Playing to Win (6 page)

"Why, Clarissa!" said Mr. Whitlatch, in
a voice of honeyed steel. "How delightful to see you
again."

Chapter 4

Her head held motionless in that
unyielding grip, Clarissa's eyes darted frantically round the
stableyard. It was full only of sniggering ostlers. Their sly,
vulgar grins reminded her of a pack of salivating jackals. Male
jackals. She would find no rescuer here. Helpless, she allowed
herself to be propelled into the inn by the hand on the back of her
neck.

Clarissa walked with as much dignity as
she could muster, but her cheeks burned with shame. The steady
pressure of Mr. Whitlatch's fingers compelled her to walk back
through the foyer and into the very parlor from which she had
escaped. The irony struck her like a fist. All her wanderings had
achieved exactly nothing. She could weep from pure
frustration.

The door shut behind them with a snap,
and Mr. Whitlatch's grip transferred itself to her shoulders. He
startled her with a rough little shake.

"If you
ever
play such a trick
again," he thundered, "I'll teach you a lesson you won't soon
forget! What the devil do you mean by disobeying me? When I tell
you to wait somewhere, by God, you’d better stay put!"

Shock drove the color from Clarissa’s
cheeks. Then humiliation, fear, despair and exhaustion suddenly
ignited her temper. Rage swept through her like a strong tonic.
With one fierce movement, she broke from his grasp and turned on
him, eyes blazing like coals in her tense, white face.

"How dare you raise your hand to me? Do
not touch me!"

Mr. Whitlatch stared. "Do not
touch
you? What the dev—"

"And do not swear at me!" interrupted
Clarissa sharply, raising one hand as if to ward him off. "Your
entire manner toward me is intolerable! Your language is profane
and familiar. Your attentions are insulting! And your company, sir,
is
repugnant!"

Mr. Whitlatch was conscious of a strong
sense of unreality. The girl was addressing him in the ringing
tones of an outraged spinster. If he had not known better, he would
think she was a respectable female.

His eyes narrowed in suspicion. Was
Gianetta capable of serving him such a trick? Would she
dare?

"Who are you?" he demanded. "I was led
to believe-”

"I know what you were led to believe,
thank you!" Her tone was bitter. The anger suddenly seemed to
abandon Clarissa, leaving her limp. She sank, shaking, into a
chair. "I know what you were led to believe," she repeated quietly.
"And I know who led you to believe it. I know whom I have to thank
for this deplorable situation. You are not altogether at fault. But
I charge you, sir, by all you hold holy—"

A quick knock sounded, and the door
opened. "Beg pardon, but the chaise is ready, sir. You asked to be
called immediately."

"Yes, thank you, thank you! You may
go," snapped Mr. Whitlatch. As the curious servant reluctantly
withdrew, Mr. Whitlatch looked back at Clarissa and
frowned.

She appeared pale, tired and fragile,
but there was definitely some steel in that slender spine. She sat
straight in her chair as if by a supreme effort of will. Why,
anyone would take her for a lady of quality.

He addressed her with his
characteristic abruptness. "You speak like a
gentlewoman."

She lifted her chin at that, and
replied with dignity. "I was educated at a respectable seminary,
sir."

Mr. Whitlatch's eyebrows shot up. "The
devil you say! How did Gianetta get her claws into you?"

Clarissa blushed, and her eyes fell.
"That is a long story, sir, and painful to me. I beg you will not
ask me to relate it."

"Good God!" Mr. Whitlatch rubbed his
chin, regarding Clarissa thoughtfully. "Well, I will deal with
Gianetta later. This is not the first time she has slumguzzled me,
but I promise you it is the last. In the meantime, if I have
offered you any insult today, ma'am, I heartily beg your pardon. As
you surmised, I was encouraged to think you were something you
clearly are not. I apologize."

She looked up at him, startled. Sudden
civility was the last thing Clarissa had expected. His eyes were
very dark, and met hers with a directness she found rather
unsettling. She nodded, not trusting her voice.

