The Wicked Lord Rasenby. Marguerite Kaye

And in any case, Clarrie didn’t need to know that a certain Edward was really a far more attractive companion than Kit Rasenby. Kit Rasenby was rich and powerful, but he didn’t cause her heart to flutter the way Edward did. In fact, Amelia was finding herself quite distracted by Edward, whose youthful good looks appealed so much more to her than Rasenby’s striking countenance, which could be rather intimidating. Rasenby’s wealth was losing a little of its attraction—but she was determined to give it every chance to succeed. Edward would always be there, of that she was already sure.

      ‘Amelia, you must know that the Earl of Rasenby won’t offer marriage. His reputation, his feelings about the state of matrimony, they are all against you. And even if he did intend to marry, it wouldn’t be to the penniless daughter of a cast-out younger son. It would be to someone with influence and money. Amelia, are you listening at all?’

      ‘Lord, Clarrie, you know nothing.’ Abandoning her attempt to soft-soap her sister, Amelia’s voice hardened. ‘You’re right—perhaps Rasenby’s intentions aren’t marriage.’ Well, in fact Amelia knew they weren’t, for he had already intimated his offer of a carte blanche. She had put him off, unwilling to take so irrevocable a step just yet. ‘But he’s wild about me, I know. And with a bit of luck, marriage it will be, whether he wants to or nay.’

      ‘What do you mean? What have you done?’

      ‘Why nothing, sister dear, as yet. I don’t have to. I merely have to click my fingers and he comes running. And if I click and he runs into a—well, shall we say, compromising situation?—then that’s his misfortune. And best for me, too.’

      ‘Amelia! The Earl of Rasenby is highly unlikely to fall for that. Why there must have been countless such traps set for him over the years, and never a whiff of him anywhere near wed. Please, I beg of you, stay away from him.’

      ‘Well, I won’t. At least, yes, I will, for a couple of days. Just to keep him on tenterhooks.’ Amelia slanted another glance at Clarrie’s face. Her sister really was such a prude.

      ‘Do you love him? Is that it?’ Clarissa was struggling to come to terms with this new, hard Amelia. She had always been determined to have her own way, but she had never before been so openly scheming. If Clarissa had known that her sister was trying desperately to suppress her feelings for Edward Brompton, she would have been less concerned.

      ‘Life isn’t one of your romances, you know. Love is such an outmoded emotion when it comes to marriage. I can stomach him well enough to bed him, if that’s what you mean. And, of course, his money makes him more attractive than he would be under other circumstances. After all, he’s quite old.’

      ‘Old? You talk about him as if he’s in his dotage. Why, he can’t be more than five and thirty. And if you loved him, his age would mean nothing. Now tell me straight, do you love him?’

      ‘Clarrie, I tell you straight, I do not.’ Amelia was enjoying shocking her sister. ‘Love, I will save for my beaux after we are wed. It’s what everyone does. Rasenby will no doubt carry on with his lightskirts, so why should I not do the same? I shall take great pleasure, though, in ousting that supercilious Charlotte du Pres from her position as his mistress. And I suppose I’ll need to provide an heir first.’ Realising she’d gone a bit too far, Amelia patted Clarrie’s hand in a conciliatory way. ‘I’m not a little girl any more. I can look after myself. And I know what I’m doing, I promise.’ No need to let Clarrie know that the carte blanche would still be considered if her other plan failed. One way or another, she’d get her hands on a large part of Rasenby’s wealth. But for now, she wanted to think only of the thrill of meeting Edward again. ‘Let us find out what Mama has found so distracting that she has paid no heed at all to our conversation.’

      Lady Maria was certainly absorbed in her post, one letter in particular holding her attention. There were plenty of others, but they were all bills. Bills that she had no means of paying. Those relating to the house and to Amelia’s dresses she would hand over to Clarissa to deal with. But they were insignificant compared to her mounting gambling debts—and of these, Clarissa must be allowed no inkling. She returned again to the note from the owner of the discreet gaming house she had been frequenting of late. The sum that she owed frightened her. The letter was subtly threatening.

      ‘Mama, what is it that you find so interesting in that letter? Clarrie and I have been plotting away, and you haven’t even looked up.’

      At this, Lady Maria gave a nervous start. ‘What? Oh, nothing, nothing. No indeed, nothing for you girls to worry about.’ Her slightly protuberant blue eyes blinked out at her daughters. Nervously, she licked her lips, and produced a somewhat ragged smile. ‘Now, dears, what is it you were plotting?’

      ‘Silly Mama, only what I would wear to the theatre tonight. For I’m going out with Chloe you know, and her mama, to the new farce. Chloe’s brother and that nice Mr Brompton are escorting us.’

      ‘Will they be calling for you here, dearest?’ Lady Maria had just remembered a hint from Mrs Barrington, that there were means of paying a lady’s debts that she could help—discreetly—with. ‘Then I’d like a word with her myself. Just to thank her for her attentions to you, Amelia dear. She’s been so good taking you out to parties when my health won’t hold up.’

      Lady Maria gathered together her post. ‘Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m afraid I have one of my heads. Clarrie, do give my regards to your Aunt Constance, I know you’ll do all that is right.’ And with that, she left for the sanctity of her bedchamber with its carefully drawn blinds, and the ministering of her dear, faithful maid.

      ‘Are you going to see Aunt Constance, then? Rather you than me, I can’t abide her sermonising. I’m off for a walk in the park with Chloe.’ Looking back at her sister, still seated at the table, Amelia laughed once more. ‘Clarrie do stop looking so serious. I know what I’m doing, and that should be enough for you. You should get out more yourself, you know. Even at your age, your looks are more than passable, as long as you don’t stand too close to me. I could find you someone suitable.’

      ‘Thank you, Amelia,’ Clarissa responded drily, ‘but I’m quite content as I am.’

      The visit to her aunt only confirmed Clarissa’s worst fears. Lady Constance Denby lived semi-retired from society, but this didn’t stop her keeping close tabs on the latest on dits, and today one of them concerned Amelia.

      ‘Well, my dear, I am sorry to have to tell you that your sister is raising a few eyebrows.’

      They were settled in Lady Constance’s breakfast room, taking morning coffee. Clarissa loved this room, with its beautifully polished rosewood tables, the cabinets crammed with her aunt’s collection of delicate porcelain. The loud ticking of the clock on the mantel, and the scent from the apple wood burning in the hearth were deeply comforting.

      Her aunt had been widowed very young—before Clarissa ever remembered an uncle—and, despite numerous offers, had never married again. Her beloved husband had been a rising star in the House of Lords, and Constance had remained faithful to his memory in retaining her widowed status, as well as her avid interest in current affairs. Lady Constance was a beautiful woman, with a little of Clarissa’s colouring, although the vivid auburn of her hair had faded now, and was confined beneath her habitual widow’s cap. She had been formidable, too, in her brief time as a political hostess, although that, also, had been given up upon the occasion of her husband’s death. Having shared something so special, she had told Clarissa once, even for so brief a time, had been enough.

      Tact, and a natural reticence, prevented Lady Constance, over the years, from being too critical of Clarissa’s mother and sister. She was all too aware of how badly her own family had treated them when James, her dear brother, had died. She found Maria tedious, and Amelia wilful, but she was very fond of Clarissa, and hated not being able to do more for her than provide this sanctuary whenever her niece paid her a call.

      And today the talk would be upsetting—but that couldn’t be helped. ‘I’m not sure if you’re aware, but Letitia Marlborough, Kit Rasenby’s