Playing to Win (5 page)

At least she now knew Grisham's was
behind her. Somewhere. I have only to go forward, she told herself
firmly. I cannot possibly return to Grisham's if I walk straight
ahead.

She was annoyed to find that she was
shaking. She walked forward, clutching her muff and staring at the
pavement before her feet. The shifting, bustling confusion of
traffic and noise all round her was bewildering. When an extremely
dirty child with a large tray suddenly shouted, "Chest-NUTS! Hot
CHEST-nuts!" right beside her, she nearly jumped out of her
skin.

Clarissa reluctantly discarded the idea
of hiding her face with her hat brim. It is dangerous to walk with
my head lowered, she thought. I must pay attention to my
surroundings. I will be safe, if only I do not look anyone in the
face. I will pretend that I know exactly where I am going, and walk
with an air of confidence and ease. I will walk energetically, so
as not to appear approachable. And if anyone addresses me, I shall
simply pretend I do not hear.

She was forced to put this to the test
before she had reached the first crossing. And for the next twenty
minutes, she continued to ignore the various persons who hailed
her.

Clarissa, who had lived almost all her
life in a quiet rural setting, was completely unprepared for the
outrageous and baffling behavior of Londoners. Did these strange
men honestly believe she would stop and converse with them? Did
they expect her to smile at their unsolicited compliments? It was
startling, and extremely unpleasant, to hear the jocular greetings
and odd invitations that followed her up the street. She dared not
look, but was miserably certain that all the remarks were addressed
to her. Some of the comments she did not understand, and did not
want to understand.

Fear gradually quickened her step. She
had thought only of the peril awaiting her at Grisham's. She had
not considered that peril might follow her wherever she went. An
unescorted female was apparently considered fair game. Any man who
cared to insult her could do so with impunity.

Her frightened, whirling thoughts
coalesced into a refrain that beat time with her stride: What shall
I do? Where can I go? Her mind seemed numb with anxiety. She could
not form a plan. All she could think, over and over, was: What
shall I do? Where can I go? No answer to either question presented
itself.

She kept walking.

It eventually occurred to her that if
she did nothing but walk straight forward, Mr. Whitlatch would
speedily find her. In fact, it was a wonder he had not found her
already. The ostler would almost certainly recall Clarissa, and
probably the direction she had taken. Despair clutched
her.

She paused at a crossing and glanced
about. The neighborhood to the right seemed quieter, and appeared
to contain respectable shops. She hastened toward the nearest of
these. Delicious warmth surrounded her the instant she crossed the
threshold, and a heavenly fragrance. Some of the fear lifted from
her like a weight she had been carrying. Just to be off the street
made her feel less exposed, less hunted.

Clarissa sniffed the air
appreciatively. The shop was quite small, and dark when one entered
from daylight. She blinked as her eyes grew accustomed to the
dimness. Her feet sank into a lovely carpet, and a small fire
crackled cheerfully to one side. Behind a low counter, rows of
shelves held neatly arranged jars of what appeared to be leaves and
spices. She thought it was the loveliest shop she had ever
seen.

Clarissa leaned over the counter and
studied the glass jars, trying to make out their contents. The
labels "Brown Rappee," "Macouba," and "Violet Strasbourg," although
perfectly legible, conveyed no information to her mind. A clerk
appeared from behind a green baize curtain and gawked rudely at
her. Feigning unconcern, Clarissa walked away to warm herself at
the fire. More of the mysterious jars were arranged on the
mantlepiece.

There was only one other customer in
the shop, a gentleman. Although he wore simple broadcloth and
linen, Clarissa had never seen such perfectly-fitting,
beautifully-made clothes in her life. She could not help stealing a
glance at them out of the corner of her eye. One realized
immediately that such garments, although there was nothing
ostentatious about them, were extremely expensive. The gentleman
seemed to feel her gaze upon him, for he suddenly turned. One
elegant eyebrow lifted, and he raised a quizzing glass to his eye.
Mortified, Clarissa turned hastily back to study the jars on the
mantlepiece with an interest she was far from feeling.

