Chapter Seven

The following morning Clarissa and Betty visited another orphanage and came home with a nice, levelheaded girl called Joan, who was thrilled at the prospect of becoming a lady’s maid, and was very grateful to be chosen.

The minute they got home, Betty whisked Joan upstairs to get her settled in and begin training her to be Izzy’s personal maid. The first thing they did was to begin going through the clothes Izzy had left behind and deciding what needed to be done to adjust them for Zo?.

Twenty minutes later Zo? came scooting down the stairs in distress. “They’re altering all Miss Izzy’s clothes to fit me—and she doesn’t even know I exist.”

Clarissa smiled and patted her on the arm. “Izzy has already taken most of the things she wants—they’re over at her husband’s house across the other side of the garden, and knowing her, I have no doubt she’ll want to purchase more when she gets home.”

“But—”

“Don’t worry. Betty knows what she’s doing.”

Zo? shook her head. “I dunno. People get transported to the other side of the world just for nickin’ a handkerchief, and this is more—a lot more.”

Clarissa hugged her. “Nothing is being stolen, and you’re not going anywhere.”

Zo? was still doubtful. She glanced up the stairs, and then said, “Would it be all right if I went to visit Lucy, I mean Lady Thornton—she told me to call her Lucy. She’s a painter, did you know?”

“No, I didn’t.”

“She painted these wonderful murals in the little girls’ rooms. She showed me the other day. I started to tell you, but then that man was there with you and I didn’t know what to do.” Her face scrunched as she added, “I made a mess of things with him, didn’t I?”

“No you didn’t—and it’s quite all right. Lord Randall is Izzy’s husband’s best friend. He knows the truth about you and he will be discreet.”

Zo? snorted. “What truth? None of us knows the truth about me, not even me.”

“Have faith, little sister, have faith,” Clarissa said. “And of course you may visit Lucy. In fact, I’ll come with you. There’s something I’d like to talk over with Lady Tarrant. I’ll just send a note around to see if it’s convenient.”

Lady Tarrant sent a note back saying she’d be delighted to have some company, so Clarissa and Zo? crossed the garden, waving to the three little girls who were playing outside under the supervision of their nanny, and went in by the back door. Zo? and Lucy immediately took themselves upstairs to look at a new painting Lucy had started.

Lady Tarrant was in a sunny room at the back of the house, knitting tiny garments in soft white wool. Clarissa exclaimed over the fine work and inquired about how Lady Tarrant was feeling. “Weary of waiting, my dear, and excited at the same time. And possibly a little bit nervous—this is my first, you know. And I’m quite old.”

Clarissa supposed all first-time mothers were nervous, and she’d heard other women telling Lady Tarrant about the agonies of birth, almost relishing the drama of it, which wasn’t at all helpful. “I’m sure everything will go perfectly,” she said warmly. “And you’ll be a wonderful mother, I know. Look at the way your little stepdaughters adore you.”

Lady Tarrant smiled. “They can’t wait for the arrival of their new little brother or sister.”

Tea and biscuits arrived and the two ladies settled down for a good chat. They talked of many things; the weather, Clarissa’s drive in the park with Mrs. Price-Jones and Mr. Clayborn, a new play that was showing, which neither of them had seen, and more, until finally Alice said, “Now, what is it you really wanted to talk to me about?”

Clarissa sighed. “Is it that obvious?”

Lady Tarrant laughed. “Not really, but I can tell something is on your mind. Is it about one of your suitors? I gather you’ve been seeing a lot of Mr. Clayborn. And also Lord Randall, among others.”

Clarissa pursed her lips, not knowing quite how to explain the turmoil of her thoughts.

“You don’t have to marry any of them, you know,” Lady Tarrant said softly. “Oh, I know everyone is no doubt pressing you to make a choice, but you’re not obliged to marry, especially since you are well enough off not to need a husband to support you.”

“Yes, I know, but I do want to marry. I want a family of my own, and children. It’s just…” She shook her head as if to shake it free of the clamor of her thoughts. “It’s all so difficult. How does one know whether a man is the right one for you or not? How does one know that the face he shows you is his true one? How can one tell if a man is sincere—especially when one has a fortune? And how can I be sure a man will be faithful?”