Her eyes flickered over Mr. Whitlatch’s
face for the first time. She noticed, with a detached sort of
surprise, that he was handsome. Why had she thought him
harsh-featured, swarthy and villainous? It must be because he had
figured in her mind only as the scoundrel who wished to steal her
virtue. Preoccupied with her troubles, she had never actually
looked at the man. He was dark, to be sure, but his rugged features
were more attractive than she had first thought.

She wondered if the years at school had
made her overly accustomed to feminine standards of beauty.
Harshness in a male face was rather pleasing, she discovered. And a
large frame did not lessen a man's appeal. If anything, it enhanced
it. How strange.

But Mr. Whitlatch, with one of his
swift, peremptory movements, had crossed toward her and offered his
hand. Bemused, she took it. Her own was at once enveloped in a
strong clasp and heartily shaken. "Thank you! We will forget our
earlier conversations," he said.

"Certainly," she murmured, feeling a
little dazed.

He was still holding her hand. "I am
leaving immediately for Morecroft Cottage," he told her. "It is
near Islington Spa, but never mind that! I will take you wherever
you wish to go. Where is your home?"

A
frisson
of alarm shot through
Clarissa. Of all the questions he might have asked, he had
unerringly hit on the most unanswerable! She hesitated, at a loss,
and pulled her hand back. Mr. Whitlatch's mind apparently traveled
at breakneck speed; caught in that extraordinarily piercing gaze
she could think of nothing to say in reply. Nothing other than the
truth. Hating the necessity to answer at all, she tried to speak
lightly.

"I have no home."

Mr. Whitlatch's already keen gaze
sharpened. "Nonsense. Everyone has a home. Where are your parents?
Are you an orphan?"

Heavens, he was direct! Had the man no
manners at all? She tried looking down her nose at him. "I am of
age, Mr. Whitlatch," she said haughtily.

He shrugged impatiently. "Of age! What
is that to the purpose? I daresay your family will still be glad to
have you safely back. You are not married."

Clarissa stiffened. "Sir, you
presume!"

He uttered a short bark of laughter.
"On the contrary; I state the obvious! But you must have relatives
of some sort, even if your father is dead."

Her eyes flew to his, startled anew.
"How do you know my father is dead?"

Mr. Whitlatch strode restlessly back
across the room, tossing words over his shoulder. Movement seemed
to be his natural mode.

"No man whose business it was to take
care of you could let you come to such straits. Had you a father, a
husband, or even, I daresay, a brother, I would not have found you
under La Gianetta's roof. Come! We can't keep the horses waiting.
Where do I take you?"

Clarissa clasped her hands tightly in
her lap. She managed to achieve a pleasant, off-hand tone. She
hoped it would convince him that his prying was as unnecessary as
it was unwelcome. "There is nowhere to take me, so I must decline
your obliging offer."

"Decline it?" He halted, frowning. "Do
you expect me to leave you here?"

"Of course I do. My affairs are no
concern of yours."

"Talk sense, if you please!" demanded
Mr. Whitlatch. His eyes bored into hers with unnerving effect. She
could no longer meet them; they made her feel utterly transparent.
"I am the one who brought you here, apparently against your will.
Why do you wish to be left at Grisham's? You seemed eager enough to
be gone awhile ago."

Eyes downcast, she tried desperately to
think of an answer. His booted feet crossed the floor and she saw
his fist out of the corner of her eye as it appeared on the table
beside her. He leaned on the fist, and spoke in a voice silky with
menace. "Or were you, in fact, brought to Grisham's against your
will? Why did you return here after you had made good your
escape?"

Clarissa gasped. It had not occurred to
her that such a construction might be placed upon her behavior! She
felt her cheeks flush scarlet. "I did not
intend
to return
here, if that is what you think!" she stammered.

"Well? What else am I to
think?"

The blush deepened, but she lifted her
head and met his eyes again defiantly. "If you must know, I—I lost
my way!"

