11. Chapter Eleven

W hat had seemed like such an excellent idea in the dusty room of a clock tower across London felt more than a little ridiculous as she entered her cousin’s upscale home. There were no cobwebs or rough-hewn planks of wood here, only gilded frames and pristine tables.

What made her think she could change anything about this world? Her good intentions were nothing but a fool’s errand.

“You’re home.” Aunt Elizabeth strode through the drawing room doorway, arms extended and a deep groove between her eyebrows. She grabbed Clara in a fierce hug that flattened every ruffle on both their bodices.

Finally, she stepped back and took a deep breath. “When Ambrose told me he’d lent you the carriage without ensuring a proper chaperon, I was so worried.”

Her tone dropped to a whisper and her eyes darted about the front hall as if searching for someone who might have followed her in from the street to lurk in a corner and listen. “Did anyone see you?”

Clara frowned. “I went to a church, Aunt. What does it matter if anyone saw me?”

Aunt Elizabeth blinked. “You went to church?”

“Yes.”

“But it’s Tuesday.”

“People are in need of assistance on Tuesday as much as they are on Sunday.”

“But what did you need?”

The memory of Miss Porter’s misunderstanding brought a hint of heat to Clara’s cheeks. Hopefully, they weren’t turning pink enough for anyone to notice. “I was there to offer assistance, not obtain it.”

“Oh.” She blinked as she appeared to consider the idea. “I suppose that is suitable. Was there a group meeting? Did you see it in the paper? I’m certain Ambrose would be willing to purchase you a subscription for any group you wished to join while you are here.”

Seemingly freed of all previous concerns, Aunt Elizabeth ushered Clara into the drawing room where a tea service was set out on a low table. “Which church was it, my dear? I’ve heard of no one meeting at St. Marylebone.” She clasped her hands in her lap. “Did you go to St. George’s in Hanover? That could certainly be beneficial.”

“Ah, no. I didn’t go to St. George’s.” Clara sat on the edge of the settee and arranged her skirts as her aunt poured the tea. “I went to St. Anne’s.” She cleared her throat. “Limehouse.”

Her aunt’s arm jerked, and tea poured directly onto the tray. Cups clattered against each other as she all but dropped the pot onto the tray before fanning herself with a serviette.

Clara frowned, truly concerned about the state of her aunt’s composure. The woman’s face had lost all color.

Mother swept into the drawing room. “Oh, Clara, you’re back. How was your after—Oh.” She came to an abrupt halt, gaze roaming over the mess of the tea tray.

“She went to Limehouse,” Aunt Elizabeth whispered.

“She did?” Mother turned a questioning look at Clara. “Whatever for?”

“I heard a church there was doing some charity work I might possibly be able to participate in.” Clara set about finishing the fixing of the tea, since Aunt Elizabeth was clearly too distraught to continue.

Mother’s smile was closer to what Clara was accustomed to seeing. It wasn’t the calculated half smile she’d worn as they went out in London, but the loving, indulgent smile she often wore in their country home. “I see.”

“Well, I don’t,” Aunt Elizabeth muttered. “She could have been seen.”

Mother cast a glance toward the ceiling. “Anyone who saw her in Limehouse would also be in Limehouse. That means they aren’t likely to appear in a ballroom and if they do, they aren’t going to admit where they were.”

Clara hid a grin behind her teacup. This was the mother she knew and loved.

“Honestly, Elizabeth, it’s better that she go help over there if she’s determined to get her hands dirty.” Mother took her own sip of tea. “What is it they want you to do?”

This was the difficult part. Clara sighed. “They’ve requested my assistance gathering funds for now.”

Mother’s lips twitched and pressed together while Aunt Elizabeth emitted a gasp of delight.

“But that’s a wonderful thing to do for charity.” Aunt Elizabeth clasped her hands together. “Are you going to hold a fete? Organize a special sermon? The Season is starting up, so a ball might not be in high demand, but if the cause and the hostess are right, it could work. What group is it?”