Lady Tarrant thought for a moment. The only sound in the room was the clicking of her knitting needles. “It is difficult, I know. And I can’t answer your questions. You’re quite right: marriage is a gamble and it behooves a young lady to make her choice very carefully.” Which wasn’t at all helpful.

Clarissa sipped her tea. “How did you find Lord Tarrant?”

“Oh, my dear, I didn’t. He found me, and I can confess to you now that I wasn’t at all happy about it at first.”

“Really? Why not?”

“I had no intention of ever marrying again. My first marriage was…not a happy one, and once I was widowed, I was planning on a life of peace and solitude.” Shrieks of childish laughter wafting in from the garden made her chuckle. “You see how that plan turned out. And I’m so thankful for it.”

“So what happened?”

“James simply refused to give up on me. I suppose you could say he wore me down—oh, don’t look at me like that. He didn’t push me into anything, far from it. He was very gentle and respectful of my fears and anxieties, and gradually he convinced me that he would be nothing like my first husband.”

She finished the row she was knitting and turned the tiny garment around. “And, you know, I couldn’t help but like him—well, you’ve seen how he is with his daughters. And I expect you’ve noticed that he’s very attractive.”

Clarissa smiled. Lord Tarrant was indeed a handsome man. And seeing him with his daughters had been a real eye-opener for her and Izzy—that a father could be so openly affectionate.

Lady Tarrant continued, “So gradually he allayed my fears.” She glanced at Clarissa and lowered her voice. “If I tell you this, you’ll keep it confidential?”

Clarissa nodded. “Of course.”

“I asked the advice of an older friend, a lady whose marriage was very happy.” She knitted on for a minute. Color rose in her cheeks. “She advised me to…to, um, experiment.”

“Experiment?”

Lady Tarrant nodded. “I probably shouldn’t tell you this—it’s not exactly proper—but I know you have no older lady to advise you. Oh, there’s Lady Scattergood, of course, and your chaperone, but I never had the impression that Lady Scattergood enjoyed her marriage.”

Clarissa smiled. “No, not until her husband was on the other side of the world.”

“Exactly. And I don’t know your chaperone very well, so…”

“Please,” Clarissa said. “I’d be very grateful for any advice you have for me. You mentioned experimenting?”

Lady Tarrant swallowed. “Yes. You see, with my first husband I’d, um, strongly disliked the marriage bed.”

Clarissa blinked. Izzy had told her it was glorious.

“It’s not the same with every man, you see, and with my first husband it was…” She shook her head. “So before I agreed to marry Lord Tarrant, I…” There was a moment of silence, broken only by the distant sounds of the children playing, then she said in a rush, “I let him take me to bed.”

Clarissa didn’t know what to say.

“Several times. In fact we spent several days alone together in a cottage in the country.”

“I…I see.”

“Morally reprehensible, I know, but we hurt nobody, and I have no regrets at all. In fact it made all the difference in the world to me. Because it was”—she sighed—“wonderful.”

There was another short silence, then she glanced at Clarissa and said, “Have I shocked you?”

“No, not at all,” Clarissa assured her, and it was true. She’d been surprised, yes, but mainly because she hadn’t expected such intimate revelations. But the way Lady Tarrant had described it—dealing with her fears by testing them out before making a permanent commitment—seemed quite sensible to Clarissa.

“I’m glad, because it changed my life. Not a day goes past that I don’t give thanks that I was able to put aside my fears and try again. And so with James as my husband, and the three girls, and now this”—she laid a hand on her swollen belly—“I didn’t dream such happiness was possible.

“Now, I’m not advising you to let anyone bed you. That would be most inadvisable for an unmarried girl. You want this”—she patted her belly again—“to be a joy, not a mistake.” She smiled at Clarissa. “But a discreet kiss or two in private wouldn’t hurt.”

Clarissa nodded, recalling that Mrs. Price-Jones had once said to her and Izzy that you had to kiss a lot of frogs before you found your prince. It was not the kind of thing a chaperone usually said, but then Mrs. Price-Jones was not the usual sort of chaperone.

“Thank you, Lady Tarrant,” she said, and, feeling a rush of emotion, leaned across and hugged her. “It’s so lovely to be able to talk things over with you. I’m so very glad you’re our friend.”

