Chapter Three

“Did you have a pleasant outing with Lady Frobisher and her husband?” Lady Scattergood inquired when Clarissa returned home.

“Yes, it was lovely. The weather was glorious and I feel—oh, I feel as if I’ve swept all the cobwebs away.” And it was true. The combination of the fresh air and the sunshine and the rural surrounds, not to mention the company, had left her feeling wonderfully refreshed. Lord Randall and his cousin had kept them all laughing.

But she’d also come to a decision: somehow, she had to release Lord Randall from the obligation of escorting her. Oh, he put a good face on it, pretending he was enjoying it, but he was only honoring a promise to a friend.

It was mortifying to think of her pleasure this morning when he’d arranged the outing, thinking he’d gone to all that trouble just for her. It was quite depressing to realize she was merely a duty.

“Cobwebs?” Lady Scattergood raised her lorgnette and peered up at the cornices. “I don’t see any cobwebs, but then my eyesight isn’t what it used to be.”

“No, I meant metaphorical cobwebs.”

The old lady frowned and peered harder at the corners of the ceilings. “Metaphorical cobwebs? I don’t like the sound of them.”

“There are no actual cobwebs,” Clarissa explained. “I just meant that I feel wonderfully refreshed.”

“Oh, well, why didn’t you say so? I expect you’re exhausted now, so you’d better go upstairs and lie down.”

“Thank you, but I’m not at all tired. In fact, I’m planning to visit an orphanage this afternoon. I’ll just go up and change.”

“An orphanage?” The old lady trained her lorgnette on her. “Whatever for?”

“I told you about it the other day, remember? After Izzy and Leo left on their honeymoon. My maid and I are going to choose an orphan girl and train her to become Izzy’s maid.”

Lady Scattergood nodded vaguely. “Oh yes. But you’ll have to wait. Althea’s gone out. I don’t remember where.”

Clarissa knew her chaperone would be out. She had an appointment with their dressmaker, Miss Chance, and Clarissa had chosen this time to visit the orphanage precisely for that reason. She was fond of Mrs. Price-Jones, but she did have a tendency to take over, and Clarissa wanted the choice to be hers and Betty’s.

“That’s all right,” she said, “I’ll take my maid, Betty, and a footman—perhaps Jeremiah, if he’s finished walking the dogs?” The six little dogs were snoozing in small heaps around the room, so they’d already been well walked.

Lady Scattergood pursed her lips. “I don’t know. Jeremiah is rather young…”

“And of course we’ll go in the carriage,” Clarissa said hastily, “so we’ll have the coachman.”

“And a groom.”

“Yes, so I’ll be well protected,” Clarissa said.

The old lady sighed. “I suppose so…But I don’t like it. Treadwell said that dratted rake had been sniffing around.”

“Which rake?”

“That Lord Randall.”

“Oh, did he come past while I was out riding?” Clarissa said innocently.

Lady Scattergood waved a pettish hand. “I don’t remember. Very well, go off and fetch your orphan maidservant. Though I don’t know why you must do it yourself. In my day the housekeeper saw to the staffing. An orphan asylum is no place for a lady.”

“Thank you, dear Lady Scattergood.” Clarissa rose and kissed the old lady on her rouged and withered cheek, then hurried upstairs to change out of her habit.

“I’m really looking forward to this, miss.” Betty, Clarissa’s maid, bounced on the carriage seat. “Whoever we get will be so grateful. I remember what it was like in the place I was in, and we all thought that going into service—especially as a lady’s maid—is that much better than going into one of those dirty manufactories or getting a job scrubbing floors, because that’s what they’ll get—if they’re lucky. There’s a lot worse things, too,” she ended ominously.

Betty had come from an orphan asylum herself, starting at the age of ten as a lowly scullery maid. But she was much the same age as Clarissa and Izzy, and so when they were allowed to bring one servant with them when they left Clarissa’s childhood home, and their elderly nanny didn’t want to come, they chose Betty.

But as they drew closer to the orphan asylum, Betty became more and more silent and withdrawn.

“Are you nervous about doing this, Betty?” Clarissa asked.

Betty grimaced. “Not really, miss. I just…I don’t like these places.”

“You don’t have to go in if you don’t want to.”

