Playing to Win (27 page)

Neither of them had attended to the
sound of approaching hoofbeats, and both jumped, startled, at the
sound of Mr. Whitlatch’s voice as he reined in his horse beside
Clarissa’s.

"Good afternoon," he said. His eyes
raked Clarissa mockingly. "Let me guess: you have lost your way.
It’s a habit of yours, I think."

She thought she saw anger in the set of
Trevor’s jaw, but he seemed to be masking it in the presence of a
third person. She could only be thankful. She tried her best to
remain composed and speak pleasantly. "Yes, I am afraid it is. This
kind gentleman seems to know the neighborhood well, however, so you
find me in good hands, sir."

Mr. Whitlatch glanced at her companion,
a sardonic gleam lighting his eyes. "So you rushed to Miss Feeney’s
assistance! What a noble nature you have, Mr. Henry."

Mr. Henry’s young face flushed.
"A-anyone would!" he stammered.

"Well, I am in your debt," said Mr.
Whitlatch smoothly. He glanced from Mr. Henry’s obvious
discomfiture to Clarissa’s, and the sight of their embarrassment
apparently tickled his wicked sense of humor. "Shall I introduce
you, or have you performed that office for yourselves? Ah, I see
that you have not. Very well: Clarissa, allow me to present to you
Mr. Eustace Henry." His grin widened. "The vicar’s son."

Clarissa almost gasped aloud, but
managed to keep her countenance while she bowed to Mr. Henry. Mr.
Whitlatch continued.

"Mr. Henry, the lady you have been
assisting is Miss Feeney." There was a barely perceptible pause
before he proceeded. "My ward."

His
ward!
Clarissa gaped at her
host in dumbstruck amazement. The effrontery of the man! But Mr.
Henry was bowing very low to her, a smile of eager relief
transforming his features.

"Your servant, Miss Feeney!" he
exclaimed reverently. His enthusiasm invested the common courtesy
with something more than its usual meaning. He straightened,
beaming. "You are her guardian, then, Mr. Whitlatch? I had heard
you were in the neighborhood, but—" He stopped, suddenly covered
with confusion. Clarissa could easily imagine what he had heard.
Doubtless that Mr. Whitlatch had brought another female out from
London, with all that that implied.

Mr. Whitlatch seemed unconcerned. "Yes,
I mean to stay here for a period. And Miss Feeney too, I imagine."
He smiled urbanely at Clarissa. She glared at him in speechless
dudgeon.

The lock of hair fell across Mr.
Henry’s forehead again, making him appear even more boyish as he
turned his radiant smile upon Clarissa. "Then I daresay we may see
each other at morning services tomorrow!" he exclaimed. His smile
turned shy again. "I—I hope so, at any rate."

Clarissa had no idea whether Trevor
attended church, but she unhesitatingly replied, "I shall certainly
be present." She threw a challenging glance at her host, but he
appeared perfectly unruffled. He touched his hat to Mr.
Henry.

"Until tomorrow, then, Mr. Henry. Come
along, Clarissa."

He turned his horse and, without a
backward glance, started back the way he had come. Clarissa was
thus reduced to the status of a child who must go where she is bid
and suffer herself to be addressed by her Christian name. Inwardly
fuming, Clarissa bowed to Mr. Henry and turned Daisy to follow Mr.
Whitlatch. He had, very neatly, left her with no dignified
alternative.

Mr. Henry still stood at the side of
the road, watching them go. He appeared lost in some beatific
daydream. She waited until he was out of earshot before addressing
Mr. Whitlatch.

"I suppose you find this situation
amusing!" she hissed, furious. "Whatever possessed you to introduce
me as your ward?"

Soundless laughter shook him. "You are
my ward. After your father’s death, your mother—er —commended you
to my care."

Clarissa gasped, and bit her lip. He
smiled grimly at her. "It’s true, as far as it goes. And you would
do well to accept the story with the appearance, at least, of
complaisance."