“Well, the, um, church sponsors several things that could make use of the money, but primarily this would be for the Royal Naval Asylum who cares for the orphans of sailors lost at sea.” The duplicity of the statement made Clara uncomfortable, and she squirmed a little in her seat. That she didn’t even know the name of the second charity eased her conscious some.

“I have no doubt we could get my ladies on board with such a project. It’s so closely connected to wounded soldiers. After all, it is the obligation of our social standing to support those who pay the price for the ultimate bravery in battle.”

They were good words, but Clara still winced. It was Ambrose’s social standing and position that had kept him from being one of those brave soldiers. As the heir of a titled man in already declining health without a spare in sight, no one had wanted to risk his life.

Not that she wanted Ambrose to risk his life on the battlefield. She had prayed day and night when Marmaduke had been considering making such a choice. She’d alternated between praying for his safety and pleading for God to keep him securely in England.

Now that most regiments had returned home and men were struggling to find work, she was even more thankful that God had led him to a different livelihood than the militia. Otherwise, he’d be at risk of being one of the soldiers Aunt Elizabeth’s friends said they wanted to help.

“Some of the ladies are most passionate.” Mother frowned into her teacup. “Would they truly be willing to adjust their focus?”

Aunt Elizabeth set her cup aside with a sigh. “Miriam, have you truly forgotten so much as you rot away in the country?”

Clara stiffened and her cup clanked harshly against the saucer as she almost sent another wave of tea flooding down onto the tray.

Aunt Elizabeth didn’t seem to notice. Instead, she took the serviette she’d been fanning herself with and held it as one would a delicate, lace-trimmed handkerchief while she dabbed at eyes suddenly sheened with suspicious tears.

“What greater wound is there than death? Our poor soldiers, wounded beyond redemption in this life, their final thoughts likely a plea for God to see to the care of the little ones they shall never see again. We owe those men, ladies, to offer their children a guiding hand, to usher them into the brighter future their fathers boldly fought for. We cannot give those men back their lives, but we can join this noble venture and help them live on in their children.”

Even Clara was moved by her aunt’s impassioned speech. Perhaps she’d been wrong about the older woman all along. She obviously cared deeply for her cause and—

“You see?” Aunt Elizabeth’s tears were immediately gone as a wide smile split her face. “’Tis a simple matter to move a soft heart from one goal to the other.”

Forgetting propriety, Clara sagged back against the settee. She had no doubt that the Virtuous Ladies Society for the Care of Wounded Soldiers would be willing to be the Virtuous Ladies Society for the Care of Orphans of Lost Sailors for a time, but she would never look at her aunt the same way again.

What else was an act put on for the sake of propriety and personal goals? Did she truly want to be helping Clara this year? Was her desire to procure a good match for her niece covering some other glorified mission?

The questions plagued her as she spent time on her embroidery, as she dressed for the evening, as she sat for her hair to be curled and pinned, and even as she stood waiting in the hall for her aunt and mother to join her.

In the quiet of the large room, her thoughts finally settled, blanketed by the pragmatism that had driven most of her life. The truth was, it simply didn’t matter what was motivating her aunt. It wasn’t as if Clara was giving a lot of consideration to Aunt Elizabeth.

She was here because, regardless of her desire for it to be otherwise, Clara needed to marry. If she was thinking of anyone else’s wishes on the matter, it was her mother, who would prefer Clara go about attaining the match in a fashion that resembled her own first Season.

No, her aunt’s ambitions weren’t as important as the fact that Clara had selected a man that fit all her criteria, determined a timeline that would get her out of London at an acceptable speed, and found a reasonable project to occupy her mind in the meantime.

With her thoughts and objectives settled, Clara sat quietly in the carriage, allowing her aunt and mother to chatter on about dresses and people and what entertainment the evening might provide. There was nothing for her to do until they arrived at the ball and she could seek out her intended match.

They had not yet formed a strong enough connection for Clara to expect him to be looking for her, so she would need to find him. Unfortunately, being of average height meant she couldn’t see past the people in her immediate vicinity. She considered asking after him, but that would be more likely to make her the object of gossip than the object of suitors’ affections.

