Chapter Six

“No, no and no again, Miss Clarissa! I will not go walking in Hyde Park with you.” Zo? faced Clarissa with that stubborn look that reminded her so much of her sister Izzy.

Clarissa eyed the girl in frustration. Since coming to Lady Scattergood’s Zo? had not ventured out at all, not even to accompany Jeremiah walking the dogs. She seemed quite content to sit and chat with Lady Scattergood and Clarissa and Mrs. Price-Jones, but she’d refused point-blank to join them in receiving visitors.

And when they were occupied elsewhere, she happily joined Betty and the servants and helped out. She’d shown some interest in Clarissa’s use of plants and flowers in making creams and other cosmetic products, but she hadn’t even ventured into the garden. Clarissa had begun to wonder whether Zo? might be developing the same affliction as Lady Scattergood’s.

“But why not? It’s not the fashionable hour—there won’t be many people around—and a walk will do you a world of good. And don’t call me ‘Miss Clarissa.’ I’m your sister, and you are not a servant. It’s just Clarissa.”

“I ain’t convinced I am your half sister.” Zo? lifted a shoulder. “Maybe I’ll change my mind when I meet this Izzy you talk about, that everyone says I look like, or when you get some real proof, but until then…”

“But a walk in the park—”

“Will cause talk and your reputation will be in danger again.”

Clarissa frowned. “Again?”

“Betty told me all about it—what you done for Miss Izzy in bringing her out with you into society. It was terrible risky, she said, but now Miss Izzy is married to a lord so it’s all all right. But if people see me with you—”

“They will just think that you are Izzy’s and my younger sister. Which you are, I’m convinced. And it’s Izzy for you, not Miss Izzy. And ‘did for,’ not ‘done for.’?”

Zo? gave her a skeptical look. “A younger sister they’ve never heard of before?”

Clarissa shrugged. “Why not? You are young; it will be several years before you make your come-out. For all anyone knows you were living back at Studley Park Manor, our former home. Or away at school.”

Zo? snorted. “At school? Yes, because I’m sooo well educated.”

Clarissa pursed her lips. It was true. Zo? was barely literate. She could read, but not well, though reading magazines and newspapers aloud to Lady Scattergood was improving her skills. And though her handwriting was decorative, her spelling and grammar were atrocious. Her mother had done her best to teach her, but not only was she French and unschooled in English, her own education had stopped at the age of eleven when she’d had to flee from the violence of the Revolution. And of course, they could barely afford food, let alone school or a governess.

“Very well then,” Clarissa persisted. “We will walk in the garden at the back of the house. It’s quite private—only the residents of the houses that enclose it have access. We hardly ever see anyone there—mostly we see Lady Tarrant and her children. Lady Tarrant is a good friend and a very kind lady. She doesn’t go out in society much these days, and in any case, she can be trusted with your story. The little girls, of course, are too young to care.”

Zo? considered that, then grudgingly nodded. “If you’re sure.”

“I am. Now come along, you’ve been cooped up in the house for too long. Fresh air and a walk will do you good. Fetch your pelisse—the breeze is quite brisk.”

“You mean fetch Izzy’s pelisse,” Zo? corrected her as she hurried away.

Clarissa sighed. She knew the root cause of Zo?’s reluctance to embrace her new identity—and Izzy’s clothes. It was insecurity. She was certain Clarissa had made a mistake, that she’d be found to be no relation at all and would be sent back to the orphanage. Her anxiety was understandable.

But even if she turned out to be no relation—though Clarissa did not believe it—Clarissa had no intention of casting her off. She’d come to like the girl for herself.

Trust would come with time.

Clarissa penned a swift note to Lady Tarrant, warning her she’d be bringing her shy half sister into the garden, and asking her for understanding—she’d explain later. She gave the note to Jeremiah, Lady Scattergood’s young footman-in-training and asked him to race it around to Lady Tarrant.

A few minutes later, she and Zo? exited the back door and entered Bellaire Gardens, the large private garden after which the estate had been named.

“Oh, this is lovely,” Zo? exclaimed, looking around. “And the air smells almost like”—she sniffed deeply—“like perfume. You’d never know we was in London.”

Clarissa smiled, pleased by her reaction. The garden was her favorite place in the world, now that her former home was lost to her. “At this time of year the roses are at their best, and almost all of them smell wonderful. Whoever planned this garden planted for perfume, as well as beauty.”