Trevor glanced at her mortified
expression and his jaw tightened. "Very well; what would you have
me do? How should I introduce you, Clarissa? I would be interested
to know how you would characterize our relationship."

"We have no relationship!" she told
him, her voice shaking a little. "And I am no one’s
ward!
The idea is absurd! I’ll have you know, sir, that I am
one-and-twenty!"

He shrugged. "No matter. I shall tell
people that you are under my protection until your twenty-fifth
birthday. That ought to buy us some time."

"Buy us some time for what?" Clarissa
asked, confused. Then her expression became despairing. "Oh, sir,
how am I to find employment if people believe I am your ward? They
will think it so odd of me!"

"Yes," he said shortly. "I think it
odd, myself."

"You cannot mean to keep me here until
my twenty-fifth birthday!"

"Why not?" he said flippantly. Then his
brows drew together. "You are not my prisoner, Clarissa. I told you
I would try to find a position for you, and I will keep my word. If
you still wish it."

"If I still—
if
I still wish it!"
she choked. "Of course I wish it! But—will Mr. Henry tell people in
the village that I am your ward?"

"I suppose he will. What does that
matter?"

Clarissa pounded her fist against the
pommel in frustration, and then had to rein Daisy in as the animal
jumped forward. "Do you not see, sir, that if people here believe
me to be your ward—to be anyone’s ward!—I will not be able to seek
employment in this neighborhood?"

She saw by his puzzled frown that he
did not understand why this upset her. She wasn’t sure, herself,
why it upset her. She gazed at him in helpless frustration. "I do
not wish to go back to London," she said at last.

"Very well. I had not thought about
that, one way or the other. We will find you a situation in St.
Albans, or Camden Town, or Uxbridge, or anywhere you like. What
difference does it make?"

She took a deep and shaky breath, and
expelled it on a sigh. "None, I suppose," she said listlessly. He
was right, of course. What difference did it make? After this week,
or next, she would never see Morecroft Cottage again. Never see
Trevor Whitlatch again. Or Mrs. Simmons, or Dawson, or Hogan, or
even Mr. Henry. And that was all doubtless for the best.

They rode on in silence for a few
moments. Clarissa glanced uncertainly at her companion. He was
sitting very straight in the saddle, gazing ahead with a most
forbidding expression on his face. Still, she determined to
speak.

"It is time you told me, sir, how I
came to be in your power."

Trevor’s eyebrows flew upwards. "What!
Do you mean you do not know?"

"I know nothing. My mother’s servant
came to me and told me to pack my things, that I was being sent
away with you. Why?"

"Good God!"" He considered her for a
moment, his expression unfathomable. "From what I now know of you,
I am astonished you obeyed her."

Her eyes flashed. "Believe me, my case
was desperate or I never would have done so!"

"I do believe you," said Trevor wryly.
"I said I was astonished."

He fell silent. Clarissa waited
impatiently for a few seconds, then turned to him again.
"Well?"

"Well what?"

"You have not answered my question! Why
was I sent away with you? I have gathered, of course, that my
mother promised you I would become your mistress." It was suddenly
difficult to speak past the constriction in her throat. She had to
force the terrible words out. "Did she—did she
sell
me to
you?"

Trevor uttered a startled exclamation.
"Devil a bit! What do you take me for? I’m not a man who traffics
in the sale of—" But he suddenly broke off, his indignant
expression turning almost ludicrously to chagrin. After a short
struggle with himself, he spoke again, gruffly. "Very well. I
suppose I did exactly that. And not five minutes after telling La
Gianetta I was no slaver! What a joke."

"Not a very funny one," she said
quietly.

"No." He shot her a quick glance, and
his mouth twisted in self-mockery. "You may have noticed that I am
a creature of impulse."

Despite her churning emotions, that
almost surprised a laugh out of her. "Yes, oddly enough, that
aspect of your character has not escaped me."

"My instincts are generally sound,
however. The majority of my impulsive decisions turn out
well."

"What a disappointment, then, to have
made such a—such an
unprofitable
investment in me!"
Clarissa’s cheeks flushed with mortification.

