Playing to Win (11 page)

"Is there anything worth reading?" he
asked, showing that her occupation when he entered had not escaped
his notice after all. "The books are mostly window dressing, I am
afraid."

Clarissa was glad to turn her mind to a
safe subject. "I am not familiar with many of the titles," she
admitted. "Some of them seem to be in German, and some in Italian.
You do have a
Complete Works,
of course, and several books
on horticulture that might prove instructive."

"Horticulture!" A deep chuckle shook
him. "I count myself fortunate that you did not come across the
Kama Sutra."

She lifted an eyebrow frostily.
"Indeed! So do I."

Mr. Whitlatch grinned. "Would you know
the
Kama Sutra
if you saw it, Miss Feeney?" he asked, with
an air of great interest. "You told me you were an educated woman,
but I did not realize your studies had been so
comprehensive."

Nonplussed, Clarissa attempted to stare
him down. "I have, naturally, heard of such a work. I have never
seen it," she said repressively.

"I stand corrected." His grin flashed
again. "Disappointed, but corrected."

From the hall came the unmistakable
sound of the front door closing. Dawson's boy was gone. She was
completely alone in a strange house with Trevor Whitlatch. Suddenly
Clarissa's hands and feet turned to ice. Her throat felt very dry.
Mr. Whitlatch did not seem to perceive her trepidation, however,
which was comforting. She was half-expecting him to make some lewd
or flippant remark, and was deeply relieved when he did not. She
swallowed, and tried valiantly to match his air of
unconcern.

"I am glad you believe men should do
things for themselves from time to time, for if there are no
servants at our disposal this evening you will have any number of
opportunities to do so," she observed lightly. "What is first on
the agenda, sir?"

He cocked an eye at her. "Dinner," he
said firmly.

She could not help laughing a little.
"Am I to cook dinner in my bonnet?"

"Good God! What a Philistine I am," he
remarked, picking up the branch of candles. "I appreciate Simmons
as never before. By all means, Miss Feeney, allow me to show you to
your room."

She followed him, albeit a little
nervously. He led her up the wide wooden stairway that curved up
from the hall to the landing above. When he reached the landing,
however, he stopped so abruptly that she nearly ran into him. He
glanced at her sideways, for all the world like a guilty
schoolboy.

"What on earth is the matter?" she
asked, astonished.

Mr. Whitlatch appeared at a loss for
words. He gestured vaguely at the door before them, and cleared his
throat. "Well, you see, Miss Feeney—it occurs to me that—" He
rubbed his chin, regarding her fixedly. "It won't do," he said
finally.

"What won't do?"

"The bedchamber."

"Oh, is that all!" she said, relieved.
"Pray do not disturb yourself, Mr. Whitlatch. I know you were not
expecting a guest. I will put sheets on the bed, and even dust the
room if it needs it. Whatever its current state, the room will do
very well once a fire is burning in the grate and things are put to
rights."

Before he could stop her, Clarissa
stepped forward, turned the knob and stepped into the bedchamber.
But she stopped dead on the threshold, her hand traveling
involuntarily to her throat.

"Merciful heavens!" she exclaimed
faintly.

It was as if she had stepped into a
completely different house. Here were the smirking cherubs and
gilded fleur-de-lis she had half-expected to see belowstairs. A
garish sea of rose-pink met her affronted gaze. The late afternoon
sunlight, filtered through pink gauze curtains, illuminated a
lavish expanse of thick Chinese carpet where pink roses as big as
cabbages marched across the floor to a window-seat. The window-seat
was upholstered in rose-pink velvet, with tasseled velvet bolsters
positioned to display pink silk roses embroidered upon their
surfaces. The whole was bracketed by pink velvet draperies tied
back with garlands of imitation pink roses. French silk wallpaper
covered the walls, floor to ceiling, in a pattern depicting more
garlands of pink roses festooned across a background of vertical
pink stripes. Her own trunk and bandboxes, looking incredibly
prosaic and shabby, were propped neatly against a gilded
dressing-table adorned with a repeating pattern of roses, edged in
pink satin, and supporting a large mirror and a vast array of
crystal vials, pink puffs and rose-enameled boxes. The focal point
of the room was an enormous featherbed completely covered in pink
satin, including pink satin pillowslips. Gilt bedposts supported
curtains of rose-pink silk tied back with more imitation rose
garlands.

