The Wolf's Pursuit (London Fairy Tales #3)(72)

The marriage market. That was Diana Mallory's term for it, this desperate seeking for a powerful, rich, fashionable husband, and Diana had seen enough of it in London to not complain when her parents moved her to Plymouth. So long as they returned to London for the season, of course. And oh, the horrifying stories she'd told; poor Harmony Barlow's jaw had hung open like a fly trap. It had seemed so hilarious from that safe distance. Now, her giggles were quite gone.

Hands trembling still, Clara pulled on a clean shift — Nan could have the old one, as well as the dress — short stays that tied in front, and a petticoat. When she reached into the wardrobe, it wasn't to her other morning gowns, on the left, but to the walking gowns, in the center. She crushed her favorite grey sarsnet to her bodice. Uncle David had told her to go to her room and think. He hadn't told her to stay there. And she was finished thinking, at least as far as the viscount was concerned. Yes, she'd vanish for a while, until the household's broiling emotions cooled and soothed. Too bad she couldn't simply vanish and return, happily married to the perfect man, on the day before her nineteenth birthday, five months hence.

She tugged on the round dress, the colorless color of diffused shadows and trimmed with light dove crepe, added the matching bonnet, silk wrap, and kid gloves, grabbed her lace-making kit for luck, and snuck down the back stairs. The housekeeper and Nan bustled past in the hallway, gossiping in such low tones that all Clara could hear was her name; indeed the blasted woman had listened outside the drawing room door for quite long enough. Once the horizon was clear, Clara slipped out the back window, guilt and smug naughtiness fighting for dominance. She hurried across Ker Street in the face of an oncoming hackney coach and joined the pedestrian flow toward Plymouth Dock.

The fresh breeze tried to snatch her shawl away, billowing the silk behind her, and she tightened it about her arms. The bonnet's brim shaded her eyes from the noonday light, but welcome summer warmth reached her face when she tilted up her chin. Behind her, the assembly hall and shops tempted, a promising source of news and fun. Perhaps the latest fashion plates had arrived from Paris, and if so, Harmony and Diana would have something droll to say about them. But it was likely the viscount had discussed his intended marriage with his friend, Colonel Durbin, who would of course tell Mrs. Durbin, which meant Miss Dersingham and therefore everyone else in town knew about it, too. Better to avoid the popular places until she felt more capable of speaking rationally on the subject; Harmony and Diana would consider her scrape just as worthy of their wit. While there was a ridiculous side to the affair, she wasn't yet prepared to discuss it.

It was impossible to think on private woes while walking a public street. She hurried on, determinedly keeping her mind and features a composed, sociable blank. As she neared the Dock, the ocean's scent counterbalanced the horses and coal-smoke. The houses crowded together and the streets narrowed. But before respectability deteriorated too far, a mews opened to the side. Clara ducked inside, away from the lane. Halfway down the long, low building stood a faded yellow door, locked, of course. But Paul, Papa's stable boy, had taught Harmony and her how to open it during their long-ago hoyden days. A shake of her wrist while turning, one hard push, and the door clacked open in defeat.

Inside was dark as the darkest night, quieter than the streets, and the slice of brilliant sunshine cutting through the open door revealed dust cloth-covered lumps — long sofas and loungers, high-backed, old-fashioned wingchairs, stubby little tables for teas long gone. She and Paul used to peer beneath the white sheets at the fine old furniture, giggling and sneezing as dust flew about them, Harmony worrying her fingernails and hanging on her heel in the doorjamb, ready to run at the first hint of trouble and adamant no dust would touch her white gossamer gown. No one had ever come near, though.

They'd had so much fun together. But then Papa had died, all the horses but two had been sold, Paul had been let go, Harmony had convinced her to turn up her hair and attend to fashion, and high-society Diana had taken Paul's place in their little trio. When Uncle David had written Paul's reference, he'd printed finis to her childhood.

Without her consent, tears blurred the mounded shapes around her. She left the door on the latch for what little light it offered and slipped through the silent aisles, her wrap catching on a dressing table and raising dust that tickled her nose toward a sneeze. In the nearest corner, a large, cone-shaped bundle hung from the rafter, covered from hook to bottom with aged canvas and bound with cleverly knotted ropes. Clara slid beneath the canvas's folded and stitched edge, twisted beneath the binding — tighter than it used to be, or was she larger? She squeezed inside anyway. Beneath the covering, rippling softness slid across her cheek and clavicle, and she settled cross-legged within the hanging chair's satin draperies. Here, in her secret place, gently rocking, away from everyone, with no sights or stray sounds to distract her, finally she could think.

Why, why had Papa written that odious clause into his will? She wanted his money, of course she did — it was her inheritance by birthright. But she would only inherit if she married before her nineteenth birthday, less than half a year away, and that meant she had to marry with Uncle David's permission and approval. Her time was running out. And the only man she'd ever want to marry was so far out of her reach, he might as well be dead.

Sobs broke through and she crumpled her handkerchief to her face. Phillippe. Captain Phillippe Levasseur, beyond elegant in his pristine white breeches and blue uniform coat trimmed with bullion and lace. Those careless auburn locks, cut short in the modern Brutus manner, had cascaded over his smooth-cream forehead and his commanding dark eyes had never left hers as he bowed over her hand when Diana's older brother introduced them in the assembly room. She'd been weak-kneed then, oh, indeed. If he'd commanded her to wed him at that moment, she'd have taken his arm without hesitation.