"I can’t deny that I am disappointed
with the results thus far." A sudden grin lightened his features.
"Still, some of my richest ventures showed heavy losses in the
beginning. It would be foolish to despair at this early
juncture."

She shook her head resolutely. "No,
sir, I fear you have made a bad bargain this time. The sooner you
secure employment for me, the sooner you will stop throwing good
money after bad."

"What money? You haven’t cost me a
farthing, apart from the—er—initial outlay. I have given you
nothing. In fact, I haven’t dared to offer you so much as a
handkerchief, for fear of offending you! You nearly bit my head off
for trying to give you that rubbishing riding habit."

"You know very well I did no such
thing! Pray do not think you will draw me into a foolish argument
and thus lead me from the point, for you won’t succeed!"

"What is the point?"

"I am living almost entirely at your
expense. Nothing could be more improper! You may wipe that wounded
look off your face, sir; I do not mean to imply that I am
ungrateful. You have been everything that is kind, everything that
is generous. I am very sensible of it, I assure you."

"How oppressive! Banish the thought.
When you leave me for your new position, I shall present you with a
bill for your lodging and meals."

He appeared so earnest that for a
moment Clarissa stared at him. Then an unwilling smile tugged at
the corners of her mouth. "You have an answer for
everything."

Trevor smiled, but the smile did not
reach his eyes. "I have much to answer for," he said
quietly.

Clarissa was tempted to reassure him,
but quelled the impulse. He did, in fact, have much to answer for.
Her hands tightened on the reins. "So. You purchased me." She gave
an unhappy little laugh. "I don’t know why the truth should upset
me. After all, it is what I suspected all along."

"In point of fact, no money exchanged
hands—if that makes you feel any better."

She gazed numbly at him. "Should
it?"

"No. I suppose not. But I wish it
would." Trevor suddenly reached over and seized her reins, pulling
both horses to a stop. His hand covered hers and his voice grew
husky. "Clarissa, I am sorry. I wish I could find smooth words to
make it up to you, to somehow make everything all right. But I’m a
plainspoken fellow, and I’ve no knack for making pretty
speeches."

"I don’t want pretty speeches," she
whispered. "And nothing you could say would put this situation
right."

His hand tightened over hers. "Let me
try. We have always spoken truth to each other, have we not? I tell
you plainly, Clarissa, that no one can put a value on your person
or your soul. The transaction between myself and La Gianetta was
meaningless. She cheated me, but that does not touch you. It cannot
touch you. You owe me nothing."

Abruptly, he returned control of her
horse to her and headed his chestnut to the left. In a haze of
conflicting emotions, she suddenly became aware that they were
turning through the gates of Morecroft Cottage. She struggled to
compose herself before anyone could see her. They rode up to the
house in silence.

The instant Dawson helped her to
alight, Clarissa discovered she was woefully stiff after spending
the morning on horseback. She also felt strangely low and
dispirited. She knew it was good news to learn that Mr. Whitlatch
would not hold her accountable for her mother’s debt. Why, that
ought to have relieved her mind, not depressed her. Mr. Whitlatch
had no hold on her whatsoever. He had acknowledged it. She was free
to leave, with a clear conscience, at whatever point a situation
offered. Trying to feel glad of this, and inexplicably failing,
Clarissa drooped tiredly as she made her way upstairs.

Bess helped her change out of the
pretty riding habit and into one of her plain round gowns. Clarissa
ran her hand regretfully over the soft folds of rose-colored velvet
as they lay, discarded, on her bed. What a pity that she would
never wear it again. Then she remembered the meaning of the rose
color, and that the habit had been purchased for someone else, and
her spine stiffened. Just as well, she told herself. It was time
she came down from the clouds and returned to the realities of her
life. Soon she would obtain a post as someone’s second housemaid,
or nursemaid, or something equally dreary. In Uxbridge. And this
wonderful, magical week of holiday at Morecroft Cottage would all
seem like a far-off dream.