Betty shook her head and said resolutely, “No, it’s all right, miss. I want to help. And I wouldn’t leave you to go in there by yourself.”

They rang the bell and were shown inside and in a few minutes a tall, severe-looking woman dressed all in gray came to receive them; the matron, who introduced herself as Miss Glass. On their way to her office, they passed a room where a dozen or so girls sat sewing in silence under the supervision of another woman. The girls were all dressed alike, in neat brown fustian.

“These are the exiting class,” Miss Glass said. “They will be leaving to take up work as soon as we find them respectable positions. Every one of our gels leaves for employment. Respectable employment.” She beckoned Clarissa and Betty in.

As one, the girls rose, curtsied, chanted, “Good afternoon, Miss Glass,” in a monotone, and resumed their work, their needles stabbing into cloth while they examined Clarissa and Betty with shrewdly calculating gazes. Their interest was understandable, but Clarissa found it a little unsettling. One of these girls would presumably become Izzy’s new maid. They all looked alike. How on earth could she choose?

Miss Glass then showed them to her office.

“Miss, can I wait outside?” Betty whispered, clearly unnerved, and Clarissa nodded.

Over tea and biscuits Miss Glass questioned Clarissa about her exact needs. “I have several gels who might be suitable,” she said when Clarissa had finished explaining. “I will arrange for you to interview them.” She rose and swept majestically out.

Deciding Betty should sit in on these interviews, Clarissa stepped into the hall, but there was no sign of her. A corridor led off to the right and, thinking Betty might be there, Clarissa went to investigate. But she still couldn’t see her.

Just as Clarissa turned back to return to the matron’s office, Betty came hurrying up. “Miss, miss, you gotta come and see this.” She was bright with excitement.

Clarissa hesitated. “I need to go back to—”

Betty grabbed her arm. “No, it’s urgent. You gotta come see. You gotta!”

She led Clarissa back down the corridor, turned left and led her through a rabbit warren of narrow hallways. “I went exploring,” she said as she hurried them along. “The front parts of these places are all nice for the visitors, but the back part—that’s where you get the real story.”

“But—”

“Look!” She stopped and pointed dramatically at a dark-haired girl who was halfheartedly cleaning a bold charcoal caricature off the wall. The girl had her back to them, but it was clear she wasn’t making much of an effort to remove the sketch, but cleaning around it instead. The subject of the sketch was unmistakable—the pointy nose, the sharp chin, the severe look—it was Miss Glass, wickedly unflattering, but uncannily like her.

“Yes, very clever,” Clarissa murmured, “but we really must get b—”

“Not the picture—the girl!” Betty darted forward, grabbed the girl’s arm and swung her around to face Clarissa.

The breath left Clarissa’s body. For a moment she felt almost dizzy. It couldn’t possibly be…

“See, I told you, miss. Unbelievable, ain’t it?”

Scowling, the girl shook off Betty’s hand. “Leggo of me, you.” She glanced at Clarissa, taking in her fine lady clothes, and her lip curled in scorn. “What are you starin’ at, lady? Come to gawp at us poor orphans, have you? Well, bugger off.”

“No. I’m just—” Clarissa swallowed, took several deep breaths and fought to calm herself.

“D’you see what I mean, miss? It’s uncanny, ain’t it?” Betty murmured.

Clarissa just stared, unable to think of a thing to say. Unlike the girls in the sewing room, this girl’s clothing was patched and worn, and fitted her badly. But it wasn’t her dress or the sketch Clarissa cared about: it was the girl herself who fascinated her. “Did you draw that?” she finally managed. “It’s very clever.”

The girl smirked. “Old Glass don’t think so.”

“Who are you?” Clarissa blurted.

The girl’s green eyes narrowed. “Zo?. What’s it to you?”

“You do live here, don’t you? You’re one of the…”

“Orphans, yeah, it’s not a dirty word, you know.”

“I know,” Clarissa said. “Both Betty and I are orphans.”

The girl made a rude sound. “Yeah, you look it.”

“I’m a foundling, and I started out in a place like this,” Betty said. “I hated it. But now I work for miss.”

The girl eyed her cynically. “So?”

Clarissa stared. That scowl, those eyes, that cynical curl of the lip; they were as familiar to her as her own reflection. It was Izzy to the life, Izzy as she had been perhaps four or five years ago. But for the age difference, this girl and her sister could be twins.

