Playing to Win (8 page)

As soon as the words were spoken, he
regretted them. Damnation! he thought. One never speaks of a
woman's age! Why could he not bear in mind the simplest social
conventions?

But Clarissa did not take offense at
his plain speaking. She did not even seem to notice it. "By that
time, Miss Bathurst had honored me with her friendship," she
explained. "It is really she who reared me, sir. Miss Bathurst had
the molding of my mind and opinions; hers was the only parental
influence I have ever felt. I worked hard under her tutelage and
did well in my studies. When I became too old for school, she
allowed me to stay on at the Academy and teach some of the younger
girls."

Clarissa looked down at her hands
again. She spoke so softly, he had to lean forward to catch her
words. "If she had not employed me, I do not know what I would have
done. By then, my father was afflicted with what would prove to be
his final illness. When he fell ill, my allowance stopped. I
believe no one else in his household knew of my
existence."

"Who was your father?"

"A nobleman."

"Which nobleman?"

Clarissa drew herself up with great
dignity. "I will not tell you his name."

He grinned at this hair-splitting. "Why
not?"

"My father was a well-respected man,
meticulous in matters of reputation. I owe him my existence, my
education, the very clothes on my back. I will not disgrace his
memory by divulging his identity."

Mr. Whitlatch reflected that if his
curiosity got the better of him, a few discreet inquiries would
easily bring him the name of whoever was Gianetta's protector
twenty-odd years ago. For the time being, he would respect
Clarissa's reticence.

"Then, I take it, you do not bear his
name."

She inclined her head sadly. "It was
not available to me, sir. I have my mother's surname."

Mr. Whitlatch searched his memory for
La Gianetta's surname, and came up blank. "Do you know," he said
slowly, "I don't believe I ever heard your mother's last name. She
has always been ‘La Gianetta.’"

Clarissa's eyes suddenly gleamed with
something that might have been mischief. "Her name is Feeney," she
said calmly.

Mr. Whitlatch was thunderstruck.
"Feeney?
Impossible! Or, wait—I see. F-I-N I. Gianetta
Fini."

Clarissa shook her head, and spelled
the common Irish surname with great relish. "F-E-E-N E-Y.
Whatever airs my mother chooses to affect, she was born plain Jane
Feeney."

Clarissa's look of mischief increased
as she saw his jaw slacken. "I fancy that is not generally known,"
she added kindly.

"Good God, no!" Mr. Whitlatch was aware
of an absurd feeling of disillusionment. Then a reluctant grin
spread across his features.

"Very clever," he said appreciatively.
"She picked her own name, a name to suit her image, eh? Jane
Feeney! No, it doesn't have the same ring. But what is her accent?
She speaks both French and English with the loveliest lilt. I
always thought she was Italian."

"I daresay," said Clarissa scornfully.
"Had you been Italian, you would have assumed she was Portuguese.
And so on."

This stroke of marketing genius made
Mr. Whitlatch shake his head in amazement. "Extraordinary. One
can't help but admire her."

With an exclamation of annoyance,
Clarissa picked the lap robe up off the floor and began tucking it
round her again. "Yes, one can!" she snapped. "My mother is a
shameless charlatan. She has spent her life deceiving and
manipulating others. Do you admire that?"

"Your mother has lived by her wits, my
girl, and carved a name for herself out of nothing. I admire that
in anyone."

A crease appeared between Clarissa's
brows as she struggled with the idea of admiring her mother. "I
suppose she is, in many ways, a remarkable woman," she said at
last. "But frankly, sir, her reputation is a cross I have been
forced to bear all my life. I would fain have had a
less—remarkable—parent."

Yes, he supposed anonymity would have
been more to Clarissa’s liking. She seemed a sober little thing. He
placed the tips of his fingers together. "So. Here we have Miss
Feeney—a name which, by the by, suits you no more than it does your
mother—on the horns of a dilemma. An adored father you cannot
acknowledge, and a despised mother you cannot deny."

"Very succinctly put, sir."

"I have that knack," acknowledged Mr.
Whitlatch. "And as a result, you were buried alive at a female
academy. That must have been a hellish existence for a young and
lovely girl."

But the eyes she raised to his were
puzzled. "No, sir. It was a life I loved."

His brows rose. "Really? Most young
people dislike school, you know. They had much rather be
home."

To his discomfiture, Clarissa’s face
crumpled. She looked away. "I was home," she whispered. Her voice
became suspended in tears; she shook her head and swallowed,
fighting to control herself.

Mr. Whitlatch sat quietly for a moment,
respecting her struggle for composure. His voice was unusually
gentle when he finally asked, "Then why did you leave?"

Clarissa's gloved hands clenched
tightly in her lap. "As I told you, sir, Miss Bathurst died." An
unhappy little laugh escaped her. "You must think it odd that I
would mourn a mere teacher so violently."

"Not at all. It is clear she was like a
mother to you. And you had no father. I daresay it was like losing
both parents at a blow."

She nodded. "Very much like that," she
whispered. "Thank you for understanding."

Understanding! He was ready to
disclaim, when he suddenly realized she was right. The novelty of
it fairly knocked him acock. He, Trevor Whitlatch, was empathizing
with another human being. He fancied most of his acquaintance would
never believe it.

But Clarissa was addressing him again.
"That isn’t the whole," she said. Her voice was strained. "I would
have gladly stayed on, even without Miss Bathurst. I enjoyed
teaching, and the little girls had become dear to me."

"Well, then?"

Clarissa hesitated. "I am sure, had she
thought of it, Miss Bathurst would have made some provision that
might have—would have ensured—" She swallowed, then went on. "But
her death was sudden, and she had never made a will. Ten days after
her death, her next of kin arrived. Cousins of some kind, I fancy.
At any rate, Miss Bathurst had built her school into a profitable
establishment and they were anxious to claim it. One cannot blame
them."