They explored, taking their time. Clarissa showed Zo? the summerhouse and where the key was hidden. As they strolled, she identified various plants for Zo?, at first a little hesitantly—Izzy liked the garden but had little interest in plant names or varieties of roses, but Zo? seemed quite interested, and asked lots of questions. Or perhaps she was just being polite.

They could hear the sound of children’s laughter and, with Zo?’s cautious acceptance, meandered slowly toward the big plane tree where Lord and Lady Tarrant’s little girls liked to play.

But before they reached the tree a sharp voice exclaimed, “Izzy Studley, what on earth are you doing here? You’re supposed to be on your honeym—” The speaker broke off as Zo? and Clarissa turned toward her.

Clarissa sighed. Of all the times for their nosy neighbor, Milly, to come into the garden. Around the same age as Izzy and Clarissa, she was also making her come-out, but had been a thorn in their sides from the very beginning.

“Good morning, Milly,” Clarissa said.

Milly ignored her. She came closer, staring at Zo? with a perplexed expression. “I thought you were Izzy, sent home in disgrace when Lord Salcott realized the mistake he made, but you’re not Izzy, are you? Though you’re wearing her clothes, I see—I recognize that pelisse. Who on earth are you?”

Zo? opened her mouth to speak, but Clarissa touched her arm and said quickly, “As I said, good morning, Milly. Since you ask, let me introduce my sis—”

“Cousine,” Zo? said quickly.

Milly frowned. “Koo zeen?” she repeated. Clearly Milly had never learned French.

Zo? lifted her chin. “Oui. I am Zo? Beno?t, Miss Studley’s cousine—a distant cousin, visiting from France.” The second time, she used the English pronunciation of cousin.

Milly narrowed her eyes. “A cousin from France? But you look exactly like Izzy. In fact I thought you were Izzy until you turned around.”

Zo? gave a very Gallic shrug. “Can I help what you think?” She looked Milly up and down. “And who might you be to accost us in this fashion? It is hardly polite. But then in France we understand good manners.”

Milly flushed but her eyes sparked with animosity.

Clarissa hid a smile. So much for her shy little sister. It was a masterly set-down. “Zo?, this is Miss Millicent Harrington, who lives in the house over there with her mother.” She indicated Milly’s house.

Milly inclined her head graciously, saying, “My mother is second cousin to a duke.”

Zo? sniffed, unimpressed. “In France they chop the heads off dukes.”

Clarissa smothered a chuckle.

Milly bridled. “Who cares what they do in foreign countries? Everyone knows the French are barbaric.” She eyed Zo? thoughtfully. “Besides, I don’t believe you’re French at all. You’re as English as I am, only your accent is straight out of the gutter—an English gutter. I think you’re another one like Izzy—one of Sir Bartleby Studley’s bast—”

Before Clarissa could interrupt, Zo? let forth with a blast of rapid French. She spoke so swiftly and so heatedly that Clarissa couldn’t follow most of it—her own education wasn’t impressive, but she did have a smattering of French. She caught some words: incivile, uncivil; impolie, rude; arrogante; une vache, which she was sure meant a cow; je m’en fiche, which she had no idea of but it was delivered with an emphatic gesture that seemed rather rude; and salope—which she was fairly sure was another very rude word.

Milly tossed her dark ringlets and gave Zo? a supercilious look. “I suppose you think you’re very clever, gabbling away like that. It might sound a bit like French, I suppose, but—”

A voice and the sound of clapping interrupted. “Oh, brava, brava, ma petite.” A young woman approached, beaming, still clapping. “C’est magnifique, but really, such an excellent tirade is wasted on one such as this.” She turned to Milly. “And you, Miss whoever-you-are, I heard some of what you said, and I can assure you, this young lady is indeed speaking French and the very best kind of French at that.” She glanced at Zo? and winked. “Although some of the words she used were, let us say, less than genteel. Her accent, however, is perfectly aristocratic.”

Lady Tarrant came up behind her. “Oh, Clarissa, there you are. And this must be Zo?, your young sis—”

“Cousine,” Zo? said quickly.

“Yes, my cousin from France,” Clarissa affirmed. She felt a little sad that Zo? was so quick to reject their sisterhood, but she could see it was a clever strategy, especially as Milly had jumped so quickly to the correct conclusion. Zo? had clearly done some thinking about her situation. And her French did sound impressively authentic.

“Of course. How do you do, Zo?? Good morning, Milly,” Lady Tarrant said. “Let me introduce my goddaughter, Lucy, Lady Thornton, currently visiting from Vienna with her husband, my nephew, Gerald. He is in the diplomatic service.”

