Reluctance darkened his gaze. “My rooms.”
Clarissa closed her eyes. What choice did she really have? But if anyone found out, it would be a gem of a scandal for the broadsheets to exploit.
Yet she yearned for the safety and comfort of his home again. Right now, she just wanted to sink into the engulfing softness of his feather bed, her nose filled with his enticing cologne, until she was lulled into sleep in its cozy embrace. Her heart cracked open to emit a small spark of happiness at the thought of being there with him.
She packed her belongings once more. There was no other solution. She must reside in Francis Brody’s bachelor abode until the Misses Brody returned from their Christmas sojourn in Hampshire.
Without anyone finding out.
Chapter Seven
Francis accompanied Clarissa as, once again, she arrived at the door of his gentlemen-only accommodation without being discovered. This time she wore a clergyman’s black attire—a costume borrowed from the theatre. He found it far less nerve-racking to enter the building with her wearing such an unassuming disguise, although hiding her long hair under the accompanying tricorn hat was impossible without an overcoat collar pulled up high.
Francis unlocked his door and ushered his companion into his rooms. Until his sisters’ return to London, he would be sleeping on his sitting room floor in front of the fire. Clarissa would occupy his bedchamber when she wasn’t at The Regent Theatre.
Francis swiped a hand over his stubbled chin. Good lord, this delicate situation had better not blow up in his face. The last thing he needed was for the good Reverend Randolph of St Paul’s to learn of it. Or the bishop. Francis would be dismissed from his post in a flash, if not from the church itself!
And if that wasn’t enough to concern him, his attraction to Clarissa hadn’t diminished one jot. Already her lilac perfume haunted his rooms, teasing his senses and reminding him of her. He needed a distraction. Anything to take his mind off her alluring presence as she peered curiously out his window.
On their way to the theatre earlier that afternoon, Clarissa had revealed more about the reason she had been willing to accompany her aunt, namely, the compelling lure of information about her father. He now realized how important it was to Clarissa to discover the identity of the man who had abandoned her expectant mother in her hour of need.
The more he thought of her quest, the more he wanted to help her. And the place to start their enquiries was the Duke Street Orphanage where her mother had sought assistance.
Francis carried her luggage, now stuffed into valises from the theatre’s costume supply, into the bedchamber. “Clarissa, once you finish unpacking, we need to talk. I have a suggestion for you.”
That statement got him a sharp look of concerned inquiry. “Of course, Frank. I know my stay here is a threat to your career in the church—”
He held up a hand. “I wish to discuss something else entirely. I’ll heat the kettle in the meantime.”
Eyes wide, she closed her mouth and gave a nod of acceptance.
Francis exited the room and set about preparing their meal. Over tea and buttered tea cake some minutes later, he outlined his plan of investigation. “If you wish, we could make enquiries at the orphanage about your intake there. There may be information about your father provided by your mother.”
Her eyes gleamed, but then a shudder rocked her body. “I don’t want to go back there alone.”
“I’ll be with you,” Francis leaned towards her and laid his hand on her forearm. He meant to provide comfort and perhaps he did, but that jolt of awareness that raced up his arm at the first touch of his fingers on her wool-covered limb surprised him. His stomach clenched as he fought his physical response.
He scooted back in his chair. “Let’s finish our tea and cake, then set out,” he said hastily. “If you agree, I mean.”
“I do,” Clarissa replied, her face lit by a grateful smile.
How was he going to control his impulse to pull her into his arms and kiss her over the next week or more until his sisters’ return? The rhythmic tick of the carriage clock on themantelpiece sounded like a countdown to his, and possible her, professional doom.
***
It was mid-afternoon when Francis and Clarissa approached the Duke Street Orphanage. The closer they got, the heavier Clarissa’s hand became on his arm. By the time they turned the corner into Duke Street, her steps had faltered to a stop.
He halted too and turned to her.
“I don’t think I can do this,” she said in a trembling voice.
This was not a good start to their investigation. Was she fearful of what they would discover? Or did being here again bring up bad memories for her? He squeezed her hand where it lay on his arm. “Why are you frightened?”
She turned rounded eyes on him. “I remember years of being told that my love of performing and singing was immodest, a sin. Of being sent to bed without supper because I had, once again, ‘made a spectacle of myself’ rather than behaved like a demure future governess or servant who faded into the background, as they were trying to train me to do.”
His heart constricted at the thought of the young Clarissa forced to repress her nature and her talent as a performer. Had she been physically harmed here? “Were you beaten?”
She shook her head but didn’t meet his eyes.
