Love Is Blind Page 5

  'Yes, he did. But never fear; I have explained your situation to Reginald. He will be most pleased to help us out."

  "Mayhap," Clarissa murmured doubtfully; then she bit her lip and glanced toward the blur that was his face. "He is not a rakehell, is he?" When Adrian went still, Clarissa rushed on. "Because, you see, that is why Lydia is resistant to you. She said that you were a rakehell when you were last at court. Though I am sure she is wrong. But if he is a rakehell as well..."

  Adrian was silent and stiff for so long, Clarissa began to fear Reginald was a rakehell, but then Adrian relaxed suddenly. "It will be all right."

  Clarissa bit her lip, wanting to believe him, but finding it hard to accept that something so wonderful could happen in her life. She had experienced very little joy in the last ten years. First there had been her mother's illness, and then that terrible debacle with Captain Fielding. . . And then Clarissa's mother had died and, while she was still grieving, her father had married the horrid Lydia. Life had been hell in the country, with her stepmother reminding her of her shame every chance she got. The woman was constantly remarking that Clarissa had hurried her

  mother to her grave with the shameful scandal she'd landed the whole family in.

  Clarissa knew Lydia resented and blamed her for the fact that her father avoided London. Unfortunately, Lydia was right. Lord Crambray had avoided the city in the hope that the scandal would eventually be forgotten and that his daughter could yet make a good match. Lydia hated Clarissa for having missed out on several seasons in London, and made little secret of the fact that she couldn't wait to be rid of her.

  Yes, Clarissa suspected that resentment and hate were the real reasons behind Lydia's insistence that she not wear her spectacles. She suspected the woman was secretly enjoying every humiliating calamity, especially because her stepmother could then use each accident as an excuse to berate and punish her. And if Lydia had her way, Clarissa would be tied to the hateful Prudhomme for the rest of her life ... or his. Lydia probably knew exactly how horrid the little man was. Clarissa had noted for quite a while that die two acted friendlier than was warranted given their circumstances, and now she wondered if Prudhomme hadn't proclaimed his undying love to her stepmother a time or two as well and damned Clarissa's father's good health. It wouldn't have surprised her.

  "Clarissa? Is that you?"

  The sound of Lydia's voice snapping at her through the darkness nearly made her groan. But as she opened her mouth to say good-bye to Mowbray while she had the chance, Adrian shushed her, and his blur seemed to melt into the woods along the path.

  "She has not yet seen me. Do not mention me, and simply claim you came out for a breath of fresh air."

  'AD right," Clarissa whispered, trying not to move her lips as she did.

  "And do not forget about my cousin, Reginald Greville. He will come for you tomorrow."

  "Clarissa! It is you!"

  She sighed to herself as her stepmother approached. Whether she claimed she'd come out for air or to escape a raging fire in the house, Clarissa would be in for a lecture, but she would rather it happened away from Adrian.

  Whispering good night under her breath to him, she hurried forward to cut Lydia off.

  Adrian waited until the two women had disappeared inside the house before slipping out of the underbrush. He didn't bother reentering the house himself, but used the path along the side of the manor to make his way to the front and arrange for his carriage to be brought. Once inside the vehicle, he instructed his driver to take him to one of the more disreputable gaming hells in town, knowing he would find Reginald there. They had both frequented such establishments when younger, but Adrian had lost his taste for such frivolous pastimes after his service in the army. Reginald, who had avoided battle, had not.

  As he expected, he found his cousin at the tables, and smiled wryly at the man's shock.

  "Devil take it, Adrian!" Reginald gasped, having turned at the tap on his shoulder. "I thought I should never see you back here. You have shunned such entertainments since returning from the war."

  "I have been in the country most of that time," Adrian reminded him. It wasn't worth stating his true

  feelings on the matter. To start a request for help by insulting a pastime the man enjoyed would be a mistake.

  "Well, here, have a seat; join us!" Reginald smiled widely, apparently pleased to have back his old partner in bawdier delights.

  Adrian hesitated, then took a seat, unwilling to blurt out what he wanted right there at the table, yet knowing that dragging Reginald from his pleasures was hardly likely to win the man's aid. Resigning himself to several hours in the smoky, desperate environment, he ignored the stares at his scar and mentally prepared all the arguments he would use to convince his cousin once the two got away from the gaming hell. He was going to have to be crafty.