Milly muttered a greeting. She glared at Zo? and seemed inclined to continue the argument, but Lady Tarrant said in a firm voice, “Milly, I think you’ve said quite enough.”

Milly turned to leave, then turned back. “I don’t suppose you know who has purchased the house near the corner?” She pointed.

“No, no idea.” Clarissa said. For a week now they’d heard the sounds of workmen banging and hammering and tramping to and fro. “It’s not really our business, is it?”

“I gather the new owner is refurbishing it from top to bottom in the most elegant style,” Lady Tarrant said.

“Well, we can see that for ourselves, can’t we—but who is the owner?” Milly said caustically. “Mama has been trying to find out—she says it’s very important that we maintain the exclusive nature of the residents here, and it would be dreadful if the new owner was some vulgar cit or tradesman. But when she spoke to the head workman about it, he was not only common and vulgar but very rude.”

Clarissa hid a smile, imagining a workman getting the better of the imposing Mrs. Harrington. “I don’t think it matters and anyway, we can’t do anything about it, can we? The house is sold.”

Milly sniffed. “Mama says we should all band together and let him know his kind is unwelcome here. This is a very select address.”

Nobody said anything for a moment, then Lady Tarrant said, “It’s time we went in.”

“Yes,” Clarissa agreed hurriedly. “Isn’t that your mama calling, Milly?”

“I don’t hear anything,” Milly said sulkily.

“You’d better go, in case,” Lady Tarrant said. “I would hate your mother to worry.”

Milly gave them all a goaded look, sniffed again and flounced away.

As she left, Zo? muttered something in French. Lady Thornton gave a delighted laugh and said, “Indeed, but let us now speak English.”

Zo? gave her a sheepish smile.

“And you must both call me Lucy,” Lady Thornton continued, “because I know we are going to become firm friends. Now, Zo?, you must come and meet my adorable nieces. I hope you like cats.” Linking her arm through Zo?’s, and chattering away in French, she led the way back toward the large plane tree that dominated the east part of the garden. Clarissa followed with Lady Tarrant, who was walking more slowly.

Lady Tarrant gave her an apologetic smile. “Sorry about the slow pace. It won’t be long now.”

Clarissa hugged her arm. “I don’t mind. I’m thrilled for you.”

Just then Lady Tarrant’s middle stepdaughter, Lina, just turned eight, came rushing up. “I didn’t know where you were. You shouldn’t go off alone,” she told her stepmother severely.

“I was with Lucy,” Lady Tarrant said mildly.

Hugging her stepmother’s other arm, Lina beamed across at Clarissa and said proudly, “Did you know, Miss Studley? We’re having a baby!”

Clarissa smiled at the little girl. Lina’s protectiveness toward her stepmother was adorable. “How wonderful. Are you hoping for a boy or a girl?”

Lina shook her head. “Papa says it doesn’t matter which, that whoever we get we will love him or her the same.” She added, “But I already have two sisters, so I would rather we have a baby boy.”

Lady Tarrant said, “Well, I hope whoever it is decides to come along soon. I’m tired of feeling like an elephant.”

“You’re not like an elephant at all,” Lina said fiercely. “You’re more beautiful than ever—Papa says so, and Papa is always right.”

Lady Tarrant laughed softly, then bent and kissed Lina lightly on the head. Lina, beaming, snuggled closer.

Clarissa swallowed a lump in her throat. Oh, to have a family like this, and a husband like Lord Tarrant, who so openly adored his wife and daughters…

“Are your niece—er, your goddaughter and her husband staying long in England?” Clarissa asked.

Lady Tarrant smiled. “She’s both my goddaughter and my niece by marriage, but it’s confusing, I know. Gerald—that’s my nephew—is in the diplomatic service and was summoned back from Vienna. He seems to think he might be being considered for a post in Paris.”

“How exciting.”

“Yes, he’s done very well, I believe. He was in the army before, you know, but sold out once Napoleon was finally defeated.”

“And then he joined the diplomatic corps?”

“Yes, he stayed long enough to court and marry Lucy—quite a whirlwind affair it was, too—and then they went off to Vienna. After his years in the army, society life didn’t appeal to Gerald—though if you ask me, diplomatic life isn’t much different from the ton. It’s still all dinners and dances and meetings and boring speeches, but I suppose there’s a deeper meaning and a purpose behind everything—a kind of ongoing social chess match. At any rate, they’re happy, which is what counts. Now, let’s see what those children are up to. I’ve ordered tea and cakes to be served inside in half an hour.”