“So am I, my dear, so am I.” She cocked her head and listened.

Clarissa listened, too, but could hear nothing. “What is it?”

Lady Tarrant put her knitting aside and rose awkwardly. “I can’t hear a thing, and with children that’s generally a sign that someone is up to mischief.” Her eyes danced. “Shall we go and see how Nanny is coping with those children of mine?”

After her chat with Lady Tarrant, Clarissa went to one of her favorite spots in the garden, the rose arbor. Zo? had remained with Lucy: the two were still enthusiastically talking painting and drawing. She was glad Zo? had found a friend, even though she was a little sad that Zo? had not embraced her sister quite so eagerly.

But it was natural that Zo? should be drawn to a young woman who had the same interests. Zo?’s mother had been a painter and an artist’s model, and now, remembering that caricature she’d drawn on the wall of the orphan asylum, it occurred to Clarissa that Zo? was probably quite a talented artist herself. She must buy the girl some art supplies.

Clarissa settled herself on the wooden seat and breathed deeply of the fragrances that surrounded her: roses, lavender and sweet Alice, which was buzzing with bees.

She plucked a leaf of lamb’s ear and, stroking the velvety surface meditatively, she considered the conversation she’d just had. Lady Tarrant had dealt bravely with the fears that had been holding her back, and her courage had been richly rewarded.

Clarissa considered her suitors. Really, taking everything into consideration, Mr. Clayborn came closest to the man she’d described on her list. He wasn’t a fortune hunter. He was kind, well-mannered and attractive. He wasn’t always a good listener, but he did respect her, that was clear. And he was a war hero, which meant he was brave and had risked his life to defend his country, and though that wasn’t on her list, it ought to mean something. Best of all, he wasn’t a rake.

He was certainly more suitable than Lord Randall.

She thought about what Lady Tarrant had told her. A discreet kiss or two in private wouldn’t hurt.

Yes. At the next opportunity, she would allow Mr. Clayborn to kiss her.

Race’s mind was in turmoil. Had Clarissa Studley agreed to an understanding with Clayborn? Or had the man made it up to save face after Race’s dressing-down?

He wanted to call on her and ask her straight out if it was true, but he couldn’t.

He’d let himself into Bellaire Gardens via Leo’s house the very next morning, hoping to find her in the garden, but though he looked everywhere, there was no sign of her, only a group of little girls playing under the eye of their nanny.

And of course he couldn’t just go and ring Lady Scattergood’s doorbell, not with that blasted butler.

And it wasn’t the sort of question one could put in a note.

He’d asked his cousin to call on her, but it turned out she had another engagement, and anyway, her gleeful curiosity about his motives for wanting her to call caused him to clam up. He was very fond of his cousin, but discreet she was not.

He was walking along in a brown study, not taking much notice of where he was going—his head was full of what Clayborn had claimed—when a voice hailed him. “Randall, well met, old fellow.”

He looked up. “Grantley,” he exclaimed. “Good lord, haven’t seen you in years.”

Grantley chuckled. “Away at the wars for most of it. How are you, Randall? Heard your father died. My condolences.”

Race nodded. “Years ago now. And how are your parents?”

“Father gone, mother still fighting fit. The grandchildren keeping her active, you see.”

“Grandchildren?”

“All ten of them.”

“Ten?” Race couldn’t help but exclaim.

Grantley chuckled. “Not just me—I have two sisters, you know. But I have three of my own—two boys and a girl.” He linked his arm through Race’s and began walking. “Married a Spanish girl—marvelous woman. Stayed with me through every campaign, didn’t turn a hair at the dirt or the danger. A true lady. Ah, here we are.”

Race looked up at the building they’d stopped in front of, looked at the discreet brass plate—The Apocalypse Club—and halted.

“Join me for a spot of lunch?” Grantley said. “They do a very good steak and kidney pudding here. Or an excellent grilled flounder if that’s your preference.”

“Thanks, but I don’t think so.” He glanced again at the nameplate. “Not my sort of place.”

“Why not?” Grantley gave him a shrewd look and then said, “Oh, I know. Expecting it to be full of old war horses reliving their days of glory?”

