Chapter 5
The princess had just escaped the tower when Clarissa ran out of ink.
She stared at the half-finished page, at the princess dangling mid-sentence from a vine that Clarissa had not yet decided would hold, and sighed.
This was the trouble with writing stories for Lucy.
Clarissa always got so caught up in the adventure that she forgot to plan how anyone would get out of it.
Rather like life, come to think of it.
She set the page aside to dry and reached for a fresh pot of ink, but her thoughts had already wandered from the princess's predicament to her own.
She'd been in London for nearly a week. She'd attended one ball, danced with one forgettable baron, and been given a nickname she was fairly certain would outlast her.
Cast-Off Clarissa. How lovely.
She sat back in her seat with a sigh. The princess in her story would no doubt appreciate the irony. Escaping from a tower only to discover the prince had married someone else while she was climbing down.
But no, that was too sad an ending for her niece. Lucy preferred her heroines triumphant and her villains soundly defeated, and Clarissa was not about to disappoint her one and only reader.
She was composing a daring escape involving a stolen horse when the parlor door opened.
"A letter for you, my lady." John's butler extended a silver tray.
Clarissa took the letter and turned it over. Heavy cream paper. A wax seal she didn't recognize. She broke it open.
Lady Clarissa,
I write at the suggestion of our mutual friend, Miss Hale, who speaks very warmly of you. I would be delighted if you would join me for tea on Wednesday afternoon. Shall we say three o'clock?
Yours, etc., Philippa, Dowager Duchess of Ashworth
Clarissa read it twice. Then a third time, just in case she'd missed something. Like the reason for this visit, for example.
She stared at the name with a frown. The Dowager Duchess of Ashworth. The most formidable woman in London, if the gossip was to be believed. And she had invited her to tea.
Her. Cast-Off Clarissa.
"John?" she called.
Her brother appeared in the doorway, a book under his arm. "Hmm?"
She held up the letter. "The Dowager Duchess of Ashworth has invited me to tea."
John's expression flickered with surprise, then comprehension, and then something that looked suspiciously like amusement. "Has she."
She frowned. "Why are you smiling?"
His face went blank. "I'm not smiling."
"Why would the Duchess of Ashworth invite me to tea? I've never met the woman. I've never even been in the same room. Is she a friend of our father's? He never mentioned it. Then again… But no. I don't—" She caught herself. Clamping her mouth shut, she drew a breath. "Do you know something?"
John leaned against the doorframe. He seemed to be enjoying himself far more than the situation warranted. "I know that the Duchess of Ashworth is a woman of considerable influence who takes an interest in young ladies she believes could benefit from her guidance."
"Her guidance." Clarissa stared at him. "You mean…her patronage?"
He lifted a shoulder. "If you like."
"Why would she want to patronize me?"
His eyes sparkled with mirth. "I imagine Miss Hale mentioned you."
Clarissa looked down at the letter again. Estella. Of course. Estella, who'd been so kind at the ball, looking at her with those guilty, sympathetic eyes. Estella had gone to the duchess about her because…
Because she felt sorry for her.
The thought made her stomach tighten. She didn't want to be someone's charitable project. But she also wanted to not be alone. And the Duchess of Ashworth was offering to be in her corner, and refusing an invitation from a dowager duchess was not something one did.
"Should I go?" she asked.
John's smile was kind. "I think you should."
On Wednesday afternoon, Clarissa stood outside the Duchess of Ashworth's townhouse and reminded herself that she had once faced down a marquess.
A dowager duchess could not be worse than a marquess. Probably.
Though Mrs. Lennox had informed her that the duchess was "not a woman to be trifled with," which had left her with an altogether ominous feeling.
The butler admitted her and led her through a foyer. They were approaching the drawing room when Clarissa heard voices. It sounded like…
"—the terms are perfectly reasonable, Aunt Philippa," a low voice said.
Clarissa frowned at the closed doors. It sounded like a negotiation was going on. Perhaps she'd best turn back. But then she heard her name as the man continued.
"I escort Lady Clarissa to a few events, I dance with her, I make it very clear to the ton that the Duke of Ashworth's heir finds her utterly captivating."
A woman's voice said something but she could not make out what. Then the man was going on again, even louder now. "Don't be silly. It'll be a month. Perhaps six weeks. By the end of the Season, no one will remember that wretched nickname."
The butler turned to her as they reached the door. His expression was blank. Too blank. It was a look she knew well from her own parents' household. The kind of look a maid would give when they were pretending they hadn't heard Clarissa being scolded.
Clarissa could only hope her own expression was equally blank, but judging by the heat in her cheeks, she suspected her embarrassment was clear.
"Oh come now, Aunt," that voice called out. "I'm offering to rid this girl of the Cast-Off Clarissa moniker for good. Surely that's enough to make the funds worthwhile…" And then, "Two payments, then… But I won't fail."
In between there'd been murmurs. A woman's voice.
She turned to the butler. "The duchess is expecting me, I believe."
"Yes, my lady." He nodded and went to knock.
It took everything in her not to stop him. She couldn't enter now. Not when she'd just heard some man talking about her like, like—
Well, like a pig being haggled over at the market.
The butler knocked. No one seemed to hear him over the man's loud voice.
"I understand she's another one of your charity projects, Aunt Philippa. I assure you, I will not allow any entanglements, and— No, I'm simply offering to be the instrument of that help. For a modest—"
Here the butler, no doubt out of desperation to end this mortifying moment, didn't wait for a response before he opened the door.
So they both heard the duchess interrupt. "There is nothing modest about the sum you've requested."
"Aunt, hear me out—"
The butler cleared his throat so loudly, Clarissa was certain the cook was startled in the kitchen.
The silence that came from the drawing room was deafening. Clarissa wanted to run.
Every instinct screamed at her to turn and flee. Her face burned. Her hands, hanging at her sides, curled into fists.
She should leave. She should turn around and walk out and—
"Your Grace?" The butler spoke. "Lady Clarissa Whitfield is here to see you."
There was that silence again.
Clarissa uncurled her fists. She straightened her spine. And then, because she could think of no better alternative—she walked through the drawing room door.
The duchess sat in a chair by the window, and a man leaned against the mantel. The man had dark blonde hair and an easy smile. Frozen now, but still somehow charming.
The man from the coaching inn.
He recognized her at the same moment she recognized him. She saw it happen. The flash of surprise, then confusion, then recognition.
And she hated every second of it.
Because the last time this man had looked at her, she'd been babbling about love in a coaching inn. And now…
Well. It had come to this.
"Ah." The duchess rose, her composure impeccable. "Lady Clarissa. How good of you to come. May I introduce my nephew, the Earl of Stratton."
His smile was back, smooth and dashing as he pushed away from the mantel and strode toward her. "It's you!"
He was so sure of himself. So dreadfully, sickeningly sure that she'd smile and blush, and perhaps swoon because he remembered her.
A wave of pettiness swept over her and it had her blinking at the man in feigned confusion. "I beg your pardon… Have we met?"