“Miss Studley, are you there, Miss Studley?” Miss Glass appeared from around a corner, breathing heavily. “Miss Studley, visitors are not permitted in this—” She broke off and glared at the girl. “Susan Bennet, haven’t you cleaned that mess off yet? Get rid of it at once and return to your lessons. Miss Studley, if you would care to step this way, I have gels waiting to be interviewed.”

Clarissa stepped forward and put a hand on the young girl’s arm. “No need, Miss Glass. I have chosen this girl.”

The girl called Susan—or was it Zo??—pulled her arm away, eyeing Clarissa suspiciously. “Chosen? What for?”

“Susan Bennet?” Miss Glass exclaimed. “Oh no, no, no! She is not at all suitable for your needs. She has neither the temperament nor the aptitude to become a lady’s maid.”

“Lady’s maid?” the girl echoed. “I don’t want to be a—”

Betty pinched her. “Shut it!” she said in a low voice. Clarissa hoped Miss Glass couldn’t hear. “Me and Miss Clarissa are gettin’ you out of here.”

Susan/Zo? narrowed her eyes.

“There are other, much more suitable gels,” Miss Glass began.

“I’m sure there are,” Clarissa said pleasantly, “but my mind is made up; this is the girl I want.”

“I’m afraid I cannot allow—”

Clarissa raised her brows and said in as cool a voice as she could manage, “I thought you said you wished to place all your charges in respectable employment.”

“Yes, but—”

“Then it’s settled. I will take Miss Bennet. Immediately, if you please.”

“Beno?t,” the girl muttered.

“You don’t understand. That girl will be nothing but trouble; she’s unruly, ungovernable, wayward, disobedient and willful. She’s headstrong, obstinate—”

“You will not be held responsible for any problems that may arise,” Clarissa said briskly, hoping her anxiety didn’t show. She turned. “Collect your things, Miss Bennet, you’re coming with us.”

The girl hesitated, her expression sullen and mistrustful. She looked from Miss Glass to Clarissa to Betty, who nodded in an encouraging way. Then she shrugged, turned and tromped up a narrow staircase Clarissa hadn’t noticed, Betty following close behind her.

Clarissa and Miss Glass returned to the front entrance, the matron trying all the time to convince Clarissa that taking this particular orphan was a huge mistake. Clarissa murmured soothing responses, but didn’t back down.

She was determined not to let Susan/Zo? out of her grasp.

In a few minutes, Betty and the girl arrived, the latter carrying a small bundle knotted into a cloth and a long cardboard cylinder, and wearing a surly expression. Not overburdened with possessions, then. And judging by her demeanor Betty hadn’t managed to convince her that this was a good thing. Oh well, that would change as soon as Clarissa explained.

Which would take some doing. The whole thing was incredible.

Clarissa thanked Miss Glass and the three of them climbed into the waiting carriage. The girl sat silently clutching her bundle and tube to her. She eyed the smart interior with a jaundiced expression but said nothing.

The carriage pulled away, and Clarissa and Betty looked at the girl, then at each other and burst out laughing. “I never thought she’d let her go,” Betty began.

“No, I—”

“Who are you people?” the girl burst out angrily. She reached for the door handle. “I dunno what you want with me, but I’ll tell you now I’m no bloody lady’s maid—old Glass was right about that—so I’m warnin’ you, if you’re white slavers or somethin’ I’m jumpin’ out of this carriage, right now, and I don’t care how fast it’s going.”

Betty grabbed her arm.

“White slavers?” Clarissa exclaimed, shocked. “Of course we’re not. I am Miss Clarissa Studley, and this is my maid, Betty, just as we said. We’re perfectly respectable, and you’re in no danger whatsoever.”

“Quite the opposite,” Betty said. “If what we think about you is right.”

The green eyes narrowed. “What do you mean, what you think about me?”

“I’ll explain when we get to my home,” Clarissa said hastily. “It’s too noisy in the carriage for conversation. But you’re perfectly safe with us, I assure you.”

The girl sat scrunched in the corner of the carriage, silent and suspicious, clutching her bundle and cardboard tube protectively before her. After a few minutes she said, “But you’re gunna try and make me into a lady’s maid?”