Race nodded. “Something of the sort.” He hated having to listen to former soldiers boasting of their conquests and near misses.

“War’s not glorious at all,” Grantley said. “You and I know better, don’t we? This is a club for real soldiers.”

“Then it’s not for me. I was barely a soldier at all.”

“Nonsense. Not your fault that your regiment was recalled to England after Colonel Grant was wounded. As I recall the 15th Hussars—that was you, wasn’t it?”—Race nodded—“were damned successful. Defeated two French cavalry regiments in a single battle. And…weren’t you mentioned in dispatches? Something about rescuing a fellow whose horse was shot from under him, wasn’t it?”

Race shrugged it off. He hated talking about his brief, inglorious career as a cavalry officer. He’d been twenty-three and gone to war full of romantic ideas of glory. The battle Grantley spoke of had been hideous, bloody and ghastly. The weather was freezing: they were all so cold their hands were numb. They’d been ordered to ride their horses in a line at the chasseurs, who’d met them with a hail of gunfire. The sound of screaming horses and men—on both sides—had given him nightmares for several years. The horses in particular haunted him. The men at least had chosen to go to war; the horses hadn’t.

He’d lost any illusions he’d had about war that day.

Afterward the 15th had been recalled to England, and for the next two years he’d kicked his heels, bored and frustrated, reading about the battles other men fought from a newspaper. And then his father died, and Race sold his commission to take up his duties on the estate, and in Parliament.

He rarely spoke about his military service, feeling a little ashamed at its brevity and that he came through his only battle quite unscathed, except for a few minor wounds, whereas others…

“Come in and dine with me,” Grantley urged him. “I promise you, there are no glory hounds here. Just men who’ve been there, and who want a quiet, convivial meal with good English cooking. I tell you, the steak and kidney pud is superb.”

It had been years since he’d seen his old friend so, dismissing his initial reluctance, Race accepted the invitation and entered the club.

Clarissa walked toward the French doors leading out to Lord and Lady Carmichael’s garden. It was a fine night and she was tense with nerves. She’d been waiting all night for this moment.

She was about to go outside with Mr. Clayborn and, if he wanted to, she planned to let him kiss her. She’d never been kissed, had never had the opportunity. Until now.

She was shaking a little, but determined on her course.

She recalled what her chaperone had once said: You need to kiss a lot of frogs to find your prince. It had shocked her a little at the time, especially coming from a lady who was employed to guard her virtue.

But then Lady Tarrant had told her: a discreet kiss or two in private wouldn’t hurt.

So emboldened by their words, she was preparing to receive her first kiss. She looked out into the garden. Only a few lanterns had been hung in the trees—not enough to cast light on what was, for the most part, a garden of mystery and shadow. It was an invitation to dalliance: several couples had already vanished into the darkness.

Was she on a quest for romance or was she about to be foolish?

She shivered.

“The breeze is a little fresh. Are you sure you want to step outside?” Mr. Clayborn asked.

“No, it will be refreshing after the heat and stuffiness in the ballroom,” she said, making her decision. She wanted to know what it was like to be kissed. Specifically, she wanted to know what kissing Mr. Clayborn would be like.

She glanced at him. Would he even want to kiss her? She had no idea. He’d been perfectly proper in his attentions so far. Was she supposed to signal somehow that she was willing? How? She had the feeling that this sort of thing was generally initiated by the man. Ladies, she had always been taught, were supposed to prevent such intimacies. But nobody had ever tried to kiss her. Yet.

Nothing ventured, nothing gained, she told herself, and stepped out onto the terrace.

“Ah, Clayborn, glad I found you,” a voice said from behind. Lord Randall strolled up to them. “Your great-aunt seems to have had a bit of a turn. You’d better go to her.”

Mr. Clayborn hesitated, glancing from Lord Randall to Clarissa, but disappointed as she was, there was no question of what he should do. “No, don’t worry about me, Mr. Clayborn. You must go at once. Shall I come with you?”

“No need, Miss Studley. Several other ladies are tending to her,” Lord Randall said. “But of course she wants her beloved nevvie. Don’t worry, Clayborn, I’ll look after Miss Studley. You run along.”

Mr. Clayborn gave him an irritated glance. “I am so sorry, Miss Studley—” he began.

