Page 22 of The Heiress's Daughter
“Sir Jasper Vibart and his grandmother. Can you believe it—Vibart, playing propriety with a stuffy old lady in tow. Hilarious.” Maggie glanced at her husband and laughed. “Don’t worry, my love, I barely gave him the time of day.” To Race, she said, “Sir Jasper did his best to seduce me before I was married.” She darted a mischievous glance at her husband and added, “And after.” She patted her husband’s thigh. “All in vain, of course. My Oliver is quite enough for me.”
“But he was showing interest in Clar—Miss Studley?” Race said. Vibart was a conscienceless rake and a scoundrel.
“Apparently. But don’t worry. Old Lady Scattergood got his measure pretty quickly and informed him in no uncertain terms that he would not be admitted again—though of course his grandmother was welcome to call anytime.” She bit into a ratafia biscuit and sighed. “How wonderful to be as rude to visitors as one wants.”
“I’ve heard that Vibart’s grandmother is pressuring him to marry and get an heir,” Oliver said, and snorted. “Explains why a fellow of that sort would call on a decent girl.”
Race glowered into his coffee cup. Wonderful. Two known fortune hunters and a notorious rake—even if the swine wasn’t going to be admitted again. Maybe he’d reconsider butlercide.
Miss Studley needed to be warned.
“Oh,” Maggie said, “and there was one fellow I’ve seenaround but hadn’t actually met before. He’s not been in London very long, a few weeks, I think.”
Race arched an eyebrow at her in query.
“Clayborn. Cuthbert Clayborn. And his aunt, Mrs. Faircloth—or was she his great-aunt? I can’t recall. An elderly, white-haired lady, anyway. They arrived mere seconds after I did—I’m surprised you didn’t pass them on the steps.”
Race shrugged. “I didn’t.” He’d probably been too annoyed by the butler to notice anyone else.
“Do you know him?” Maggie asked.
“Clayborn?” Race shook his head.
“He seemed to be quite a regular visitor,” Maggie said. “More coffee, Race?”
“No thank you. What do you mean ‘regular visitor’?”
She topped up her husband’s cup. “It was clear that he and Mrs. Faircloth had called several times in the last week. And they both appeared to be very much at home. Quite the favored callers, I gather. Mrs. Faircloth is a childless widow, much like Lady Scattergood, who knew her in their youth, I gather.” She darted a look at Race. “If we’re talking courting, Mr. Clayborn seems to be a favored contender already.”
Race didn’t like the sound of that. “What do you know of this Clayborn fellow?”
“Not much. He seems very popular with the dowager set and with very young ladies. You know the type, all pale and angelic yet somehow tragic, golden curls and a manly enough chin.” She selected another ratafia biscuit. “And of course there’s the heroic limp.”
“Limp?”
Maggie nibbled on her biscuit. “Wounded at Waterloo, I understand. Limps. Uses a cane. Still pains him, I gather—winces whenever he moves—but he bears it with noble fortitude. All the females flutter around him.”
“All? Not you, I gather.”
She snorted. “Not my type. He was a little…I don’tknow, ostentatiously modest about his heroism. I prefer them a little less tragic and saintly.” She winked at her husband, who placidly cut himself another large slice of the seed cake.
“Do you know anything about him, Oliver?” Race asked.
Oliver swallowed a mouthful of cake, washed it down with coffee, and shook his head. “No idea. Seemed to appear from nowhere. One minute he was God knows where—presumably recovering from his injuries—then the next he’s being seen everywhere.”
“Yes, at all the most select gatherings,” Maggie added.
Oliver, having demolished his second slice of cake, began clearing his plate of stray caraway seeds, pressing them one by one onto his fingertip and eating them. Between seeds, he said, “Have noticed, though”—crunch—“that he seems to favor”—crunch—“ladies of fortune.” Crunch. “Miss Studley’s an heiress, is she not?” Crunch.
“Yes, but his elderly great-aunt happened to mention—several times—that she’s leaving him her entire fortune,” Maggie reminded him.
Race glowered into the dregs of his coffee. He didn’t generally frequent fashionably select gatherings. He preferred more informal, less exclusive entertainments.
That might have to change.
Chapter Four
Clarissa stood in front of the long cheval looking glass, eyed her reflection critically and sighed. It was a lovely dress and fitted her perfectly. The dressmaker, Miss Chance, had done a wonderful job.
