They were in Miss Mallory’s private parlor in the school, a cozy room warm with potpourri and lavender linen that had always held pleasant memories for Clarissa. Miss Mallory had an office, and that was where a girl went to be scolded for misbehavior. The parlor was for special teas and treats.
“But where am I to go? The school has been as good as a home to me since I was ten.”
“That is what you must think about, dear. I’m sure Beth would be glad of your company in time.”
In time, because Beth Arden was expecting her first child soon. But even in time, Clarissa didn’t want to live with the Ardens. She was fond of Beth, who had been her favorite teacher here, and who had helped her last year in London, but she disliked Lord Arden. He was a terrifying brute.
“Or the duke has offered you a home at Belcraven Park.”
Clarissa almost shuddered. She’d visited there once to meet the man who had taken over her guardianship from her father. The duke and duchess—especially the duchess—had been very kind, but they were strangers, and Belcraven was a place of such massive magnificence she could never imagine living there.
“I think I would prefer a small house with a companion. Perhaps here in Cheltenham.”
“No.” Miss Mallory’s voice was the one that all girls in the school learned to heed. “Not here in Cheltenham. You must start afresh. But a house and a suitable companion is a possibility. In London, perhaps. You should rejoin society, my dear.”
“Rejoin society!” Clarissa heard her voice climb too high. “Miss Mallory, I was never part of it. I was a Greystone, and Lord Deveril’s betrothed. Believe me, few doors were open. No, I will live quietly.
Perhaps in Bath.”
It was a dismal prospect. She’d spent most of her school holidays with her grandmother in Bath. Lady Molson was dead now, but the place was doubtless as stuffy as ever.
But safe. Perhaps.
“Or in a little village,” she added. That was better. There she’d be less likely to be recognized as what society called the Devil’s Heiress.
A shudder passed through her at the memories the name brought back. She rose. “I will think about it, Miss Mallory. When must I leave?”
Miss Mallory rose too, and gave her a hug. “Oh, my dear, there is no great hurry. We simply want you to begin to think on it. But I advise you not to try to hide. You have your life before you, and your fortune can make it a good one. Not many young women have the choices you have. It would be a sin to waste them.”
Miss Mallory was a follower of Mary Wollstonecraft, author of The Rights of Woman, and she judiciously shared those beliefs with the pupils in her school, so Clarissa knew what she meant. Beth Arden was also an adherent, and had discussed these matters in more detail last year. After Deveril’s death.
She should be delighted to be free.
It was all very well in theory to rage against the shackles of masculine oppression, but as Clarissa left the parlor she couldn’t help thinking that it might be nice to be taken care of now and then. First a father, and then a husband—if one had a good father, not one like Sir Peter Greystone.
As for a husband, she sighed. She had little faith in the notion of a good husband. A woman put her fate so completely in his hands, and he could be a tyrant.
Like Lord Arden.
Clarissa would never forget the awful argument she had overheard, and running into the room to find Beth on the floor, clearly having been driven there by Lord Arden’s blow. The next day Beth had had an awful bruise.
She’d said it was over, was a problem that had been dealt with, but it had been a lesson to Clarissa.
Handsome men could be whited sepulchers. On her twenty-first birthday she would have a hundred thousand pounds or more. Folly indeed to put it into the hands of a man, and herself totally in his power.
Up the stairs and along the familiar corridor, every corner of the school was familiar. She wouldn’t exactly say precious. Last year she’d been desperate to leave here and take up her life. Even though she’
d known her parents didn’t care for her, she’d leaped at the chance to go to London. To have a season.
To attend balls, routs, parties.
She’d known she was no beauty, and would have no dowry to speak of, but she’d dreamed of suitors, of handsome men courting her, flirting with her, kissing her, and eventually, even going on their knees, begging for her hand.
Instead, there’d been Lord Deveril.
She stopped and thrust him into the darkest depths of her mind. Loathsome Lord Deveril, his foul kiss, and his bloody death. At least he didn’t wait for her out in the frightening world.
She knew everyone was right. She couldn’t stay here forever.
She glanced down at her clothes, the beige-and-brown uniform all the girls wore here. She had nothing else to wear other than the London gowns that lay in trunks in the attic. She would never wear them again!
