Page 12 of For the Love of Clover (Breaking the Rules of the Beau Monde #4)

CHAPTER 12

W hat a difference a few days makes when scandal-broth is brewing.

Clover sat in her closed carriage. Esther, acting as her companion, sat silently beside her, and the good woman had the decency not to say a word when Mr. Lorry pulled up in front of Mr. Darrington’s townhouse. She had instructed Mr. Lorry to park across the street behind several other vehicles in hopes Mr. Darrington would not see them. The sun was on the edge of setting, and chances were good they would soon be in shadow.

There was no way of telling whether Darrington would recognize Clover’s carriage, but she couldn’t take any chances.

“Esther, you understand your part? Please say you do.”

Esther, who had a decade of wisdom over Clover’s, mutely nodded.

“I simply need to confront him, and I cannot think of a better way at this point.”

Esther looked as if she wanted to say something. Her mouth was grim, and her brown eyes pleaded with her.

“Say something if you must,” Clover said as she leaned toward the window, determined not to miss the man who would soon be in the line of her fire.

“Milady, if he’s attendin’ a party tonight and you have no invitation, then you’re sure to start somethin’ when what you really need is privacy. Perhaps it will all blow over.”

“I wish you were correct. I truly do. But Mr. Darrington has made his bed. Besides, I’m the sister of a duke. For once in my life, I have no qualms about using such tactics to weasel my way into whatever circumstance our dearly, soon-to-be departed Mr. Darrington finds himself this evening.”

“And if you don’t mind me sayin’, what if that place is Brook’s, or Strong’s, or somewhere worse? Perhaps a…” She stopped suddenly, but Clover knew she was about to say brothel .

“I’m too angry to care at this point.” Clover sat forward, one gloved hand gripping the gutter that cradled the window. The glass fogged when she huffed. “There he is. Thank the good Lord, I recognize his team.” She knocked on the glass, and the coachman appeared. “Mr. Lorry, I believe that’s the vehicle we need to follow.”

“Yes, Lady Clover. Are you certain the duke is in agreement?” Mr. Lorrey’s blond eyebrows met in a vee at the bridge of his nose. Other than that, his demeanor did not reflect the seriousness of his question.

“Yes. He gave me leave to visit with friends.” She cleared her throat. “I can’t remember where or which event she’s attending, and this carriage we follow has that information.” What an obvious load of manure. But her servants would never question her reasoning. Except maybe Esther, who had already given her two shillings of opinion.

Esther’s thin shoulders were stiff as wood as she turned face forward, refusing to look at the coachman.

They were underway two minutes later.

“That bit of tripe will not go well if Mr. Lorry mentions this to the duke.”

“I can handle my brother.” Oh, how she hoped that statement was true. If all went as planned, then Stratford would never find out. Except, of course, for one tiny detail. Clover did not have a plan. Just an idea.

Darrington’s carriage had gained momentum through a thick throng of merchants who stopped every other vehicle on the road to sell fruit, fish, ribbon, and all manner of things. The street turned into a bottleneck of carriages, horses, and foot traffic until they’d come to a complete stop. Clover opened the window and motioned for a young girl to approach the carriage.

“For you, my dear,” Clover said as she handed a shilling to the girl in exchange for a small bouquet of violets wrapped in paper. “And another, if you’ll tell me whether that carriage right there”—she pointed to Darrington’s—“makes a turn on the street just ahead.

“We could be half an hour waitin’,” Esther said, clearly worried.

“Or it could clear in minutes. It’s unpredictable.”

Esther eyed her.

“And yes, I’m unpredictable. I understand.”

Darrington’s carriage began to move, but they were still momentarily stuck. Clover wanted to sit on her hands to keep from throwing open the window and shoving her head out. Thankfully, the girl saved her the embarrassment.

“It ain’t turned on St. James, milady. Jus’ gone straight through.”

“Perfect. That’s exactly what I needed to know.” She handed the girl another shilling.

“For you, Esther.” Clover twisted in her seat and handed the violets to her maid.

“For my silence?”

“What else?” Clover smiled a little. “It won’t come to that. And if it does, you put your position before me.”

“Never.”

“Always,” Clover insisted. At that, the carriage jolted into motion, and she grabbed Esther’s hand to steady them both. “Finally, we’re on our way. Do you see him?”

“No, but Mr. Lorry seems to have it in hand.”

“Well, it isn’t Brook’s, we know that much. And we’re moving away from the theater.”

