Chapter Six

The next morning, Clarissa woke to the scent of sandalwood and citrus. Her eyes still closed, she inhaled the delightful aroma. Mmmm, eau de Frank Brody.

Then she remembered the events of the previous evening, which had ended with her finding sanctuary at Reverend Brody's lodgings. And finally, alone in his warm bed, cocooned in crisp linen sheets imbued with his masculine cologne.

Through the window came the feeble light of another winter's day. Clarissa stretched and squirmed deeper into the feather bed, away from the chilled air of the bedchamber. She dozed again, but soon an appetizing whiff of toast roused her.

At the third growl of her stomach, she threw aside the bedclothes and stepped onto the timber floor. Cold, cold, cold . Hastily, Clarissa pulled on her overgarments from yesterday and opened the bedchamber door to step into Francis's sitting room. Warmth greeted her.

The well-organized space she remembered from last night was set for breakfast. A small table stood between the two wing chairs standing on either side of the hearth. Francis sat in one, holding a loaded toasting fork over the flame in his hearth. Three slices lay on a plate, already buttered and ready to eat.

He turned to her, a warm smile on his face, lighting up his brown eyes.

"Good morning." She smiled back at him, glad of his welcome. "That toast smells marvelous."

"Come and eat before it goes cold. The tea is ready too."

Clarissa took the vacant chair and poured the brew from the stoneware teapot into the ready cups. Then she attacked the plate of toast. Delicious .

And Frank looked delicious too—enticingly kissable this morning, with his mussed-up hair and a few stray waves on his forehead.

She really shouldn't be having those sorts of thoughts about the good curate. There were much more pressing and important issues she must resolve today. She swallowed the last of her toast. "I need to find new accommodation without delay."

"I can help you with that. One of my parishioners told me yesterday that she has a vacancy."

Her shoulders lost the tension she hadn't realized they held. A room opening and Francis knew the landlady. Surely she would be successful. She took a bite of toast.

Long before Frank's more fashionable neighbors had arisen, he escorted Clarissa to a boarding house a few blocks away, run by a landlady who was a member of the St Paul's Parish. Clarissa quickly secured the room, then accompanied by Francis, marched to her former lodgings where he stood guard outside while she packed her belongings. She struggled out of her room loaded with four carpet bags and a hat box.

"Was your aunt home?" Francis asked, closing the distance to her.

"No, and there's no sign she has been here since last night." She sent a significant look his way. Although bewildered by her aunt choosing such an unappealing man as her lover, relief that their paths hadn't crossed was her overriding emotion.

"Ah." Francis claimed all but the hat box from her arms. "Is this all your luggage?"

"All that I wish to keep. My aunt is welcome to the rest. She can sell my dresses for her expenses, as I will no longer be needing her assistance." Would the sale of some dresses and trinkets keep her aunt happy, instead of the money from Clarissa's ascendancy on the London stage? Possibly not .

They hurried back to her new boarding house to unpack her belongings before leaving again for rehearsal at the theatre. Clarissa hoped her aunt would not turn up. Surely she had drunk too much to wish to venture from Lord Marchmere's bed today.

To make sure she would never have to deal with her aunt again at the theatre, Clarissa informed the manager and the porter that as they were no longer working in association, her aunt should no longer have access to the theatre.

The last curtain call couldn't come soon enough. Clarissa had a crashing headache in reward for her late night the previous day. She whispered a prayer of thanks that her aunt had not arrived while she was on stage, so there was no argument to be had after the performance.

When Clarissa exited the stage entrance ready to request one of the doormen to hail a cab for her, she found Frank Brody outside in conversation with the theatre manager. At her appearance, he bid Mr. Prentice goodnight and strode towards her. "Miss Bartlett, may I escort you to your lodgings?"

"Yes, of course." His offer cheered her. She didn't want to be alone.

"Shall we walk, or would you prefer to take a hackney?"

"Tonight, I feel like walking, if you don't mind." Especially with you. She stole a sideways glance at his handsome face.

"I would be delighted. I usually walk."

He offered her his arm and Clarissa curled her fingers around the crook of his elbow.

"Your aunt didn't turn up?"

"Thankfully, no. I don't know what to say to her anymore. I've left word that she's not to be admitted."

"If you are concerned that she will cause a scene, I'm happy to escort you to your lodgings every evening until you are confident your aunt will not accost you." He seemed utterly sincere.

His kindness towards her warmed her heart. He was a good man.

***

Early in the afternoon of the next day, Clarissa answered a knock on the door of her boarding house room to find the young girl who acted as a general servant standing there. "You have visitors, miss. They're in the sitting room awaiting you."

