“Are you feeling quite well? Tom came home thirty minutes ago rambling about you but he made no sense, then said he had to leave Town with a pressing matter. I wondered if it was a scrap I should know about.”
Now that the bedding hid her body better, Clara sat up and yawned, pretending to have been asleep. “Yes, I’m perfectly fine. I have no idea what Tom is talking of.” She made the resolution to write to him and berate him for his cowardice in abandoning her in the men’s club. Still, that would have to wait until she had dealt with the outcome of today’s mistake.
“It is a shame you were not able to join us for morning calls.” Isabel moved forward slowly, one hand on her back. She made her way to the edge of the bed.
Were she not heavily pregnant, Clara would have felt far more comfortable asking Isabel to leave, but it was clear that the whole process of Isabel waddling back to the door would take far too long.
“Hmm?” Clara tried to sound interested, but the fact was morning calls were very far from fun. It was primarily made up of the Oxford Set’s wives who would choose a townhouse to visit, cram inside, and spend hours talking away to each other. Whilst Clara liked each and every one of these women, after all, one was her beloved older sister, and another was her best friend, she did often feel as if she were an outsider looking in. It was not comforting to know none of these women did it deliberately.
“What was the topic of conversation today?” Clara noticed that part of Tom’s trousers were sticking out of the sheet and surreptitiously attempted to flick the coverlet over it.
“Hurstbourne had a friend visiting who we were most eager for you to meet.”
Suppressing a groan, Clara levelled an exasperated look at her sister. Isabel always meant well, but it was not a compliment to feel as if one was reliant on her older sister to win suitors. Regardless of how true it might have been. “I do not need help locating a spouse.” If Woolwich had not been present, she might have had a good ten minutes alone with the Betting Book and been able to ascertain who was a serious prospect this Season. It was galling to realise that whilst her being bolder and more confident would probably help win a groom, being a rash, heedless wanton would not aid her at all. So, Woolwich had been right, damn him.
“I do think you would have enjoyed this man’s company,” Isabel said. “He is adon, teaching in Oxford, with a speciality in history and medieval literature…” She trailed off as if trying to remember something important, then shrugged. “It might have been Chaucer or Mallory, but I don’t remember which. I am sure it was very clever. Mr. Goudge waxed at length on the matter. He was quite pleasing in his manners, I thought. Hurstbourne believed you would be well suited. Especially when he started on about chivalry and how there is a rediscovery of some ancient gothic texts…” Then, much to Clara’s annoyance, her sister yawned and leant back to rest her head against the bedpost. Isabel looked enviously at the coverlet, and Clara could tell Isabel would like nothing more than to climb beneath the sheets and take a nap, as the two of them had done when they were children.
Clara coughed and blinked furiously to get Isabel’s attention back on the topic at hand. “Can you not remember what Mr. Goudge spoke of in more detail?”
This was the first gentleman within her family’s society who might truly be suitable. He was an educated man, one with whom literature and history could be discussed. This held a distinct appeal to Clara. When she had been considering her own requirements, this trait had topped her list. It was a sad thing to realise that whilst she might once have hoped for a true love match, after her three Seasons, she would have to put those wistful romantic ideas aside in preference for a man who could support her.
Of course, it was typical, Clara realised as she watched her sister attempt to neaten the folds of her dress, that the one-day Clara went to go and find herself a match, someone of interest arrived at the townhouse who sounded as if he might be worth staying in for. The temptation of asking why neither Isabel nor the earl had told her previously bubbled away inside her. If they had, she would have entirely avoided Woolwich.
The door of her bedchamber flew open with a squeal and in bustled the excitable, fast-moving shape of Clara’s nephew, Robert. His round blue eyes and blond curling wisps of hair tumbled about his head as he dashed towards his mother with a string of half words that were not understandable to adults.
Outside the doorway, Clara could make out the shape of her brother-in-law, whose good manners dictated that he did not enter Clara’s bedchamber. He waved. “Good morning. Apologies for disturbing you, ladies. Robert wanted to give his mother his most recent work of art.”
“You are spoiling him,” Isabel laughed as she stretched down and extracted the offered-up piece of paper. She turned it sideways and then again before she smiled down at her son. She alone seemed to understand every word he said, or she had the patience of a saint. “You are right, Robbie, a most delightful horse.” Then she looked back at Clara. “If you are feeling in good health, I desire a walk. The doctor recommends it. We three could go out together. Enjoy the spring’s pleasing weather while I can.”