“Buongiorno, Lord Randall.” Matteo, Leo’s majordomo, bowed. “What can I do for you, milor’? You know, of course, that Lord Salcott is still away—”

“Yes, I know, Matteo.” Race stepped into the entry hall and handed Matteo his hat. “It’s not him I’ve come about. I want access to the garden.”

Matteo looked at him a moment, and then broke into a smile. “Ah, sì, of course. You wish to see the young ladies.”

Ladies? Plural? Race shrugged it off. Matteo’s English was improving in leaps and bounds, but it was by no means perfect yet. “Er, yes. That butler of Lady Scattergood’s refuses—”

“Say no more, milor’. Matteo, he know that butler.” He rolled his eyes then gestured toward the back entrance. “This way, milor’. And you want refreshments brought to the summerhouse? Alfonso, he like to practice making English-style cakes for the young ladies.”

“Some other time, I think,” Race said. “Miss Clarissa might not be there.”

“She go in the garden most mornings, milord. She like to gather the flowers with the, the…morning water still on them.”

“Dew.”

“Sì, that is the word. Prego, milor’.” Matteo gestured for Race to go ahead.

Race entered the garden via Leo’s back gate. It was a sweet setup, this garden, with only the residents of the houses that enclosed it having access. Privacy was precious in this increasingly crowded city.

He glanced around, listening for the sound of voices, but heard only the sound of the breeze in the leaves, the buzzing of bees and the sound of birds. He checked the summerhouse, but it was locked and empty. The rose garden then; he’d heard her say once that roses were her favorite flowers.

Turning a corner, he found her alone, snipping off roses. A basket containing various flowers sat at her feet.

“Stealing flowers, eh?” he said.

She jumped and whirled around. “No, I have permission. And deadheading roses is good for them. It helps to bring on more flowers.”

“I was joking,” he said, strolling forward. “Good morning, Miss Studley. Isn’t it a glorious morning?”

“G-good morning,” she stammered. “Yes, very nice. How did you get in? Did Treadwell—”

“No, Matteo.”

“Oh. I see.” She didn’t seem too pleased to see him. She kept glancing around as if expecting to see someone else.

“I came alone,” he assured her.

“Oh. Yes. Of course.” She bent and picked up her basket. “I should—”

“Allow me,” he said, taking the basket from her.

She frowned. “It’s not the least bit heavy.”

He ignored that. “I wanted to have a private word with you.”

She glanced at the basket. “I really need to get them into the drying cabinet.”

“I won’t take long.”

She glanced around again, as if looking for someone, then said, “Very well. Shall we sit over there?” She gestured toward the wooden rose arbor. Which was too open for his liking.

“The summerhouse.” Race led the way, trusting she would follow. Of course she would. He was holding her flowers hostage.

He found the hidden key—she frowned at that; it was supposed to be a residents-only secret—unlocked the door and waved her inside.

She chose a seat near the door. It wasn’t the delightfully squashy seat he’d seen her use in the past. She sat on the edge of her seat, feet together, hands folded in her lap like a schoolgirl awaiting a trimming by the headmistress, dammit.

It was not the kind of mood he was hoping for.

“What did you wish to speak to me about, Lord Randall?”

“You accused me last night of committing, what was the word? Oh yes, watchdoggery. On Leo’s behalf.”

“Yes.”

“It’s not true.”

She raised her brows skeptically.

‘It’s not, I assure you. I admit, Leo did suggest that I could invite you out for an occasional ride, and I assured him it would be my pleasure. But that was all.”

“Really?” Her expression made it clear she didn’t believe him.

“Yes, really. In fact he actually said that he wouldn’t expect me to attend balls and so on, that your chaperone would be perfectly sufficient.”

“Protection?”

“Yes.”

“In other words, you and Leo were discussing how to protect me.”

“Y—No, that wasn’t it at all.” But it was too late. It was clear her mind was made up.

“Thank you for your concern, Lord Randall, but indeed there is no need to concern yourself about my welfare—”

“It’s not that. I am cour—”

“Clarissa! I just seen Lady Thornton’s paintings and they were—oh!” A young girl burst into the summerhouse, saw him and broke off.

Race rose to his feet, staring. She was a younger version of Leo’s wife, Izzy.

The girl gave Clarissa a guilty glance. “Désolée,” she began but Clarissa stood and said composedly, “Lord Randall, this is my cousin from France, Mademoiselle Zo? Beno?t. Zo?, this is Lord Randall, a friend of Izzy’s husband.”

The girl curtsied and greeted him in French.