And suspended over the bed was not a
canopy, but an enormous mirror.

Dumbfounded, Clarissa turned her
dazzled gaze back to Mr. Whitlatch. His expression was so sheepish
that she had to bite her lip to keep her countenance.

"I see you have put me in the Tudor
Room," she remarked.

To her delight, Mr. Whitlatch
immediately understood her reference to the Tudor rose. He threw
back his head and shouted with laughter, while Clarissa turned
almost as pink as her surroundings. She had never before made
someone laugh so heartily. At least not on purpose. It was
surprisingly pleasant to bestow that gift on a fellow human
being.

Chapter 7

Clarissa stood before a cheval glass
and gravely regarded her reflection. It would have to do. She
deftly tucked the end of one glossy black braid under the edge of
another, and observed the result critically. A little severe,
perhaps, but tidy. And the crown of braids helped mask the fact
that her hair was unfashionably long.

She heard the clock chime softly again
in the distance. Oh, dear. It was time to meet Mr. Whitlatch in the
library. She was embarrassed by her attire, but it simply couldn't
be helped. She did not own a single gown appropriate for dining at
a rich man’s country house. After all, she had never expected to
dine at a rich man’s country house! She was a schoolteacher, not a
debutante.

She had put on her best muslin—white,
with puffed sleeves and eyelet trim—but it was hardly an evening
dress. The neckline was modest. The sleeves, which puffed prettily
at her shoulders, should have ended there. Correct evening attire
would leave her arms bare. Instead the sleeves continued after the
puff, wrapping closely and extending to her wrists. The effect was
sweet and chaste rather than fashionable. Wrong as the dress was,
it was her nicest. She fervently hoped she would not soil
it.

She thought fleetingly of the enormous,
gilded wardrobe she had glimpsed in the "Tudor Room," and sighed.
Being someone’s mistress obviously had its rewards. How lovely, to
have a closet full of clothes! She wondered if the wardrobe in the
pink room stood empty. If it contained clothes, what would they be
like? For a moment she itched to explore that wardrobe. Then she
bit her lip, ashamed of herself for entertaining such
thoughts.

She was glad Mr. Whitlatch had not
insisted upon housing her in that opulent, decadent bedchamber. She
wouldn't have slept a wink.

Instead, he had graciously moved her
belongings to this room, which was much smaller and farther down
the hall. To Clarissa's mind these features were advantages rather
than drawbacks. A small room stayed warmer. And the farther from
Mr. Whitlatch she lay, the sounder she would sleep. She had moved
to a bedchamber that was clearly designed to house visiting
gentlemen, but she didn't mind that. It was plain, neat, and
comfortable. And spotlessly clean. Once a fire had been lit, there
was nothing else needed to ready the room for instant habitation.
Mr. Whitlatch's statement that he paid his staff to expect him was
obviously no figure of speech.

Well, it was high time to leave the
warmth of the bedchamber and proceed downstairs. Clarissa hesitated
outside her door. It swung softly shut behind her. The sun was
setting and the interior passage was quite cold and nearly dark.
She turned left and walked past several closed doors to where she
thought the staircase ought to be. It was not there.

Vexed, she turned and walked the other
way, wishing the door to her room had not closed. Now there were no
landmarks of any kind to tell her where she was.

Had she turned a corner on the way to
her room the first time? She could not recall. Just as she was
about to stop and turn round again, a lightening of the darkness
ahead disclosed where the stairs were. Daylight still faintly
illuminated the top of the landing. She hurried forward. But she
stopped at the head of the stairs. Botheration! Was this the
staircase she sought? Was that the hall below? She grasped the
handrail and leaned over, peering anxiously into the gloom at the
foot of the stairs.