  "You must be mad!" Reginald exclaimed two hours later.

  Adrian led the way into his town house. He'd convinced his cousin to come back for a drink after leaving the gaming hell, and made his request once the man was trapped in his coach.

  Adrian frowned at his cousin's reaction. It was not what he'd hoped for, nor what he'd expected after he'd explained his wish. He had rather been hoping his cousin would be more amenable. "Why mad?"

  "Because it is mad to expect me to willingly put myself in such jeopardy," Reginald replied with a laugh. But he followed into the library. "Think of my heirs, or lack thereof, if the chit damages me again."

  Adrian rolled his eyes as Reg dropped into one of the leather chairs by the cold fireplace. He himself headed to the rolling table with a decanter of brandy on it, and said, "We are talking about one small woman, not a battalion of Frenchmen."

  "Yes, well, Lady Clarissa could do more damage than the entire French army put together," Reginald grumbled.

  Adrian frowned, but remained silent, considering his most convincing argument as he poured them each a brandy. He finished pouring, replaced the stopper on the brandy decanter, then picked up the glasses and started back across the room. "I only wish you to pick her up and drop her off. Not spend any real time with her, Reg."

  "Yes, but--"

  "I would appreciate it," Adrian added as he held out one of the glasses to him. They stared at each other silently; then Reginald sighed and reached out to take his drink.

  "Oh, all right," he groused, then taunted, "Anything in the name of love and romance. But I hope you remember this when I need a favor."

  "I shall," Adrian assured him, and with relief settled into the leather seat opposite.

  Reg sighed. "Bravo, old man. So, I will pick up the girl tomorrow for you and bring her to you . . . where?"

  Adrian hesitated to answer, knowing this next part was tricky. Finally he said, "We can discuss that in a bit, but first there is one other small detail I have yet to mention."

  Alerted by his tone of voice, Reg raised an eyebrow. "And that would be .'. . ?"

  Adrian avoided his cousin's eyes. "I hesitate to bring this up, but Clarissa's stepmother has a disliking for . . . er . . . rake hells."

  Reg raised his other eyebrow. Adrian shifted uncomfortably and added, "Rather like Lady Strummond did."

  His cousin's eyebrows now knitted together in suspicion, so Adrian plunged ahead. "I thought mayhap you could use the approach you did to convince Lady Strummond to allow her daughter out of the house."

  "Oh, Mowbray, really!"

  Adrian winced at his cousin's outrage, but said, "Well, it worked with Lady Strummond."

  'Yes, it did, but--"

  "It would work again," he insisted. Then he added, "I am sure of it. And only you could pull it off."

  "Cousin," Reginald said grimly, "it is one thing to play the fop to get a woman for myself. It's quite another to--"

  "Please," Adrian interrupted.

  Reginald's eyes widened with incredulity. Adrian Montfort, the Earl of Mowbray, never said please. Ever. Suddenly looking uncomfortable himself, he turned his gaze glumly to the cold ashes in the fireplace, then sighed resignedly. "Oh, very well."

  Chapter Five

  "A Lord Greville is at the door and wishes to know if the ladies Crambray are in for company."

  Clarissa blinked her eyes open and raised her head from the back of her seat to peer toward the doorway and the butler filling it. Her stepmother said, "Who did you say is at the door, Ffoulkes?"

  "A Lord Greville," the butler repeated, sounding deadly bored.

  Clarissa bit her lip and tried not to look overly excited as her heart began to roar in her ears. Mowbray had said his cousin would come in his stead, and so he had. She crossed her fingers and silently prayed her stepmother wouldn't send him away and ruin everything, then stiffened as she sensed Lydia's gaze turn in her direction.

  The woman's voice was full of confusion as she said, "I thought you had already made the acquaintance of Lord Greville?"

  Clarissa understood the implication: If he had made her acquaintance, why would he ever return? She managed not to allow the suggestion to upset her, and merely shrugged nervously and offered, "I did. He seemed a very nice man."

  "Hmmm." Lydia sounded unconvinced. "I could have sworn I heard that he . . ."

