“I see why you had to thrash him.”
It was cant for a low whore.
“But I’d better find another name before she remembers it.” He looked into the cat’s slitted green eyes. “
Care to give me a hint? No, I don’t think ‘Your Highness’ acceptable. I will call you Jetta. You are jet black, and you were jeter’d, as the French would say. Getare in Italian, but I’m afraid in Spanish it would merely mean ’snout.‘”
He looked at Van, who was grinning at this byplay. At least he’d managed to change the subject. “I’d better go down to the kitchen and beg some scraps for her. I never thought to ask if you minded a cat in the house.”
“No, of course not. But your father’s dogs are going to eat her when you take her home.”
Hawk looked at the cat again. “Somehow I doubt it.”
He didn’t escape scot-free. Van left the room with him and said quietly, “I need your word, Hawk, that you won’t go beyond the line with Miss Greystone.”
Hawk bit back anger. He had no right to it anyway.
“You have it, of course,” he said and left, wondering if his friendships, too, were going to die in this bloody mess.
He got milk and bits of chicken for Jetta, then since the cook didn’t seem to mind the intruder, he escaped out through the kitchen door. There was no thinking room there, however, so he went round to the street, to the seafront.
He was coatless and hatless, but he didn’t care. The rough weather had driven nearly everyone off the seafront anyway, even though it wasn’t raining at this moment. The wind still whipped, carrying damp air and even spray off the churning waves. He saw the packet from France bucking its way in and could imagine the state of the poor passengers.
It was good weather for hard thinking, though. Rough and clean.
Did he love Clarissa? He had no experience of love, so how could he know? But Van said he’d know, so it couldn’t be love. Or not that kind of love. His feelings were close to those that he had for Van and Con, and that he’d had for some other friends in the army.
Friends, then. He and Clarissa were, in a fragile way, friends. He groaned into the wind. That made it worse. Betrayal in love was a theoretical evil. Betrayal of friendship…
And damn it, now Maria and thus Van—a deep and necessary friend—were tangled up in the affair.
He reined in his panicked mind. When had his mind last been panicked?
Fact one. Clarissa had at the least been present at Deveril’s murder. It was the only rational explanation for her reaction to the knife and her knowing the exact date.
Hypothesis. She might have killed him herself, but it would have been in self-defense, not to get his money.
Was he besotted to think that? No. He hadn’t known her long, but he knew her well enough to know she couldn’t be a coldhearted, greedy villain. A crime of passion was much more in keeping.
Fact two. If it came out that she had killed a peer of the realm under any provocation, she might hang for it. Or at least be transported. At best, she would have to await trial in prison among the scum of the world.
Therefore, her crime could never be made public.
It settled Hawk to realize that as an absolute certainty.
He would tear down Hawk in the Vale himself before it came to that.
Having reached that bleak point, he found he could think properly again.
What if she had only been witness to the killing? Perhaps someone else had killed Deveril to save her.
Did that really fit better, or did he just want it to be so? It was no great improvement. She would still be an accessory to the murder and liable to the same punishment, and he could hardly send a man to trial for defending her.
However, if he could not prosecute anyone for murder, he was unlikely to break the will.
He leaned against a wooden railing, cursing softly into the snarling sea.
Always, always, always was the fact that the will had been forged and planted in Deveril’s house. It shattered any illusion of noble deeds. A cunning rogue was behind that, and Hawk couldn’t believe that he intended to leave Clarissa in peaceful possession of a fortune.
So, even walking away from Clarissa and leaving her in peace was not an option.
He circled and circled it, and came down to the heart of the matter. He could persuade her to elope.
No question of marrying her in the normal way. As soon as he applied to the Duke of Belcraven his family would be investigated. The most casual search would uncover that his father was a Gaspard, and probably that he was within days of being pronounced Viscount Deveril. Even if Belcraven was willing to permit the marriage, he would tell Clarissa, and that would be that. He wasn’t sure she would be able to bear the thought of being Lady Deveril one day, but he knew she wouldn’t forgive the deception.
