Playing to Win (10 page)

She seized on this, trying to calm her
racing thoughts. Of all things to alarm her, Mr. Whitlatch's height
was surely the least of her worries! There are many tall men in the
world, she scolded herself. Still, the agitating sensations
remained. Power seemed to emanate from this particular tall man in
a very unnerving way. She was uncomfortably aware of his closeness,
and felt relieved when he left her side to stride up to the
house.

"Where the deuce is Simmons?" shouted
Mr. Whitlatch, addressing this question to the ambient air. He
tried the latch, swore under his breath, and rapped smartly on the
wide wooden door. Then he backed off the doorstep and examined the
facade with narrowed eyes.

Clarissa, following his gaze, saw that
curtains were neatly drawn across all the windows. They appeared
securely latched, and no smoke issued from the chimneys. It seemed
likely that Mr. Whitlatch's summons would go unanswered.

She cast about for a soothing remark.
"Perhaps they did not receive your message," she
suggested.

Mr. Whitlatch turned his frown on
Clarissa. "What message?"

She opened her eyes at him. "Did you
not send word for your staff to expect you?"

"I pay my staff to expect me!" snapped
Mr. Whitlatch.

Just as his aspect was becoming
dangerous, a weather-beaten laborer came puffing round the corner
of the house, clucking and exclaiming under his breath, and
hobbling as fast as his stiffened joints would let him. His gnarled
hands were caked with earth, as were the knees of his gaiters. One
hand vaguely waved a trowel.

"Lord bless us and save us!" ejaculated
this individual. "If it isn't himself!"

A reluctant smile twitched at the
corners of Mr. Whitlatch's mouth. "How are you, Hogan? Widening the
scope of your duties, I see."

Hogan peered uncertainly at his
employer. "Eh? How's that, sir?"

Mr. Whitlatch indicated the waiting
coach. "When last I saw you, greeting arrivals was not your
responsibility. You mustn't let Simmons impose upon you, Hogan. If
he asks you to welcome the master, it's only right that he help you
dig the turnips."

A cackle of mirth escaped Hogan. "He
never! Bless you, sir, if I stuck me nose in where 'twasn't wanted,
Mr. Simmons would ask for me notice. I've only come round to tell
you, sir, that the Simmonses are on holiday—in a manner o'speaking,
that is. You'll be wanting the house key, no doubt?"

"No doubt," said Mr. Whitlatch grimly.
"And I’d like to know in
what
manner of speaking the
Simmonses are on holiday."

Hogan scratched his head and cast an
apologetic glance at Clarissa. His voice hoarsened
conspiratorially. "Well now, sir, 'tis their daughter. They've only
the one child, and not likely to have another at their time o'life.
They fair dote on her, sir. The daughter married Fenwick’s eldest
boy at Candlemas, and she's by way of having her lying-in this very
day. And seeing as how we never expected you nowise, sir, and
seeing as 'tis their first grandchild, and mayhap their only
grandchild, they've gone to be present at the lying-in, sir, saving
your presence."

Wrath was gathering in Mr. Whitlatch's
face. Hogan cleared his throat apologetically. "They've gone only
as far as the village, sir. Will you be wanting to send the groom's
lad to fetch them back?"

"Immediately! And you can unlock this
blasted door on your way to the stables."

"Bless you, sir,
I
haven't a
key!" uttered Hogan, blinking with mild surprise. "Though I'm
thinkin' there's one i'the stables, sir."

Mr. Whitlatch bit back an oath. "Then
find it! You may send it back with Dawson's boy."

As the gardener scuttled off to do his
bidding, Mr. Whitlatch suddenly remembered his guest. He turned
ruefully to Clarissa. She stood motionless on the path, her hands
buried in her muff, regarding him gravely from beneath the brim of
her bonnet.

"Not a well-organized welcome, I am
afraid," he said, with what he hoped was an apologetic grin.
"You'll think me an inconsiderate host."

She studied him for a moment. "I
certainly think you are an inconsiderate employer."

The grin vanished as his brows snapped
together. "An inconsiderate
employer?
In what
way?"