Mr. Whitlatch stared at her for a
pregnant moment. Then, to Clarissa's discomfiture, he threw back
his head and gave a roar of delighted laughter.

"Lost your way! And walked right back
to the lion's den!"

Clarissa eyed him resentfully. "I
daresay it is very funny to you, but to me it is not at all
humorous, I assure you!"

"No, I can see that! Good God, what a
comedy of errors!" To her secret relief, he removed his looming
presence and tossed himself into the chair across from her. "But if
you lost your way, you absurd child, at least tell me where you
were going when you lost it. I will engage myself to deliver you to
your friends, or your family, or wherever it may be that you were
headed."

Clarissa struggled again to think of an
answer, and could not. She took refuge in hauteur. "I have told you
already, Mr. Whitlatch, that my affairs are not your concern! I am
very well able to take care of myself."

He gave an inelegant snort. "Yes, I
have seen exactly how well you are able to take care of yourself!
You forget. I found you in the power of the most notorious
courtesan in Western Europe."

Clarissa's eyes flashed. "You needn't
sneer, Mr. Whitlatch!"

"You needn't pitch gammon,
Clarissa!"

"I do not know what ‘pitching gammon’
means, but it sounds excessively vulgar. And I have
not
given you leave to call me by my Christian name!"

"Pitching gammon, my good girl, means
you are trying to hoodwink me. You won't succeed, so you may stop
trying! And I call you by your Christian name because I do not know
your surname."

Clarissa, much agitated, rose and
crossed to the fireplace. She wished her knees did not tremble
so.

Mr. Whitlatch's voice sounded behind
her, now edged with suspicion. "Well? I ask you again: Who are you?
La Gianetta told me you were her daughter."

Her back to Mr. Whitlatch, she leaned
against the mantel for support. If she did not have to watch his
face while she said it, it was easier to say. Clarissa stared into
the fire and whispered, almost inaudibly, the shameful secret she
had spent her life trying to escape.

"It is true. I am her
daughter."

A brief silence fell. Behind her, she
could almost palpably feel incredulity and wrath struggling within
Mr. Whitlatch. Wrath apparently won. She heard the scrape of the
chair as he rose. Then his voice came, dangerously
quiet.

"Do not try my patience further," he
said, through his teeth. "We are going to Morecroft Cottage. We are
going now. You will walk quietly out to the carriage, and you will
get in. And you will enact me no more of this charade."

Clarissa turned defiantly to face him,
opened her mouth to speak—and saw the expression on his face. She
closed her mouth. This was not the face of a man with whom one
could reason. Mr. Whitlatch was very angry. It was clear that he
believed she had been trifling with him, and it was equally clear
he was not a man to be trifled with.

He opened the door and held it for her.
"Go."

He was more than capable of compelling
her if she defied him. Better to obey now and argue later. She
walked stiffly out without a word.

As they exited the inn a boy sprang to
attention, let down the step and flung open the door of an elegant
post-chaise. Clarissa gathered her skirts and hesitated on the
step, peering in.

Thank God, it had two wide benches; one
facing forward and one facing backward. They need not sit
side-by-side. But if she chose the forward-facing seat, he would
certainly sit beside her. She chose the rear-facing
seat.

Mr. Whitlatch, entering behind her,
noted this maneuver and instantly comprehended its purpose. His
mouth twisted in a sardonic grin. They would look like prime
idiots, both sitting backwards, but it would serve her right. The
motion wouldn't bother him a bit after years at sea. She'd be sick
as a horse before they reached Marylebone. So he sat beside her,
tossing his hat onto the cushions in the corner. She immediately
got up and seated herself in the
center
of the
forward-facing bench.

Before he could counter this move, the
boy who had been holding the door reached in. He deftly tucked a
lap rug round Clarissa, slipped a hot brick under her feet, touched
his cap to her, and shut the door. Clarissa's look of amazement
widened Mr. Whitlatch's grin.