Playing to Win (15 page)

Clarissa gazed round the pretty room.
Everything at Morecroft Cottage was perfect. She sank into one of
the two chairs at the breakfast table and ran her hands reverently
over the thick and glossy tablecloth. She had never felt such a
glorious texture in mere table linens. And fresh flowers adorned
the center of the table. In November!

Was this what Miss Bathurst had meant
when she cautioned her charges against the world’s temptations?
Heavens, what a thought. Clarissa had believed herself immune to
the allure of worldly riches, but somehow . . . somehow she had
expected the siren’s song to sound a little more decadent. The
melody Morecroft Cottage hummed was as sweet and peaceful as an
angel’s prayer.

How disturbing to discover that she
might have steeled herself all her life against the
wrong
temptations.

In imagining carnal affluence, she had
pictured grandeur and splendor and ostentation. If Morecroft
Cottage had been more like she imagined Versailles to be—covered in
jewels, say, or encrusted with gold—she would have felt no
attraction. If Mr. Whitlatch had tried to lure her with diamonds
and expensive trinkets, she would have spurned his offerings with
loathing.

But she had not been picturing the bait
aright. She was being tempted not by voluptuousness but by
simplicity. The serene vista beyond these windows, this quiet,
comfortable home, the chiming clock and polished wood and cozy
loveliness that filled her heart with contentment—ah, these were
temptations indeed. She gazed wistfully out the breakfast room
windows and dreamed for a moment of what it might mean to live
here.

By April, the garden would be a riot of
fragrant blooms. The air would be sweet and fresh. The wood nearby
would ring with birdsong. The land would become green and lush and
full of promise. Summer would be . . .

This dangerous daydream was interrupted
by Mrs. Simmons, pushing a teacart through a swinging door at the
other end of the room. It was laden with more breakfast items than
Clarissa could eat in a week. A spare and gloomy man wearing a
rather haphazard attempt at livery followed in her wake. This
individual began moving covered dishes and steaming pots onto the
sideboard. He moved with surprising fluidity and speed for such a
mournful-looking man.

Clarissa wished to introduce herself,
since he was undoubtedly Mrs. Simmons’ husband, but wondered if it
was appropriate for her to converse with Mr. Whitlatch’s staff. She
had little notion of the manners prevailing in great houses. She
also was not sure of her place in this household; it was most
awkward. Was she a guest, or a potential co-worker?

Her heart sank as she realized the
answer. She had allowed the staff to wait on her! That simple,
unthinking act doubtless placed any situation at Morecroft Cottage
outside the realm of possibility.

She now perceived it had been idiotish
to describe herself as a "guest," and to ask Mrs. Simmons to show
her to the breakfast room! Far better to have accompanied her to
the kitchen, where she might have broached the subject of
employment. Why, Clarissa might have replaced the junior housemaid
with the dirty apron!

This was a calamity. Clarissa had been
here less than twenty-four hours, but already the thought of
leaving to seek employment elsewhere gave her a pang. She could
picture herself polishing the sideboard there and taking pleasure
in its beauty, carrying pans of hot water up the stairs with a
will, dusting the library with secret enjoyment of the smell of
books and leather and the distant sound of that chiming clock . . .
Daft! she scolded herself. There are other houses.

But Mr. Simmons had finished arranging
the sideboard. "Breakfast is served, Miss," he announced, bowing
with great formality.

Well. Whatever her future held, a
position as Morecroft Cottage’s next junior housemaid was out of
the question. She was not completely ignorant; she knew that once
he had addressed her as "Miss," she could no longer address him as
"Mister."

"Thank you, Simmons," she replied,
surrendering to the inevitable.

Breakfast was delicious, but it seemed
very strange to leave the table without clearing her place or
carrying the serving dishes back to the kitchen. During the years
she had shared Miss Bathurst’s tiny cottage, the Academy’s cook had
prepared their meals, but she and Miss Bathurst had done their own
domestic tasks without assistance.

