Playing to Win (16 page)

He arrived at Bates’ tiny flat just as
his friend was rising from his breakfast table. Not that one could
rightly call it a breakfast table. As this was the first time Mr.
Whitlatch had visited Bates in his new lodgings, he stood in the
doorway for a moment unseen, and eyed the dark and cluttered room
with perturbation.

Fred Bates had fallen on hard times. He
had taken as many of his possessions with him as possible, however,
and crammed them into a space less than a third the size of his
prior residence. The remains of a meager breakfast were spread
across a rickety surface that obviously served as either a writing
desk or a card table when not supporting a meal. It pained Mr.
Whitlatch to see a stack of papers thrust aside to clear a corner
for a teacup, an inkpot resting dangerously close to the sugarbowl,
and a battered deck of playing cards half-buried beneath a
collection of bills and correspondence. He frowned.

"If I had known you were living in
squalor—" he began.

But Bates started, a glad smile
lightening his features. "Whitlatch! By Jove, old fellow, I had
almost given you up!"

He rushed forward to wring Trevor’s
hand with great enthusiasm, and cleared a chair for him by shoving
a pile of books onto the floor. Mr. Whitlatch sat gingerly on the
edge of the chair, his frown becoming more pronounced.

"I see now why you wanted to meet me at
Grisham’s yesterday, rather than invite me here. Good God, man!
This is no way for you to live."

Bates sank into the chair opposite, a
rueful grimace twisting his features. He was several years younger
than Mr. Whitlatch, but this morning he appeared older. He had
always been a tall and gangly fellow, but he had grown even
thinner, and his usual merriment had been displaced by a haunted
look.

"It is certainly a change for me,"
Bates agreed, smiling with a palpable effort.

Mr. Whitlatch pushed the stack of books
further away with the toe of his boot. "This flat is too
small."

"It isn’t bad, once one becomes
accustomed. The landlady shows me a very flattering degree of
attention."

Mr. Whitlatch snorted. "So I would
hope! It isn’t every day she acquires a tenant of your quality. Why
the devil didn’t you apply to me for assistance?"

Bates stiffened. "Because I do not
require your assistance."

His friend’s scowl became ferocious.
"Stow it!" barked Mr. Whitlatch. "There’s no need for you to live
in such straitened circumstances. My purse is always open to you.
Don’t you know that, man?"

"Of course I know it," said Bates
testily. "It doesn’t make a ha’porth of odds. I’ll pull myself out
of River Tick, thank you."

"Why? You didn’t fall into that river,"
said Whitlatch bluntly. "La Gianetta and that little tart of hers
pushed you! Let me throw you a rope, old fellow. You’d do the same
for me."

A brief, affectionate smile flitted
across Bates’ shadowed face. "I can’t imagine you ever needing it,
but yes, I would. And you’d refuse my help, just as I am refusing
yours. Give it a rest, Whitlatch! Tell me what happened yesterday.
Did you beard La Gianetta in her lair, as the saying
goes?"

Trevor rose restlessly and paced across
the room, but three strides brought him to the opposite wall.
Thwarted, he strode back and dropped into the chair
again.

"Yes," he said shortly.

Bates waited expectantly. Whitlatch’s
frown grew even fiercer. "It didn’t go as I’d planned,
Fred."

To his surprise, Bates threw back his
head and uttered a crack of laughter. "It never does! Oh, she’s
good—she’s the best there is! Piqued, repiqued, and capotted,
begad! Trevor Whitlatch, of all men!"

Mr. Whitlatch grinned. "Well, it wasn’t
as bad as that," he amended.

"How bad was it?"

Mr. Whitlatch looked thoughtfully at
Bates’ honest, freckled face. "Tell me something," he said
abruptly. "Did you ever meet a girl there by the name of
Clarissa?"

"Clarissa? I don’t think
so."

"Mayhap they change their names from
time to time," said Trevor grimly. "This is a black-haired wench.
Blue eyes, fair skin. Loveliest creature you ever laid eyes on.
You’ll remember her if you’ve seen her."

