“The next game will be familiar to everyone, and yet not,” she cried. “You all know hide and seek—”
“Oh yes!” cried Caroline Delahunt, barely sixteen and joining the young people for the first time this year.
“But in reverse,” finished Lydia with a twinkle in her eye. “One person will hide, and all the rest will seek!”
A murmur of confusion rumbled over them. Clara glanced toward Mr. Weston. He had been enjoying himself, laughing and talking with everyone, but not once had he sought her out. He’d stuck fairly close to Mr. Mortimer, despite the occasional irritated glances from that gentleman.
She wished he’d made more of an effort to speak to her. During charades she had maneuvered to sit beside him, and although he’d been cordial, there had been nothing particularly warm in his attention.
Clara was puzzled—and exasperated. What was wrong? Why did gentleman start to pay her attention, then immediately lose interest the moment she decided she liked them? Did that mean their interest wasn’t real, or was she less interesting than they’d thought?
“Now,” Lydia continued, “once someone discovers the one who has hidden, he must join them in hiding. So must the next person to discover them, and so on until there is only one person left seeking. That person will win the dunce prize, which is to be the accused in our next game, The Prisoner.” Groans greeted this, and George called out that he would just hide himself if he were last. “No, you won’t, George Hampton, for we shall find you,” Lydia told him.
She had collected a handful of straws and now broke one in half, before circulating through the crowd until everyone had drawn one. Clara realized at once that hers was the broken one, and Lydia beamed at her. “Clara, you must hide! Take care to choose a place that will hold at least fifteen.”
“But there are eighteen of us,” protested Patience.
“Then I s’pose we’ll have to crowd in together,” drawled John Hodge. The gentlemen looked more intrigued at this news.
Clara handed the straw back to Lydia. “How much time have I got?”
“To a count of fifty.”
“Right.” She gave a cheery curtsy as everyone called out encouragement. She avoided looking at Mr. Weston. “See you all soon!”
6
Thomas was not enjoying the evening nearly as much as he’d hoped to.
He had been obliged to report Harker’s news to Sir Eliot, who’d turned the color of turnips. His wife had prevailed upon him not to harangue their son this evening, but in consequence Sir Eliot had ordered Thomas to stay right by his side all evening.
To make it all worse, Mortimer was in high spirits this evening, much jollier than he’d been in weeks. It made Thomas suspect Harker was correct, and Mrs. Carlow had managed to contact him. Like that, his hope of catching Miss Hampton in a private moment was snuffed out. He didn’t even dare dance with her, because he could barely look away from her even when he wasn’t supposed to be attending to her as a dance partner.
Instead he must make sure Mortimer had no chance of slipping out, or communicating with anyone outside the guests. Thomas had no idea how Sir Eliot thought this would happen, but it was the baronet’s explicit order, and since the baronet was here, mere yards away, Thomas knew he was trapped.
To console himself he danced with Helen Hampton. “I hear you’re in love with my sister,” were her first words to him.
He grinned. “Who told you that?”
“My cousin, Merry,” she said as they clasped hands and turned.
“Ah.” He stole a glance at Clara, partnered with Frederick Delahunt. “I do admire Miss Hampton very much.”
“Well, if you want a chance, you had better seize the moment,” she told him. “Clara’s been in love with Mr. Mortimer for a year or more.”
“I see,” he managed to say. He hadn’t thought her feelings were that deep. “Does he return her regard?”
“This spring we thought so,” she told him frankly. “Everyone was sure he would propose. He’s been rather distant since he returned, but my sister is good at getting what she wants. I suppose if she wants him back, she’ll find a way. Unless you persuade her otherwise, that is.”
Sobered, Thomas went through the steps of the dance. Knowing what he did, he hated to think of any young woman pining over John Mortimer. And yet, he thought Clara Hampton was intelligent and sensible, and Mortimer had given absolutely no encouragement to her or anyone in Wells nursing romantic dreams of him. Surely she must know.
It only made him resent Mortimer more, Mortimer who was laughing with John Hodge and Arthur Hampton and having a splendid time while Thomas was forced to watch over him like a nursemaid.
And then Clara drew the short straw to start the hide-and-seek, and Thomas realized his opportunities were running out. He sidled up to George Hampton, still chastened from his misadventures in Buffy in the Shade, and whispered a few questions.
Snooping and conniving were always useful options.
* * *
Clara debated where to hide. Obviously she could not go to the dining room, where the servants were still clearing away the supper, or the morning room or parlor, where her parents and their guests were. Where else? Hampton Close was an old house, a rambling warren of small rooms and winding passages, but she had no wish to be stuck in some of them for as long as this might take…
She darted up the stairs and raced down the corridor. There was a large room at the head of the stairs. Family lore held that one day some forty years ago, the Prince of Wales had passed through town while out riding with his entourage. In the heat of the day, they had stopped and asked for refreshment, which Clara’s grandfather provided with alacrity. Though they stayed barely an hour, and only an overheated retainer had actually entered the house and rested in the room, it was henceforth called, wryly, the Royal Apartment.
