Chapter 8

M uch to Clarissa’s delight, the place card to her left indicated that she would be sitting next to Richard Garroway. Mr. Garroway was one of the three suspects Sir Henry had mentioned in his letter, the one who had been elected to the House of Commons representing the rotten pocket borough of Dunwich. Dinner promised to be an excellent opportunity to assess how highly Mr. Garroway ranked on her list of suspects.

As the guests found their seats, Clarissa glanced around the Great Hall. It was a gorgeous room with carved wooden beams visible beneath the high ceiling and a ten-foot-wide stone fireplace, complete with a roaring Yule log. A long table ran the length of the room with shield-back chairs lining either side. The wood-paneled walls were painted vermilion red and lined with real tapestries between the arched windows.

A lady settled into the seat to Clarissa’s right, introducing herself as the Marchioness of Ashington. She mentioned that she had made her debut with Clarissa’s mother, and had fond memories of her, which caused Clarissa to warm to her at once.

After a few minutes of reminiscing, Lady Ashington dropped her voice low. “I must confess, I was a bit surprised to learn who you were, especially after seeing you enter on the arm of Rupert Dupree. Do you truly not harbor any ill feelings toward him?”

Clarissa sipped from her wineglass as she considered her answer. “Mr. Dupree has assured me that he was not the author of the letter that went around the papers two years ago. In fact, he told me that he knew nothing of it, as he has been traveling on the Continent.”

Lady Ashington regarded her steadily. “And you believe him?”

“I don’t know what to believe,” Clarissa admitted. “But the de Roos family seems to regard him very highly. I certainly don’t want to be the cause of any unpleasantness at their gathering. So, I am trying to give Mr. Dupree the benefit of the doubt.”

The marchioness nodded, a look of approval settling over her face. “Do you want to know what I think?”

“I would.” Clarissa was honestly curious. She had known Lady Ashington for all of two minutes, but she seemed sensible. Clarissa had no idea how she felt about the whole business, and she rather thought she could do with a little guidance.

Lady Ashington leaned forward, dropping her voice low. “It’s obvious he didn’t write that letter. Weatherby Wallflower, my shoe. Just look at you! Some wallflower.”

Clarissa suspected her cheeks had turned as red as her dress. “Oh, er…”

“And your sister is now a duchess . The Duke of Norwood could have had his pick of any woman in England. I am yet to meet your sister, but she could not possibly be the hag described in the papers.”

Clarissa’s heart squeezed. “She’s not. Eleanor is lovely, inside and out.”

“So, it is obvious that column was nothing but rubbish. And there is no possibility that Rupert Dupree was its author.”

“What makes you say that?” Clarissa asked.

“Why, just look at him, child—he can’t take his eyes off you!”

Clarissa blanched. That couldn’t possibly be right. The legendary lothario Rupert Dupree could not possibly be staring at the likes of her.

Don’t look , she ordered herself. Don’t look, don’t look, don’t —

Of course, she looked.

Rupert’s head swiveled to face the far end of the table with suspicious alacrity.

Clarissa glanced at Lady Ashington and found the marchioness regarding her with a smug smile. “What did I tell you?”

Clarissa was still having difficulty believing that any man, much less Rupert Dupree, might find her attractive. “I don’t know. The letter came out long before I ever met Mr. Dupree.”

“And what would be his motive in writing such a letter about a woman he’s never met?” The marchioness shook her head. “Mark my words, Miss Weatherby—figure out who had something to gain by slandering you. Because that person is the author of the letter.”

Clarissa was stunned that Lady Ashington was treating her so civilly. She had expected the other guests to wonder at the fact that Lord and Lady Helmsley had invited her, a Weatherby Wallflower, to their gathering. But when Lady Ashington introduced her to the guests seated in their vicinity, Clarissa did not receive one snide look.

Maybe it was the fact that Lady Ashington was able to introduce her as “sister-in-law to the Duke of Norwood.” By marrying Jasper St. James, Eleanor had saved her, which was a very Eleanor-like thing to do. Perhaps it was the fact that thanks to Lady Emily, Clarissa didn’t look like a wallflower. It had never occurred to her that she could silence her critics by looking ravishingly beautiful, but to be fair, looking ravishingly beautiful had been a much more daunting prospect when her family had been so poor that even her nicest gowns had been years out of date and fraying at the hem.

Or maybe Lady Helmsley’s guests wanted to return to London with the latest on dit —that they had beheld Clarissa Weatherby, wallflower amongst wallflowers, with their own eyes, and she hadn’t been at all what you would expect. Not only that, but they had even watched her interact with Rupert Dupree and could provide a full report. Everyone present would be able to dine out on that gossip for at least a week or two.

