She gave their address.
“Right you are.” The panel slid closed with a thud and the carriage lurched forward into motion.
Clarissa sank back against the squabs with a long sigh. From her reticule she pulled out the card given to her by the intriguing clergyman this evening. She turned it in her hand and squinted in the low light to read the printed address in Wapping.
Perhaps she wouldn’t throw it away just yet.
Chapter Three
Francis’s eyes jerked open to the filtered light of an overcast day, with one thought on his mind—Miss Clarissa Bartlett. He had seen her leave the theatre with her aunt, the unsavory Earl of Marchmere, as well as Viscount Travener, whose reputation was unknown to him. Her smile had looked forced, rather than delighted to be in their company. In contrast, her aunt had clung to Marchmere’s arm in a very familiar manner.
Since then, concern for the actress’s welfare had niggled at the back of his mind. And disturbed his sleep. He must talk with her again and ensure she didn’t feel pressured to associate with those men.
First, he would visit his older sister Jane and her husband, the Marquis of Dalton, who were back in town for the parliamentary session. They would be able to tell him more about these men and whether he should be concerned about Miss Clarissa Bartlett being in their company.
Hurriedly he dressed and breakfasted. Soon, he strode along the busy streets to Dalton House on Grosvenor Square.
Jane greeted him in her airy sitting room. She was a petite, confident, and articulate bluestocking, and social reformer. “Well, this is an early morning call for a man who was detained at The Regent Theatre until late last night! William was an oddly silent breakfast companion this morning, but he did reveal that you’d remained at the theatre after he left.” Her face sported a wry smile.
Francis kissed her cheek in greeting, wondering about his brother. William had been quiet the night before too. He hadn’t expressed much interest in the beautiful actresses. “All my attendances at the theatres are in the pursuit of my work, of course, dear sister,” he answered in a quelling tone as he fought to suppress the smile that threatened in response to her teasing.
She laughed. “I don’t believe you at all.”
He clutched his chest with one hand, pretending to be wounded by her disbelief.
“So, how was the divine Miss Bartlett? As beautiful in the flesh as her admirers claim?” Jane asked, with a lift of one eyebrow.
“Very much so.”
“Oh ho! Are you too smitten with her, like the rest of the male theatre-going population of London? You have the look of a lovesick young swain.”
He sent her a frowning look. “Of course not. She’s a member of my flock.”
Jane laughed again. “And you, an almost engaged man!” she said, still teasing him.
Francis’s stomach clenched at the reminder of his unofficial fiancée, Miss Fanny Hodges. She was the daughter of the rector of a country parish, not far from London. The rector, a friend of his late father, had employed Francis as an assistant curate soon after his ordination five years ago.
Francis had experienced a youthful attraction to Miss Hodges, with no hope of it culminating in marriage until he was appointed to a rectory or vicarage. Nevertheless, the clergyman’s daughter had come to feature in his future plans as a suitable bride whenever he was finally appointed to a living, although that might be many years away. In his goal of obtaining a country parish, he was following his father’s hoped-for path.
He had been determined not to compromise Fanny or have anything but the most chaste relationship with her, unlike his relationship with a recently widowed landlady in Oxford soon after his graduation. Nevertheless, he and Miss Hodges had become informally engaged—that is, she and their families believed they would marry. A proposal to her had never passed his lips.
That state of being continued today and he was in no hurry to change the status quo, hoping that with time, and given that he had yet to be appointed to a rectory or vicarage, she would lose interest in him and release him from their informal engagement.
One day, however, he would have a parish of his own. Soon after Jane’s marriage about a year ago, Jonathan, Marquis of Dalton, had promised Francis the living in Hampshire that was his to bestow, upon the retirement of its incumbent, Reverend Ramsdown. That hoped-for event had not yet occurred.
With each passing year, Francis had felt his attraction to Miss Hodges, stimulated as it had been by proximity, fading away. Now, with this ridiculous fascination with Miss Bartlett occupying his mind and taking over his body, he felt more confused than ever about how his dilemma could be resolved.
As a gentleman, he was in a bind. He and Fanny were not engaged, but her family expected them to marry. Certainly, Fanny took it for granted that they would marry eventually. He could not break off such an understanding. Only Fanny could do that. And currently, that appeared as unlikely as flying to the moon.
He must have continued to frown at his sister, because Jane’s face turned serious. “I expect you are calling on me for a reason?” she prompted.
Francis gave an abrupt nod. “I am. What do you know about Lord Marchmere?”
Jane’s lips curled in distaste. “He’s a scheming, conniving misogynist. Jonathan detests him and, politically, they disagree on just about everything. Why do you ask?”
“He and Viscount Travener escorted Miss Bartlett and her aunt to supper last night and the young lady looked none too happy about it. Should I warn her of either of them?”
“Well, as you probably know, Marchmere is a married man, but the other gentleman is not. Travener is the nephew of my old friend, Mrs. Courtice. When I received her substantial bequest, he was not pleased. It reduced his inheritance, although he received all her real estate.”