But she could hardly go on like this. She bit her lip on a laugh at the thought of herself—plump and fifty—
trotting around Cheltenham in brown and beige, that eccentric Miss Greystone, with a fortune in hand and nowhere else to go.
But she had nowhere else to go. She would certainly never again live with her family.
She needed someone to talk to and knocked on the door of her friend Althea Trist. Althea was the junior mistress who had come last September to take Beth Arden’s position.
The door opened. Clarissa said, “I’m going to have to—”
But then she stopped. “Thea, what’s the matter?”
Her friend had clearly been crying.
Althea pressed a soggy handkerchief to her eyes and tried for a smile. “It’s nothing. Did you want something?”
Clarissa pushed her into a chair and sat nearby. “Don’t be silly. What is it? Is there bad news from home?”
“No.” Althea grimaced, then said, “It’s just the day. June eighteenth. The anniversary. Waterloo.”
Realization dawned. “Oh, Thea! You must feel the pain all over again.” Althea’s beloved betrothed, Lieutenant Gareth Waterstone, had died at the battle of Waterloo.
“It’s foolish,” Althea said. “Why today rather than any other day? I do grieve every day. But today…”
She shook her head and swallowed.
Clarissa squeezed her hands. “Of course. What can I do? Would you like some tea?”
Althea smiled, and this time it seemed steadier. “No, I’m all right. In fact, I am to take the girls out soon.”
“If you’re sure.” But then it dawned on Clarissa. “Thea, you can’t. You can’t go to the parade! Miss Mallory would never have asked you if she’d thought.”
“She didn’t. Miss Risleigh was to do it, but she wished to attend a party. She is senior to me.”
“How callous! I will go and speak to Miss Mallory immediately.”
She was already up and out of the door as Althea was crying, “Clarissa! Stop!”
She hurtled down the familiar stairs, back to the parlor to knock upon the door. The parade was in honor and memory of the great victory at Waterloo. Althea could not possibly be expected to go there and cheer.
The knock received no response, however. She made so bold as to peep in and found the room deserted. She ran off to the kitchen, but there found that Miss Mallory had gone out for the afternoon.
There were a great many parties taking place, and the better folk of Cheltenham had been invited to choice spots from which to watch the parade.
What now?
The school was closed for the summer, and only five girls lingered, awaiting their escorts home. There were only three teachers—Miss Mallory, Althea, and the odious Miss Risleigh.
What could be done?
The girls could do without their trip to the parade, but Clarissa knew that dutiful Althea would never permit that. There was only one solution. She ran back upstairs to her room, put on the brown school cloak and the matching bonnet, and returned to Althea’s room.
Althea was already dressed to go out.
“Take that off,” Clarissa said. “I am going to take the girls.”
Althea stared. “Clarissa, you can’t. You’re not a teacher! In fact, you’re a paying guest.”
“I was a senior girl until last year. We often helped out.”
“Not as escort on a trip like this.”
“But,” said Clarissa, “I’m not a senior girl anymore. I’m only a few months younger than you are.” A lock of hair tumbled down, and she went to Althea’s mirror to tuck it back in. If she was going to do this she had better try to look mature and stern. Or at least sensible.
She pushed some more hair in and tried to straighten the bonnet.
“It is my responsibility,” Althea protested, appearing behind her in the mirror.
Clarissa couldn’t help wishing she hadn’t done that. Althea was a rare and stunning beauty, with glossy dark hair, a rose-petal complexion, and every feature neatly arranged to please.
She, on the other hand, had unalterably sallow skin and features that while tolerable in themselves were not quite arranged to please. Her straight nose was too long, her full lips too unformed, and even her excellent teeth were a little crossed at the front. Her eyes were the dullest blue, her hair the dullest brown.
It shouldn’t matter when she had a hundred thousand pounds and no need of a husband, but vanity does not follow the path of logic.
She put that aside and turned to put an arm around her friend. “There are only five girls left, Thea. Hardly a dire task. And you cannot possibly attend the Waterloo Day parade and cheer. If Miss Mallory knew, she would say the same. Now, go and lie down and don’t worry. All will be fine.”
She rushed out before Althea could protest anymore, but only ten minutes later, she could have laughed aloud at that prediction.