“As I said, we’ll discuss it in private.” After a minute, a thought occurred to Clarissa. “Miss Glass called you Susan Bennet, but you said something different.”

The girl snorted. “She don’t like my real name. She reckons it’s outlandish and foreign so she changed it to Susan Bennet, which is more like what she thinks is a proper orphan sort of name.”

Clarissa frowned. Was the girl telling the truth or not? “What is your real name, then?”

“It’s Zo?. Zo? Beno?t.” Her narrow green gaze dared Clarissa to dispute it. “Zo? is Greek for ‘life.’?”

“Zo? Beno?t,” Clarissa repeated, and gave a brisk nod. “Then of course, that’s what we’ll call you.”

Zo?’s mistrustful expression didn’t soften. If anything, it hardened.

A few minutes later the carriage pulled up outside Lady Scattergood’s house, and they descended. Zo? stood staring up at the house. “This is your house?”

“It belongs to Lady Scattergood, my guardian’s aunt,” Clarissa explained. “But it’s where Betty and I live at the moment. And where you’ll live, too.” At least she hoped so. Because even if it turned out that she’d been quite wrong about Zo?—not that she believed in her heart that she was wrong—she would still owe the girl some kind of security—a job at least. Though not as a lady’s maid, apparently.

The butler, Treadwell, opened the door and, seeing Zo?, blinked. His normally impassive expression vanished and his eyebrows crept up to his long-vanished hairline. He turned to Clarissa. “Miss Studley?” he said in a clear demand to have the situation explained.

But Clarissa had no intention of explaining anything until she’d spoken to Lady Scattergood. “Thank you, Treadwell. Betty, would you take Zo? upstairs, please, and show her where to leave her things? Give her a cup of tea and something to eat and I’ll see you both back here when you’ve finished. Oh, and leave any explanations to me, if you please.” The two girls departed and Clarissa sought out Lady Scattergood.

Over tea and biscuits she told the old lady her incredible tale, finishing, “And so you see, when I saw this girl, I knew at once—well, see for yourself and tell me what you think.” Clarissa rose and called Zo? and Betty in.

Zo? entered cautiously, gazing around the sitting room with wide eyes. Clarissa had forgotten how the crammed display of colorful and exotic items collected from far-flung corners of the world must look to someone who wasn’t used to it, let alone the sight of the skinny old lady swathed in a dozen exquisitely patterned shawls, wearing a large colorful turban and seated in a dramatic peacock chair that looked like some kind of throne.

“Lady Scattergood, I’d like you to meet Miss Zo? Beno?t.”

The old lady blinked and leaned forward, groping for her lorgnette. “Good gracious me!” She gestured to Zo?. “Come closer, gel.”

Zo? glanced at Clarissa and edged warily closer. Lady Scattergood’s lorgnette slowly raked her from head to toe and back again, then she gave a brusque nod. “Well, well, well. And you found her in an orphan asylum, you say?” She shook her head and made a disgusted sound. “An absolute disgrace! Should have been drowned at birth.”

Zo? gave Clarissa an alarmed look and stepped back as if preparing to flee.

“She doesn’t mean you, Zo?,” Clarissa said hastily. “Lady Scattergood is talking about my father.” If the old lady had said it once within Clarissa’s hearing, she’d said it a dozen times.

Lady Scattergood nodded. “A vile, irresponsible rake, he was! Society is full of such appalling reprobates.”

“Indeed,” Clarissa said soothingly. “Now let us find out a little more about Zo?’s background, shall we? Sit down, Zo?. Would you like another cup of tea?”

Zo?’s gaze wandered to the plate of biscuits, but she shook her head. She perched on the edge of the chaise longue and faced Clarissa, her expression guarded. Several of Lady Scattergood’s little dogs had come over to sniff around her skirts. Keeping a wary eye on Clarissa and Lady Scattergood, Zo? dropped a hand down, let them sniff and lick it, then began to pat them.

Lady Scattergood nodded approvingly.

“Can you tell us about your mother, Zo??” Clarissa asked.

Zo? stiffened. For a moment, Clarissa thought she was going to refuse, but then she sighed, and said in a flat little voice, as if repeating a tale she didn’t expect to be believed, “Maman was French. She came over here when she was eleven, fleeing from the Terror. She was all on her own. The rest of her family perished on la guillotine.”