Now it was where the family gathered in the evenings, with a harp for Helen to play and comfortable chairs around the large hearth. But there was also a closet at the back. It was too small and dark for any use other than storage, but Clara thought fifteen people could fit, if they stood very still.
She heard the sounds of people downstairs beginning to seek, and hurried to the closet. The hinges creaked faintly as she opened it, but the closet was warm, thanks to the flues behind it. She closed the door softly, and settled in to wait.
She almost hoped no one would find her. It was warm and restful here in the closet, and she was suddenly tired of the Christmas party. Far from fixing Mr. Mortimer’s interest, as Mama had hoped, Clara couldn’t wait for him—and his attorney—to go home. She was done with the both of them. Perhaps it was time to embrace spinsterhood and persuade Merry they ought to set up house together, very economically, in Bath, and go to the assembly rooms and dance all night.
She leaned against the wall, trying not to think about Mr. Weston. She’d known him a few weeks, not nearly long enough to get her heart broken. Still, she’d genuinely liked him. Even when she’d thought her destiny was another man, she had looked forward to seeing him and talking to him. Better to learn now that he was just as fickle as Mr. Mortimer, of course, but still… she couldn’t stop wishing he’d been more heroic.
Sunk in her thoughts, she almost missed the soft whisper as the closet door creaked. “Miss Hampton?”
Clara revived herself. “Yes,” she whispered back. Silly game. What had got into Lydia, suggesting this?
The person came in, his entrance announced more by the rush of cooler air than by any flood of light. The room beyond was nearly as dark as the closet. Clara shifted to allow the newcomer to find his bearings in the pitch-dark space. She could tell it was a man, but nothing more.
“Thank goodness you chose a warm hiding spot,” he whispered. “Some fellows were talking of the attics.”
Now she recognized the voice. “We should be very quiet, Mr. Weston,” she whispered back.
“Right, right.” She heard him moving his feet. “Although, isn’t the point
to be found?”
Clara sighed. Now that her moment of solitude was gone, it was. “I suppose.”
There was a moment of silence. “Thank you for inviting me tonight,” he said.
“You are welcome, sir.”
“Your brothers are quite the scamps,” he went on, in the same hushed whisper. “I like them.”
Clara’s temper simmered. “Lovely,” she muttered.
“George told me he wants to ride horses at Astley’s,” the oblivious man went on. “I wish I’d had that sort of nerve when I was his age.”
Clara said nothing.
“And your sister is marvelous,” he said. Clara’s mood grew darker; she had noted that he danced with Helen when he didn’t ask her for a set. “Very high spirited and—”
“We’re supposed to be quiet,” she said shortly.
He was, for a long moment. “Miss Hampton, I fear I have offended you.”
“How could you have,” she said before she could stop herself, “when we’ve not exchanged ten words all evening?”
“That was not my choice.”
Clara rolled her eyes. “I have long noticed, Mr. Weston, that when a man truly wishes to do something, he generally manages to do it.”
“Right,” he said, noticeably chagrined. “Will you allow me to explain?”
“Why do you need to explain? I do not feel owed your conversation.”
“Of course not. I—” He exhaled. “Yes of course. You’re right. I could have spoken to you, and I did not, and I am very sorry for it.”
Clara sniffed. “Then why didn’t you?” She shouldn’t care but she couldn’t stop herself from asking.
“I felt obliged to attend to… other things.”
“If you were obliged elsewhere, and fulfilled that obligation, then you have nothing to regret.”
“But I didn’t want to be,” he said quickly. “It was not more pleasant—indeed, nothing is more pleasant than talking to you—”
“Not even dancing with my sister?”
“Er—that was delightful, but…” He cleared his throat. “I would have preferred to dance with you. You had already given your hand to Mr. Delahunt.”
“I suppose you should ask more quickly next time,” she said, again before she could think better of it.
“You give no quarter, do you?” he asked, rueful and admiring at once.
“Quarter? For what reason? You said you wished to speak to me, but you did not. You said you wished to dance with me, but you did not ask. Mr. Weston, as far as I can see, you are your own obstacle.”
Finally he laughed, quietly. “And I fancy myself an attorney! I confess: I am completely at fault.”
Clara felt a glow of satisfaction at this admission, even though it hardly improved things. “Now that we are in agreement, we can continue being quiet and wait to be discovered by the rest of the party.” Not that she was anxious for that. Even arguing with him was more exhilarating than expected. This was what she had hoped for with Mr. Weston, even if she might have wished for a happier topic.
“How shall I make amends, though?”
“You assume I am injured by this behavior.”
“It put you out of temper,” he pointed out.
Clara scoffed. “You pretending a lack of control over your own actions put me out of temper, sir.”
“Touche,” he murmured. “Then how shall I make it up to you?”
She should have said it was immaterial to her, but instead what came out of her mouth was, “Why are you in Wells?”
“Ah,” he said softly. “The lady plays hard.”
“You don’t have to answer, of course. I had already decided you aren’t worth any anguish.”
“No, wait,” he said at once. “Sir Eliot engaged me on a legal matter.”
“Yes, Mr. Weston, we all know that. No one thought you came to Wells for a holiday,” she said witheringly.
