Three Heroes (21 page)

“Beth Armitage married the heir to a dukedom,” she pointed out, “and though I admire her a great deal, she has not a tenth of your beauty.”

Althea laughed gently. “The sort of story to make idiots of us all. Such things cannot be relied on.”

“True,” said Clarissa, remembering the dark side of the fairy tale.

Althea was right. She had nothing but her beauty and good nature to recommend her. The world would say she should be grateful for any suitable offer, even that of an elderly widower with a daughter not many years her junior.

“I came to thank you again for taking the girls,” Althea said, clearly changing the subject. “I’m so sorry you ended up in such trouble.”

“It wasn’t too bad.”

“The girls seem to see it as a wonderfully perilous adventure, including rescue by Saint George, complete with halo.”

Clarissa laughed. “Hardly, but Major Hawkinville did help us, yes.” She gave her account of the event. “I wonder if he found the woman’s lost evangelists. He seemed capable of it.”

Althea cocked her head. “Heaven, purgatory, or hell?”

“I’m a nonbeliever, remember? No marriage for me.”

“Nonsense. I’m sure Lord Deveril was as hellish as you say, but when you meet heaven you’ll change your mind.”

“I won’t trust heaven.” Major Hawkinville somehow merged in her mind with handsome Lord Arden, afire with rage. “Any man, if angered enough, can turn into hell.”

“Not Gareth,” Althea said firmly.

Clarissa couldn’t hurt her by arguing. “Perhaps not, but how are we to know?”

“A decent period of courtship. Gareth and I had known each other for years, and been courting for two.”

Clarissa pounced. “So you shouldn’t consider marrying this widower without a decent period of courtship.”

“But I’ve known Mr. Verrall for years too, and I like him.”

Balked, Clarissa still protested, “You need to meet some other men first.”

“Perhaps it’s a shame I didn’t take the girls to the parade and fall into an adventure with the handsome major.”

Clarissa chuckled, but a plan stirred. Althea needed to meet eligible men, and, as she’d said, that was unlikely here in the school. Once the last girls went home, Althea would return to Bucklestead St.

Stephens and marry her doddering widower.

What was needed was what the army called a preemptive strike.

“I wonder where I should go?” she mused. “ ‘The world’s mine oyster…’ ”

“ ‘Which I with sword will open’?” Althea completed.

“With money, perhaps. It frightens me, Althea. Miss Mallory says I should not stay in the familiarity of Cheltenham, and Bath is so dreary.”

“London, then.”

“No.” It came out rather abruptly, but then Althea would guess that London had bad memories for her. “

Anyway, it’s the end of the Season there. The place will soon be empty.”

Clarissa still hadn’t worked around to her true purpose—persuading Althea to accompany her for a few weeks and meet a suitable husband. “Where would you go if you were me?” she asked.

But Althea shook her head. “I’m a country mouse. I like life in a village.”

“I think I might, too,” Clarissa said, “though I’ve never tried it. My father sold his estate when I was in the cradle to pay debts and buy a London house.”

A village, however, would be an unlikely place in which to find Althea a prime husband.

Her frustrated thoughts were interrupted by a knock on the door. Clarissa answered it and the school’s upstairs maid said, “There’s a gentleman inquiring for you, Miss Greystone.” Her expression was a combination of disapproval and interest. “Miss Mallory isn’t home yet…”

“A gentleman?”

“A Major Hawkinville, he says.” Mary added with disapproval, “But he’s not wearing a hat.”

Clarissa actually squeaked with surprise, but managed to compose herself. The major. Here!

Then she saw Althea’s smiling interest and realized that this was a chance to introduce her to at least one eligible man. He must be eligible, mustn’t he, and Althea clearly favored a military man.

“Major Hawkinville lost his hat saving me and the girls, Mary. We cannot turn him away. Miss Trist and I will be down in a moment.”

As soon as the maid left, Clarissa whirled to the mirror. She could hear one of Miss Mallory’s favorite admonishments: Only God can give beauty, girls, but anyone can be neat. It had usually been accompanied by a pained look at Clarissa. God had neglected to give her tidiness, too.

She began pulling the pins out of her hair.