Clover wasn’t sure what she expected. In truth, she thought Darrington might attend the theater or a ball or a late in the year party, even perhaps a club. What she didn’t expect was a ride to the outskirts, over a bridge, and to see his carriage pulling away from the curb right in front of Vauxhall.

“Lady Clover, is there any way I might change your mind?” Mr. Lorry asked as he helped the ladies descend the steps. His short stature did not deter the height of his responsibility.

“No. And I have Miss Esther here. You take care and watch for me to return. The gardens are full after five, so there will be plenty of eyes. There’s nothing untoward about two ladies enjoying the sites.”

Esther blew out a loud breath. “Nothing at all if the lady in question was any exceptin’ the duke’s sister.”

Clover paid for them both, then frantically scanned the crowd, settling a moment on every man within Darrington’s height. Which weren’t many. “There he is. He’s going into the pavilion. It’s too cold for the orchestra, so I imagine they’re playing indoors tonight. We may have to wait for him to emerge again.” She pulled back, avoiding eye contact with anyone.

“I think I see him,” Esther said, nodding toward the walkway surrounding the rotunda.

“Oh, good eye, Miss Esther. Why don’t you enjoy the music and stay indoors. I’m going to follow him.”

Esther didn’t argue, and Clover didn’t want her within hearing distance of her and Darrington because she wasn’t certain how it would go. One thing was sure. She needed to surprise him with her questions. She needed to see his face when she confronted him with what he’d done because deep in her heart, she hoped Evelyn was wrong.

She ducked behind a bush. If he saw her coming, all would be lost, and she’d never have the truth. He’d spend the moments planning his words, his expression, his strategy for undermining her existence. Either way, this hairbrained idea had little promise of ending well. At least it would be private if he continued down the same path in the direction of the gardens.

She almost missed him in the Pleasure Gardens. Even the lamplight was blue and concealing. But for the clip of his bootheels, she would surely lose him. She recognized the devil may care stride even in the shadow of the trees. The hint of a gold tassel lashed about with every swaggering step. His gait was unmistakable. At least to her.

Stratford would lock her away in a convent if he had known where she was headed. It was bad enough that she had involved Esther. And poor Mr. Lorry. Stratford wouldn’t fault them. He’d most assuredly hold her accountable for the whole fiasco. But she had to know, so she followed Darrington, the clod who’d entered her name in the betting books at Brook’s, perhaps even Boodle’s. His notorious wager at a swarthy gaming hell years ago is what stuck in her mind now.

Could she forgive him if he had a gambling problem?

In this case? Oh, Lord, probably.

She scurried like a thief, avoiding notice. She turned quickly so as not to be seen when Darrington slowed his steps. Then she continued on. It was unthinkable that he would pretend to champion her at Mrs. LaDow’s house party, then turn around and make a shameless guinea on her reputation. Although, according to Evelyn the wagers had become ridiculously outrageous. She’d heard Lord Penworthy had wagered a full quarter’s allowance on the game, now called Pluck a Lucky Clover .

Men were animals. Barbarians by every definition. Even the dolt walking twenty paces ahead of her. She choked up on the drawstring of her reticule, held her bonnet to her head, and gave a little tripping skip to shorten the distance between her and her prey. She ducked her head, watching her short boots kick up a small storm of dust sure to cling to the French lace hem. With every labored breath, she felt her breasts straining against the hand she held to her chest, the white lace gloves stark against the turquoise pelisse.

“What the devil are you doing?”

With her head down, Mr. Darrington’s boots were suddenly within sight. Irritatingly lost to the images of books lined with wagers and bets from seedy men, she’d missed his unexpected turnabout.

“Are you following me?” Mr. Darrington asked, one hand on his lean hip.

“Not exactly.” She did her best to keep the condescension from the lie for the sake of truthful answers. More to the point, so she might see his face when he gave those answers. She hadn’t considered he might not say a word or admit to anything.

Sheer throttling determination bore across his brow. “Then what exactly are you doing? Because all this”—he circled the air between them with his index finger—“looks suspiciously like stalking.” He shot her a pointed stare, his mouth unbending, pressed into a straight, frustrated line.

“You flatter yourself.” Once her gaze was leveled with his, she forced herself to keep it there and from looking below his broad shoulders. He had the physique of a well-trained boxer, evident even under layers of fine clothes. Not to mention, he smelled delicious, as always.