"Mr. Whitlatch?" she called
quaveringly.

A door opened below—on the opposite
side of the hall from where she thought it would be, of course—and
lamplight spilled onto the hall carpet. Mr. Whitlatch's tall form
appeared in the doorway.

"Thank goodness!" cried Clarissa,
running lightly down the stairs. "Am I late?"

"Only just," he replied, holding the
door open for her. "Were you lost?"

"Oh, no!" she said airily. Then she
blushed. "Or only a little."

His eyebrows arched in amusement. "Good
Lord! It must be a habit with you."

"Not a habit, sir," she replied
despairingly. "An affliction."

He closed the door behind them and
grinned at her. "This is not a large house, Miss Feeney. We must
hope you are never invited to Blenheim Palace. You might wander the
corridors for weeks on end without reaching your
destination."

She laughed. "Fortunately, I do not
expect to be invited to Blenheim Palace—in this
lifetime!"

"Oh, I don't know. Stranger things have
happened." His eyes traveled over her, gleaming with appreciation.
"You look charming this evening, by the way."

Clarissa dropped a small curtsey. She
was uncertain whether it was proper for him to remark on her
appearance, but since he had, she was glad he had said something
pleasant. She was certainly not going to tell him what she thought
of his appearance. He looked splendid. He had changed out of his
riding clothes, but, to her relief, had chosen morning dress rather
than formal attire. She need not apologize for her long-sleeved
muslin after all. The cut of his coat reminded her of the gorgeous
gentleman she had seen in the tobacconist's shop in London. Mr.
Whitlatch, however, looked much nicer in the close-fitting clothes
than the other gentleman had.

With his characteristic directness, he
lost no time in proposing an immediate raid upon the larder. She
readily agreed. If she had not been so nervous, she fancied, she
would be uncomfortably hungry by now. Clarissa followed as Mr.
Whitlatch wended a crooked path through several rooms that opened
into one another, then down a short flight of steps to the kitchens
at the back of the house.

The kitchens were immaculate and
completely free of clutter. Clarissa halted in the doorway,
clucking her tongue in amazement. Here at the western end of the
house, the last light of day poured through high-set windows and
illuminated surfaces of gleaming steel and copper, polished enamel,
and well-scrubbed wood.

"Your Mrs. Simmons is a treasure!"
exclaimed Clarissa. "Did you say she is your cook as well as your
housekeeper?"

"Yes, but she employs several village
girls as dailies."

"Well!" Clarissa gazed round the room
in admiration. "She must be a very exacting supervisor."

Mr. Whitlatch hopped casually up to sit
on a countertop. "She may be. I certainly am."

Clarissa stared at her host, perched on
the countertop as if it were perfectly natural for a grown man to
sit there. She had never before encountered such shameless
informality! It was extremely unsettling. But his voice continued
prosaically, taking no notice of his companion's
perplexity.

"I can afford to hire the best, and I
generally do. It makes life simpler. A staff that cannot perform
its tasks flawlessly puts one to a great deal of inconvenience. I
dislike wasting my valuable time repeating tasks that should have
been done right in the first place, and by someone
else."

"I daresay," murmured Clarissa,
thinking of the luggage.

"I am very fond of having things just
so," he explained.

This, from a man seated on a
countertop! She bit back a smile. "Yes, I can see that," she said
politely.

"I don't mind paying high wages for
excellent work. It is well worth it, I think, to hire a staff that
follows one's instructions to the letter. I treat my people well, I
pay my people well, and as a result I have a loyal staff that
doesn't need to be told more than once how I like a thing to be
done."

"Another of the advantages of wealth, I
suppose," remarked Clarissa. "One can afford to be a
despot."

Another chuckle shook Mr. Whitlatch.
"Are you certain you wish to join the ranks of my staff, Miss
Feeney?"