Hopefully, soon they would have been seen together enough that well-meaning gossips would volunteer his whereabouts as soon as she entered a venue.

Until then, Clara was on her own. She stepped to the right, intending to circle the room and look for his artful blond waves, but her aunt’s hand on her arm stopped her progress.

The hand slid around until her aunt’s elbow was linked with Clara’s. “This way, my dear.”

Rounding the rooms to the left would suit her just as well, so Clara tripped along after the older woman. They entered the ballroom and Aunt Elizabeth continued moving, a certain destination obviously in mind.

Clara’s gaze slid to the dancers already twirling about the middle of the floor. It was still relatively early in the evening and already there were so many people here. Were there even this many people in her entire little village?

If her aunt hadn’t been holding her arm, Clara might have fled for the door. She’d heard of the crushes in London, but never quite expected this.

“How am I to find anyone here?” Clara whispered into her aunt’s ear.

“You are not here to find. You are here to be found.” Aunt Elizabeth smiled around the quiet words, nodding at people they passed. “The gentlemen will be approaching you, not the other way around, which is why we must position you to advantage.”

As Clara had already selected the perfect potential partner, she would prefer all her time and energy go into solidifying the match. That was a na?ve notion, though. She might be from a small village in the country, but her mother had the social niceties of a baron’s daughter and Clara had been taught them as well.

If only they weren’t so frustratingly inefficient.

“Do you know if Mr. Pitt is here?”

Aunt Elizabeth frowned. “Likely. He usually is.” She paused and looked Clara in the eye. “We can do better, you know.”

By whose standards? Clara had no wish to be in London, to be constantly considering who could help her advance socially or benefit her husband financially, to never know who was being genuine and who was fishing for gossip. “Better is a matter of opinion.”

The only response her aunt gave was a low, grumbling grunt. Her frown was soon replaced with the perfect smile as she struck up a conversation with a few other chaperons.

A nudge here and a poke there, and Clara soon found herself removed from the conversation and all but presented to the ballroom. She watched the dancers go by, trying to keep a smile in place as she exchanged brief nods with the other ladies waiting to be asked to join the frolicking ranks.

The dance drew to a close, and the ladies straightened their spines and skirts. Conversations filled with quiet laughter and encouraging murmurs sprang up, but the words were nonsense, a mere excuse to positions their bodies and their fans to advantage.

Gentlemen returned dancers to their chaperons before setting out to select someone new.

Clara’s brows drew together. How did they make their selections? The prettiest ones, obviously, were barely released to their mothers before their hand was reclaimed, but what other criteria were being used? If she could find the commonality, then she could get herself asked as well.

There wasn’t one she could find, though. Some were plain, some wore enough jewels to all but glitter in the candlelight. Some were smiling and simpering, while others stood tall and proud.

It was obvious if Clara wanted to peruse the entire ballroom and determine Mr. Pitt’s presence, she would have to do so by dancing, but there didn’t seem to be any rhyme or reason to getting oneself on the dance floor.

“Do stop frowning.” Aunt Elizabeth pinched Clara’s side. “Mr. Thompson is coming this way.”

Clara smoothed her features and turned to the man she’d met at her last event. He asked her to dance, and she accepted because she’d attended enough country dances to know that one refusal left a girl relegated to the side of the room for the entire evening.

The dance was pleasant enough. She did, indeed, see Mr. Pitt dancing with another young woman, and Mr. Thompson was easy enough to converse with, even if most of the conversation revolved around the horse he intended to bet on when he next went to Ascot.

When she’d mentioned that those funds might be better spent elsewhere or perhaps donated to a good cause, Mr. Thompson and only grinned and said, “Think of how much more I can give them after I win, though.”

As the night wore on, Clara found that she was not the most in-demand lady at the ball, but she rarely spent two consecutive sets at her aunt’s side. Finally, when she’d begun to consider doing something as desperate or apparently scandalous as walking through the ballroom on her own, the man she’d came to see stopped in front of her.

Her smile was wide as she placed her hand in his and allowed herself to be led to the dance floor.