Elope, then. He would have to pretend love, but he was at least very fond of her. He would not be like his father. She would not have cause to complain of neglect. With luck she wouldn’t have to be Lady Deveril for a long time, so perhaps it wouldn’t be a terrible blow.
But what if it was? What if the blow, in particular the deception behind it, was enough to kill all affection?
Would he end up in a marriage as bitter as that of his parents‘, with one lost wedding-night child to show for it?
He could do that to himself for Hawkinville, but not to her. Not to his Falcon, who was in such fledgling flight in search of life.
And anyway, he thought with a wry laugh, he’d promised Van. He was sure Van would see an elopement as going far beyond the line.
Which brought him, via a sharp sense of loss, back to the killer. Was there, perhaps, another way… ?
Clarissa and Althea were promised to a birthday party being given that evening by Lady Babbington for Florence. Clarissa didn’t really want to go, but Florence was an old school friend, and it would do no good to stay home drowning in longing, doubts, and questions. It was to be an event for young ladies only, so at least she wouldn’t have to deal with Hawk again.
She found that the Babbingtons’ small drawing room felt almost like the senior girls’ parlor at Miss Mallory’s and slid with relief into the uncomplicated past. Soon she was chattering and giggling, and the high spirits continued over dinner since, unlike at school, wine was served with the meal.
Perhaps that was why the after-dinner chatter turned naughty, especially when it was revealed that Florence had made a transcription of The Annals of Aphrodite. As those new to the book huddled to read it, whispering aloud the more exciting phrases, Clarissa wondered how many of them had acquired a little practical experience of the Risen Rod of Rapture.
Then Florence placed letter cards in a bag and invited everyone to pick two to find the initials of their future husband. Clarissa was interested to note how many of the ten young women clearly hoped for a particular set of initials.
Clarissa’s heart pounded when her first letter was a G, but then she lost all faith when the second turned out to be a B.
Suggestions were called out.
“Gregory Beeston.”
“Lord Godfrey Breem.”
“Florence,” said one, “isn’t your brother called Giles?”
“But he’s married,” Florence pointed out.
“Is he still as handsome?” Clarissa asked, and recited her poem. It received great applause, and they all began to put together admiring doggerel.
“George Brummel,” Lady Violet Stavering suggested.
She had been at Miss Mallory’s too, but had considered Clarissa beneath her notice. She still liked to cloak herself in an air of bored sophistication and was not taking part in the versification.
“He could certainly use your fortune, Clarissa,” she added.
Clarissa might sometimes feel at sea in society, but she could swim like a fish in schoolgirl malice. “So could nearly everyone,” she said, dropping her letters back into the bag. “Including your brother, Violet.
But I am hardly likely to bestow my riches on an elderly and broken dandy like Brummel. If I enter into trade, I will buy the highest quality.”
“Such as Major George Hawkinville?” purred Lady Violet.
So their meetings had been observed. Clarissa willed herself not to blush. “Perhaps.” But she added, “Or some other young, honorable man.”
Florence leaped in with suggestions, and Clarissa regretted the spark of unpleasantness at her friend’s party. Soon every eligible man of Brighton was being assessed with startling frankness.
Mr. Haig-Porter’s legs were too thin, Lord Simon Rutherford’s fingers too short and fat. Sir Rupert Grange laughed like a donkey, and Viscount Laverley had a chest so narrow it was surprising he could breathe.
“But a viscount,” said Cecilia Porteous tentatively. “It is a consideration.”
Nearly everyone agreed that a peer of the realm might be excused some flaws.
“Even Lord Deveril,” murmured Lady Violet.
“Don’t be a cat, Vi,” snapped Florence. “We all know poor Clarissa didn’t want to marry him.”
“And we thanked heavens for his timely death,” agreed Lady Violet sweetly.
Clarissa stiffened, wondering if Lady Violet suspected.
But that was ridiculous. She was simply scratching for the fun of it.
She was saved by an interruption from Miriam Mosely. “I don’t know how it is that men like Lord Vandeimen and Lord Amleigh, who have both title and physique, are snapped up before they properly appear on the market. I think it vastly unfair!”
“But remember,” said Lady Violet, “Lord Vandeimen was thought to be as rolled up as Brummel, and drowning in gaming and drink as well, before he married the Golden Lily.”