Race narrowed his eyes. Her French was good—colloquial and aristocratic, but the few words she’d spoken in English had sounded distinctly lower-class.

He bowed. “Delighted to meet you, mademoiselle. What were you saying about Lady Thornton’s paintings?”

She gave him a bewildered look, then shook her head as if she hadn’t understood. She looked at Clarissa again, said, “Désolée, Clarissa,” picked up her skirts and fled.

“Forgive my young cousin, she is shy,” Clarissa began.

“Young cousin, my foot,” Race said pleasantly. “She’s another half sister, isn’t she? Not only is she the spitting image of Izzy, her English accent reveals at least half her upbringing, and it’s less than genteel. The quality of her French, though, is a mystery.”

“Her English governess was sadly—”

“Invented?”

Clarissa bit her lip, said nothing for a long time, then sat down with a sigh. “Can I ask for your discretion?”

He inclined his head and resumed his seat. “Of course. It goes without saying.”

“Thank you.”

“Care to explain?”

She told him how she’d discovered Zo? in an orphanage—an English orphanage, where she had been given the name of Susan Bennet.

“And so, instead of a maid, you discovered a half sister.” It explained her jumpiness when he’d asked her about finding a maid the other day.

She nodded. “But Zo? is reluctant to believe it. She insists on proof, and is worried her existence will cause problems for Izzy and me.”

“Wise girl.” Producing an illegitimate half sister would revive the rumors still faintly circulating about Izzy’s legitimacy. Her marriage to Leo had all but quashed them, but society loved a scandal and it would not be hard to reinvigorate this one. And that would affect Clarissa as well.

The girl’s caution about embracing this potential sisterhood also impressed him. From the sounds of things she hadn’t had an easy life and, related or not, it would be understandable if she jumped at the opportunity to raise her status and increase her security. But it seemed she hadn’t.

“I don’t care whether it’s wise or not. She’s my sister and I’m keeping her!” Clarissa declared fiercely.

Race smiled. Of course she was. Loyalty and love were Clarissa’s two driving forces. “Then we’d better devise a plan for enabling you to do so.”

She frowned. “We?”

“Yes of course. I am entirely at your service.”

“Oh.”

He waited a moment, then said, “It was clever of you to introduce her as a French cousin.”

She grimaced. “That was Zo?’s idea. I didn’t much like it at first, but it will probably be easier to get people to accept it than to convince them that Izzy and I have a younger sister who’s been away at school, which is what I’d planned to do.”

“A cousin is definitely a better plan. Her French is superb—how did she acquire such an aristocratic accent, by the way? And her grammar is perfect—her French grammar, I mean.” But the girl’s English was definitely a problem.

Clarissa explained about the girl’s mother and her aristocratic background. That made sense to him. “Though the lower-class governess story is less believable.”

Clarissa sighed. “I know, but what else can we do?”

“We’ll think of something. Now the reason I wanted to speak to you this morning—”

“Tea, Miss Clarissa? Milor’?” Matteo hovered in the doorway, holding a dish of little cakes and smiling tentatively. “Or hot chocolate? Alfonso has baked some little English cakes for you, and—”

“I told you I didn’t want any—” Race began, irritable at yet another interruption, but Clarissa jumped up, saying, “Oh dear, the morning has truly flown. I must get these blooms into the dryer. Lady Scattergood is expecting me to join her for luncheon and then I have an engagement to go driving with Mr. Clayborn.”

She smiled at Matteo. “Thank you, Matteo, but perhaps you can send Alfonso’s cakes over to Lady Tarrant’s. The last lot were delicious and the little girls do enjoy them, as does Lady Tarrant and her guest.”

Snatching up her basket from Race’s feet, she gave him a quick smile. “Thank you, Lord Randall. I did enjoy our little chat.”

“But—” He hadn’t even had a chance to broach the subject he’d come to talk to her about: his courtship.

But she was gone.

Matteo took one look at Race’s scowl and hastily removed himself and his blasted cakes from sight.

Race locked up the summerhouse, hid the key in the usual spot and glared at the garden. Privacy? He snorted.

To Clarissa’s surprise, that afternoon when Mr. Clayborn came to collect her for their drive in the park, he didn’t come to the door. Instead he sat in the street, in his smart, black-lacquered phaeton and sent his groom to fetch her.

It was odd, and certainly rather poor manners, but when she reached his phaeton he explained. “I must apologize for not coming for you myself, Miss Studley, but to tell the truth, with this wretched leg of mine, it’s not a pretty sight, watching me clamber up into this thing. I would spare you it.”