One, two, three, four—she anxiously counted the plain brown bonnets around her— five. Five?
She whirled around. “Lucilla, keep up!”
The dreamy ten-year-old turned from peering at a gravestone in Saint Mary’s churchyard and ambled over.
Unaware, she caused one hurrying woman to stumble back to avoid running into her.
Clarissa rolled her eyes but reminded herself that a noble deed lost its luster if moaned over. “Hurry along,” she said cheerfully. “We’re almost there!”
At least the youngest girl was attached to her hand like a limpet. It would be nice, however, if Lady Ricarda weren’t already sniveling that she was scared of the graves, she was going to be sick, and she wanted to go back to the school, now.
“We can’t possibly go back now,” Clarissa said, towing the girl out into the street. “Listen—you can hear the band.” She glanced back. “Horatia, do stop ogling every man who walks by!”
Horatia Peel was fifteen and could be expected to be some help, but she was more interested in casting out lures. She’d pushed her bonnet back on her head to reveal more of her vivid blond curls and had surely found some way to redden her lips.
At Clarissa’s command, she turned sulkily from simpering at a bunch of aspiring dandies. She was not a hard-hearted girl, however, and took Lucilla’s hand to make sure she didn’t wander off again.
Clarissa’s other two charges, Georgina and Jane, were devoted eleven-year-old friends, arm in arm and in deep conversation. They were no trouble except for their slow pace.
Afraid to speed ahead in case someone disappeared, Clarissa gathered her flock in front and nudged them forward like an inept sheepdog. It would be wonderful to be able to nip at some dawdling heels!
What would the world think if it could see her now? The infamous Devil’s Heiress, with a dubious past and a fortune, dressed in drab and in charge of a bunch of wayward sheep.
“Walk a little faster, girls. We’re going to miss the soldiers. Horatia, keep going! No, Ricarda, you are not going to be crushed. Lucilla, look ahead. You can see the regimental flag.”
She blew a corkscrew curl out of her eyes, reminding herself that this was a good deed. It would be horrible for Althea to have to be here. For her part, she didn’t mind some cheering and celebration. It was exactly one year ago today that loathsome Lord Deveril had died. One year since she’d been saved.
Bring on the flags and drums!
She counted heads again. “Not long now. We’ll find a good spot to watch our brave soldiers march by.”
Her forced good cheer dried up when they popped out of the lane and into Clarence Street. People must have come in from the surrounding countryside for the festivities. The place was packed with a jostling, craning, chattering, pungent mob and all the hawkers and troublemakers that such a throng attracted.
A bump from an impatient couple behind them moved her on into the thick of the crowd with everyone around pushing for a good spot.
One, two, three, four, five.
“Let’s go toward the Promenade, girls. The crowd may be thinner there.”
“I want to go home!”
“Ricarda, you can’t. Hold tight to my hand.”
Hawk had a flock of schoolgirls in his sights.
After intensive investigations in London, he had come to Cheltenham in search of the heiress herself. She was clearly key, and she was being kept out of sight. He’d discovered that she wasn’t living with her family, or with her guardian, the duke.
He had eventually learned that she was supposed to have spent the past year back at her very proper Cheltenham school. He had trouble imagining the Devil’s Heiress at Miss Mallory’s School for Ladies at any age— though he gathered her education there had been the work of her grandmother—but certainly not at nearly twenty. Surely it was a blind for some other, more lively, lodging, but it was where he had to start.
He had spent the day hovering, watching for someone willing to gossip about school matters. He’d had no luck, since the school was officially closed for the summer, though he had learned from a butcher’s boy that there were some staff and a few girls still there.
Now, at last, he had possibilities. The pupils all wore a kind of uniform of beige dress, brown cloak, and plain brown bonnet, but two of the flock were within flirting age—a lively blonde and the plain young woman who seemed to be in charge.
He focused on the plain one. Plain ones were more susceptible. As he followed them into a churchyard, however, he began to think that the blonde would fall more ripely into his hand. On leaving the school, she’d begun to push her bonnet back on her head, gradually revealing more and more curls. Even with a plump child by the hand, she was lingering behind with the clear intent of flirting with any man who showed interest.