Apprehension filled her. No one but Francis knew she had moved here, did they? Had he brought someone with him?

She hurried downstairs and into the visitor's sitting room. Her heart sank at the sight she found there. Her aunt, escorted by Marchmere and Travener, stood in the center of the room.

The men looked uncomfortable in these humble surroundings. Marchmere's curled lip showed his distaste. Travener held her gaze with a hint of challenge in his eyes.

Her aunt stalked towards her. "There you are, Clarissa. I've been so worried about you," she announced loud enough for their audience to hear. Enveloping Clarissa in an embrace, Aunt Dora whispered in her ear, "Thought you could get away from me, did you?" There was menace in her voice. Her aunt's woolen dress scratched against Clarissa's hands, folded in front of her.

Clarissa jerked out of Dora's arms. "Our association is ended, as I wrote in the letter I left for you," she answered, her voice as cold as the winter wind blowing outside.

"Oh, but Clarissa, the gentlemen and I have come to take you for lunch. Surely, you can still spare some time for your aunt and friends?" she announced with an arch look at the menfolk.

Clarissa's stomach churned at the thought of more time in their company. "I would rather not. I don't care for your friends," she answered sotto voce.

"Of course, you can," said Aunt Dora for the benefit of the room's other occupants. "We need to discuss the terms of your debt to me for the last five years," she hissed. Dora turned to the gentlemen and gave them a wide smile. "We will join you in the carriage shortly, if you like?"

Clearly happy to depart the lowly boarding house, the gentlemen left. But not before Travener sent her a look filled with dark intent over his shoulder as he departed. Clarissa's blood froze in her veins.

Her aunt grasped Clarissa's forearm in a steely grip. "And now, get your pelisse, you're coming to lunch."

Clarissa pulled her arm from her aunt's clasp. "I will not."

Her aunt's hand flashed out. The slap burned every inch of Clarissa's cheek. A squeak of surprise left her mouth as her hand shot to her face. She tasted blood.

Her aunt had never hit her before. Dora's way had always been subtle manipulation. Not that it had been required very often, as Clarissa had yearned for the success on stage her aunt had proposed when she arrived to spring Clarissa from the Duke Street Orphanage, five years ago.

"Get your pelisse, Clarissa," her aunt ordered through gritted teeth.

"No." To hell with you.

Her aunt examined her with a speculative look in her eyes. "Listen, my dear. If you humor me now and come to lunch, and listen to my proposal for your future with Lord Travener like a civilized person, I will tell you all I know about your father."

Come again! "What do you know about my father?"

"I know everything about him."

Clarissa grabbed her aunt's arm. "Tell me now," she demanded.

"I'll not tell you a thing unless you agree to take Lord Travener as your protector. We need the money and security that he and Lord Marchmere can provide. We've survived so far on my savings and what your mother left you, but no longer, even with you as a popular performer. I've run out of dosh!"

Clarissa closed her gaping mouth. She had waited her whole life to find out anything about her father and now her aunt told her she knew everything about him. And they had run out of money. How, when she had been earning so much this season? Her mother had left money too and that was gone?

The only way she was going to find out any of the answers she needed was to accompany her aunt. In a daze, she left the room and trudged up the three flights of stairs to her room. She pulled on a matching pelisse and tied the ribbons of her bonnet under her chin. What was she to do? She secured the top of her bonnet to her hair with her longest steel hatpin. At least she had a weapon, just in case she needed one.

When she arrived back in the sitting room, Aunt Dora threaded her arm through Clarissa's and urged her from the room and out the entrance of the boarding house. In front stood Marchmere's carriage, its door was open, waiting to swallow her.

Her aunt bundled Clarissa into the busy Covent Garden street with its winter smell of slush and muck. From all around came the sounds of trundling cartwheels, horses, and loud voices. A dog paused in its progress to give a quick woof and pee on the carriage wheel.

Clarissa looked around in dismay. Would anyone help her if she struggled against this coercion? Probably not.

Her aunt tugged her inexorably across the crowded pavement towards the open carriage door. Clarissa's limbs began to shake. She was torn between wanting to know about her father and escaping the fate that awaited her at the hands of these three people.

Her aunt's betrayal hurt her more than her slap. Dora had spent her mother's money and concealed information about her father. And to think Clarissa had ever trusted her . The vice that gripped her heart squeezed tighter.

"Miss Bartlett!"

Francis's shout reached Clarissa through the fog in her brain. She turned her head towards that sound of salvation and saw him running towards her. She halted and turned to face him. Her aunt tugged against her, trying to urge her to the carriage.

"What's going on here?" Francis demanded as he stopped in front of her.

"We're going to lunch. Not that it's any business of yours, I'm sure, Reverend," Aunt Dora replied with a sneer.

