Chapter Two

Clarissa turned away from the door, and began removing the remainder of her costume jewelry, placing it in a box on her dressing table. The Reverend Francis Brody was an enigma. A fascinating compilation of contradictions.

Her breathing had faltered at the first sight of him…until she realized he was a man of the cloth. He wore the somber clothes of his profession—black coat, breeches and vest—combined with a simply tied, snowy-white cravat. She wrinkled her nose at the recollection of his restrained outfit.

But those sober clothes had failed to hide the tall and erect, well-muscled body that belied his profession. None of the stoop, rounded shoulders, paleness, or spindliness she associated with the clergymen she had encountered while growing up in the Duke Street Orphanage.

And his face! A decisive nose—not too small, not too large; straight eyebrows; and prominent cheekbones in a square-chinned face. Perfection! A few stray waves of brown hair fell onto his forehead and temples, softening his looks. Long side levers crept towards his chin, defining his face. But it was his mouth that truly fascinated her—its width perfectly fit his face, while his lips possessed just the right amount of fullness for kissing.

Her first thought after her perusal of him was that it a crime against womankind that such looks had been allocated to a staid man of the church. One come to preach to her about her life choices, no less!

As if he knew anything about her choices. She was perfectly capable of flirting with a handsome man without acting upon her attraction. That was precisely how she intended to live—her career must come first until she achieved the success she craved.

But he hadn't condemned her…instead, in his deep melodic voice, he had offered assistance…should she need it in the future. No lecture given. No words of scorn. No condescension.

Yet I sent him on his way, nonetheless.

Indeed, the Reverend Frank Brody presented a conundrum . An attractive man with whom she could not flirt as he was a clergyman, although she longed to do so. The disappointment from this realization lingered as a heaviness within her—so very strange.

A girlish titter from beside her burst in upon her thoughts. What on earth? Clarissa turned in surprise.

Her aunt simpered up at Lord Marchmere, a middle-aged gentleman of ample girth and bulldog-like face. He pressed a kiss onto her knuckles. Clearly not the first. And Dora made no move to remove her hand from his.

This was the third night in a row this man had appeared in her dressing room to flirt with her aunt. It appeared he was keen to make Dora his mistress, despite the probable existence of a Lady Marchmere, who no doubt resided in his Mayfair home for the season.

Surely Aunt Dora wasn't entertaining the idea of forming a liaison with him?

"Miss Bartlett." A youngish gentleman dressed in evening clothes of the finest cut, whom she recognized from their introduction on opening night, had entered behind Marchmere. He was blond and dapper in appearance.

She searched her memory for his name. Trantor? Traveller? No, Travener . She offered her hand. "Viscount Travener, a pleasure to see you again. Did you enjoy this evening's performance?"

He bent over her hand and placed a damp kiss on her fingers. "Indeed, your performance only gets better with each evening."

Each evening? A surprised laugh escaped her. "You mean to say that you have attended all my performances?" She didn't know whether to be flattered or disturbed by that level of devotion.

"I wouldn't miss one," he replied earnestly.

She blinked at him. She had never encountered this degree of interest in her before. "I'm flattered." In reality, she was a little flustered.

He smiled down at her, his face benign, his grey eyes full of ardor. "Would you care to join me for supper this evening? I have a table reserved at Rules Restaurant."

Clarissa made a point of not accompanying gentlemen of short acquaintance to supper or anywhere else. The perils of her profession were poverty and poorly considered affairs of the heart. He seemed a kind gentleman, so she would let him down lightly. "I'm afraid my aunt and I have other plans this evening." She glanced over to her aunt who was still deep in flirtation with Marchmere. No support there!

"If you mean with Lord Marchmere, then I can assure you that we have a joint booking for four."

Clarissa's mouth popped open. She snapped it closed. Her aunt had not told her of this plan. What was going on? "Well, if it is already organized with my aunt, then of course…" Her words trailed away.

A satisfied smiled unfurled on his face.

"Excuse me while I speak with my aunt." She reached Dora in two steps and hissed in her ear. "Did you accept an invitation to supper from Lord Marchmere and Viscount Travener?"

"Just Lord Marchmere," her aunt whispered back.

Clarissa raised an eyebrow. "Apparently not alone," she murmured.

Dora looked disappointed.

"You're interested in fixing Marchmere's attentions?"

Her aunt nodded.

Incredulity filled Clarissa. As her aunt seemed unaccountably interested in the bulldog of a man, she felt obliged to comply with her wishes and to socialize with these gentlemen.

Her aunt sent an appraising look over at Lord Travener then patted Clarissa's hand. "He looks safe enough. Be adventurous, just for once, and come out to supper." Aunt Dora sent her an I'd-do-it-for-you look.

Her aunt was right. Travener did look harmless and she'd heard no gossip about his being a rake. "All right."

Her aunt smiled at her. "That's my girl. You're a success now. No need to be shy with your admirers."

I suppose not. A little bit of social life instead of endless rehearsal for auditions and roles seems a fitting reward for all my hard work and success . She turned to the two gentlemen, whose eyes were fixed on Dora and herself. "Gentlemen, if we are to join you for supper, I need to change. Please wait outside."

Lord Travener sent her a warm smile, but Clarissa didn't like the smug look that settled upon Lord Marchmere's round face. The men exited to rejoin the throng outside her dressing room.

A short time later, Clarissa emerged in a modest silk dress covered by an evening cloak, ready to meet her waiting admirers. Aunt Dora followed and quickly took Lord Marchmere's offered arm. Summoning a warm smile, Clarissa moved to greet the waiting throng.