"Do you really intend to summon your
unfortunate butler from the birth of his grandchild?"

Mr. Whitlatch, exasperated, resorted to
sarcasm. "Not only my unfortunate butler, but his wife as well!
Since Mrs. Simmons happens to be my unfortunate housekeeper—oh,
and
my unfortunate cook! Without them, my dear Miss Feeney,
we will have neither fresh sheets nor a meal."

"I daresay you could manage on your own
for one evening," said Miss Feeney calmly. "Have you no other
servants?"

Mr. Whitlatch felt an impulse to tear
his hair out. He quelled it.

"I think neither the grooms nor the
groundskeepers will prove very useful to us, Miss
Feeney."

She stared at him blankly. "You have no
housemaids here? No footmen?"

He uttered a mirthless laugh. "That is
the price one pays for maintaining this sort of establishment! Mrs.
Simmons has dailies who come in from the village, but despite the
exorbitant wages I am forced to pay everyone who crosses the
threshold of Morecroft Cottage, only the Simmonses will consent to
dwell beneath its roof. A respectable married couple, you know! The
scandalous goings-on here cannot taint them."

A blush was creeping across Clarissa's
cheeks, but she spoke with tolerable composure. "I fear I am not an
accomplished cook, but I will own myself surprised if we find there
is nothing edible in your larder. And I am certainly capable of
putting sheets on a bed. Two beds!" she added hastily, as Mr.
Whitlatch's eyebrows climbed mockingly.

Illogic irritated Mr. Whitlatch. "What
of your cherished respectability?" he demanded, striding back
across the gravel toward her. "Do you mean to stay here with no
companion other than myself? Even such dubious chaperonage as Mrs.
Simmons might provide is better than none."

Clarissa lifted her chin, and her eyes
met his squarely. "I do not need a chaperone to keep me safe," she
said quietly. "I have your word."

Trevor Whitlatch stared into the
fearless blue eyes gazing serenely into his. Time spun out while he
stood rooted to the spot, knocked as completely off balance as a
man could be.

His word. She relied solely on his
word
to keep her safe?

Damnation. Her trust caught him off
guard, and, perversely, the very action that would destroy it
struck him as the only natural response to it. He was conscious of
an overpowering urge to kiss her. He forced himself to tear his
eyes away from hers.

"You honor me, Miss Feeney," he said,
hoping she would not notice the sudden unsteadiness of his voice.
It would be an excellent notion, he thought, to add a touch of
formality to what had become an oddly intimate moment. He lifted
one of Clarissa's hands briefly to his lips. The chaste salute
should have restored his equilibrium, but somehow it did not. Her
hand was warm from the muff. So small, so soft. He let go of it
quickly.

Dawson's boy came pelting up from the
stables, very much out of breath. "Here's the key, sir!" he piped.
"Shall I go now, sir?"

With an effort, Mr. Whitlatch focused
his attention on the stableboy's eager face. "Go where?"

The boy touched his forelock
respectfully. "To fetch Mr. Simmons, sir."

Mr. Whitlatch glanced at Miss Feeney,
then back at the stableboy. He passed his hand over his forehead as
if waking from a dream. "No. No, that won't be
necessary."

He was rewarded with a tiny nod of
approval from Clarissa. It was ridiculous for her to approve of an
action on his part that would surely blacken her character, but (he
reminded himself), it was not his business to protect her
reputation. Quite the opposite. He gladly turned his attention away
from Miss Feeney's disturbing presence, and busied himself with
paying the driver, opening the house, and ordering the unloading of
the chaise.

During the commotion attendant upon
these tasks, Clarissa gathered her courage and approached the
entrance of Morecroft Cottage. Its exterior was as genteel as it
was pretty, but she did not know what to expect from the interior.
Doubtless the same lavish vulgarity La Gianetta’s home had sported.
Clarissa slipped quietly into the hall and took stock of her
surroundings, blinking a little in the dimness.

Warmth and silence greeted her. A faint
scent of lemon and beeswax spiced the air. As she gazed around the
quiet hall, a clock chimed softly in the stillness.

