders said. “Don’t you think Parliament is a rather pertinent subject?”
Ford cleared his throat. “If there’s nothing else, My Lord?”
“Yes, yes, go back to your work. I’ll meet you in the lobby after the session.”
“Very good, My Lord.”
When Ford had gone, Bainbridge said, “Bit of a stickler, isn’t he?”
“He’s young still,” Anders said, taking a sip of his tepid tea. “I think he puts a little more stock in the rules than we do.” He looked pointedly at Leo, who had, after all, suggested that the three of them meet here this afternoon.
“Well, then,” Leo said. “I suppose you know that Georgina and Maris are having their come-out this season.”
“Don’t tell us you’ve had their dance cards printed with our names already on them,” Bainbridge groaned. “I don’t mind dancing a few with your sisters, Sidney, but your mother can’t have marked either Stowe or me down as a prospective husband.”
“Actually...”