What was she to do all day? Why had Mr.
Whitlatch gone back to London? And when would he return? Odd that
he did not mention his plans to her last night. Perhaps he had, and
she had been too tired to take note of it. The memory of her last
few moments with him rushed back, and her cheeks flushed with
sudden heat. Why, she had
wanted
him to kiss her! Madness!
She pushed the alarming recollection away.

Mrs. Simmons interrupted her thoughts
by returning noiselessly to the breakfast room. One of the dailies
accompanied her, a buxom country wench who eyed Clarissa covertly.
The girl began piling dishes back onto the teacart, her avid
curiosity imperfectly concealed.

Mrs. Simmons stepped forward, her own
expression neutral. "Will there be anything else, Miss?"

Clarissa hesitated. Nothing ventured,
nothing gained, she reminded herself. "Mrs. Simmons, I really have
no plans for the day. Is there something useful I might
do?"

Mrs. Simmons, startled out of her
impassivity, goggled at her. The daily dropped a teacup.

"Lawks!" uttered the daily.

Mrs. Simmons seized on this distraction
with every appearance of relief. She rounded on the unfortunate
girl, scolding her for her clumsiness and shooing her out of the
room. After closing the door, Mrs. Simmons turned back to her
unusual houseguest. She tucked her hands into her apron and gazed
searchingly at Clarissa, her expression troubled.

"Beg your pardon, Miss, but Mr.
Whitlatch gave us no notice of your coming here. Now, I hope I know
my place, and it’s not for me to question things, but—bless me,
Miss, I’m fair bewattled! Three years he’s had this house, and
never once has he brought anyone to it but gentlemen and—and—" Mrs.
Simmons was turning slowly pink. "Well, he never brought a Lady
here. Not even his own sisters, which I know he has, but nary a one
has crossed the threshold. So when I found you in the hall this
morning, all alone as you are, and knowing you had been here since
yesterday as Dawson tells me, and no maid with you, and no other
guests to bear you company—well! I’m afraid I jumped to
conclusions, Miss, which is more than any Christian woman ought to
do, and I beg your pardon. It’ll be a lesson to me, I’m
sure."

Clarissa blushed faintly. "Do not
upbraid yourself, Mrs. Simmons. This is a bachelor household, and I
ought not to be here alone. My situation is unusual, but perfectly
innocent, I assure you. Mr. Whitlatch has merely offered to stand
my friend. Still, under the circumstances, anyone might form a—an
unfavorable impression."

"Very good of you, not to take
offense," Mrs. Simmons said gruffly. "Bess tells me now you slept
in a guestroom, and Dawson’s boy told Simmons you stopped Mr.
Whitlatch fetching us back from the village last night. There,
then! I ought to have known you was Quality."

Clarissa’s blush deepened. She changed
the subject hastily. "And how is your daughter today?"

She watched, a little wistfully, as
Mrs. Simmons’ features instantly transformed into the beaming,
motherly face Clarissa had suspected was her natural demeanor. "Ah,
she’s that proud of herself!" said Mrs. Simmons fondly. "A
beautiful, strapping grandson she’s given us, and her good man
ready to nap his bib for joy."

As if sharing her son-in-law’s
sentiments, the housekeeper’s eyes suddenly sparkled with tears.
"My Peggy’s a strong lass and she did well, but a girl wants her
mother at such a time. If Mr. Whitlatch had sent for me yesterday I
might have lost my situation, Miss, for I wouldn’t have left her,
not for worlds. Thank you."

Clarissa was touched. "I am glad," she
said simply.

Mrs. Simmons dabbed fiercely at her
eyes with the corner of her apron, and recovered some of her
professional crispness. "Well, then! If it’s useful you want to be,
Miss, I am sure we can find you something genteel-like to do. D’you
fancy a bit of sewing?"

Clarissa brightened. Sewing was a
restful, soothing sort of employment that occupied the fingers but
left one’s mind free to think. Exactly what she needed. "I’d like
that very much."