She wondered why he’d chosen such a high carriage then, if it was so hard to climb into it. But she supposed men had their own little vanities, so she simply smiled, saying, “I don’t mind at all, Mr. Clayborn.”

“So gracious of you, Miss Studley. Now, my groom will assist you.” He snapped his fingers at the groom, who hurried to help Clarissa up.

“Wait! Wait for me!” Mrs. Price-Jones caroled, and came hurrying down the front steps. Like Clarissa, she was dressed in a carriage dress, but where Clarissa’s was pale sage green with several rows of dark green piping around the hem and a narrow band of matching velvet around the high waist, and she wore a simple straw bonnet with a green band, Mrs. Price-Jones’s outfit was a rainbow affair in yellow and orange stripes, with wide pleated sleeves in royal blue, trimmed with orange ribbons. On her head she wore a large, broad-brimmed straw hat, lavishly trimmed with yellow and royal blue ostrich feathers.

Both Clarissa and Mr. Clayborn stared. “Ma’am?” Mr. Clayborn said, frowning.

“Mrs. Price-Jones?” Clarissa said at the same time. There had been no mention of her chaperone coming with her on the drive.

Mrs. Price-Jones shrugged. “Lady Scattergood’s orders, I’m afraid. She was fretting about you being alone with a man in public.”

“But surely—”

“I know, I know, riding in an open carriage in public—Hyde Park, no less, with all the ton looking on—is quite comme il faut, but Lady Scattergood is insistent. And besides, it’s a perfect day for a lovely drive in the fresh air.” She smiled at the groom. “Now, my good fellow, help me into this splendid phaeton.”

“But, but, but…” Mr. Clayborn spluttered.

Mrs. Price-Jones looked up at him, one finely plucked brow raised. “You have some objection to my presence, Mr. Clayborn?”

“No, no, not in the least, dear lady,” he said hurriedly. “But my phaeton—it’s a two-seater.”

Mrs. Price-Jones laughed. “Oh, don’t worry about that. It will be a mite snug but I’m sure we’ll all fit.” She stepped forward.

Clarissa had her doubts, but she took Mrs. Price-Jones’s reticule to hold while the lady climbed in. Her chaperone was a lady of considerable bulk, but Mr. Clayborn pulled, the groom pushed and after a few fraught minutes Mrs. Price-Jones was seated beside Mr. Clayborn, puffing but triumphant. She patted the few inches of seat left. “Come on up, Clarissa, don’t dally. Mr. Clayborn won’t want his horses standing about too long.”

Clarissa hesitated. “I don’t think I’ll fit.”

“Nonsense, of course you will. We will be delightfully cozy, won’t we, Mr. Clayborn?” Mrs. Price-Jones wiggled even closer to him, and he had to grab the edge of the carriage to maintain his balance.

“Quite,” he said, thin lipped.

Clarissa climbed up and did her best to squeeze into the small space left.

“Perfect,” Mrs. Price-Jones declared, wriggling a bit more. She patted Mr. Clayborn’s arm. “Now, Mr. Clayborn, let us depart.”

With the groom clinging to the back, they headed off. It soon became clear to Clarissa that there would be no opportunity to talk with Mr. Clayborn—indeed, she couldn’t even see him unless she leaned forward to see around her chaperone.

Even if she had been able to see him across her chaperone’s bulk, the lady’s large straw hat and feathers got in the way. Several times Clarissa leaned forward to look, to signal a silent apology, only to see Mr. Clayborn’s gloved hand swatting irritably at an ostrich feather that dangled in front of his face.

She sat back, listening to Mrs. Price-Jones happily chatting on, relating this story and that, while Mr. Clayborn’s responses became shorter and curter. She struggled not to laugh. Poor man, he obviously had planned quite a different sort of outing. And Mrs. Price-Jones was, seemingly, oblivious of his irritation.

“I will put you down once we get to Hyde Park, Mrs. Price-Jones,” he told her firmly as the gates of the park came into view. “You will wish to walk with your friends.”

“That would be delightful,” her chaperone agreed.

The phaeton swept through the gates and immediately slowed. It seemed that quite a few others had decided a drive in the park would be just the thing on this fine day and there was a line of carriages—phaetons, curricles, landaus, broughams and barouches—all moving at barely more than a walking pace.

The line stopped from time to time, as the occupants of a carriage stopped to speak to people on the ground or others in a different carriage. Some got down from one carriage only to be taken up in another. It was all very leisurely and convivial.

