Page 102 of The Heiress's Daughter
“Explains what, Lady Scattergood?” Clarissa asked. Even though the old lady rarely left her home, she kept up a prolific correspondence with friends in various parts of the kingdom, and her morning posts often caused mild exclamations and vague mutters, generally because the letters were crossed and recrossed in tiny writing and she had to pore over them with her magnifying glass. And sometimes she had to ask Clarissa to work something out with her young eyes.
She waved a sheet of paper at Clarissa. “This is from my friend Mariah Pultney. She lives in some godforsaken part of the country—I forget where, but it’s not far from where Margery Doulton lives.”
Both Clarissa and Mrs. Price-Jones looked at her blankly. “Who?”
“Margery Doulton, as was—what’s her married name now? Oh yes, Margery Faircloth, young Clayborn’s great-aunt. You remember, the one who was leaving him her entire fortune.”
“Oh.” Clarissa busied herself with buttering a roll. She had no interest in Cuthbert Clayborn or his great-aunt or her great fortune.
Lady Scattergood cackled and waved her letter gleefully. “Mariah just told me exactly what that grand fortune consists of.”
Clarissa added strawberry jam and bit into her roll.
Mrs. Price-Jones glanced at Clarissa, then asked, “What does her fortune consist of, Olive?”
Lady Scattergood cackled again. “A cottage and a cow paddock! That’s it! The lot—her entire fortune. Apparently her husband ran through any money they had quite early on, and then he died. She had to sell their home to pay the debts he left and move into this cottage quite a few years ago, Mariah says. Not a large cottage, either, she tells me.”
She peered again at the letter. “She didn’t say how big the cow paddock was, but it can’t be very big, can it?” She set down the letter with a grin. “So, that’s the answer to that little conundrum—the wretch was an arrant fortune hunter, and his great-aunt was aiding and abetting him. I never did like her all that much when she was a gel, you know. Had a tendency to embroider the truth even then.”
Clarissa stared at her half-eaten roll. So, Clayborn’s determined and then desperate courtship was all about her inheritance.
She sipped her tea thoughtfully. She’d known he wasn’t right for her, even though she had no idea of his true situation. He was a liar through and through.
And she’d rejected him without knowing any of it. Despite his good looks, apparent wealth to come and tragic injury she hadn’t been seduced into accepting him. She’d trusted her instincts. The thought was quite cheering.
She bit into her roll. The jam was delicious.
Lady Scattergood cackled again. “A cottage and a cow paddock! You missed a fine prize there, Clarissa.”
Over the following week, Clarissa was drawn into a flurry of social engagements, mainly because Izzy, now returned to London as a newlywed countess, was being invited everywhere, and wanted to enjoy her new position in society. She accepted every invitation that Clarissa had also received and seemed to be making new friends at every event. Some of them were rather fast: daring young matrons, so different from the unmarried girls they were used to mixing with.
It was lovely seeing Izzy so confident and happy—even exuberant at times—but for Clarissa, every event felt strangely flat, and not just because she knew that she would soon be losing her new little sister.
She missed Lord Randall. Missed those gray eyes following her around the room, missed that sardonic eyebrow, silently casting doubt on a far-fetched tale or sharing an amusing moment. And his mobile mouth that conveyed so much with the slightest movement. And when he kissed her…Oh my.
She ached for his return.
She wished now she’d told him that she would marry him, despite the market chaos and squalor. Now that she’d finally conquered her fears she wanted it settled.
With days filled by social engagements, visits to LadyTarrant and the baby, rides in the park, morning calls, shopping for Zoë, and evenings filled with balls, routs, card parties and visits to the theater, Clarissa barely had time to think.
But her nights, ah, her nights were filled with dreams, dreams of a tall, lean, charming, funny, kind man whose kisses were simply…magic.
Race returned to London on Wednesday evening as dusk was falling. He’d come back to London a day early and had hoped to arrive sooner, but an overturned wagon on the London road had held him up by several hours.
Clarissa would, no doubt, be off at some party or other, and even if he did wash, shave and change, he probably wouldn’t be able to get a private moment alone with her. Not the way he wished to. That day in the curricle, he was sure—almost—that she’d been about to tell him she was willing to make the betrothal real.
The whole time away he’d gone over their conversation in his mind, minute by minute and…he thought…maybe…There had been that moment when she’d opened her mouth as if to say something momentous…and then shut it.
But he still wasn’t sure.
Maybe she didn’t believe what he’d told her about his reputation. It was hard to believe, he admitted. He thought about the trouble he’d gone to over the years to embellish and embroider the rumors, insuring that his reputation was as rakish as it needed to be. And now it was what stood in the way of his happiness. What an irony.
He was tired and hungry, so he decided to drop into his club for dinner and a relaxing drink. After a hearty meal of steak and kidney pudding, he headed into the reading room. To his surprise he found Leo there.
“Not out escorting your wife to parties tonight?” he said, dropping into a comfortable leather armchair opposite Leo.
“Almack’s tonight,” Leo said laconically. Race at once understood why Leo had bowed out. Ladies might enjoy the ratafia and orgeat and such stuff that was served at Almack’s, but a gentleman needed something stronger to survive an evening in that hothouse environment.