For a heartbreaking moment, she almost forgot why she’d followed him in the first place. “I have good reason for being here, Mr. Darrington. Forgive me if I’ve interrupted a little tête tè tête. This shouldn’t take too much of your time.” It was impossible to keep the sarcasm from her voice.

With the sound of an exasperated seething bull, he huffed, looking swiftly this way and that. He abruptly grabbed her.

“Take your hands off me.” She tried to pry his fingers from her upper arm, protesting while he ignored her every word.

He turned on his heel, simultaneously pulling her in front of him. Every time she looked over her shoulder, he pressed a hand to her back, his body inches away, and nudged her along.

“This is?—”

“Shush, if you please.”

“How dare you?—”

“And keep walking.”

“My limbs are shorter than yours.”

“Believe me when I say I’ve noticed. And if I weren’t afraid of making a spectacle, I would tuck you under my arm like a sack of flour and hurry you along.”

“That—”

“Clover,” he demanded in a forced whisper.

“And now he calls me Clover. Isn’t that lovely?” she mocked under her breath, having little doubt that he heard her. With her body thrown forward and her feet desperately trying to right herself, she tripped on her skirt.

With the sleek move of a panther, he hauled her back, his arm under her breast, her bottom making improper contact with his hard thighs. He wedged his knee between her stumbling stride, holding her upright with an arm like a band of steel. They veered off the path as her feet left the ground, and he held her against him moments before depositing her unceremoniously beneath the shadow of a massive elm tree. The cool of the night disappeared with the onset of her temper.

It took her no time to pivot and face him. She hissed as her pelisse snagged on the rough, cracking tree bark. The thick, scarred piece bit into her back.

“Are you quite finished, sir?” She gave her arms a hard brush with her palms as if she could rid herself of his touch and the experience, ignoring what her heart was doing against her better judgment.

“I’m hardly finished.”

“Good, because neither am I.”

“Admit you followed me.” His voice was as demanding as his demeanor, grinding out the statement between his straight white teeth. “No doubt you lured me into that hedge maze as well.”

“Oh, ho.” The words bucked out of her in a deprecating laugh. One good thing had come from knowing him. Her nervous giggle had all but disappeared. She rested her fists high on her waist, her elbows at a sharp point. She needed to look taller than her five feet, three inches like a puffed-up bear with the tongue of an adder. The time had come. “Now I understand you.”

“Feel free to fill me in at any time, darling, because I am at a fool’s loss for words. But I assure you I am not at a loss for ideas on what to do with you.”

She felt her face bake under his scrutiny.

“Lovely, now you’re blushing. Is that embarrassment or anger, I wonder? Be careful with your answer. Whatever you say next is bound to give you away.”

She could not allow him to turn this tide. “Let us get our facts straight.” She poked his shoulder with her index finger for emphasis and was not amused when she saw a faint smug satisfaction about his mouth.

He looked at his shoulder as if she were a bug, a thing to flick away. Without moving his head, he gazed through his dangerously thick lashes, then removed her hand with a controlled grip. “Stop pointing at me.”

“As soon as you”—she poked him in the chest—“tell me why you did it.”

One swift move and he snatched her finger from his chest, and this time he did not let go. “Point that finger at me again, and I will tie your hands behind your back and leave you right here.”

Why was he angry with her when she had every right to be so with him? Recognizing a bluff when she heard one, she rolled her eyes closed, sucking in a deep breath. “You may let my hand go. I will behave.”

He immediately dropped it. His fingers spread wide as if to clear her touch from him.

“Thank you,” she said with a sharp edge.

“You’re welcome.” His response sounded automatic, a precept baked into the heads of every child. At times, the sentiment meant nothing. Right now, she couldn’t tell.

“Lucky. Clover,” she emphasized each word that had been given her by Evelyn, who recited them verbatim from her husband, Rochester.

Mr. Darrington had the decency to blanch.

“I can see you understand, so while we’re on the same page and before you deny what I know is true, please tell me why.”

“How did you come to know?”

She sighed almost with relief that at least the truth would not be part of the argument she saw coming. “You wagered on me as if I were a prize, a strumpet, a game to be played. And for what? Entertainment? Or do you play me for false? Or worse, an idiot?”

“No. No. You have it all wrong.” His indignation was replaced with desperation.