Clarissa found that she did not mind this unlooked for sea change— Clarissa Weatherby, a wallflower? Oh, dear, haven’t you heard? —on a personal level. She had always thought of herself as a bookish sort of girl. Her youngest sister, Pippa, was the pretty one. It had never occurred to her that she could be pretty, too. She still couldn’t quite wrap her head around it. But one thing was for certain, it was a thousand times better than being known as a Weatherby Wallflower!

But in terms of her work for the Home Office, it was a disaster. She had been selected for being the girl no one noticed. Now, she was drawing every eye in the room, not merely for being pretty but for her newfound notoriety.

How on earth was she supposed to overhear her fellow guests’ secrets if they were fascinated by her every move?

Clarissa was pondering this debacle when Mr. Garroway turned to her with a smile. He was a handsome man, perhaps in his early thirties, with brown hair, blue eyes, and a jaded air. “I don’t believe we’ve been introduced. I’m Richard Garroway.”

“Mr. Garroway, a pleasure,” she said, inclining her head. “I am Clarissa Weatherby.”

He laughed, but in a startled way, not a cruel one. “Are you really?”

Clarissa’s lips twisted into a wry smile. “I see that my reputation has preceded me.”

His gaze swept slowly down her frame, lingering for a beat on her bosom. “Your entirely inaccurate reputation, you mean.”

Clarissa’s sense of disbelief grew. Was Richard Garroway flirting with her? She had never had a man flirt with her, not once in her twenty-five years.

Of course… that might not be entirely down to her threadbare wardrobe. Clarissa had always been unafraid to speak her mind and to do so about topics most ladies would not touch with a ten-foot pole—current events, politics, and the like. It was a quality that many men found unappealing.

But Clarissa had to own that there was more to it than that. Ever since that cursed letter appeared in all the papers, rendering her a laughingstock, she had assumed any man who approached her did so intending malice. She had adopted a policy of preemptively lashing out, of humiliating them before they could humiliate her.

But the de Roos family was so kind, it was perhaps unsurprising that their friends were kind, too. For the first time in two years, there was no need for Clarissa to strike first. It wasn’t as if she was going to become a shrinking violet overnight. But in a single day, she had been stripped of so many of her sharp edges. She simply did not need them anymore.

It was startling to realize that something Clarissa had thought of as an intrinsic part of her personality was actually a product of the environment in which she had found herself. That, while she might be confident and opinionated, she wasn’t actually caustic, as she had come to believe.

Still, she wasn’t confident enough to flirt back at Richard Garroway, so Clarissa replied, “I’ve heard of you, too. You are a Member of Parliament, are you not?”

“Right you are. I’m surprised you know that.”

Clarissa shrugged. “I’m one of those tiresome people who read the paper every day. Tell me, Mr. Garroway, what positions do you support?”

She had expected a man who had bought his seat in the House of Commons to have a limited knowledge of the issues. Goodness knew there were enough men like that, who held the title M.P., but who could rarely be bothered to show up to vote, much less attend parliamentary debate.

But Richard Garroway surprised her. To be sure, he was no William Wilberforce, galvanized by a great passion to change the world for the better. He was both sardonic and flippant, but Clarissa had to admit that he knew the issues. He had carefully considered the best interests of his constituents, and most of his positions were ones she agreed with.

When he mentioned that he represented Dunwich, Clarissa saw her opening. Dunwich was well-known as a rotten borough with so few voters that it was easily bought and sold.

She gave him a teasing look. “Dunwich? Really?”

He laughed, taking her comment in stride. “I know what you’re thinking. Yes, I’m that horrible fellow.”

Clarissa lowered her voice and tried to make her expression wry, even though her heart was pounding. “Is it not awkward for you to be in the same room with Mr. Baxter, the great champion of parliamentary reform?”

He took a sip of his wine. “It was my father’s idea, buying me the Dunwich seat. I hadn’t thought to stand for Parliament, but that was the career he set out for me. I’ve taken to it more than I thought, and I’ve tried to do a decent job. But privately, I agree with Baxter, and if he manages to get his bill up for a vote, I plan on supporting it.”

Clarissa gave him an incredulous look. “You would vote yourself out of office?”

He inclined his head, seeming unperturbed. “Quite possibly. My father would be furious. Although, who knows—I think I’ve acquitted myself better than a lot of the men in Parliament. Perhaps I could win an election on my own merits. And if I can’t”—he shrugged—“then I suppose I don’t deserve to be there after all.”

“My gracious, Mr. Garroway—what a noble sentiment! Not at all what I was expecting from the representative from Dunwich .”

He leaned in close. “I pray you won’t tell anyone. It would quite ruin my reputation.”

The conversation moved on. By the end of the evening, Clarissa had not struck Mr. Garroway from her list of suspects entirely. There was always the possibility that he was lying.

But her instincts told her that he was sincere. She would still keep an eye on him.

But it was time to shift her focus to the next name on her list.