He was quiet for a moment. “Mr. John Mortimer encountered some… difficulties and I am here to help him. I cannot say more.”
“All right,” she said after a moment.
“I am fiendishly glad I did, too, for I would never have met you otherwise. Even when every other aspect of my time here grows enormously frustrating, I am still fervently glad I took the position.”
Her temper was being rapidly appeased. “And what shall happen when your employment with Sir Eliot ends? I suppose you’ve got a family, friends, a home, perhaps a dog waiting for you back in Kent.”
He laughed. “I haven’t got a dog, or a home. My family is already used to my being gone for long stretches. But as for what happens when I’ve concluded my work for Sir Eliot… That depends.”
Instinctively she knew he meant her—it depended on her. A flush of warmth stole over her, not simply pleasure at the flattery but a deeper, more potent happiness.
“I wonder why it’s taking everyone so long to discover us,” she said to keep herself, this once, from speaking too freely.
“Oh. Yes, that. I might have an idea…”
“What?” Clara asked with a laugh, at his sheepish tone. “I thought it was a good hiding spot, but far from the best. George ought to have guessed it by now.”
“I might, perhaps, have closed the door behind me when I came into the room out there.”
Clara’s mouth fell open. “You locked me in here? With you?”
“I did not lock it,” he said swiftly. “You were—and are—free to go at any time. I merely closed the door.”
“How did you even know I was hiding in here?”
“The scent of your perfume,” he said. “A sense that you had come this way. The yearning of my own heart, following you.” Clara rolled her eyes, even as she smiled, at this blatant but flattering foolishness. “And… I might have bribed your brother George to tell me the most likely place to find you, and to lead everyone else in the opposite direction.”
She blinked, then burst into a smothered fit of laughter. “That’s cheating!”
“All’s fair,” he said with a small laugh of his own, “in love and Christmas games.”
“Love,” she repeated.
“Miss Hampton.” He was right beside her; she could tell from his voice and the faint scent of his shaving soap, an unfamiliar smell that made her want to inhale deeply, to know that one little thing about him. Her skirt stirred, and then his fingers brushed her wrist. “I think it might be.”
She let him hold her hand. “What would decide the matter?”
“You,” he said simply.
“I hardly know what to answer,” she whispered as he raised her hand to his mouth.
“Then don’t answer, not yet. I would like to call on you. Dance with you. Walk up and down the absurdly short row of shops in High Street with you.” She laughed. His lips brushed her wrist and a shiver went through her. “Allow me to demonstrate that I am not, in fact, the feckless idiot I’ve acted tonight.”
“I suppose that would be all right,” she said breathlessly as the door behind them creaked open.
“Clara?” whispered George loudly.
“Yes,” she hissed. Beside her, Mr. Weston lowered her hand, but didn’t release it. He kept holding it, and she let him, as first George, then Merry, and then more and more people crowded in, until she and Mr. Weston were pressed against the back wall, with Arthur’s elbow in her stomach and Patience Shaw muttering anxiously about dark closed spaces.
“Thank you,” he breathed by her ear.
For reply she turned her hand in his and threaded her fingers through his. They stayed that way until finally Amelia Hodge, the last seeker, threw open the door and declared it a very silly game, and that she was ready to play so they could dance again.
This time, Clara danced twice with Mr. Weston, who didn’t hesitate a moment to ask. And she barely even noticed who John Mortimer danced with at all.
7
Thomas awoke three days later, on Christmas morning, to the sounds of Sir Eliot shouting.
The
baronet was in a fine fury; Mortimer Lodge was a solid house, heavily built of brick. But sound had a way of traveling from the wide front hall up the stairs, and Thomas supposed the entire household could hear him railing away at some poor soul.
It didn’t occur to him that it might affect him until Mack banged down his door and burst in. “John Mortimer’s run off,” he said in a frantic whisper.
Thomas sat up and then leapt from bed. “What?”
“Sir Eliot intercepted Mr. Harker’s man from Bath and badgered it out of him.” Mack stepped forward and held out a crumpled note. “He managed to get me this before Sir Eliot came down.”
Thomas ripped it open and read it in a moment. “Damn,” he said softly. “Harker says Mrs. Carlow has been shopping lavishly and hinting that she plans to be married soon. And at dawn this morning she got into a travel chaise with a man who looks very like John Mortimer.” He looked up. “I suppose Sir Eliot has verified that his son is not here.”
Mack nodded. “Near whipped the footman up the stairs to look.”
“Well, that tears it.” Sir Eliot would rage at him for letting John Mortimer slip the net, even though his son had been at dinner the previous evening and stayed up playing cards until midnight with his parents and sisters. John was clearly wilier than his father gave him credit for. He must have run for it soon after the household went to bed, to have been in Bath before dawn. The fact that he’d slipped out of his family home instead of the assembly rooms would not spare Thomas from Sir Eliot’s fury, though.
“So… what?” asked Mack uncertainly.
Thomas huffed in mirthless laugher. “I’ll be sacked.”
Mack shuffled his feet. “Does… does that matter much, sir?”
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