Althea came over and pushed her hands away. After a few moments with the brush and a few more with the pins, Clarissa’s hair was pinned in an orderly, and even slightly becoming, knot.

“I don’t know how you do it,” she said somewhat grumpily.

Althea just laughed again. “Don’t you have any ribbons?”

“No, and they’d look silly with this plain gown.” Clarissa felt that she’d exposed enough folly for now. “

Thank you for tidying me. Now let’s go and thank the hero of the day.”

“Don’t you have any other clothes?” Althea asked, frowning at the beige dress.

Clarissa ignored the trunks in the attic. “No. Come along, Althea. It hardly matters what I look like.”

“No?” Althea teased.

Certainly not as long as I’m with you, Clarissa thought without acrimony, leading the way downstairs.

Despite that, her heart was racing on nervous little feet, and she tried to command her senses. The major was here out of courtesy. Despite his earlier behavior, there was no chance that he had been slain by her wondrous charms.

And, of course, she did not desire any man’s serious interest.

He was just the sort of man, however, likely to shock Althea’s heart out of the past and into thinking beyond the hoary ancient awaiting her back home.

They arrived in the neat front hall, and after a steadying breath, she led the way into the parents’ parlor—

so called because it was where parents were taken when they visited.

Oh, my. Speaking of wondrous charms…

The image in her mind had not been fanciful.

Even without a hat, he was strikingly elegant, not just in the quality of his clothes but in the way he wore them, and the way he moved. There was all the straight-shouldered authority of the military, but surprising grace as well.

He bowed—perfectly. “Miss Greystone. Excuse my intrusion, but I wished to be sure that you and the girls were not harmed in any way.”

Clarissa dropped a curtsy, commanding her heart to settle so that she could think clearly. Her heart, however, was a rebel, as was her awestruck mind. “So kind, sir. We are all safe.” She introduced Althea and then took a seat on the sofa, inviting him to take a chair.

They talked of the riot and the consequences—apparently two people were seriously injured, but most had merely been frightened. All the time, Clarissa was fighting her tendency to be dazzled, and observing Althea to see how she was reacting to this gem.

Althea was sparkling, which was a truly remarkable sight. Clarissa thought she was seeing the Althea that Gareth Waterstone had loved, and she was amazed that the major managed to pay herself any courteous interest at all.

Yet he did. He seemed to share his attention between them, and when he looked at her— Clarissa fought for reason, but his attentive eyes, his quick smiles seemed meant for her.

She didn’t need a man.

She didn’t want a man. And she must be mistaken. Such men were never interested in her.

But she wouldn’t mind the company of one if, amazingly, he did find something about her to admire.

Perhaps it was her behavior during the riot. She had done well. Was it possible that he admired her?

Her heart scurried again. “Do you live in Cheltenham, Major?” she asked.

Those eyes. Those eyes that seemed to like looking at her. “No, Miss Greystone. I am passing through on my way to visit a family property. My home is in Sussex, not far from Brighton.”

“Have you seen the Pavilion?” Althea asked with interest, drawing his attention.

“A number of times, Miss Trist, as a youth. I have been out of the country with the army for many years, however.”

Clarissa saw thoughts of the army, and of Gareth, mute her friend’s spirits, and spoke quickly, “Brighton is the most fashionable place to be in the summer, isn’t it, Major?”

“Indeed it is, Miss Greystone. I recommend it to you.”

She stared at him. “To me?”

“To anyone who would like a pleasant place in which to pass some summer months,” he responded smoothly, but she didn’t think that was quite what he had meant.

Was he a mind reader? Here she was, in her well-worn schoolgirl clothes, and he was suggesting a move to the most fashionable, and expensive, resort in England.

Some of the glow disappeared from the room.

“Cheltenham is delightful,” he went on, “but it does not have the sea, never mind the Prince of Wales and most of the haut ton.”

“How true.” She met his smiling eyes, sorting through her tumbling thoughts.

Althea broke in. “Miss Greystone is to leave here soon, Major, and enter fashionable life.”

Clarissa felt herself color, and knew it did nothing to improve her looks. Althea meant well, but Clarissa wished she hadn’t said that.

The major smiled as if he’d received good news. “Then perhaps you and your family will visit Brighton, Miss Greystone.”