Clarissa shrugged, in a futile attempt
to appear unaffected. "When they learned whose daughter I was, they
dismissed me."

Ah, God. This empathy business was
uncomfortable. Mr. Whitlatch felt his throat constrict with
pity.

"Until last week, sir, I had not seen
my mother for over fifteen years. But I found myself with nowhere
else to go."

"I see." He absently rubbed his injured
forearm. "Declared
persona non grata
at the Academy, through
no fault of your own, you were forced to turn to the very person
whose notoriety was responsible for your situation. That must have
been painful."

She nodded. "Intolerable," she said
quietly. "But I had no choice."

He cocked his head at her. "You say you
arrived there only last week?"

She nodded again. "Although it
certainly seemed longer, to me. My stay there was—unpleasant. I am
sure you can imagine."

Yes, he could. It was easy to picture
the treatment Clarissa would receive at her mother’s hands,
especially if she had refused to fall in with La Gianetta’s plans
for her. And Gianetta would obviously have had plans for Clarissa,
plans that involved making the maximum amount of money off her
highly marketable daughter. No wonder Gianetta had laughed when he
accepted Clarissa in exchange for those rubies. What a very good
joke it must have seemed. In one stroke, she had punished Clarissa
and cheated Trevor Whitlatch.

He thought for a moment, fitting the
pieces of the puzzle together in the new light shed by Miss
Feeney’s revelations. Righteous anger began to build within him.
Anger at the pious nincompoops who had dismissed a dedicated
teacher because she happened to be born on the wrong side of the
blanket. And probably, he thought, because she was so startlingly
beautiful. One of those sins she might have been forgiven, but not
both. He also felt anger at Gianetta, who had cold-bloodedly tried
to sell an innocent girl into prostitution. Her own daughter!
Gianetta's sins against himself, and against poor Bates, were
nothing compared to this.

Oh, he entered into Clarissa's
feelings, all right. He understood them perfectly. And for a moment
wished that he could lay his hands on the dolts and villains who
had misused her. His hands clenched into purposeful fists as he
thought longingly of that lovely prospect.

Good God, he had almost abused her
himself. That thought made him angrier than ever. Gianetta had
tipped him a doubler. She, at least, would pay. There was probably
nothing he could do to get Clarissa her position back at the
Bathurst Ladies' Academy, but La Gianetta he could certainly put to
rout.

He glanced over at Clarissa and saw
that she was watching him, eyes wide with alarm. He uttered a short
laugh, and she relaxed a little.

"You looked ready to murder someone,"
she said.

"I wouldn’t mind ridding the world of a
certain Jane Feeney," he admitted. That seemed to please her, he
noted with amusement.

"I am sorry I stabbed you," she said
handsomely. "You are not at all what I supposed you
were."

As if to prove her good faith, she
picked up her bonnet and neatly tucked her weapon through its
brim.

He grinned. "I could say the same of
you. But you are in the devil of a scrape, you know."

Clarissa looked up from her task, a
touch of anxiety in her face. "I realize I should never have
consented to ride in a closed carriage with a gentleman who is not
related to me."

He waved that aside impatiently. "You
did not consent. You had no choice. That is not what I
meant."

"What did you mean?"

"I meant, my dear Miss Feeney, what is
to become of you? And what's more to the purpose—since you are, in
fact, riding in a closed carriage with me—what am I supposed to do
with you?"

She leaned forward anxiously. "You said
I was under your protection. Could you—would you—consider employing
me?" Her voice was timid. She looked eager, embarrassed, and
pitiful.

He stared at her. "Employ you? As
what?"

A blush was mounting in her cheeks, but
she did not drop her eyes. "Well—I had hoped, one day, to be a
governess. I was educated to that end. I am a rather gifted
teacher, in fact. Do you have children?"

Mr. Whitlatch struggled for
words.

"I sincerely hope not!" he finally
managed. "I am not married! Why the devil would I offer to set you
up at Morecroft Cottage if I had a wife?"

Her blush deepened. "I beg your
pardon!" she stammered. "But I thought—that is, one hears—that many
married men—well, my own father—" She stopped, covered with
confusion.

"I see," he said grimly. "But I am not
among those who wink at that sort of arrangement. I don't pledge my
word lightly, and I don’t make vows I mean to break. The day I take
a wife is the day I have done with mistresses."

"Oh, I
do
beg your pardon!" she
gasped, scarlet with distress.

"Besides," he went on, stretching his
long legs across the coach, "I don't expect I shall regret
marrying. Unlike most people, I can afford to marry for love.
That's one of the advantages of wealth."

"Yes, I—I suppose it would be," agreed
Clarissa, edging a little away from the booted feet he had propped
on the cushion beside her.

Mr. Whitlatch settled back against the
squabs with great satisfaction. "This year, in fact, I'm not going
back to sea. I'm staying in the City. Once the Season starts, I
intend to look around a little."

She eyed him dubiously. "The Season? I
thought you were a merchant."

A grin flashed white in his
sun-darkened face. "Do you think the fashionable hostesses won't
let me near their well-bred daughters? You underrate me, my
dear."

Clarissa sat very straight, her brows
knitting. "Believe me, sir, this is a subject on which I am
something of an expert. Without the advantages of birth and
breeding, you cannot enter that world."

His eyes lit with cynical amusement.
"All doors open for Trevor Whitlatch, sweetheart. That's another of
the advantages of wealth. I can look for a bride wherever I choose.
I intend to marry for love, but I also intend to marry wisely.
Noble connections are all I lack. My wife can supply
them."

"Oh. A titled lady, no
less?"

"I hope so."

"Most titled ladies are not born
titled, you know! They have only their husband's
titles."