Playing to Win (3 page)

This task did not take long. Her
possessions were few, and since from the day she arrived she had
desired nothing more than to depart, she had never fully unpacked
her trunk. Her throat ached with unshed tears as she gathered her
precious trinkets. Here was the pewter thimble Jane Peele had given
her, to remember her by. And here, the farewell letter the six
youngest schoolgirls had signed. She fought the memories back. She
must not think of it. It did no good to think of it.

She was standing before a cracked pier
glass, buttoning her redingote, when a timid knock sounded. Marie's
muffled voice wafted through the keyhole.

"Mademoiselle? You wish for help with
ze packing?"

"No, thank you. I am quite finished,"
replied Clarissa. A soft exclamation and the rattling of the key
heralded the entrance of poor Marie, who sidled nervously in as if
expecting to be slapped. Their eyes met in the glass, and Clarissa
smiled reassuringly.

"You see?" she said, waving a hand to
indicate the single trunk and two bandboxes. "That is
everything."

Marie blinked. It was evident that
Clarissa's past conduct had led Marie to expect fierce resistance,
not this calm complaisance. In proof of this, two burly individuals
now stepped through the door. Marie had brought reinforcements. One
of the men Clarissa recognized as her mother's footman, but the
other appeared to be a hired porter.

"Very good, mademoiselle," stammered
Marie. She nodded at the men, and each took a bandbox and one end
of the trunk. As they lumbered off, Marie edged toward the
door.

"One moment, please!" said Clarissa,
turning to face the little servant. Marie gulped, and shrank back
toward the wall.

"For heaven's sake, I am not going to
hurt you! I only want to know the name of the man downstairs. Do
you know his name?"

Marie stared. "But, Mademoiselle, he is
Trevor Whitlatch!"
she breathed ecstatically.

The name meant nothing to Clarissa. She
frowned. "Whitlatch? The Devonshire family?"

Marie shook her head vehemently. "I do
not know, Mademoiselle, but ze Monsieur Whitlatch, he is a man
très distingué!"

Clarissa raised an eyebrow. "Famous, is
he? For what?"

Marie clasped her hands at her thin
bosom and broke into an enthusiastic, and extremely idiomatic,
stream of French. Clarissa was only able to decipher about every
third word, and finally interrupted her. "Thank you, Marie, but I
cannot follow what you are saying! Something about India, and
ships. Are you telling me this man Whitlatch is a
nabob?"

"Nay-bob? I do not know zis word,
Mademoiselle. But you understand ze man is rich, yes? Ver-r-r-ry
rich! You will live like ze queen,
hein?"
She rolled her
eyes expressively, beaming at Clarissa.

Clarissa's veins turned to ice, and her
hands clenched involuntarily. "Dear God," she whispered. "Then it
is as I feared."

Marie wrinkled her nose.
"Please?"

Clarissa took a deep breath. "Marie,
you must tell me what you know about this man, and
why
he is
taking me away." She saw the alarm return to Marie's features, and
smiled encouragingly. "Come, I won't blame you! I know you are only
the messenger."

Marie gulped, and began twisting her
apron. "Oh, mademoiselle, I do not know all, me! But Monsieur
Whitlatch, today he is having ze
contretemps
with Madame,
non?
And Madame, she gives him you. Now he is happy, and ze
contretemps,
it is at an end."

Clarissa's eyes widened in horror. "She
gave
me to him? To end a dispute?"

Marie nodded vigorously. "But yes!" she
said, with a sigh of envy. "You will go with him, and you will live
like ze queen!" She then bobbed a quick curtsey, and slipped out
the door.

Marie's air of eager congratulation was
the most shocking thing of all. How could anyone find such a
bargain anything but reprehensible? Fear stole along her nerves.
Given to the man! Heaven defend her! All her life she had tried to
live respectably, had tried to banish all traces of her mother's
influence, had tried to deny, by the sheer force of her own virtue,
whose daughter she was—only to fall into her mother's clutches and
be ruined! Oh, it was dreadful! She dared not think what the
stranger might require of her.