She heard a languid step approaching.
"May I assist you?"

Clarissa looked up, hoping it was the
clerk who was addressing her. It was not. The elegant gentleman was
standing beside her, and he leaned uncomfortably close as he spoke.
"May I assist you?" he repeated, with what Clarissa thought a
peculiarly nasty smile. "I am considered something of an expert in
these matters, and you—forgive me—do not have the look of a
snuff-taker."

She was in a tobacconist's shop!
Countrified she may be, but Clarissa was not entirely ignorant. She
knew a lady had no business visiting a tobacconist; not even a lady
who actually took snuff. Such shops were wholly the province of
men. No wonder the clerk had stared, rather than wait upon
her.

Blushing for her error, Clarissa
uttered a strangled, "No, thank you!" and fled. She heard the man
calling after her as she darted out the door, but she did not stay
to listen. She knew whatever he was saying she would not like
hearing.

Cold air struck her forcibly as she
exited the warm shop. The wind seemed to be picking up. Clarissa
shivered, and turned miserably to hurry on. So this was what life
was like for an unprotected female. What a dreadful lesson it was,
to be sure. She began to understand what the fox felt, driven from
its sanctuary and forced into headlong flight by the distant sound
of baying dogs.

She walked for a timeless time,
chilled, dispirited, and frightened, now turning corners at random
in an effort to confuse anyone who might be following her. She was
half afraid that the gentleman from the tobacconist's shop might be
pursuing her as well as Mr. Whitlatch.

Still, the idea of hiding in a shop had
been a good one. She could get warm, at least, while she decided
what to do. She desperately needed a period of calm reflection.
Perhaps she could purchase it for the price of a dish of tea. She
would search for a pastry-cook.

Clarissa wondered nervously how long
Mr. Whitlatch would search for her. Once Trevor Whitlatch had made
his mind up to something, she guessed, he was not one who would
easily change course. Never in her life had she heard a man express
himself so bluntly. He seemed to have an extremely direct nature;
she supposed he would have tenacity of purpose to go with it. And
he apparently thought of her as his property.

He was physically strong, too. She
remembered how easily he had lifted her off the ground and swung
her into his curricle. It had given her an odd, weightless
sensation. That had frightened her, but not because she was afraid
of him dropping her. She had felt, for that instant, completely
overpowered and yet completely safe. The illusion was dangerous. It
had also been strangely seductive.

A new thought occurred to her: such a
masterful man might scorn to pursue a reluctant mistress. Was that
possible? Her experience of the male sex was not vast—in fact, she
was acquainted with very few men—but it was common knowledge that
they were prideful creatures, and touchy about their dignity. For
all she knew, men considered it undignified to chase a girl who had
spurned one's advances. In that event, her supposed danger might be
entirely imaginary. Mr. Whitlatch might not pursue her at
all.

Why, of course—that would account for
his not finding her yet. He was not trying!

Relief flooded her. If there was no
pursuit, she need not fly. She could slow her pace, take her time.
Think.

The fear that had been driving her
forward lessened, and she was suddenly aware that she was tired.
The London streets were hard and cold as winter iron, and her
leather half-boots had thin soles. Her feet were almost numb. She
wondered how long she had been walking.

The scent of coffee and something
frying lured her to a low door set in a side street. A cheerful
hubbub of conversation accompanied the inviting smells. There was
no sign above the door, which was puzzling, but Clarissa supposed
it must be the back entrance of a public house. The sign would be
over the front door.

Her fingers curled protectively round
the reticule she had tucked in her muff. It felt so small, now that
it was all she owned in the world! Bread and tea would not set her
back more than a shilling, would it? Actually, she had no idea. But
she longed to sit down in a warm room, drink a cup of something
steaming, and think. She could not continue in this aimless way,
wandering from street to street with no set purpose. She needed a
plan.