“Time is of the essence,” Lord Randall reminded him.

“I hope it’s nothing serious,” Clarissa called after Mr. Clayborn as he stomped unevenly away, wincing with each step.

“It’s not,” Lord Randall told her.

She turned and stared at him. Then narrowed her eyes at him. “You’re looking rather pleased with yourself, Lord Randall.”

“Who, me?” He smiled. “Why would I not be pleased to be with a lovely lady? I gather you were about to take a walk in the garden. Shall we?” He took her arm and moved forward toward the steps down into the garden.

She shook his hand off. “Was it true, about Mr. Clayborn’s great-aunt?”

He shrugged. “Perhaps just a little too much champagne.”

“That’s—that’s outrageous!”

“Do you think so? But plenty of elderly ladies take a few drops too much on occasion. It’s not a crime.”

“I don’t mean that and you know it.” She glared at him. “I think you deliberately stopped Mr. Clayborn from escorting me outside.”

He gestured carelessly, making no attempt to deny it. “He shouldn’t have been taking you outside. He’s done it before, and he should know better. So should you, for that matter.”

“A harmless stroll in the fresh air?”

“First it’s a harmless stroll, then the gossip starts and next thing your reputation is besmirched—

“Besmirched?”

“Besmirched,” he said firmly. “And then before you know it you’re betrothed. Whether you want it or not.”

“Nonsense.”

“It’s not nonsense, it’s how society works.” Tucking her hand into the crook of his arm, he led her down the steps into the garden.

“I don’t care about my reputation.”

He turned his head sharply. “What? But you must.”

She shrugged. “There are half a dozen men in that ballroom alone who would happily marry me even if my reputation were, I don’t know—purple. For them, my fortune is the only thing that counts.”

He paused and glanced down at her. “And would you want to be tied to a man like that for the rest of your life?”

She wouldn’t, of course. She pretended to ignore the question. “This is a pretty garden, isn’t it?”

“Because you shouldn’t. You should marry a man who loves you, who worships the ground you walk on, a man who would marry you even if you had not a penny in the world.”

What a dream. She rolled her eyes. “Oh yes, there are dozens of men like that, I’m sure.”

“Not dozens,” he said softly. “Just one.”

His voice was deep and soft, and sounded sincere, and she wanted, she really wanted to believe him. But he was a known rake. Seductive little speeches were no doubt second nature to a man like him. She couldn’t let herself believe him, she just couldn’t.

There was a short silence. His words hung in the air a moment then dissipated on the wind. “In any case,” she said, gathering her scattered wits and feigning indignation, “it’s not your business whether I choose to step outside, with whom, or why. You are not my guardian, or my brother—”

“God forbid.”

She gave him a scathing look. “So I will thank you to stop interfering.”

“You’re very cross still for someone who only wanted a little fresh air. Aren’t you breathing in plenty of it now?” He took a deep breath. “Can you smell that? It’s rosemary, isn’t it?”

The fact that there wasn’t even a hint of rosemary in the air added to her annoyance. Lord Randall was playing with her. He took nothing seriously, the wretch.

“It wasn’t just the fresh air, it was—” She broke off and, feeling her cheeks warming, looked away.

“What? What was this mysterious reason then, if it wasn’t for air?”

Fighting her blush, desperately hoping he couldn’t see it in the dim light of the garden, she didn’t answer.

A soft breeze soughed through the garden, sending the lanterns swaying and shadows dancing. “Good God, you were going to let him kiss you, weren’t you?”

“So what if I was?” she flashed. “It isn’t a crime. I’m sure he wanted to, and I’ve never—” She broke off.

“You’ve never what? Been kissed? Is that it? Well, all I can say is that with that luscious mouth of yours, the men you’ve been meeting must be dreadful slow-tops.”

“Is that so?” What did he mean, luscious mouth?

“Yes, and I consider myself the worst of them. Come along.” He drew her into a shadowed alcove.

“What are you do—”

Before she could finish, he drew her into his arms. Clarissa knew she ought to resist, but somehow she couldn’t.

“What do you think you’re doing?” She was trying for sternness but it came out soft and a little bit breathless.

“Your first kiss shouldn’t be with a clod like Clayborn.”