“Yes,” Clara managed. She fidgeted beneath the coverlets. Having already sneaked out of the house, she could eagerly agree that the April weather was lovely, and she felt a stirring of guilt at not being a better sister to Isabel.
Reaching out her hand, Isabel made to touch Clara’s cheek, who immediately flinched. Scared her garb would be discovered. An image of Woolwich’s grin as he looked at her turned her stomach. Would he be so cruel as to inform thebeau mondeof her behaviour today?
Isabel returned to examining her son, who seemed to have a somewhat paint-stained face. With practised ease, she produced a handkerchief and wiped at the young boy’s cheeks before getting to her feet. “If you would like to come with us on that walk, you would be most welcome. Provided you feel well enough. I think I will depart in the next twenty.” With that, her sister and Robert went to the door and greeted the waiting earl. Edging forward in the bed, Clara made sure her trousers were not visible from view as all three departed.
As soon as the door closed behind them, Clara flopped back amongst the pillows. In all her twenty-five years, she could not remember being more conflicted, pulled between her friendship with Lady Heatherbroke, the threat of Woolwich, and the promise of Mr. Goudge. It seemed her own adventure had finally begun, but why it had to be so dashed uncomfortable, she could not reason.
A soft knock sounded, and Clara sat back up pulling the cover around her shoulders. She should stop lolling the day away but hurry up and dress in case she was discovered.
From the other side of the door, she heard the earl call out, “I am under strict instructions to inform you that Mr. Goudge has been invited to a card party this evening at the Verne’s. He was keen to accept.”
Draping the coverlet around her, Clara proceeded to walk through her bedroom, heading towards the wardrobe. “Lovely,” Clara replied. This would be a more traditional way of considering Mr. Goudge, and she hoped that the initial reports of him were as favourable as Isabel had made him sound. She replied unthinkingly, “Provided it will only be Lord and Lady Verne there and no one else amongst the Set, I will be most happy to attend.”
There was a stillness from behind the doorway, and it was not the sort that indicated that the earl had left. Clara realised she would need to explain herself immediately in case her brother-in-law got the wrong idea. Rushing to the doorway, she opened the door a fraction and looked at the frowning Hurstbourne. “I merely meant the presence of Woolwich would certainly darken any evening. He made the Trawlers’ wedding as difficult as he could.”
This answer seemed, in part, to satisfy Hurstbourne, although there was a touch of sadness about his face. He was a natural peacemaker, eager to heal the wounds that were dug deep between the one-time friends. “You are probably correct. It was just as well the duke left Sussex so promptly after the ceremony. But for this evening, I would not worry about that score. I doubt Woolwich would attend such an event.”
With that, he turned and left Clara to hurriedly dress into her walking gown, trying her best to think of the appealing Mr. Goudge and not of Woolwich in the slightest.
CHAPTER5
The hackney pulled away from Hurstbourne townhouse, Woolwich having watched Miss Blackman scramble away. She hadn’t found a reply or perhaps had thought better of her challenge. Which was odd, given he had felt a flutter at the jointure of her wrist, a telltale indicator of inflamed feeling—it was obvious she wished to say more to him, but perhaps she feared what Woolwich might say or do next.
What was blatant to both of them was that Miss Blackman found him exceedingly infuriating, and for some reason, there was a remarkable satisfaction in him for winding her up. It didn’t say much for his own maturity, but it certainly was a novel experience for him. Most of the time, young misses of thetonliked to coo and fuss over him—Miss Blackman was more likely to stamp on his foot than she was to flirt with him. Which she had, in fact, done. Although admittedly, it was a bit bizarre, a whole new world of experience—but, he reminded himself strictly, he could not allow her to distract him from his purpose, ensuring that if any gossip around the Oxford Set were to occur, it would not involve his dead wife or his vulnerable son.
Woolwich allowed himself to be carried away from the townhouse and through the busy London streets toward his own home. After several minutes, he tapped at the roof and climbed out, paid the driver handsomely, and started to walk, needing the fresh air.
Fashionable London was out in force, enjoying the clear, fine April day, and soon he was surrounded by thebeau monde’smost renowned gossips, fops, and society mammas—if he was caught staring over his shoulder at the Hurstbourne townhouse, it might give the false impression he was after a different member of the Oxford Set’s wives. Given Lady Hurstbourne was in an advanced stage of her pregnancy, that was not something Woolwich would wish to tax on her. Her sister, however, deserved no such consideration.