She must think of a way to instantly
remove from the streets to a safe place, obtain respectable
employment, and secure her future. And these necessary events must
take place today. Before sundown, in fact. How to obtain these
essentials with no references, no acquaintances, and not even a
change of clothing to her name, was yet to be determined. Yes, this
would certainly require some serious thought.

As she hesitated, a sharp gust of wind
whistled round the corner, rattling her bonnet and whipping her
redingote across her chilled ankles. There was no sense in standing
in the street, she decided, shivering. Whatever this place was, she
would get out of the cold and beg or buy a dish of tea.

Clarissa approached the door, which was
ajar, and entered. She found herself in a low-ceilinged, firelit
room redolent of savory smells and filled with a set of extremely
busy persons. It was not a tavern or public house, however, for
there was no dining area to be seen. She had entered what was
apparently just a large, well-staffed, beautifully organized
kitchen.

Confused, Clarissa halted in the
doorway. A stout matron in a mob cap approached, addressing her in
a sharp tone there was no mistaking. Unfortunately, she spoke
in such a thick Cockney that Clarissa did not understand her
remarks.

"I beg your pardon," said Clarissa in
her soft, cultured voice. "I mistook this place for a public
house."

The woman's martial air relaxed a
little. She shooed Clarissa back out the door, but in a kindly way.
"If you go round the front, miss, they'll take care of you there,"
she said, speaking more distinctly.

"Round the front?" repeated
Clarissa.

Her benefactress jerked a helpful
thumb.

"Thank you," Clarissa said politely.
She turned to walk away, but was apparently facing the wrong
direction; the matron clucked her tongue and called, "Now, now,
miss!" (Or it may have been, "No, no"—Clarissa was not
sure.)

"You'll never find it that way. Come on
back, dearie, and I'll take you through the kitchen."

This was the first piece of
disinterested kindness Clarissa had met in many days. Her smile was
absurdly tremulous as she thanked the woman. Chuckling, the matron
ushered her back through the kitchen and into a bewildering maze of
dark hallways.

"Here you are, then," she promised,
holding open a narrow wooden door. Clarissa stepped through it and
found herself in a surprisingly luxurious foyer. But a foyer to
what? She turned to ask the kind woman from the kitchen, but that
busy individual had already vanished.

Clarissa glanced about, a trifle
nervously. There was not a soul to be seen. A large counter ran
along one wall, with a row of pigeonholes behind it, some of them
stuffed with papers, some not. An array of keys hung on numbered
pegs beside the pigeonholes. A brass bell rested on the countertop,
presumably to summon whatever individual worked behind it. There
was a ledger beside the bell, turned to face the customer rather
than the counter-worker. Several neatly-sharpened quills and an
inkwell were arrayed beside the ledger. The place seemed eerily
familiar.

Well, naturally it did. This was
obviously a hotel. She had walked through the lobby of just such a
hotel not very long ago, had she not? Clarissa crossed to the
elegant front door and peered through the glass panes set
decoratively in its center. As she expected, it gave onto a
crowded, noisy stableyard, very much like the one she had seen at
Grisham’s.

In fact, exactly like the one she had
seen at Grisham’s.

Clarissa struggled against a rising
tide of foreboding. For all she knew, she reminded herself firmly,
every hotel in London had the same appearance! Still, she must not
wait to make sure of where she was. A clerk or innkeeper would
arrive at any moment. Fighting back panic, she stepped out the door
and looked upward.

The swinging sign above her read,
"Grisham's."

A tiny sound escaped her. She hoped she
would not faint. Part of her wanted to scream with vexation, and
part of her wanted to collapse in defeat. This could only happen to
her!

She turned to make a dash for the
street, but before she could do so, a hand, viselike, closed on the
back of her neck. The fingers felt long, strong, and inexorable.
Clarissa gasped, and stopped in her tracks.