Playing to Win (4 page)

A stab of annoyance momentarily
dislodged Mr. Whitlatch's smile. What the deuce was the matter with
her? The chit was not assisting him in any way to smooth the
awkwardness of the moment. There was no trace of coquetry in her
manner or her voice. She might have been on her way to church. Or a
funeral! It would take awhile to tire of looking at her, but if she
never smiled that would certainly speed up the process.

He ran his eyes over her again, and his
cheerfulness returned. It would definitely take awhile to tire of
looking at this one.

He offered his arm. "My curricle is at
the gate again. Shall we go?"

Clarissa placed one hand on his
proffered arm and buried the other in her muff. "By all means," she
said.

She sounded perfectly composed, yet the
hand resting lightly on his arm was trembling. Mr. Whitlatch
glanced curiously down at the face beside him, but she immediately
tilted her head so her hat brim obscured his view.

Well, he was not one to waste time
pondering the inner workings of the female mind. Whatever he
guessed would inevitably turn out to be wrong. So he shrugged, and
escorted his companion to the waiting curricle.

The perch was high and Clarissa's hands
were occupied with her muff and reticule. Mr. Whitlatch seized the
opportunity to catch her round the waist and lift her into the
carriage.

Most enjoyable! When his hands slid
round her slender waist, the last of his misgivings vanished. She
felt soft and lithe and supple, and she smelled of lemon verbena.
Hang the rubies, and hang his reputation, and hang Bates! This girl
was going to be worth it.

Clarissa choked back an exclamation as
he lifted her, and he felt her stiffen in his arms. He chuckled,
delighted. She not only looked the part, she meant to play the
lady, did she? Well, if it got tiresome he would put a stop to it.
For the time being, he would indulge her in her game. He remembered
his concern that she would cultivate a far different appearance,
and was grateful Clarissa had chosen this particular
charade.

He swung himself easily up beside her
and gave his horses the office to start. Clarissa sat bolt upright
on the edge of the seat, staring straight ahead. Odd. Could she be
nervous of him? Or was it more of the "lady game?" At least she
didn't simper, or cling. He could not read her expression. That
absurd hat of hers thwarted every attempt to see her face.
Irritated, he turned his attention to the crowded London
street.

"I put up at Grisham's whenever I’m in
town," he told her, threading the curricle easily through the
traffic. "They set a very tolerable table. We’ll have a little
something while my man there packs for me. Then I'll hire a chaise
to take us out of London."

At this, her face finally turned toward
him. Her eyes were wide with startled dismay. "Out of London!" she
repeated.

Here it comes, thought Mr. Whitlatch.
Tears, pleas, coaxing.

Time to set the rules.

He flashed her a grim smile. "No town
house for you, my girl. You'll be fixed in the country, where I can
keep an eye on you. Did you want to cut a dash among all the
highflyers? No, thank you! I've been down that road
before."

She stared at him, unblinking. Then she
turned her face away without a word. He hoped she wasn't going to
sulk. That was worse than tears, pleas and coaxing.

He had probably sounded harsh, he
thought. He felt a stab of contrition, and sternly repressed it.
After all, it was best to make clear at once who was the master.
The last thing he wanted was to set Clarissa up in London! Next she
would want cream-colored ponies and a high-perch phaeton, no doubt,
so she could rake all over town making a name for herself. Clarissa
in London would mean rivals bidding for her favors, and veiled
references in the gossip columns, and the Bond Street shops
offering her endless credit.

And it would mean poor Bates might
catch a glimpse of her before he'd had a chance to explain his
perfidy. Doubtless Bates would have seen her at La Gianetta's, and
any man who had seen Clarissa once would remember her forever. He
could imagine his friend's emotions upon learning that Whitlatch
had the fair Clarissa in keeping! No, Bates had to hear it from
himself.

She still had not spoken. He relented a
little. "I'll not take you far from town," he assured her. "My
affairs frequently require attention in the City. It would be
impractical to set you up at any great distance from the
metropolis."

She neither replied nor looked at him.
Pouting, was she? He adopted what he hoped was a firm, but kindly,
tone.

"I am sure you and I will deal
famously, Clarissa, but I wish to make matters perfectly plain to
you at the outset. While I hold the pursestrings, my dear, you will
live where I choose. You won't find me unreasonable about small
things; you may spend your allowance as you like. But don't plan to
take the bit between your teeth, for you'll catch cold at
it."

He could discern no reaction at all.
Did she disbelieve him? Of course she disbelieves me, he thought
sourly, remembering that she had only brought three pieces of
luggage. She had doubtless been told that Trevor Whitlatch would
pamper and cosset her like a pet poodle, shower her with expensive
presents, indulge her every whim, and make her rich beyond the
dreams of avarice!

He glanced impatiently at the rigid
figure beside him. "No doubt La Gianetta has led you to expect
satin sheets and diamond ear-bobs and a box at the opera. Well, the
stories about me are true, for the most part, but I've a habit of
learning from my mistakes! In the past I've spent money like water,
trying to please women of your stamp. It is a singularly fruitless
occupation, and I don't mean to try it again. The more I spend, the
more you will demand. No, don't deny it! And you'll end by
transferring your dubious affections to another, bidding me a fond
farewell."

He stole another glance at his
audience. She sat even more stiffly than before, but the edge of
her bonnet was quivering a little, as if she were trembling with
some strong emotion.

A pang of conscience smote Mr.
Whitlatch. A lightskirt's career was necessarily short, and such
females had to grab what they could, while they could. It was
unfair to upbraid her. After all, he was something of an
opportunist himself.

His voice softened a little. "I realize
you have to make your way in the world. I won't begrudge you your
due, Clarissa. You'll have a comfortable life with me, and I'll not
discard you with a shilling. But you
won't
bleed me dry, and
you
won't
entertain my eventual replacement at my expense,
and, in short, you won't make me ridiculous."