Lady Scattergood tsk-tsked and muttered something uncomplimentary about the French.

“That must have been a terrible time for her,” Clarissa said sympathetically. “So young, and all her family lost. However did she manage? Did she have other relatives in England?”

Zo? shook her head. “No relatives. And the other émigrés were…” She gave a dismissive shrug. “But Maman could draw. She started out drawing pictures on the footpath in chalk.”

Clarissa recalled the clever caricature on the orphanage wall. “And you inherited her talent.”

Again Zo? shrugged. After a pause she added with an edge of defensiveness, “Later she became an artist’s model. She was beautiful, you see, and it paid better.”

“I’m sure,” Clarissa said gently, skating over that very thin ice. “How did she die? I presume that’s when you went into the orphan asylum.”

“I was twelve. She got sick. Cholera, they said.”

“I’m so sorry to hear it. So, you’re now what, fifteen? Sixteen?”

“Almost sixteen.”

Clarissa nodded. “And your father?”

Zo? hunched one shoulder indifferently. “I never met him. I’m a bastard.” She flung the word down like a challenge.

Clarissa didn’t react. “Did your mother ever tell you his name?”

“What does it matter? He never wanted me.”

“Humor me.”

Zo? wrinkled her nose, and for a moment Clarissa thought she wasn’t going to respond, but then she said, “He was a toff, I know that.”

“Nothing else?”

She snorted. “A couple of times I heard her call him ‘Black Bart, the man with no heart.’ He gave her nothing—just a slip on the shoulder.” When she saw that Clarissa didn’t understand the term, she said, “A baby. Me.”

A toff she calledBlack Bart. Clarissa glanced at Lady Scattergood in barely suppressed triumph. From Sir Bartleby to Bart was no big leap, and Papa’s hair had been thick and black. Two stableboys in her former home had been called Harry, and, because of the color of their hair, they were referred to by the other servants as Red Harry and Black Harry.

And if Papa had a heart, Clarissa had never seen any evidence of it. No doubt he’d seduced and abandoned Zo?’s mother just as he’d done to Izzy’s. He probably would have done the same to her own mother, too, only Mama had the security of Grandfather Iverley’s fortune held in trust for her, and Papa had married her for it.

Those few scant facts, combined with Zo?’s amazing resemblance to her sister Izzy—and the feeling she got looking at Zo?—were proof enough for Clarissa.

Lady Scattergood nodded thoughtfully and sat back in her peacock chair. “Well, well, well, so we have another one. Well done, Clarissa.”

“It was Betty who found her,” Clarissa said, beaming at Betty, who blushed and smoothed her skirt proudly.

Zo? shifted uncomfortably. “What’s all this about? Another what?”

“Yes, I’m sorry. I’ll explain.” Clarissa took a sip of tea, which was by then lukewarm. “My father was Sir Bartleby Studley. Does that name sound familiar?”

“No.”

“You’re sure?”

“I’m sure.”

“Well, I think he was the man your mother called ‘Black Bart.’?”

Zo? wrinkled her nose. “Your pa was Black Bart?”

“Yes, at least I think so. I think you and I—and my sister Izzy—had the same father. I believe you’re our sister—our half sister, that is.”

Zo?’s face screwed up incredulously. “Sister?” She glanced at Betty. “Is she cracked in the head or summat?”

Betty shook her head. “Just listen.”

Clarissa continued, “You’ll understand when you see my sister Izzy. You’re the living image of her—or rather the way she looked when she was your age.”

“What, so she’s got black hair and green eyes? That don’t make me her sister. Or yours, because I don’t look nothing like you, do I?”

“Neither does Izzy,” Clarissa said tranquilly, “but you both look a great deal like my father—Izzy’s and mine. We had different mothers. And your resemblance to Izzy is more—much more—than hair and eye color.”

“So where is this Izzy, then? Not that I believe you or nothing.”

“No, I understand.” Clarissa gave her a sympathetic smile. “I’m having a little difficulty accepting it myself—the last thing I expected when I left the house this afternoon was to discover a long-lost sister—but the more I see of you, the more certain I am that you are Izzy’s and my sister. As for where Izzy is, she’s away on her honeymoon at the moment, so you won’t meet her for a few weeks.”

