Chapter 20

O liver Baxter had apparently decided that there was no point in hiding in his rooms, because Clarissa was seated next to him at dinner that night. Rosalind Baxter looked pale and drawn, but she appeared at the table as well and was seated next to Lord Helmsley.

Clarissa gave Oliver a tight smile. She wasn’t much looking forward to being his dining partner, but she was determined to be cordial. “The lobster bisque is excellent,” she observed. “Would you like some?”

“I would not. I have an unpleasant reaction to shellfish.”

“Do you?” Clarissa asked, taking a sip of her wine. “I have not heard of that before. What does it entail?”

His expression was bored. “My lips swell, my throat constricts, and my skin becomes itchy. I never touch the stuff.”

Clarissa made a sympathetic noise. “I can understand why. Shall I ask a footman if there is another soup?”

She never received an answer because Oliver had already given her his back. Clarissa found him odious, and it appeared the sentiment was mutual, because that was the last sentence he spoke to her. He spent the rest of the dinner ignoring her in favor of speaking with Lawrence de Roos, who was seated to his right.

But that was all right because Clarissa’s other dining companion, Lady Ashington, quite monopolized her conversation.

It seemed that after witnessing her kiss with Rupert beneath the mistletoe, Lady Ashington and the Duchess of Kimbolton had formed the same idea as Lady Emily—that the two of them should marry. “I still think you could snare an earl if you were to go to London,” Lady Ashington murmured. “But Mr. Dupree has a respectable income, and other attractions that make up for his lack of title, if you take my meaning.”

Clarissa knew her cheeks had gone pink, but she was not quite so horrified by this remark at the age of five and twenty as when Becky had made a similar implication two years ago.

Clarissa took a sip of her wine. “I would ask if you speak from experience, but I am terrified to learn your answer.”

The marchioness smirked. “I do not. More’s the pity, as it seems that Mr. Dupree will soon be off the market.”

The Duchess of Kimbolton, who was seated on Lady Ashington’s other side, leaned forward. “Trust me, child, such qualities are not to be taken for granted. My husband the duke, God rest his soul, could not have found the seat of a woman’s pleasure with both hands and a map from the Royal Engineers.”

Clarissa choked, almost spewing wine across the table. Lady Ashington patted her on the back. “Come, child. You’re not some sixteen-year-old debutante. You know of which we speak.”

“I am not quite so worldly as you assume,” Clarissa muttered.

“Yes, well, who better to remedy that than Mr. Dupree?” the marchioness countered. She turned to the duchess. “If your duke was using his hands , that is half the problem right there. And I’m not sure that a map from the Royal Engineers would help. I am thinking of a particular lover I took back in 1796. He was a strapping young cadet at the Royal Military Academy. A bright young man and very fit, but I had to teach him everything …”

Clarissa allowed her attention to wander as the two dowagers began reminiscing about topics that were probably not appropriate for her ears. At the other end of the table, Rupert was seated next to Lady Emily, and Clarissa could guess well enough how that conversation was going. If Lady Emily was indeed haranguing him about marrying Clarissa, he appeared to be bearing it with his typical good humor.

Well, no matter what was going on with Rupert in her personal life, their meeting tonight needed to be strictly business. Clarissa still couldn’t believe they had spent a half-hour together in the orangery and hadn’t managed to discuss the possible suspects!

Tonight, she vowed, they would discuss the case in detail.

There was just one thing she needed to explain to him first.