“Let me know where you would like to be put down,” Mr. Clayborn said.

“Yes, of course, dear boy. I will tell you as soon as I see my friends.”

But strangely, for all the fashionable and familiar ladies promenading in the park, many of whom waved and exchanged greetings, none of them seemed to be someone with whom Mrs. Price-Jones felt inclined to walk.

“Miss Studley, Mrs. Price-Jones, what a surprise to see you here on this lovely afternoon,” a deep voice said from Clarissa’s left.

“Lord Randall,” she responded. He was on horseback, on his beautiful Storm, and his face was more or less level with hers.

“A surprise, is it?” He’d known perfectly well she would be going for a drive here with Mr. Clayborn. She’d mentioned it only this morning.

“A most charming and unexpected surprise,” he assured her blandly. His eyes were dancing.

Mr. Clayborn leaned forward and glared at Lord Randall. “Randall.”

Lord Randall coolly inclined his head. “Clayborn.”

“How delightful to see you here, Lord Randall,” Mrs. Price-Jones said. “Finally, someone I’d love to talk to. And I don’t even need to get down and walk—I can sit here in comfort. Isn’t that splendid, Mr. Clayborn?”

“Splendid,” he grumped.

Lord Randall leaned closer and murmured in Clarissa’s ear. “In comfort?”

She bit her lip and said nothing. Her chaperone burbled on in the background, apparently intent on finishing a story she’d been telling Mr. Clayborn.

“I’m pleased to see it’s not just me whose attempts to converse with you she ruins,” Lord Randall said.

Clarissa blinked and looked at him in surprise.

“Didn’t you realize?” he said. “Today it’s Clayborn she’s foiling. Last night at the ball it was me. Does she do it to all your suitors?”

“Suitors?” Clarissa echoed, startled. Surely Lord Randall didn’t class himself in that group. No, he couldn’t. He had no serious intentions toward her, and even if he did, she had none toward him. He was a rake.

“All your gentlemen friends,” he amended smoothly. Before she could respond, he said in a low voice, “Prepare yourself, Miss Studley, you’re about to meet Sir Humphrey Shelduck, red nose and all.”

“Sir Humphrey Shelduck?” she repeated. The duck?

A large gentleman approached, seated on a gray horse. Seeing them he moved closer, lifted his hat and bowed ponderously from the saddle, which creaked. “Ladies, Randall, Mr. um…” He gave Mr. Clayborn a brief, dispassionate glance then dismissed him.

“Sir Humphrey, I’d like you to meet Mrs. Price-Jones, Miss Studley and Mr. Clayborn. Ladies, Clayborn, this is Sir Humphrey Sheldon, a fellow member of my club.”

After a brief exchange, Sir Humphrey moved off.

“See, told you,” Lord Randall murmured to Clarissa. “How could you miss that nose?”

She giggled. It was indeed a very large and very red nose and the man had been rather pompous.

The phaeton moved along, and for the next few minutes while Mrs. Price-Jones engaged Lord Randall in conversation, Clarissa pondered Lord Randall’s comment about her chaperone foiling her suitors. She didn’t doubt that was true, but what puzzled her was that Lord Randall seemed to include himself in that category. Surely that couldn’t be right.

She thought back to the conversation she and her chaperone had had in the carriage coming home from the ball, about Lord Randall being interested.

Could he be? She thought about it. He’d been quite attentive lately, taking her riding, inviting her to dance—twice in one evening—and taking her in to supper. And visiting her secretly in the garden. And now, turning up here in the park, when he knew Mr. Clayborn had invited her to drive with him.

But she couldn’t believe he was truly interested in her that way. On the rare occasions he was seen in public with a lady it was invariably some stunning, sophisticated beauty. Not an ordinary country girl like her, undistinguished in appearance, shy in company and from a family grown rich in trade.

She had tried to accept her looks. Miss Chance had told her more than once that if you felt beautiful people would see you as beautiful. Well, she’d tried that and try as she might, she couldn’t feel beautiful. But if beauty wasn’t achievable, elegance was, and with Miss Chance’s assistance, she could dress elegantly and be stylish and fashionable. And while beauty faded, elegance never did.

And although many aristocrats looked down their noses at people whose family background was in trade, they didn’t sniff so loudly if a fortune came with it.

Clarissa’s biggest problem was her susceptibility. And her heart. Clarissa feared she had the same kind of constant, loyal heart as her mother: once it was given, it stayed given, no matter what.