Oh, what a lovely house. What a lovely,
perfect house. Her homeless heart contracted with
longing.

Every surface gleamed with cleanliness
and care, from the mellow warmth of the wooden wainscoting to the
shining brass candlesticks on the hall table. Mr. Whitlatch had
referred to ‘scandalous goings-on,’ but there was no hint of
tawdriness in this peaceful, ordered atmosphere. She was standing
in what was unmistakably a home, albeit a rich one. Its inviting
interior combined coziness with quiet elegance.

Perhaps she had misunderstood. Was this
not where Mr. Whitlatch lodged his convenients? Her only experience
of a demimondaine's residence was vastly different. Morecroft
Cottage was anything but gaudy. In fact, there seemed to be few
reminders of the century just past. Almost everything she saw was
either newer than that, or older. Wooden beams, not gilded
scrollwork, bisected the plaster walls, and instead of
fleurs-de-lis or smirking cherubs adorning every surface, an
elegant austerity prevailed.

Acrimonious voices in the yard caught
her attention. Clarissa turned from her wistful contemplation of
the house's charms and saw, to her surprise, the flustered
stableboy and Mr. Whitlatch himself carrying the luggage up the
step and into the hall behind her. Mr. Whitlatch grinned when he
caught sight of her bewildered expression, and tossed her trunk
onto the floor as easily as he had carried it.

"The driver from London is a fastidious
soul," Mr. Whitlatch explained. "He tells me he was not hired to
enact the rôle of porter."

Clarissa gasped. "Do you mean he
refuses to unload the chaise? It is certainly not
your
place
to do so!"

Mr. Whitlatch shrugged. "No more is it
his," he said easily, and strolled back out to the coach. The
stableboy raced to catch up with his employer’s long
strides.

She stood in the doorway, watching in
amazement as Mr. Whitlatch lifted another armload of bags and
parcels, leaving the lighter-weight bandboxes for Dawson's boy. The
driver's expression of shocked disapproval, as he watched the
master of the house sully his hands with manual labor, was almost
comical.

There was nothing shameful in a rich
man waiting on himself. It was unorthodox, certainly. Undignified,
perhaps. But as she watched, a smile tugged at the corners of her
mouth. Carrying his own luggage might impair the dignity of a
lesser man, but it only increased the aura of power that surrounded
Trevor Whitlatch. One had to admire the ease with which he
performed the task, and his complete indifference to the opinions
of either the outraged driver or the worshipful
stableboy.

As Mr. Whitlatch headed toward the
house again, the stableboy struggling in his wake, she stepped
aside to let them pass. They started up the stairs with their
burdens. Clarissa closed the door against the chill air, and for
the first time noticed one of the rooms adjoining the hall. Even
with the curtains drawn, there was enough light to see that it was
a richly furnished and well-stocked library. With a soft
exclamation of delight, Clarissa stepped in to peer at the titles
stamped on the spines.

She was still engaged in this absorbing
task when Mr. Whitlatch sauntered in behind her with a branch of
candles. She immediately turned round, an apology on her lips, but
her host did not seem to notice anything rude about her uninvited
inspection of his library. He scarcely glanced at her. Instead, he
set the candles down and flexed his powerful arms with every
appearance of enjoyment.

"It feels good to use the strength God
gave you!" he exclaimed, with simple satisfaction. "A man should do
a few things for himself from time to time."

Clarissa stared. There was nothing one
could say in the face of such extraordinary behavior. Her host had
walked in without greeting or preamble, stretched like a dog on a
hearthrug, and cheerfully expressed an opinion that should be
anathema to any man of breeding.

And yet, however taken aback she was,
somehow she was not offended. There was so much unselfconscious
delight in his stretch. It was charming, in the way of a cat
unconcernedly washing its face or the toothless grin of a baby.
What an unaccountable man he was! She knew she ought to disapprove
of such unconventional manners. Miss Bathurst certainly would. She
was guiltily aware, however, that Mr. Whitlatch's frank informality
attracted, rather than repelled, her.