Four years ago, when she was sixteen,
the music master had tried to kiss her. Miss Bathurst had been very
angry—bless her!—and the music master had lost his situation. But
Clarissa remembered the scene all too clearly. It had been most
unpleasant. And now this man, this Trevor Whitlatch, would
doubtless try the same thing. Men enjoyed taking such liberties,
one was told. She had even heard other girls at the Academy whisper
that kisses were only the beginning of what a man could do to a
girl. She had heard there were other, more dreadful, intimacies
than the pressing together of two mouths. But Clarissa's
imagination failed her when she tried to think beyond kisses. A
kiss, in her experience, was invasion enough. She
shuddered.

Well. There was no help for it. She
could not stay locked in her mother's attic forever. A dangerous
path of escape was set before her, but she would take it. At least
until another path presented itself. And whatever happened, she
vowed, she would never return to this house.

She firmly tied the strings of her best
bonnet beneath her chin. It had a deep poke front, so if Mr.
Whitlatch had any immediate intention of kissing her it would be
difficult for him to execute his plan. She began to pull on her
gloves, then hesitated.

Mr. Whitlatch had appeared to be a man
of some strength.

Tossing the gloves aside, she rummaged
hastily through a drawer and, with a triumphant little smile,
unearthed a long and wicked-looking hat pin. Standing before the
mirror, she pushed the hat pin carefully through the wide satin
ribbon on the top of her bonnet. She patted it to reassure herself
of its exact location.

"En garde, Monsieur!"
Clarissa
whispered to her reflection. Then she picked up her gloves and
walked downstairs.

Chapter 2

Mr. Whitlatch's swarthy features were
further darkened by a deep scowl. He prowled restlessly back and
forth in La Gianetta's cramped entry hall, snarling under his
breath. If he had a tail, he would have lashed it. His hostess had
left him here, completely unattended, to kick his heels while
Clarissa packed. And the longer he was left alone, the more certain
he became that he had made a mistake.

Mr. Whitlatch had not amassed one of
the world's largest personal fortunes by making bad bargains, but
the brilliance of his business acumen had not, so far, extended to
any other aspect of his life. In fact, quite the reverse. Few men
had ever gotten the better of him. Women, however, were another
matter.

Another matter? God's teeth! They had
as well be another species!

He had a habit of choosing women in the
same impulsive way he chose his business ventures. So far, it had
not answered. He could bend most enterprises to his will, but women
were wayward creatures and completely unpredictable. Farmer's
daughter or Rajah's daughter, peasant or princess, the differences
were only on the surface. Beneath their various exteriors beat a
single, alien heart.

Trevor Whitlatch had an eye that
grasped the big picture instantly, but, in his view, women
inhabited —in fact, created—a "small picture" world. They
invariably held him accountable for crimes he had no idea he had
committed; wept and sulked and took offense where none was meant;
grew angry when he failed to notice some infinitesimal change in
their appearance, or "take a hint" he had no notion he had been
given. Hints! Insinuations! Suggestions! Why the devil couldn't a
woman say what she wanted in plain English?

He knew, of course, that he had few
social graces. He was perfectly aware that his impatience made him
unobservant of others’ sensibilities, and that he was, as a result,
constantly giving offense. To men as well as women. But women, far
more than men, seemed to conduct their conversations in a kind of
code, a code that was all the more deceptive because it resembled
ordinary English. Beneath the surface of their elliptical discourse
lurked messages and meanings outside the hearing of a plain-spoken
man.

Now he had the uneasy suspicion he had
missed something. Again. Here in Gianetta's scented, pastel lair
some silly detail had escaped him. Some hint he should have seized
upon had slipped past without registering its
significance.

The first misgivings struck him at
Gianetta's smiling exit. He was sure he heard her laughing softly
as the door closed.

