A Little Bit Sinful(3)

Another group of people passed by. Clarissa smiled and waved to those she knew.

“You will think ill of me.” He looked away from her. His intense gaze settled on the shrubbery across from their bench.

“Never!” She shook her head. “That is impossible. You must know that I hold you in the highest regard.”

He nodded, then came to his feet. “Rodale’s. I don’t expect you to know what that is. A lady such as yourself, so genteel and proper, would not be aware of such establishments.” He met her gaze. “It is a gaming hell. I’m afraid I’ve gotten into a bit of trouble with some of my wagers. It’s a wretched vice, certainly not one acceptable to a fine, upstanding lady.”

Gambling. She knew that some men struggled with the vice, but she had not expected it of her George. Still, it changed nothing with her feelings for him. If she was to be his wife, she would assist him in any way she could.

She stood and gave his arm a squeeze. “Do not fret over such matters. Your admission has changed nothing about you, in my eyes.”

They began walking again. She knew what needed to be done now. If her suspicion was correct, then Rodale’s could belong to only one man, and she felt certain Justin Rodale would do her a favor.

…

Clarissa had selected her attire with great care. She knew that during this particular outing she could not draw attention to herself, so she’d donned one of her black mourning dresses and a hat large enough to cover most of her face. When she’d purchased the hat, it had come with too much plumage and she’d ripped out the feathers leaving it a simple black hat with cream-colored chiffon ribbons. Even as modest as the hat was, she worried she’d stand out too much. She fretted over the hat the entire carriage ride.

Nerves beat wildly inside her stomach. This was not something she would normally do, going to visit a gaming hell, but she had no other choice. There was even an ancient proverb suggesting such a thing, requiring desperate measures during desperate times. The carriage rolled to a stop. She sat still, hands folded in her lap. Men’s voices filled the street that awaited her.

The driver opened the door to the carriage and she did her best to gather her wits. She swallowed, willing herself to be brave. This was something that had to be done, especially if she wanted to be married by the end of the Season. Considering she was rapidly approaching four and twenty, she most assuredly wanted to be married as soon as was possible. Using that very thought to bolster her courage, she stepped down from the hired hack, and straightened her pelisse.

“Wait here for me,” she told the driver. “And I shall pay you extra.”

Despite the late hour, the street bustled with activity. She tried to glance around without revealing too much of her own identity, but she would draw even more attention if she fell on the street in a heap of black wool. Two men walked up the street toward her, presumably heading directly to the establishment she too sought. Clarissa realized with alarming clarity that she knew one of the men, had just danced with him the night before at the Millerton’s ball. She stepped out of their way and looked down at her shoes. Both men stepped into the gaming hell and the door closed behind them.

For a moment she considered climbing back into the hack and going straight home. As it was, Aunt Maureen thought Clarissa had gone to bed early with a sour stomach. But she could not allow fear to prevent her from helping George. If she didn’t take care of this matter now, there was no telling how long it would take George to handle it. No, this was something that had to be done. She felt for the bag at her wrist with all of her money tucked inside. With a hearty breath, she took the steps leading to the unmarked red door.

She didn’t even have to knock, the door simply opened as she lifted her hand. Noise and smoke poured out of the door. She couldn’t see much, but spied a buxom woman sitting atop a man’s lap while he examined his cards. A large beefy man stepped into the doorway, effectively blocking her view of anything save his barrel chest.

She tilted her head to see his face, though kept one gloved hand to her hat in case she needed to quickly cover herself. His thick eyebrows rose as he took in the sight of her. “A lady don’t have business here,” he said brusquely.

“I should like—” She cleared her throat behind her black lace glove. “That is, I need to speak to Mr. Rodale, if you do not mind.”

“Mr. Rodale is otherwise engaged,” the man said, brazenly mocking her speech.

“I have it on good authority that he is here most nights.”