“I’ve never known Lady Eversly to sponsor anyone for the season,” Mr. Pitt said as they joined the lines. “You must be a special young lady, indeed.”

A light flush burned the back of Clara’s neck as she smiled at the compliment. “She is my aunt.”

He tilted his head. “You are the viscount’s cousin?”

“Yes.”

They stepped away from each other to execute the moves of the dance and Clara took a moment to even her breathing and try to remember all her aunt’s lessons. This was the man she wanted to attract, after all, and if he was in London, he would expect certain behaviors, even if he considered them frivolous as a future clergyman.

“This is my first time in London,” she said when they could speak again. “Do you come here often?”

“’Tis my primary residence of late,” he said with a grin. “What young man wants to be anywhere other than Town, after all.”

“Oh? You find the city, er, exhilarating?” Concern nibbled at the edge of her confidence.

“I find the city full of opportunity.”

Once again, the dance pulled them apart, and Clara took a calming breath. How could she doubt the man? Of course London was where he wanted to be while unencumbered by family or his own congregation. The city was full of people who needed to know the good news God offered.

The conversation continued in bits and pieces as they danced the set. It was, perhaps, a little predictable and inane, but it was the first time they’d spent any length of time together. Superficial small talk was to be expected.

As they changed to the second dance of the set, she began to worry that such simple conversation wasn’t going to be enough to secure his attention.

What else could she do, though?

As they stood at the end of the line, awaiting their turn to engage with the dance again, she took a chance at a deeper conversation. “Have you given thought to the future?”

He chuckled. “As a third son, Miss Woodbury, I assure you that I am always aware of the future.”

“Why does that matter?”

“Birth and society haven’t set my path as firmly as my elder brothers. My future is something I must invent.”

“I feel the same, which is why I agreed to come to London.”

The lift of his eyebrow indicated Clara’s words might have been a little too bold and honest for such a short acquaintance. The tightness of embarrassment hit the back of her throat as she dropped her gaze.

Fortunately, the dance required they step back into the formation and their conversation returned to polite chatter.

As he escorted her off the dance floor, though, he tipped his head toward her. “Miss Woodbury, might I be so bold as to inquire about which days this week you shall be receiving visitors?”

Years of maintaining her composure kept Clara from clapping her hands in glee. God truly was going before her. “We intend to be at home tomorrow.”

He bowed over her hand before relinquishing it to Aunt Elizabeth. “Until tomorrow, then.”

Clara nodded back. “Until tomorrow.”

“What is happening tomorrow?” Aunt Elizabeth asked as Mr. Pitt walked away.

“I believe Mr. Pitt intends to come for a visit.”

The curls draping over Clara’s ear danced in the breeze of the hefty sigh her aunt emitted. “If you are truly set on him, then I suppose that is a good thing.” She shook her head. “You are too much like your mother. She, too, was determined to throw away any chance for advancement.”

Too pleased with her latest accomplishment to be irritated, Clara grinned in return. “That depends on what direction one is trying to go.”

The remainder of the evening was frightfully dull. Part of her hoped Mr. Pitt would ask her to dance again, but such partiality so early in their connection would have been suspicious. Even Clara would wonder at such speed. It wasn’t as if he could have picked her name out of a book of potential brides.

Besides, she had a project now. It would be much easier to be patient and stop praying for God to move as expeditiously as she’d originally asked.

More time in London also gave her more time with Ambrose. She hadn’t realized until moving into his London home quite how much of a reprobate he had become over the past few years. He’d always been something of a scoundrel, but since arriving in London she’d seen him do nothing that wasn’t for his own enjoyment, whether proper or not.

All in all, the evening had been successful, and she went to bed counting her blessings.

She woke early the next morning, a little tired, but still in a good mood. Her body refused to adjust to Town hours, and she continued to rise well before the rest of the house’s occupants.

Most mornings she would stroll through the ground floor, sipping on a mug of tea as she looked out different windows and watched London awaken in the early morning light.

The last thing she expected to find as she meandered into a small, private drawing room that she’d yet to explore was Mr. Lockhart.