  Her voice trailed away, and Lady Havard, who had been taking tea with them and stayed to gossip, said, "I too have heard the whispers that he is a bit of a rogue, Lydia, but I think it is all bunk. Jealousy, most like. He comes from a very good family and is quite friendly with the prince regent."

  Clarissa now knew why the woman would encourage Lydia to allow Lord Greville's attentions. No doubt it had to do with her affair with--and jealousy over-- Lord Prudhomme; but Clarissa didn't care. She was grateful to Lady Havard, whatever the reason, and held her breath until her stepmother said unhappily, "Oh, very well, Ffoulkes. Show him in."

  "Very good, my lady," Ffoulkes murmured, withdrawing from the room.

  Clarissa waited impatiently, fingers crossed that the trick would work and she would soon see Lord Mowbray again. The room had gone silent in anticipation, and Clarissa's ears strained. She clearly heard Ffoulkes open the front door and announce that the ladies Crambray were in.

  "Sink me!" a gay voice trilled. "Let me in then. A man could get his wipe prigged out here. I was about to shove me trunk and find some rolling Joe to go in search of a noggin of lightning."

  Clarissa was blinking in confusion at these words

  when Lady Havard announced knowledgeably, "That is cant."

  "Cant?" Lydia asked, sounding just as confused as Clarissa felt.

  "Slang, dear," Lady Havard explained, the pity in her voice making it plain that they were sadly lacking for not knowing it. " 'Tis all the rage with the young bucks right now."

  "Oh." Lydia sounded a tad short. She obviously wasn't pleased to look ignorant. "Well, I rarely follow these new fads. They change so quickly. What did he say?"

  There was a brief silence before Lady Havard spoke, and when she did her uncertainty was obvious. "I am not sure. I believe he said something about his hanky being stolen and his gin being hit."

  "His gin being hit?" Lydia murmured doubtfully.

  "Or perhaps it means hitting the gin," Lady Havard murmured.

  "Ah, ladies!" The two words were breathed with delight, and Clarissa blinked and straightened from her listening posture as a blur of color erupted into die room. It was a very active blur of color, one bit waving what appeared to be a hanky about the room as if clearing the way. This most definitely was not Lord Greville--at least, not the Lord Greville she'd met, Clarissa realized with dismay. She glanced anxiously toward her stepmother.

  However, rather than appearing taken aback by the obvious impostor, her stepmother was sounding quite charmed. She got to her feet. "Lord Greville, how nice of you to pay us a visit."

  "Oh, not at all, not at all. The pleasure is mine." The figure sashayed across the room to Lydia, where he

  paused and kissed her hand in greeting, then turned toward where Clarissa sat. "Ah, Lady Clarissa, beautiful as ever. Charmed."

  Her hand was caught and drawn upward so that a resounding smack of the lips could be placed upon it. The man released her at once, as if her skin were scalding hot, then moved on to Lady Havard. "And Lady Havard--what a delight indeed! I am the most fortunate of men today. Three beautiful women in one room."

  'You flatter us," Clarissa's stepmother gushed. "Would you care for some tea, my lord?"

  "Certainly, certainly. Lovely."

  "Do sit down."

  "Thank you."

  There was a moment of silence as everyone returned to their seats--everyone but Clarissa, who had never left hers--then the others all sighed contentedly.

  "Well, this is a surprise, my lord. To what do we owe this visit?" Lady Crambray asked as she poured tea for him.

  "Owe?" He sounded surprised. "Why, you owe nothing. I never charge for my company, delightful as it may be."

  He gurgled with an almost girlish giggle that made Clarissa's eyes widen in dismay. Goodness! She was nearly blind, but not deaf. This definitely was not the Lord Greville she had met. That man had possessed a voice as deep and smoky as his cousin's. His words had been serious and correct. This could not be Lord Reginald Greville, she decided, but the other two women chuckled obligingly at his little joke.

  But who was he? Clarissa asked herself. Surely her stepmother and Lady Havard, both of whom had excellent sight, should recognize this man as an impostor

  if he weren't the real Greville. Yet neither woman seemed alarmed. The only thing Clarissa could think was that it was Lord Greville, but that he was putting on some sort of charade. Though she couldn't think why he would behave as he was. He sounded very much like a ... well, to be frank, he sounded rather feminine.

