Regency Rogues and Rakes. Anna Campbell

Theaker in a private dining parlor of the Brunswick Hotel. They toasted one another throughout the meal. By the time the table had been cleared, wine had loosened their tongues—no matter, since there was nobody nearby to hear.

      “A close-run thing it was,” said Sir Roger.

      “Perilously close,” said Lord Adderley.

      “Wasn’t sure you’d manage it,” said Mr. Meffat. “Watching like hawks, they were.”

      Lord Adderley shrugged. “As soon as I saw Lady Bartham settle in to gossip with the mama, I knew there wouldn’t be trouble from that quarter for a while.”

      “It was Longmore who worried me,” said Mr. Meffat.

      Adderley resisted the urge to feel his bruised jaw. He’d had more reason than anybody to worry. He’d broken into a sweat, which he’d explained away to Lady Clara as excitement, to be so close to her, to hold her in her arms—all the usual rubbish, in other words.

      He said, “I only needed a few minutes, and he was on the other side of the room. Still, it was your quick acting that saved the day.”

      It was Meffat’s and Theaker’s job to attract attention to the terrace without attracting too much attention. Not the most difficult job in the world. One only had to say, “Wonder what Adderley’s about on the terrace? Who’s the female with him?”

      One didn’t have to say it to too many people. One or two would do. The drift terrace-wards would begin, and some others would notice, and follow, curious to see what was attracting attention.

      Clara had been easiest of all to manage. Though no schoolroom miss—she was one and twenty, older than Adderley would have preferred—she was as ignorant about lovemaking as a child. All he had to do was keep her wineglass filled and whirl her about the floor until she was dizzy and whisper poetry in her ear. Still, one had to be careful. Too much wine and too much spinning and she’d be sick—on his last good coat.

      “At least you got yourself a beauty,” Theaker said. “Mostly, when their pa sets a big dowry on them, it’s on account of being squinty or spotty or bowlegged.”

      “What he means is, mostly, they’re dogs,” Meffat said.

      “I’m fortunate,” Adderley said. “I know that. I might have done so much worse.”

      She was a beauty, and that would make the bedding and getting of heirs more agreeable. Still, she wasn’t to his taste, a great cow of a girl. He liked daintier women, and he would have preferred a brunette.

      But her dowry was enormous, she’d been vulnerable, and beggars couldn’t be choosers.

      “Bless her innocence,” said Theaker. “She went just like a lamb.”

      “There’s one won’t give you any trouble,” said Meffat.

      * * *

       Warford House

       Wednesday 3 June

      Clara kept her composure until she’d closed her bedroom door behind her.

      She swallowed, walked quickly across the room, and sat at her dressing table.

      “My lady?” said her maid, Davis.

      A sob escaped Clara. And another.

      “Oh, my lady,” said Davis.

      “I don’t know what to do!” Clara buried her face in her hands.

      “Now, now, my lady. I’ll make you a good, hot cup of tea and whatever it is, you’ll feel better.”

      “I need more than tea,” Clara said. She looked up to meet Davis’s gaze in the mirror.

      “I’ll put a drop of brandy in it,” said Davis.

      “More than a drop,” Clara said.

      “Yes, my lady.”

      Davis hurried out.

      Clara took out the note Lord Adderley had sent her.

      A love note, filled with beautiful words, the kinds of words sure to melt the heart of a romantic girl.

      Of course the words were beautiful. They’d been written by poets: Keats and Lovelace and Marvell and scores of others. Even Shakespeare! He thought she wouldn’t recognize lines from a Shakespeare sonnet! Either he was a complete idiot or he thought she was.

      “The latter, most likely,” she muttered. She crumpled the note and threw it across the room. “Liar,” she said. “It was all lies. I knew it. How could I be such a fool?”

      Because Mr. Bates had not asked her to dance, and she’d watched him whirl Lady Susan Morris, Lady Bartham’s daughter, about the floor. Lady Susan was petite and dark and pretty, and next to her Clara always felt ungainly and awkward.

      Then what?

      A moment’s hurt. Then Lord Adderley was at her elbow, with a glass of champagne, and a perfect remark, sure to make her smile.

      Irish blarney, Mama would have said.

      Maybe that’s what it was. Or maybe it was like the beautiful words he wrote, stolen from gifted writers. False, either way.

      Champagne and waltzing and flattery, and Clara had taken the bait.

      And now …

      What to do?

      She rose and walked to the window and looked out. In the garden below, the rain was beating the shrubs and flowers into submission. If she’d been a man—if she’d been Harry—she’d have climbed out and run away, as far as she could go.

      But she wasn’t a man, and she had no idea how to run away.

      Time, she thought. Her only hope was time. If they could drag out the engagement for months and months, a new scandal would come along, and everybody would forget this one.

      Davis entered with the tea. “I put in a few extra drops, but you’ll need to drink it quickly,” she said. “Lady Bartham’s called, and Lady Warford said you’re to come straightaway.”

      “Lady Bartham,” Clara said. “That wants more than a few drops. That wants a bottle.”

      She swallowed her brandy-laced tea, put on her company face, and went down to the drawing room.

      The visit was even worse than anticipated. Lady Bartham was so sympathetically venomous that she left Clara half blind with rage and Mama with a sick headache.

      The next morning, Mama announced that she was sick to death of this ghastly engagement and everybody’s insinuations. They would consult the calendar and fix a date for the wedding.

      “Yes, of course, Mama,” Clara said. “In the autumn, perhaps. Town won’t be so busy then.”

      “Autumn?” Mama cried. “Are you mad? We’ve not a moment to lose. You must be married before the end of the Season—before the Queen’s last Drawing Room at the latest.”

      “Mama, that’s only three weeks!”

      “It’s sufficient time to arrange a wedding, even a large one—and a small one is out of the question. You know what people will say. And if those wicked French dressmakers Harry took you to can’t finish your bride clothes on time, it is too bad. It is not my fault if my children disobey me at every turn.”

       Chapter Four

      Now, thanks to steam-presses, steam-vessels, and steam-coaches, the prolific brain of a French dress-maker or milliner has hardly given a new cap of trimming to the Parisian