Her small hands clenched into fists in
her lap. So
that
was the emotion she was laboring under:
Anger! Mr. Whitlatch uttered a short laugh. "Sorry, sweetheart!
When it is time for us to part, I will let you know—not the other
way about. And to that end, my dear, I am taking you to Morecroft
Cottage, where I hope you will be able to stay out of
mischief."

Slowing the curricle, he deftly
maneuvered his horses into a crowded and very noisy stableyard. A
boy instantly leaped to their heads. Mr. Whitlatch tossed the boy a
coin and assisted his companion to alight. She still had not
spoken, and kept her face averted. He maintained a firm grip on her
elbow as he guided her into the inn. If she planned to treat him to
a tantrum, he had rather seclude her somewhere before she began.
Fortunately, his arrangements at Grisham's included a private
parlor. He escorted Clarissa to this apartment and ushered her
inside. A fire had been lit, and the room had a cheerful, cozy
aspect.

"Stay here and get warm," he commanded.
"I will bespeak a chaise and order us a little nuncheon. Do you
prefer coffee or tea?"

At last, her eyes met his. God, she was
lovely.

"Tea," she said. Her voice was
completely emotionless. Perhaps she did not mean to enact a scene
for his benefit after all. He smiled at her with great
satisfaction.

"Tea it shall be," he promised. "I will
be back directly." And he exited, closing the door behind
him.

Clarissa unclenched her shaking hands
and sent up a silent prayer of thanksgiving. She had been left
completely alone in a room on the ground floor!

Grisham's was a modern hotel, and its
elegant windows were large. To her relief, the first window she
tried slid open easily on well-oiled hinges. The windowsill was
even clean. What luck. Gathering her skirts around her, Clarissa
sat on the sill, swung her legs over, and jumped lightly into the
mews.

Twenty minutes of Mr. Whitlatch's
company had been quite enough.

Chapter 3

The mews behind Grisham's was dark,
narrow and extremely cold. Like most alleys, it was also ripe with
unpleasant odors. Clarissa decided not to let her skirts drop until
she reached the street.

Panic urged her to hurry, but she
hesitated for a moment. How unfortunate that she could not reach
high enough to close the window behind her! Mr. Whitlatch would
instantly know which way she had gone. Well, that could not be
helped. She would have a head start, at any rate.

Clarissa had seen little of London—in
fact, practically nothing, since she had arrived squashed into the
middle seat of a stagecoach and had been confined in her mother's
house ever since—but she felt confident that if any person wished
to elude another, the crowded streets of London would be an
admirable place to begin. And if Mr. Whitlatch did find her there,
she could scream for assistance. Surely he would not accost her in
public.

Or would he? Clarissa shuddered. If
anyone could be that brazen, Mr. Whitlatch was the man. She had
learned more in the past half-hour about the relationship between
men and their mistresses than she had ever cared to know. She was
still reeling from the shock. He would hold the pursestrings, would
he, and force her to dance to whatever tune he cared to pipe?
Horrible!

She must get away, and at once.
Stepping carefully over a small heap of refuse, Clarissa hastened
to the end of the mews, shook out her skirts, and, with her heart
racing, walked sedately out into the street.

No shrinking, or looking bewildered!
she admonished herself, quelling the impulse to break into a run.
She had no idea where she was. She also did not know where she was
going, nor what to do when she got there.

No sense fretting about it. She had
prayed that an opportunity for escape would present itself. Well,
it had, and she had seized it. The die was cast.

Clarissa chose a direction at random,
and walked at a pace she hoped would appear brisk and purposeful,
rather than hurried. She was careful to keep her head lowered. It
was unusual for women to walk unaccompanied in London, and Clarissa
wished to attract as little attention as possible. Passersby might
notice her, but at least (she hoped) they would not be able to
describe her face.

She wished now she had thought of some
ruse to get Mr. Whitlatch to bring some of her luggage to her
before she escaped. There hadn't been time to think of anything.
But if only she had desired one of her bandboxes to be brought to
the coffeeroom, pretending to need a comb or some such nonsense,
she could have taken the bandbox out the window with her. If I were
carrying a bandbox, she thought wistfully, I might pass for a
milliner's assistant, and no one would notice me at all.

But she must not think about her
missing luggage. The specter of finding herself alone in a strange
city without so much as a toothbrush reared its ugly head, and she
pushed it firmly out of her mind. She was frightened enough at
present; she would go mad if she thought about that now. Besides
(she reminded herself) she had her reticule, with the guineas tied
up in her handkerchief. The reticule was hanging off her wrist. In
what she hoped was an excess of caution, she tucked it into her
muff as well.

While she was busied with this task, a
shout of, "Hi! Watch where you're goin', can't yer?" caused her to
jump back, startled. An ostler was fighting to control a very fresh
team he had obviously been obliged to halt when she walked directly
into its path. Clarissa's eyes widened in fear. Dear God, the sign
swinging over her head read, "Grisham's"—with her head down, she
had walked directly back to the entrance of the hotel she was
trying to escape!

She stammered an incoherent apology,
turned blindly, and almost ran across the street. She heard curses
and the sound of more horses being pulled up short behind her, but
this time she did not look to see whose progress she had
impeded.

There were so many people! Horses, and
carriages, and costermongers, and persons of all descriptions
hurrying along the street—how did they avoid colliding with one
another? Overwhelmed, Clarissa darted round the nearest corner,
flattened herself against a building, and tried to get her
bearings. She was painfully aware that finding her bearings had
never been her strong suit. Clarissa’s ability to lose her way,
even in surroundings familiar to her since childhood, had been a
source of much merriment to her schoolfriends.