  It was as she had this thought that Clarissa recalled asking Lord Mowbray if his cousin was a rakehell, and warning him that her stepmother would never allow her to ride with one. Obviously the men had decided to put the woman's fears at rest with a performance of masterly proportions.

  Clarissa marveled at his acting abilities as Lord Greville confided, "Actually, I was just trying out my new upper ben and calp, and thought to check their effect on the loveliest ladies in London."

  Her stepmother and Lady Havard tittered girlishly at the compliment. Clarissa asked what both other women were surely too afraid to show their ignorance by asking, "Er, what exactly is an upper ben and calp, my lord?"

  "Why, my greatcoat and hat, girl," Reginald explained in his high, trilling voice. He then jumped to his feet and did a little pirouette before her, presumably showing off his greatcoat and cap as if he didn't know she was blind.

  "What think you? Nice fit, is it not?"

  Clarissa squinted for all she was worth, but he was still just a whirling streak of chartreuse. It was Lydia who covered for her silence, gushing, "Oh, 'tis lovely. You must give me the name of your tailor so that I may pass it on to my husband."

  " Tis quite striking," Lady Havard agreed.

  Clarissa used a cough to cover her chuckle at the idea of her father even considering wearing such a color. He would have fits. Lord Crambray was very conservative.

  Apparently satisfied by their praise, Lord Greville sank back into his seat with a pleased sigh. "I try always to be in fashion. I did wonder if I should not get a matching lally and kickseys as well. What think you?"

  "I think that sounds lovely," Lydia murmured with obvious confusion, even as Lady Havard murmured, similarly lost. It seemed die woman's knowledge of cant wasn't as extensive as she would have had them believe.

  It was Clarissa who asked, "What exactly would a lally and kickseys be, my lord?"

  "Shirt and breeches," Greville explained patiently, and Clarissa's eyebrows flew up at the idea of his wearing a matching chartreuse shirt and breeches beneath the coat. He obviously noted her expression. She could hear the amusement in his voice as he added, "But I thought that might be a bit much, so I dabbled my best white lally and made do. 'Tis for the best, no doubt. I do hate to drop the glanthem."

  "I am sorry," Clarissa said with confusion. "What did you do to your shirt. . . er . . . lally?"

  "I dabbled it. . . . Washed," he explained at the silence that met his words. "I washed my shirt."

  "Oh, yes, of course. Well, that is good," Lydia said, as if she understood.

  Ignoring her, Clarissa asked, "And what would glanthem be?"

  "Why, money, of course."

  "Of course it is!" both older women proclaimed, as

  if annoyed with Clarissa's obvious ignorance. But she was sure they'd had no idea what glanthem was, either.

  "Sink me!" Greville exclaimed with mock horror. "You shall think me cheap. I am not, you know, but Father keeps the purse strings tight. He's old, of course, and does not understand the necessity of fashion. 'Tis absolutely vital one have the proper attire, do you not think?"

  When he paused expectantly, Lydia and Lady Havard promptly nodded in agreement. What else could they do should they not wish to appear old?

  "Oh, yes, proper attire is vital," they murmured in unison.

  Greville heaved a put-upon sigh. "Aye, but everything is so expensive nowadays. Why, I ordered a new pair of hockey-dockeys last week and nearly fainted when I received the bill. And have you seen the price of floggers lately?"

  "Floggers?" Lady Havard squeaked. Clarissa could almost hear the woman's eyes blinking in her confusion, but she quickly covered with, "My, yes--very dear."

  Clarissa cleared her throat. "I am sorry, but what are floggers and ... er ... hockey-dockeys?"

  "Floggers are whips, and hockey-dockeys are shoes," Greville explained, then went on to complain, "Only a flat would pay the price they ask for those now." He heaved a distressed sigh and shook his head mournfully. "There is never enough money for a proper outfit. If it would not fret my guts to fiddlestrings, I'd shove my trunk and scamp. Don't like the idea of having the traps after me and ending up at Tuck 'em fair, though."

  "The gallows!" Lady Havard cried with triumph.

  When Clarissa and Lydia turned to her in confusion, Lady Havard explained proudly, "Tuck 'em fair. It's the place of execution." She frowned suddenly, trying to piece the rest of his slang together. "Would the traps be the authorities?"