Zo? looked at Lady Scattergood. “And what do you think? You reckon this lady and me are sisters?”

Lady Scattergood nodded. “Your resemblance to Isobel is extraordinary. The material evidence is slight, but I’m sure an investigation into your past will clarify the matter.”

Zo? shook her head. “I reckon you’re all barmy. I’m a bastard. I grew up in the stews and I come from an orphanage. No way am I the sister of a couple of lady toffs.”

“My sister Izzy is illegitimate, too,” Clarissa said. “And when I met her—we were both almost nine years old—she’d just lost her mother and my father was arranging to have her dumped in the nearest orphan asylum. I heard him say that myself—in those very words. He made no attempt to deny her parentage, he just refused to take any responsibility for her.” She gave a satisfied smile. “But I decided to keep her. And so I did.”

“Like a stray puppy?” Zo? said sarcastically.

“No, like a beloved sister,” Clarissa said softly.

“And you aim to keep me, too?” Said with an air of defiance, it was another challenge.

“I would certainly like to,” Clarissa assured her. She turned to Lady Scattergood. “Ma’am?”

The old lady nodded. “Yes, yes, of course we’ll give her a home here with us. She’s clearly a relative, and the dogs like her. They’re very good judges of character.”

Clarissa heaved a sigh of relief at that we. It was a little awkward bringing home a complete stranger when she was just a guest here herself. “Thank you, ma’am. Then, Zo?, yes, I would certainly like to keep you. But of course it’s up to you.”

Zo? didn’t say a word. She looked from Clarissa to Lady Scattergood and back, her face full of doubt and suspicion. Clarissa didn’t blame her. It was a lot to accept, especially from strangers.

“Give her the little blue room. It’s small but she won’t mind that, not after being in one of those dreadful places.” Lady Scattergood focused her lorgnette on Zo? again and added, “And get her some decent clothing, for goodness’ sake. Can’t have people mistaking her for my scullery maid—who, I might add, dresses better than that.”

“Yes, of course,” Clarissa agreed. “She can wear some of Izzy’s clothes.”

There was a short silence. At last Zo? said, “You want me to live here?”

“Yes.”

“And you’re not a brothel or nothing?”

“A brothel!” Lady Scattergood dropped her lorgnette and let out a bark of laughter. “Good gad, child, is that what you thought?”

“Well, look at all them smutty statues. I never been inside a brothel, but I reckon this is what it’d look like.” Zo? gestured to the foreign-looking statues, many of which were of naked people in all kinds of poses. Now that Clarissa looked more closely at them, some were more than suggestive.

Lady Scattergood chuckled. “Gifts from my late husband, child. He traveled the world, sending me back such items as caught his fancy. I’ve been called many things in my time, but never a brothel keeper.” She chuckled again, seeming quite pleased by the shocking accusation.

“And you don’t want me for a lady’s maid?” Zo? persisted.

“No,” Clarissa said firmly. “Not as any kind of maid at all. As my sister.”

There was a longer silence. Zo? glanced a silent question at Betty, who gave her an encouraging nod. Betty seemed almost as excited as Clarissa. Betty, too, had come from an orphan asylum, yet she didn’t apparently feel any resentment for Zo?’s luck.

Clarissa knew it was a common orphan fantasy—that there was a grand family somewhere who would come and rescue them from a life of poverty and obscurity. Betty seemed to have no trouble believing that in Zo?’s case it was true.

Zo?, on the other hand, was a skeptic. But she would come around, Clarissa was sure. It was just a matter of time. Once she saw Izzy for herself, she’d feel differently.

“Lady Frobisher and Lord Randall to see Lady Scattergood,” Race’s cousin Maggie said. Lady Scattergood’s butler eyed her balefully, but Maggie was well acquainted with the social niceties and had left her card at Lady Scattergood’s the previous day. The butler’s gaze shifted to Race, standing behind her, and he sniffed. “You can come in, m’lady, but not him. He’s forbidden.”

“Forbidden? Lord Randall is my cousin and my escort,” Maggie declared haughtily.

The butler shrugged. “Can’t help that. Orders is orders. Are you coming in or not, m’lady?”