So if she didn’t want it broken, she had to guard it carefully. And if that meant choosing a husband with her head instead of her heart, so be it. It was what most people did, after all. Her only ambition was to be happy. Her dream was to be loved. Was that too much to ask?

She glanced at Lord Randall, who was keeping Mrs. Price-Jones entertained with some nonsensical tale. He was the very model of a heartbreaker. A bee flitting from flower to flower with never a backward glance.

As she’d told her chaperone that evening in the carriage, he was hardly ever serious about anything. Witness Sir Humphrey Shelduck and Lord Widgeon. No, Lord Randall was handsome, funny and charming company, but he was not a man to be taken seriously—especially not by a girl with a ridiculously susceptible heart.

The truth was, despite her telling him she didn’t need his protection, he was still doing it—just as Mrs. Price-Jones was.

And why did that thought not make her feel better? It should.

He was totally ineligible. She knew it, had known it from the start. She needed to get more serious about the list she’d come up with. It had everything she wanted. And didn’t want.

Lord Randall, charming as he was—and partly because he was so charming—she didn’t trust charm—was quite definitely not the man for her.

After the park, Race rode back to the livery stables where he kept his horse. He dismounted, fed Storm an apple, gave him a good pat, and flicked a shilling to the stableboy leading him away. As he emerged onto the street, a phaeton drew up in front of the coach house next door.

It was Clayborn, now with plenty of room to spare. Race’s lips twitched as he recalled the way Mrs. Price-Jones had squashed herself in between Clayborn and his target, Miss Studley.

Clayborn was in the process of climbing awkwardly down while his groom held the horses’ heads. Race snorted. With a bad leg it was foolish to have hired a high-perch phaeton. Especially when driving with ladies. Better to have hired a barouche or a landau—lower down and more spacious seating.

He nodded as he passed Clayborn and had gone half a dozen steps when Clayborn called out, “I say, Randall,” in an imperious voice.

Race swung around. “Clayborn?”

“In the park, earlier,” Clayborn began. “I didn’t appreciate your interference.”

Race raised a brow. “Interference?” he said coldly.

“Miss Studley was with me.”

Race inclined his head. “I noticed. As was Mrs. Price-Jones.”

“That woman—” Clayborn began angrily, then broke off. “The point is, you monopolized Miss Studley today in the park. Just as you did at the ball the other night.”

Race said coldly, “Miss Studley is not a bone to be quarreled over.”

“I didn’t mean—”

In a hard voice, Race continued, “She is a free agent; free to choose with whom she dances, or takes supper, or to whom she talks. Without anyone criticizing her.”

Clayborn flushed. “I wasn’t—”

“As for the park today, I would have said I was keeping her entertained. It didn’t look as though she was enjoying the drive very much.”

“That was the fault of that damned interfering chaperone.”

“My point is, Clayborn, neither you, nor I, nor anyone except Miss Studley—and perhaps her guardian or chaperone—has the right to decide who she may or may not talk to or associate with. Is that understood?”

Clayborn muttered something Race didn’t catch. Not that he cared what the man said. He went to move on.

“I don’t know why it’s any of your business. It’s not as if you’d be interested in a girl like her,” Clayborn said sulkily. “Not seriously.”

“What the devil do you mean, ‘a girl like her’?” Race clenched his fists. He wanted to punch the stupid, ignorant ass, but you couldn’t hit a man who’d been wounded.

Clayborn shrugged. “Everyone knows you’re only interested in beauties. Even your convenients are reputed to be absolute high fliers. A plain girl like Miss Studley—”

The man knew nothing. Race made a disgusted gesture and turned to leave.

“Anyway, I do have the right,” Clayborn added.

Race turned back and waited for the man to finish.

“The thing is, Miss Studley and I…” He swallowed.

“Miss Studley and you…?” Race prompted cynically.

Clayborn took a deep breath and said in a rush, “Miss Studley and I have an understanding. So I do have the right to decide whom she may talk to or not. And I’ll thank you to stop bothering her.”

Race stiffened. “An understanding?” His voice was icy.

Clayborn reddened slightly and raised his chin defiantly. “Yes. A private one, you understand. With her guardian away…”

“I understand you very well,” Race said crisply, and strode off, furious.

An understanding. What the hell did that mean? Surely she wasn’t considering marrying Clayborn? She couldn’t possibly. The man was a fool. A blind, pompous ass. Clarissa Studley would be wasted on a fellow like that.

Even if he was pale and handsome and tragic looking and wounded in the service of his country—a war hero. Apparently.

But women seemed to flock around pale and handsome tragic heroes. Especially wounded ones. Dammit!