subsequently to the Earl of Blackwater.
Clarissa, suddenly restless, got up from her fireside chair and went to the window. The Piazza was in full night guise now, crowded with men and women in their bright colorful garments. She opened the window and leaned out. Laughter and music filled the streets; the toothsome smells of hot pies, spiced ale, and mulled wine scented the cold night air, drowning the less salubrious odors of rank bodies, ordure-filled kennels, the decaying corpses of cats and dogs. It was a carnival scene, Clarissa thought, and once again she felt that sensual vibration, the surge of energy. She wanted to be a part of it. After a lifetime of country quiet . . . of country tedium . . . she was ready for this excitement, this edge to life.
But that was not why she was here. She had to find Francis. She drew the window closed and turned back to the room. One thing she had learned in her fruitless search thus far: She needed help. She had visited Luke’s house every day this week and until this morning had seen nothing. And then this morning her uncle had left the house while she was watching. She’d followed him, hoping he would lead her to Francis, but then, of course, she had run headlong into the earl and had lost her quarry. So she was back to square one.
She could, of course, simply bang on the door and ask to speak to her uncle, but wisdom—or was it cowardice?—prevented her. If he was trying to do away with Francis, he would hardly direct her to where her brother was being kept. And there was no knowingwhat steps he would take if he realized Clarissa’s suspicions.
No, she needed help, and powerful protection, if she was going to tangle with Luke. Jasper St. John Sullivan could provide both the help and the protection. He wouldn’t need to know it, of course, but there could be a quid pro quo to his proposition. Once she had Francis safe, where better to keep him hidden than in London, right under her uncle’s nose? Under the unwitting protection of the Earl of Blackwater? She was to have a house of her own while she lived under the earl’s protection, and she could keep her little brother with her under that roof. Luke would never in his wildest nightmares imagine that his sheltered niece was living the life of an earl’s mistress. Even if he looked for her once he discovered she was no longer in Kent, and once he discovered that Francis was gone, as was inevitable, he would never find either of them.
The earl was interested only in the charade that would bring him his uncle’s fortune. He had no interest in who or what she really was. As long as she fulfilled her side of the bargain, he would be satisfied. How hard would it be for her to play that part?
But there was a snag of course. What else would he expect? Would he expect her really to play the part of his mistress? He believed her a whore; why wouldn’t he expect her to service him in the same way? He’d said he would pay Mistress Griffiths for an exclusive contract, and of course he would expect some of the benefits ofsuch a contract. Of course he would. What red-blooded male would not?
Clarissa sipped her wine and gazed into the fire. How could she legitimately and rationally refuse to give him her body when he’d paid for its exclusive use?
She couldn’t tell him she was a virgin because then she would no longer suit his purposes. He needed a fallen woman. And Clarissa Astley had fallen nowhere. Oh, she’d exchanged a kiss or two with the sons of local gentry under the mistletoe at Christmas. And there had been one particular summer, hot and sultry, when she had imagined herself head over heels in love with a university friend of a neighboring squire’s son. They had indulged in some moments of what had seemed like a grand and illicit passion, but it had not gone beyond intimate fumbling and inexpert kisses.
Maybe to start with she could come up with an excuse for delaying consummation. Perhaps the earl would be
Clarissa, suddenly restless, got up from her fireside chair and went to the window. The Piazza was in full night guise now, crowded with men and women in their bright colorful garments. She opened the window and leaned out. Laughter and music filled the streets; the toothsome smells of hot pies, spiced ale, and mulled wine scented the cold night air, drowning the less salubrious odors of rank bodies, ordure-filled kennels, the decaying corpses of cats and dogs. It was a carnival scene, Clarissa thought, and once again she felt that sensual vibration, the surge of energy. She wanted to be a part of it. After a lifetime of country quiet . . . of country tedium . . . she was ready for this excitement, this edge to life.
But that was not why she was here. She had to find Francis. She drew the window closed and turned back to the room. One thing she had learned in her fruitless search thus far: She needed help. She had visited Luke’s house every day this week and until this morning had seen nothing. And then this morning her uncle had left the house while she was watching. She’d followed him, hoping he would lead her to Francis, but then, of course, she had run headlong into the earl and had lost her quarry. So she was back to square one.
She could, of course, simply bang on the door and ask to speak to her uncle, but wisdom—or was it cowardice?—prevented her. If he was trying to do away with Francis, he would hardly direct her to where her brother was being kept. And there was no knowingwhat steps he would take if he realized Clarissa’s suspicions.
No, she needed help, and powerful protection, if she was going to tangle with Luke. Jasper St. John Sullivan could provide both the help and the protection. He wouldn’t need to know it, of course, but there could be a quid pro quo to his proposition. Once she had Francis safe, where better to keep him hidden than in London, right under her uncle’s nose? Under the unwitting protection of the Earl of Blackwater? She was to have a house of her own while she lived under the earl’s protection, and she could keep her little brother with her under that roof. Luke would never in his wildest nightmares imagine that his sheltered niece was living the life of an earl’s mistress. Even if he looked for her once he discovered she was no longer in Kent, and once he discovered that Francis was gone, as was inevitable, he would never find either of them.
The earl was interested only in the charade that would bring him his uncle’s fortune. He had no interest in who or what she really was. As long as she fulfilled her side of the bargain, he would be satisfied. How hard would it be for her to play that part?
But there was a snag of course. What else would he expect? Would he expect her really to play the part of his mistress? He believed her a whore; why wouldn’t he expect her to service him in the same way? He’d said he would pay Mistress Griffiths for an exclusive contract, and of course he would expect some of the benefits ofsuch a contract. Of course he would. What red-blooded male would not?
Clarissa sipped her wine and gazed into the fire. How could she legitimately and rationally refuse to give him her body when he’d paid for its exclusive use?
She couldn’t tell him she was a virgin because then she would no longer suit his purposes. He needed a fallen woman. And Clarissa Astley had fallen nowhere. Oh, she’d exchanged a kiss or two with the sons of local gentry under the mistletoe at Christmas. And there had been one particular summer, hot and sultry, when she had imagined herself head over heels in love with a university friend of a neighboring squire’s son. They had indulged in some moments of what had seemed like a grand and illicit passion, but it had not gone beyond intimate fumbling and inexpert kisses.
Maybe to start with she could come up with an excuse for delaying consummation. Perhaps the earl would be
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