Her family. Mustn’t such a man-about-town know the Greystones? And know about the Devil’s Heiress.

Hiding foolish hurt, Clarissa retreated behind a formal smile and a slightly cool manner. “I doubt it is possible to move there this late in the year, Major Hawkinville. Perhaps next year—”

She rose to hint that the visit was at an end.

He rose too, with admirable smoothness. “You are thinking of the difficulty of finding good houses to rent, Miss Greystone?” He took out a card and pencil and wrote something on the back. “If you should think of visiting Brighton, apply to Mr. Scotburn and mention my name. If there is a house to be had, he will doubtless find it for you.”

Clarissa took the card, though she felt it would be safer to take nothing tangible from this encounter. How could she refuse, however, short of pure incivility?

Then he was gone, and that should have been the end of it, except that she had his card, and his even, flowing handwriting. She turned it and confirmed what she suspected.

She also had his address.

Major George Hawkinville, Hawkinville Manor, Sussex.

Major George Hawkinville, who almost certainly was a fortune hunter who knew exactly who she was and what she was worth. Whose admiration had been stirred by her money, not her charms.

But, she thought, looking at the card again, that admiration had been deliriously enjoyable. Why should a lady not play games too, and enjoy such company, especially if she was awake to all his tricks?

Hawk left the school and didn’t allow himself a pause to savor success. People leaving were often watched.

His quarry had cooled for some reason, but he didn’t think she was beyond reach. In fact, he’d be willing to bet that she was already thinking of a move to Brighton. If not, he could come up with some other ways to persuade her. It was the obvious resort for a wealthy young lady in search of social adventure in the summer, and he was sure that Miss Greystone was in search of social adventure.

In fact, she was ripe for trouble, and his pressing instinct was to protect her! Damnation, why couldn’t she be the harpy he’d imagined?

He wasted a few moments seeking other ways to the Deveril money, but knew he’d worn that path bare.

He simply didn’t want to be doing what he was doing, playing on an innocent young woman’s vulnerability.

Hawkinville, he reminded himself.

And no matter how innocent she was, that money was not hers by right.

He decided, however, to move on immediately to inspect Gaspard Hall. He knew how useful a strategic absence could be. Before seeing his father’s new property he loathed it, but if there was something to be made of it, perhaps they could survive somehow without the Deveril money.

Twenty thousand pounds?

And, damnation, that will was a forgery. It galled him to think of anyone, even that lively young woman, benefiting from it!

For the first time in his life he was being deflected from battle by a pretty face. Not even pretty, but with power all the same.

Hawkinville, he reminded himself.

But even for Hawkinville, was he really willing to see Clarissa Greystone hang?

Clarissa retreated back to her room, card in hand. “Brighton,” she announced.

“Clarissa! You can’t. You hardly know the man.”

Clarissa laughed. “I’m not going to marry him, Thea, but it is the obvious place to go. Think of it. I’m the Devil’s Heiress and no matter where I go, sooner or later people will learn of it. I might as well be brazen and enjoy myself in a fashionable spot.”

“But that doesn’t mean the major—”

“Of course not. He merely put the idea into my mind. However,” she added, twirling the card, “if we happen to meet it will not be unpleasant.”

“What if he’s a fortune hunter?”

Even though it put Clarissa’s own thoughts into words, it stung. “Oh, he probably is,” she said lightly. “As I said, I have no intention of marrying him. If he wants to play escort and charming companion, well, why not?”

“If he is a fortune hunter, I wish nothing more to do with him.”

Althea had what Clarissa thought of as her Early Christian Martyr face on. Clarissa was trying to work around to the topic of Althea’s accompanying her, and this was not the right direction. Unless she gave it a twist.

“I do have to leave and join the world, Thea,” she said meekly, “but it will be hard. I did nothing wrong, but I am a Greystone, and I was engaged to marry Lord Deveril, and he did meet with a very unfortunate death—”

“He did?” Althea asked, disapproval thawing to curiosity.

“Stabbed in a very poor area of town.”

“Stabbed!” Althea gasped.

Clarissa tried to stay focused on the part she was playing, and not let memories of the truth invade to overset her.