“Outrageous!” Maggie huffed. “Very well.” She turned to Race and he could see that though her mouth was primmed in apparent disapproval, her eyes were dancing. His cousin was loving this, drat her. “I’ll see you back here in twenty minutes, Race,” she said. To the butler she added as she sailed into the house, “You would not last a minute in my employ!”

The butler smirked and closed the door on Race.

Race climbed into his curricle, wondering what the punishment would be for butlercide. And decided his plea, if it came to that, would be justifiable butlercide.

Twenty minutes later, after numerous circuits of Hyde Park, he pulled up outside Lady Scattergood’s home, and waited. A few minutes later his cousin emerged. He helped her into the curricle and drove off.

“Well?” he said after a minute when she hadn’t said a word.

“When we get home. It was as I expected: insipid chitchat and lukewarm tea. I need a fresh hot cup.”

“Insipid?” he queried.

“Yes, but only the visitors. Otherwise it was quite, quite fascinating. Now be patient, Race. Ollie will want to know as well, and I refuse to repeat it all again.”

Once they’d arrived at Frobisher House, his cousin kept him waiting even longer while she went upstairs to tidy herself. Finally she returned, having removed her hat and pelisse, which apparently took fifteen minutes.

“Well?” Race asked as she entered the sitting room where he’d been waiting with her husband, chatting about the state of the nation. Ollie was quite a serious chap.

“It was utterly splendid,” Maggie said as she plumped down on the sofa beside her husband.

“You said it was inane and the tea was lukewarm.”

“I said, the visitors’ conversation was inane, not my visit—and I’ve ordered fresh tea and coffee. Lady Scattergood is utterly splendid—I wish you could meet her, Oliver. Did you know she commiserated with me on my marriage”—she laughed—“and advised me to send you off on a long sea voyage from which, with any luck, you would never return.” She laughed again. “Which, thinking of some of those men who made me an offer before you, might have been an excellent idea. But you, dearest, are just exactly where I want you.” She placed her hand on her husband’s thigh and squeezed it gently.

“What about Miss Studley and her suitors?” Race interjected. It was, after all, the purpose of their visit.

“And oh, the house!” Maggie continued as if he hadn’t spoken. “It’s absolutely crammed with the most amazing stuff—statues and figurines, some of which were quite shockingly erotic, some quite clearly priceless and others cheap things from who knows where, and all crammed in higgledy-piggledy—along with her husband’s ashes, which sit in a jar on the mantel between the statue of a person with an elephant’s head, and one of a woman with far too many arms to be comfortable—or would it?”

She considered the notion for a few seconds, shook her head, and hurried on. “Lady Scattergood herself is draped with half a dozen fabulously colorful shawls, all clashing brilliantly. And she sits in this huge peacock-tail chair, receiving her visitors like some fantastic empress, delivering pithy judgments. Oh, she is wonderful. I want to be just like her when I am old.”

“And the visitors?” Race reminded her.

“There are five—or was it six?—little dogs, all gathered from the gutter, all mongrels, all bitches and quite peculiar looking, but she dotes on them. It’s adorable. We must get a little mongrel, Oliver. I predict it will become quite the rage.”

“Whatever you wish, my love, but Race here has asked you a question several times.”

“Oh, yes, of course.” The door opened and the butler and a footman entered bearing a large pot of tea, a coffeepot, cups and saucers, a selection of biscuits on a plate and a cake. “Oh good, here is the tea at last.”

Race exchanged an amused glance with Oliver.

“Did you know any of the other visitors?” he asked as Maggie poured coffee for him and Oliver.

“Yes. Young Frencham was there with his grandmother. Ratafia biscuits, ginger nuts or seed cake?” She offered him two plates.

Race took a ginger nut and crunched down hard on it. Frencham was a known fortune hunter, a good-looking, lazy young rattle who’d made no attempt to retrieve his estate from the mess his father had left it in. He’d thought Leo had run him off, but the fellow was back, apparently, now that Leo was away.

“And Taunton was there with an aunt.” Maggie frowned. “Or was she his godmother? I can’t recall. Have some of this seed cake. It’s Oliver’s favorite.”

Race took the slice she passed him and set it aside. Taunton? He was another waster whose estates were to let—young, quite good-looking and a shocking gambler whose losses at the tables were well-known. Dammit, that wretched old lady had refused him entrance and allowed two notorious fortune hunters to court Miss Studley while Leo was absent.