The sadness returned to Fred Bates’
eyes. "I only had eyes for Bella."

A sick dread clutched at Mr.
Whitlatch’s heart. "What did Bella look like?"

Fred sighed, passing his hand over his
eyes as if to shield them from a painful memory. "The sweetest
smile this side of heaven. A plump little thing, no taller than my
shoulder. Blonde curls."

Mr. Whitlatch felt he could breathe
again.

In a few terse sentences, he outlined
his adventures since leaving Bates yesterday, becoming loquacious
only when describing Clarissa’s manifold perfections. At that point
in the tale, he waxed rhapsodic.

By the end of his recitation, Bates was
staring at him in horrified disbelief. "You’ve installed her at
Morecroft Cottage?"

"Yes. Why not?"

"How in God’s name are you going to
find her a respectable position once that becomes
known?"

"I’m not going to find her a
respectable position!" said Trevor, exasperated. "I mean to give
her a
carte blanche."

"You’re mad," said Bates with
conviction.

Mr. Whitlatch blinked at Fred in
astonishment. "What?"

"Get her out of your house, man," said
Bates earnestly. "Get her out of your sight! The woman is
poison."

He leaned forward, clasping his hands
until the knuckles turned white. His voice shook. "Oh, I know you
don’t believe me! You don’t think it can happen to you. But it can.
It will, if you don’t take care. She’ll tie you in knots. You won’t
know whether you’re on your head or your heels! A month from today
you’ll be screaming for mercy."

Trevor had never seen Bates so moved.
It was disturbing. Doubt assailed him. "Are you saying I should
find a situation for her after all?"

"Yes, if you can! Yes! She says she
wants a governess post or some such nonsense. Well, find her one!
Call her bluff! And the sooner the better. Can’t you fob her off
onto some female of your acquaintance?"

Trevor punched a fist into his palm.
"Hell and the devil confound it! I don’t want to fob her off onto
anyone!"

Bates leaned forward and gripped
Trevor’s knee, shaking it. "You must! If you could only hear
yourself, old man! You’re halfway in love with her
already."

"Rubbish!" snorted Mr. Whitlatch. "What
a thoroughly revolting idea! Don’t sit there and mouth that pap at
me. When I fall in love, if I ever do, it will be with a woman of
birth and breeding. I hope I have more sense than to make a dashed
cake of myself over a baseborn bit o’muslin! I’ve had a dozen such
women in my keeping. None of ‘em has made any dent in my
heart."

"You think I don’t know that?" said
Bates impatiently. "You’d be in far less danger if they had! You’d
know the warning signs. You’d be on your guard." He spread his
hands beseechingly. "Learn from my experience, Trevor, I beg you.
If I never do you another favor in our lives, let me do this for
you. Get that girl out of your sight! And do it
quickly."

Mr. Whitlatch’s mouth twisted in a
skeptical smile. "I make every allowance for what happened to you,
dear chap, but my circumstances are altogether different.
Clarissa’s not using her charms to lure me into a gaming hell.
Absent that, it will be extremely difficult for her to reduce me to
a pauper!"

"There are other kinds of poverty,
Whitlatch," said Bates quietly. "Worse kinds. She’ll ruin your
health. She’ll cut up your peace. She’ll steal your soul. You won’t
be able to sleep the night through without dreaming of her. There
will be an ache in your heart that never goes away. You’ll reach
the point where you can’t remember what it felt like to laugh, or
sing, or enjoy the least thing—"

Fred suddenly stopped speaking and
covered his eyes with his hand.

Trevor had never seen carefree, jovial
Bates so unmanned. It was a terrible sight. He looked away,
embarrassed.

"All right, old man, pull yourself
together," he said gruffly. "I’ll think on what you said. And in
the meantime, rest assured that I will make Gianetta pay for what
she has done to you. I swear it."

Bates waved his hand listlessly in a
gesture of dismissal. "It doesn’t matter. What’s done is done. I
walked into the trap. I took the bait. Thank God I escaped as
lightly as I did."