For the next few minutes, Clarissa was swamped with attention. Flowers were thrust into her arms. Her hand was kissed by many. Some pushed folded missives into her palm. Would their words be poems to her beauty and grace or offers of assignation?

On reaching the side door to the theatre, Clarissa passed all the tributes to a young girl—a would-be actress, who helped as her dresser—to secure in her dressing room. Cold night air greeted them outside. Within moments, they were seated in Lord Marchmere's warm carriage and heading to supper.

A few minutes later, they halted outside the fashionable Rules Restaurant in Maiden Lane, Covent Garden.

They were escorted through the crowded restaurant and seated at a secluded private table set for four to dine. Clarissa smoothed her hand over the crisp white linen tablecloth, taking in the luxurious interior ablaze with candlelight. As a background to the murmur of many conversations, a string ensemble seated in a far corner played a popular composition.

Champagne was brought and dispensed into chilled flutes. Apparently, the restaurant kept a store of ice. She sipped the drink, savoring its tartness as it slid over her tongue. Scrumptious .

Within moments, her aunt had drained her glass. Clarissa frowned and hoped Dora would slow her pace now her thirst had been quenched. They ordered from the menu of traditional English roasts and game.

Keeping an eye on her aunt, Clarissa sipped her drink and kept up conversation with Viscount Travener. To Clarissa's dismay, her aunt simpered in response to every one of Marchmere's compliments to her and drained another glass of champagne while they waited for their meals.

Another bottle was opened and Aunt Dora's glass filled. Clarissa's body tensed. Good lord, what is she about, drinking so freely? How will this evening end?

Lord Marchmere was leaning close to Dora and practically leering at her décolletage . And her aunt seemed happy to encourage him with a delicate hand placed on his arm, as though holding him in place. Even Lord Travener looked uncomfortable at the intimacy these two were displaying…far too close for a dining occasion.

Clarissa's face heated and she closed her eyes. She couldn't wait for this evening to end. Where were their meals?

In the meantime, Clarissa kept up an animated conversation with her companion about a performance currently running at the Theatre Royal in Drury Lane, trying to distract Travener from glancing over at the other couple.

Now Marchmere's lips were pressed against her aunt's neck, resulting in a flurry of giggles. She had never seen her aunt behave with such shamelessness, and frankly couldn't understand how a man so lacking in attractiveness and charm as Marchmere inspired it. Uggh.

Not soon enough to save her embarrassment on her aunt's behalf, the rich aroma of roast beef filled the air as their meals arrived. Thank goodness .

Now to eat quickly and get aunt out of here and return to the safety of our rooms as soon as possible. Clarissa used all her acting ability to appear merry during the meal, but her stomach was knotted with tension. Aunt Dora continued to swallow champagne as though it was as harmless as ginger beer.

Clarissa worried her bottom lip with her teeth. How far would her aunt go in her flirtation with Marchmere? She hardly dared guess.

And now that Travener had seen what liberties her aunt permitted with Marchmere, he was beginning to take some himself, with his chair edged closer to hers, and a light touch to her arm now and then. She conducted herself as politely as possible.

Her meal finished, Clarissa lined up her knife and fork on the plate and dabbed her mouth with her napkin . If only she didn't have to pander to the egos of these so-called gentlemen on her way out. How dare they behave this way? And yet, she didn't want such influential men to turn against her and damage her reputation and her career through malicious gossip.

Clarissa smiled into Lord Travener's eyes. "Thank you for supper, my lord. Now, we must depart. My aunt is tired and I have a morning rehearsal at the theatre tomorrow." That was only a small white lie and a necessary one if she was to extract Aunt Dora before Lord Marchmere slid his beefy hand down her dress front.

Without waiting for his answer, Clarissa rose and rounded the table to her aunt. "We must go home now, aunt."

Lord Marchmere sent her a frown. His irritation at her interruption was palpable.

"Must we, dear?" Dora slurred.

Clarissa gathered up her aunt's reticule from the table and grasped her arm. "Yes. I have rehearsal tomorrow. Come along."

"If you say so," Dora sighed.

Clarissa tugged her aunt to her feet and slipped an arm through hers. She turned towards the gentlemen. "Thank you for the supper and the company, gentlemen. Good evening."

Without waiting for their responses, she started to make her escape—but Lord Marchmere was too fast. In a moment, he was in front of them and pressing a wet kiss to her aunt's lips. Uggh!

But her aunt didn't appear to mind and kissed him right back in full view of the other diners.

Then Travener was before Clarissa and collected her free hand to press a kiss onto her wrist.

She tugged her hand free, and her aunt from Lord Marchmere's embrace. "Goodnight, gentlemen. I will look after my aunt from here." She hurried Dora through the restaurant and reached the outside without further trouble from their dining companions. Relief unwound the tension tangled in her middle.

At her request, the doorman hailed a hackney carriage. She tipped him from her purse, then assisted her more than tipsy aunt into the carriage. Dora collapsed onto the worn squabs with a groan.

You will deserve tomorrow's headache.

The driver pushed open the sliding communication hatch between the carriage and himself on the driver's bench in front. "Where to, Miss?"

She gave their address.

"Right you are." The panel slid closed with a thud and the carriage lurched forward into motion.

Clarissa sank back against the squabs with a long sigh. From her reticule she pulled out the card given to her by the intriguing clergyman this evening. She turned it in her hand and squinted in the low light to read the printed address in Wapping.

Perhaps she wouldn't throw it away just yet .