“Are you no better a man than those oafs? All the things they said about me while you hid right there, with me , in that maze. Is it a joke to you? Am I a joke? Perhaps you failed to understand how not only humiliating it was but also how dirty it made me feel, how my skin crawled at their crude little game. The only possible answer that would not wound me now would be that you did not understand at all. I am left to conclude that you, Mr. Darrington, read far more into our little inconsequential kiss than anything.” She said it, her heart pounding with a feverish release.

His shoulders dropped with a heavy sigh, and he scrubbed a hand across his mouth as he absently searched the canopy of trees.

Clover had the reaction she came for. He did know, but there was something else there. The way he looked somewhat pained and not exactly guilty bothered her. “I am not suggesting you did anything terribly wrong at the house party.” Of course, she was, but his countenance screamed for a greater truth yet unknown to her.

“Well, thank God for that,” he said, only marginally exasperated now and not a little sarcastic.

“I take responsibility for my flirtation that weekend. I can see how you might have misinterpreted my forwardness. But you do understand why I did it, don’t you?”

His gaze hurtled back to hers, and he held her there for a quizzical moment, his handsome face transformed by a slight grin which grew bigger until his cheek dimpled. The look was lethal, dangerously captivating, and full of the devil himself. And the tiny scar just below his bottom lip did not help. “The problem with you, Clover, is I do understand why you did it. I’m afraid you might be surprised at the reason, however.”

She drew her brows together. Her heart raced with confusion.

“You didn’t flirt with me in the garden because you were curious. You did it on purpose. For a purpose, if I might be so blunt.”

“Yes.” She folded her arms, feeling cornered. “Because I was embarrassed after our conversation about the statues.” As if that explained it all.

He licked his lips, his eyes challenging her not to look away. “And what about at chess? Why did you flirt with me then?”

“To win.” Her answer was innocently true. His gaze dropped to her mouth, and she swallowed hard. She lost the staring contest and looked away as if eliminating the sight of him would release the magnetic hold she had allowed his presence to dictate. She shook her head. “We’re falling off the subject here. The real reason I followed you was to confront this problem you seem to have with gambling.”

“Problem? With gambling?” He rubbed his temples. “My problem is not with gambling, I assure you.”

“It’s the only explanation for what you did. If I believed otherwise, I’d have to hate you.” She chanced a glance. “I don’t want to hate you.” The last part came out weary and worn because it was terribly true.

“And that, my dear, is precisely why I did it.”

She blinked in disbelief.

“Kingsley is altogether absent from the clubs. It appears he gives you a broad wake. Is it any wonder that this thing has grown thorns?”

“You dare to bring my brother into your doings? I wonder what he would think of that?”

“I welcome his intervention. I beg for it. Don’t you see? We are friends, you and I, and I thought it best to put a rest to the wild antics. The bets were made for your virtue. The columns under…” His jaw ticked. “Lucky Clover. The talk I cannot begin to mention that precludes such a thing. It had to stop before Kingsley found out. Or you. But I can see that ship has sailed.”

She put her hands on her hips, squeezing them into fists to keep herself from poking him again. “You purposed to put a stop to it by contributing? Are you insane or just an idiot?”

“A little of both, perhaps. Would you allow me that?” Suddenly, his gaze snapped to hers as if understanding had just bludgeoned him. He gripped her arms with a little shake.

The shock of it brought her to attention. She was immobilized by his look of disbelief and paralyzed by the shock of his touch.

“Wait a moment. You think I wagered on you? On your innocence?”

She nodded, feeling dumbfounded.

“No. Oh, Clover.” As soon as he said it, they were both drawn to the sound of approaching revelry.

She and Mr. Darrington were far enough from the footpath to dissuade a full-on conversational assault but not too far to be recognized should it be someone they knew.

“Damn it all, give me your hat.”

Too shocked to argue, she tugged at the cream-colored ribbon under her chin. Before she could fully untie the thing, Mr. Darrington slipped a finger through the loosened knot and unceremoniously whipped the hat from her head. Errant strands of hair tangled in the netting and pins, pulling pieces of hair with it, no doubt, in a crazy convoluted mess. Little sharp tugs to her scalp ended when one thick strand of hair fell over one eye.

Mr. Darrington shoved the hat between them, then leaned in, bracing his hands on either side of her head and hiding her behind his biceps and broad shoulders. She couldn’t see a thing. If the same were true for the interlopers, then perhaps the position would keep her from being effectively identified.

With her hat pressed between them, she didn’t know what to do with her hands, so she rested her palms on his chest. Blunder number one.