"Lightly!"

Bates’ smile was bitter and full of
self-mockery. "Oh, yes. I was going to make Bella an offer of
marriage. Can you believe that? What a cawker I was!"

Trevor was shocked into
silence.

"Beware," said Bates bleakly. He was
pointing, and Trevor almost felt that the finger of doom was aimed
at his chest. "Any man can be brought low by the right
female."

Mr. Whitlatch left Bates’ flat in a
tumultuous mood. The last thing on earth he felt inclined to
do—even supposing it was in his power to do it—was pack Clarissa
off to some Queen Square seminary, or secure her a governess post
where she would be completely out of his reach. On the other hand,
with Bates’ warning still ringing in his ears, the very strength of
his disinclination now alarmed him.

His disinclination, he found, was very
strong indeed. In fact, the idea of abandoning his plan of spending
a pleasant winter holed up in Morecroft Cottage with the prettiest
bed-warmer he had yet beheld, made him sulky as a bear.

By the time he reached Grisham’s his
aspect had become so forbidding that the host, flustered, forgot
that his best private parlor had already been reserved and ushered
Mr. Whitlatch into it. A cold collation had been laid upon its
table in expectation of the party who had reserved the apartment,
but Mr. Whitlatch took no notice of this oddity. The preoccupied
frown still marking his features, he seated himself at the table
and moodily shook out his napkin. The host bit back the apology
that had risen to his lips, bowed silently, and left Mr. Whitlatch
to his unordered luncheon. The host would have to set a second
collation out in another parlor, and finish the task in record
time—but he was too well-acquainted with Mr. Whitlatch to risk
disturbing him in a black mood.

Trevor worked his way methodically
through the beef and bread before him, thinking. By the time he had
finished his repast, he had reached a decision. It was not a
decision he relished, but he had made it, and by God, he would
stick to it.

Bates was right. He was right for all
the wrong reasons, but he was right. Trevor must get Clarissa
Feeney out of his house. Not because she was a dangerous
adventuress, but because she was virtuous, intelligent and
well-educated. However base her birth, she had earned a chance at
the life she wanted. He would try to find her a
situation.

If he failed, so be it. But he would
try.

The task presented certain difficulties
to a bachelor. Especially to a bachelor with few respectable female
acquaintances. A martial gleam appeared in Mr. Whitlatch’s eyes,
somewhat lightening the grimness of his expression. By God, he did
love a challenge!

And one pleasing aspect of the
situation had occurred to him. If he sincerely tried to secure
Clarissa respectable employment,
but failed,
perhaps he
could take his failure as a Sign. A sign that he had been right in
the first place, and that his only duty to Clarissa was to treat
her well while their relationship lasted, and give her an expensive
present when it ended.

A crooked smile crossed Mr. Whitlatch’s
features. It occurred to him that his father would have called this
plan of action, "laying a fleece before the Lord." Papa would have
expressed vehement disapproval, and warned his headstrong youngest
son that the Lord rarely gives clear signs. Never mind; Papa would
have disapproved of every facet of Trevor’s plans for
Clarissa!

If we are to speak of fleece, thought
Mr. Whitlatch, I’d as lief be hanged for a sheep as a
lamb.

He rang for his curricle.

Chapter 11

Augusta Applegate burst into her
morning room like a thrush from a covert, barely taking time to set
down the baby before hurling herself into the arms of her favorite
brother. "Trevor!" she squealed, pounding him playfully with her
fists. "You
wretch!
I know perfectly well you have been in
town above a fortnight, and this is the first we’ve seen of you!
How
dare
you use me so?"

Mr. Whitlatch returned her fervent hug,
but then held her firmly at arm’s length. "You smell of
turpentine," he informed her.

"Of course I do," she replied
composedly, patting her cap, which had been knocked askew by the
violence of her welcome, back into place. "James has sprained his
ankle, the poor poppet, and there’s no use asking Nurse to rub the
turpentine on it. He won’t allow her to touch him whenever he is in
the least pain."