“Anyone else?” he grated.

“Sir Jasper Vibart and his grandmother. Can you believe it—Vibart, playing propriety with a stuffy old lady in tow. Hilarious.” Maggie glanced at her husband and laughed. “Don’t worry, my love, I barely gave him the time of day.” To Race, she said, “Sir Jasper did his best to seduce me before I was married.” She darted a mischievous glance at her husband and added, “And after.” She patted her husband’s thigh. “All in vain, of course. My Oliver is quite enough for me.”

“But he was showing interest in Clar—Miss Studley?” Race said. Vibart was a conscienceless rake and a scoundrel.

“Apparently. But don’t worry. Old Lady Scattergood got his measure pretty quickly and informed him in no uncertain terms that he would not be admitted again—though of course his grandmother was welcome to call anytime.” She bit into a ratafia biscuit and sighed. “How wonderful to be as rude to visitors as one wants.”

“I’ve heard that Vibart’s grandmother is pressuring him to marry and get an heir,” Oliver said, and snorted. “Explains why a fellow of that sort would call on a decent girl.”

Race glowered into his coffee cup. Wonderful. Two known fortune hunters and a notorious rake—even if the swine wasn’t going to be admitted again. Maybe he’d reconsider butlercide.

Miss Studley needed to be warned.

“Oh,” Maggie said, “and there was one fellow I’ve seen around but hadn’t actually met before. He’s not been in London very long, a few weeks, I think.”

Race arched an eyebrow at her in query.

“Clayborn. Cuthbert Clayborn. And his aunt, Mrs. Faircloth—or was she his great-aunt? I can’t recall. An elderly, white-haired lady, anyway. They arrived mere seconds after I did—I’m surprised you didn’t pass them on the steps.”

Race shrugged. “I didn’t.” He’d probably been too annoyed by the butler to notice anyone else.

“Do you know him?” Maggie asked.

“Clayborn?” Race shook his head.

“He seemed to be quite a regular visitor,” Maggie said. “More coffee, Race?”

“No thank you. What do you mean ‘regular visitor’?”

She topped up her husband’s cup. “It was clear that he and Mrs. Faircloth had called several times in the last week. And they both appeared to be very much at home. Quite the favored callers, I gather. Mrs. Faircloth is a childless widow, much like Lady Scattergood, who knew her in their youth, I gather.” She darted a look at Race. “If we’re talking courting, Mr. Clayborn seems to be a favored contender already.”

Race didn’t like the sound of that. “What do you know of this Clayborn fellow?”

“Not much. He seems very popular with the dowager set and with very young ladies. You know the type, all pale and angelic yet somehow tragic, golden curls and a manly enough chin.” She selected another ratafia biscuit. “And of course there’s the heroic limp.”

“Limp?”

Maggie nibbled on her biscuit. “Wounded at Waterloo, I understand. Limps. Uses a cane. Still pains him, I gather—winces whenever he moves—but he bears it with noble fortitude. All the females flutter around him.”

“All? Not you, I gather.”

She snorted. “Not my type. He was a little…I don’t know, ostentatiously modest about his heroism. I prefer them a little less tragic and saintly.” She winked at her husband, who placidly cut himself another large slice of the seed cake.

“Do you know anything about him, Oliver?” Race asked.

Oliver swallowed a mouthful of cake, washed it down with coffee, and shook his head. “No idea. Seemed to appear from nowhere. One minute he was God knows where—presumably recovering from his injuries—then the next he’s being seen everywhere.”

“Yes, at all the most select gatherings,” Maggie added.

Oliver, having demolished his second slice of cake, began clearing his plate of stray caraway seeds, pressing them one by one onto his fingertip and eating them. Between seeds, he said, “Have noticed, though”—crunch—“that he seems to favor”—crunch—“ladies of fortune.” Crunch. “Miss Studley’s an heiress, is she not?” Crunch.

“Yes, but his elderly great-aunt happened to mention—several times—that she’s leaving him her entire fortune,” Maggie reminded him.

Race glowered into the dregs of his coffee. He didn’t generally frequent fashionably select gatherings. He preferred more informal, less exclusive entertainments.

That might have to change.