Well, there's a hint, if you like! The
magnitude of what he had just done suddenly hit him with full
force. He had written off a set of very valuable jewels, and for
what? Another pretty ladybird to coax the gingerbread out of him!
He realized the girl could not possibly be as beautiful as she had
first struck him. Nobody was that beautiful.

"Idiot!" he muttered savagely. He was
in the suds again! The last one had cost him a fortune. Not that
that mattered; it would take a dozen such convenients to make any
inroad in the Whitlatch fortune. But what the devil would he tell
Bates?

Mr. Whitlatch groaned inwardly, and
cursed himself for a fool. He had promised to avenge his friend for
the wrongs he had suffered at La Gianetta's elegant gaming tables.
What a joke! To go off, breathing fire, and come tamely back with
just such a girl in tow as had doubtless led Bates to his
ruin!

At this point in his ruminations, two
porters plodded carefully down Gianetta's stairs. Mr. Whitlatch
stopped his irate pacing and fixed his scowl on the porters,
causing them to touch their forelocks to him nervously. He watched,
still scowling, as they carried a small trunk and two battered
bandboxes out the front door. He then wandered out to the stoop and
watched with a jaundiced eye as the men strapped the luggage to the
back of his curricle.

Three small pieces. Was that all the
wench was bringing? Very clever. His reputation had obviously
preceded him. If he wasn't careful, he'd find himself playing King
Cophetua to her Beggarmaid before the day was out.

But this time, he vowed, he was going
to be careful. This time, he would set the rules at the beginning
of the game. This time, he would never let go of the whip hand. He
would ride this filly with a curb bit.

Mr. Whitlatch, anticipating the
inevitable, then ordered one of the men to walk his horses awhile.
He withdrew to pace the hall again, knowing from experience he must
endure a lengthy wait while Mademoiselle made her
toilette.

He hoped to high heaven that the result
she achieved would not be too spectacular. He did not relish the
thought of driving across town in an open carriage with another
flashy, simpering lightskirt at his side. The knowing 'uns would
spread the story all over town by sunset—Whitlatch had a new
chere amie!
People were always so confoundedly interested in
matters that did not concern them. He had long ago grown accustomed
to public scrutiny—the price of celebrity, he supposed—but he still
found it baffling.

These musings were interrupted by a
soft noise on the stairs behind him. Mr. Whitlatch turned and, to
his surprise, saw Clarissa already walking composedly toward him,
gloved, bonneted, and ready to depart.

Trevor Whitlatch, that connoisseur of
female charms, was staggered anew. His scowl evaporated. Good Lord.
He had not thought such beauty possible. And yet, against all
odds, her appearance was perfectly ladylike. A modest gray
redingote was buttoned closely to her throat against the November
chill. She carried a muff in one gloved hand. And although her eyes
were cast demurely down in the shadow of a deep-brimmed bonnet, it
was easy to see she was every bit as beautiful as he had first
thought.

Mr. Whitlatch's regrets faded. If she
looked this delicious covered from head to toe, what might she look
like uncovered? He pushed the paralyzing thought out of his mind
and bowed with a flourish.

"My compliments, sweetheart," he
greeted her. "You don't dawdle, at any rate. I dislike above all
things to be kept waiting."

She inclined her head, but said
nothing.

Damnation. Had he offended her,
complimenting her punctuality instead of her appearance? "You look
charmingly," he assured her, offering his most engaging smile. "But
I sent one of the porters to walk my horses. I thought you'd need
another quarter of an hour."

Those impossibly blue eyes regarded him
levelly. She did not return his smile. "For what?" she
asked.

Nonplussed, he donned the charming
smile again. "How would I know, sweetheart? Whatever it is females
do to keep gentlemen waiting. Curling your hair, or hunting for
your gloves, or bidding your loved ones a fond farewell." He tried
an ingratiating chuckle. It had no discernible effect.

"I seldom curl my hair," she said
repressively. "I never lose my gloves. And I have no loved
ones."