This was news to Clarissa, and she recognized that Lady Violet had raised it because the Vandeimens were friends of Clarissa’s. She would very much like to put snails in Violet’s bed. Again.
She hoped the comment would be ignored, but some others demanded details. Lady Violet chose a sugarplum and bit into it. “Oh, Vandeimen came home from the war to find his father dead and the estates quite ruined.”
“Hardly like Brummel, then,” said Clarissa.
Lady Violet was not silenced. “He consoled himself with drink and the tables, but then had the good fortune to snare the rich Mrs. Celestin. Trade, you know.”
“That’s not true!” objected Dottie Ffyfe. “She married a merchant, but she was born into a good family.
She’s a connection of mine!”
Lady Violet’s lips tightened, but she shrugged. “A woman moves to her husband’s level upon marriage.
First trade. And a foreigner. Then a demon.” She allowed a pause for effect before continuing, “
According to my brother, in the army he was known as Demon Vandeimen.”
Everyone was now leaning forward avidly, and Clarissa felt wretched for having started this. Lord and Lady Vandeimen were both properly behaved and kind, and obviously in love. Someone else who was being tarnished by association with her.
“My brother says that they’ve been close friends forever,” Violet continued, lapping up being the center of attention. “Vandeimen and Amleigh. And,” she added with a sly look at Clarissa, “Major Hawkinville.
”
Clarissa smiled back in a way that she hoped said she was politely bored to death.
“All born and raised near here,” Violet continued.
“Reggie said that they each have a tattoo on their chest.” Someone gasped. “Said he’d seen Lord Amleigh’s in the army, and been told about the others.”
She looked around, licking sugar off her fingers. “A hawk for Major Hawkinville, a dragon for Lord Amleigh.” Then she added, pink tongue circling her lips, “And a demon for Lord Vandeimen.”
The synchronous inhalation made a kind of oooh around the room.
“What a pity,” said Miriam, “that we are unlikely to ever see that.”
But Clarissa was thinking how wonderful it would be to see that, because it would mean she was seeing Hawk’s naked chest. Impossible, of course, short of marriage.
Marriage.
It was all very well for Miss Hurstman to talk about reason, and waiting, and thinking of the years of marriage, but could she bear not to do it? Wouldn’t she regret it all her life, wondering what it might have been? Whether it might have been true heaven…
“… Hawkinville.”
With a start, she realized that they were talking about Hawk—as if he were a piece of meat on a butcher’
s slab.
“Handsome.”
“Perhaps a little lightly built.”
“But wide shoulders.”
“And excellent thighs!”
Thighs! Sally Highcroft had been looking at Hawk’s thighs?
“Delicious blue eyes.”
“I prefer brown myself,” said Violet.
Clarissa was astonished to find that her fingers were trying to make claws.
It was Althea, however, who spoke up. “I don’t think it at all seemly to talk about a gentleman in this way.”
Violet laughed. Her practiced laugh that said that others were silly, unsophisticated ninnies. “They do it about us all the time, according to my brother.”
“Ladies,” said Althea, “should set a higher standard. And we should be more respectful of those who fought for us in the war.”
This did subdue everyone, and Clarissa flashed Althea a grateful smile.
“But did he fight?” asked Violet, who never stayed subdued for long.
“Quartermastering, I believe.” Again Althea was there first. “Such administrative matters are extremely important, Lady Violet. My late fiance was in the army, and he often said so.”
“You cannot deny that an officer who was often in battle is more dashing.”
“No. But I can deny that dash is the most important thing about any gentleman!”
Althea was in her Early Christian Martyr mood, and clearly ready to throw herself to the lions. Or turn into one. Poor Florence was looking close to tears, so Clarissa rushed in. “There are any number of eligible names being discussed here who never went to war at all. We can surely assess each gentleman as to his qualities.” Remembering Miss Hurstman’s words, she added, “Their qualities as husbands over the next twenty, forty, sixty years.”
“Lud!” exclaimed Florence, but with a grateful look, “what a dismal thought. They’ll all be boring, bulging, and bald by then.”