Francis ignored her aunt. "Clarissa, do you wish to go to lunch with these people?"

She shook her head. Good Lord, no she did not, but she wanted the information her aunt held.

"Then why are you going with them?" he asked in a gentle voice.

"Aunt Dora will only tell me what she knows about my father if I do as she asks. I desperately want to know about him. I always have." She sounded like a lost child. Disgust at her weakness filled her.

"What? She's blackmailing you?"

Clarissa wanted to cry. "What choice do I have?"

"I'll help you find out about your father. We can visit The Duke Street Orphanage. There must be some information there that your mother provided them if she sought shelter there."

Why did I never think to do that myself ? Because I vowed never to set foot over that threshold again . She stared up into his brown eyes. They were so kind and warm that she just wanted to fall into their reassuring depths. Maybe I can face my fear if Frank is beside me .

He put out his hand to her, but the hand she extended never reached him. Aunt Dora yanked her back as Lord Travener curled his fingers around her upper arm. He must have exited the carriage. Standing frozen on the pavement, Clarissa stared down at his hand—the same hand that had taken liberties with her. Her stomach curdled.

"Unhand her!" Francis demanded.

She glanced towards the curate. He had drawn a small sword from his walking stick and held it pointed at Lord Travener's neck.

Travener released Clarissa's arm, but her aunt still hauled on her other side. She resisted, planting her feet solidly on the pavement, then pushed her aunt. "Get away from me!" She hurried back from the yawning carriage door, and ripped the hatpin from her bonnet, holding it ready in her hand.

Travener may have let her go, but he wasn't vanquished yet. He pulled a short knife from a top boot. "Do you wish to take me on, parson?" he scoffed.

Francis didn't answer, but with a swift double step forward he lunged towards the Viscount. With a deft thrust, his swordstick shredded Travener's coat sleeve and scored a line down the hand holding the knife. Blood rapidly filled the sword's path.

Travener dropped the blade and clutched his injured hand to his chest. "You'll pay for that, parson!" He scanned the crowd that had gathered around them. With a sneer at Francis and Clarissa, he elbowed his way through and marched up the street.

Clarissa hurried to Francis's side. After wiping the thin blade of his swordstick with a handkerchief, he sheathed the weapon, transforming it once again into a walking stick. "Are you all right?" he asked her in his calm way.

She nodded then turned to the last of the players in this melodrama. Marchmere had exited the carriage and was now aiding Aunt Dora into it. The look her aunt sent her through promised vengeance to come. With a trembling hand, Clarissa returned her hatpin to its rightful place.

When the couple departed in the carriage without any further argument, Clarissa breathed a sigh of relief. "You're a man of surprises, Reverend Frank." She didn't try to keep the wonder out of her voice. Who would have suspected that the mild-mannered man of God walked around London armed with a concealed sword and was able to use it proficiently?

"Come, let us go inside and stop giving the whole world a free street performance." He escorted her into the boarding house. In the sitting room once again, she sank onto the sofa to which he had guided her. And began to shake.

Francis slid an arm around her shoulders and pulled her into the circle of his arms. "It will be all right. I have a solution. You'll be free of them from now on." His undemanding presence and reassuring words comforted her.

The only thing more comforting would be if only he kissed her. What! Don't even think that, Clarissa.

Francis held her for a few moments longer, then dropped his arms and rose from the sofa. "I wondered how long it would be before Mrs. Jenkins turned up to renew her parasitic relationship with you." He pulled his watch from his waistcoat and checked the time on its face. "Approximately thirty-six hours."

Clarissa bowed her head. Not long at all . And now Dora knew where she lived, there would be no avoiding her. "I need to move again."

"Yes, I fear you do," he agreed, his voice full of resignation. Then he sent her a swift glance of misgiving . "If you can't bear to go to the Mission…well, that is…not that I would ever suggest it if the situation weren't truly…" He paused and pinched the bridge of his nose. "There's only one alternative until my sisters return from Hampshire."

She stared at him. Blankly so, she was sure.

Reluctance darkened his gaze. "My rooms."

Clarissa closed her eyes. What choice did she really have? But if anyone found out, it would be a gem of a scandal for the broadsheets to exploit.

Yet she yearned for the safety and comfort of his home again. Right now, she just wanted to sink into the engulfing softness of his feather bed, her nose filled with his enticing cologne, until she was lulled into sleep in its cozy embrace. Her heart cracked open to emit a small spark of happiness at the thought of being there with him.

She packed her belongings once more. There was no other solution. She must reside in Francis Brody's bachelor abode until the Misses Brody returned from their Christmas sojourn in Hampshire.

Without anyone finding out.