By the time Mrs. Simmons had her
settled in the library with a cozy fire and a basket of darning,
the housekeeper’s attitude toward Clarissa had undergone a sea
change. She bustled and clucked as if she had known Clarissa all
her life and nursed her in her cradle. Clarissa rather liked the
experience of being taken under that worthy’s ample
wing.

"If there’s anything you want, Miss,
you just pull the bell," said Mrs. Simmons at last, indicating the
bellrope at the side of the fireplace.

The housekeeper headed for the door,
and Clarissa felt suddenly bereft. "Mrs. Simmons, do you know when
Mr. Whitlatch will return from London?" she asked, sounding a
little forlorn.

Mrs. Simmons halted in the doorway.
"He’ll come back by the end of the day, dearie. And when he does,"
she added grimly, "I’ll have a word or two to say to
him!"

With that cryptic remark, she exited.
Clarissa picked up a needle and threaded it, frowning thoughtfully.
Why had Mr. Whitlatch gone to London?

Chapter 10

Mr. Whitlatch had gone to London to
seek something he normally spurned: advice.

Unlike Clarissa, he had awakened early,
and with a definite plan for the day. He took care to move
stealthily and make little sound as he dressed and shaved by the
light of a single candle. Clarissa had struck him as the sort of
person who could be depended upon to rise with the chickens, and he
rather cravenly hoped to sneak out of the house before she caught
him.

Bates was on his conscience. He had
left Bates yesterday, vowing to avenge him, and had failed.
Dismally. Mr. Whitlatch had little experience of failure. He
discovered that it annoyed him. Bates must have been expecting his
friend’s return yesterday evening, probably looking forward—as much
as he looked forward to anything these days, poor fellow—to hearing
Whitlatch’s story. Well, he would have it. It wouldn’t be the story
Bates was expecting, but Mr. Whitlatch owed his friend the telling.
He would ride in, perform his unpleasant errand, then retrieve his
curricle from Grisham’s and drive it home.

He also meant to solicit some
information from Bates. If his friend recognized a description of
the fair Clarissa, that would tell Mr. Whitlatch a great deal. It
would tell him, for example, that Clarissa was an even more
accomplished actress than her mother had been. That would be
information worth having. He could then cut to the chase, so to
speak, with a clear conscience.

Odd that he found the idea
depressing.

Padding down the dark stairs in his
stocking feet, boots in hand, Mr. Whitlatch pondered the
possibilities. If Bates identified Clarissa as one of La Gianetta’s
employees, he need not go through a tiresome and time-consuming
seduction. Also, of course, he could drive a very hard bargain with
her once it was clear she had tried to force her price up through
deception.

But the thought that Clarissa might
have been lying to him was an extremely unpalatable idea. He did
not want it to be true, even if it served his own purposes. Perhaps
La Gianetta was right, Mr. Whitlatch thought wryly. I might be
something of a romantic after all.

He remembered the way Clarissa had
nestled so sweetly against him in the library, and a smile played
across his features. He’d go bail she was a genuine innocent. And
her observation that they had been "friendly together" was right.
Hang it all, he liked the chit.

The smile broadened. This girl—if she
were telling the truth—would not fall easily, but she would be
worth the wait.

Also, of course, seducing Clarissa
would give him a chance to rehearse the rituals of courtship before
seeking a bride in the Spring. He had never tried his hand at such
delicate work. The women he had bedded thus far had all thrown
themselves eagerly at his head. He couldn’t expect that from the
well-bred daughters of the
ton,
and he meant to lay
determined siege to such women in a few months. It would be well to
practice dealing with a girl who was disinclined to fall into his
arms on his say-so.

Although the house had been completely
dark and silent, Dawson was stirring about the stables when Mr.
Whitlatch arrived, and saddled a hack with his usual swift
efficiency. As Mr. Whitlatch flung himself into the saddle he told
Dawson, "I’m off to London, by the way. You may tell Simmons to
expect me back for dinner." This was more information than his
staff was accustomed to receive about their master’s whereabouts,
so Mr. Whitlatch rode off with the pleasant impression that he had
behaved with extraordinary courtesy.

‘
Inconsiderate employer’ be
damned!