Playing to Win Read Online Free PDF

grip on her
elbow as he guided her into the inn. If she planned to treat him to
a tantrum, he had rather seclude her somewhere before she began.
Fortunately, his arrangements at Grisham's included a private
parlor. He escorted Clarissa to this apartment and ushered her
inside. A fire had been lit, and the room had a cheerful, cozy
aspect.
    "Stay here and get warm," he commanded.
"I will bespeak a chaise and order us a little nuncheon. Do you
prefer coffee or tea?"
    At last, her eyes met his. God, she was
lovely.
    "Tea," she said. Her voice was
completely emotionless. Perhaps she did not mean to enact a scene
for his benefit after all. He smiled at her with great
satisfaction.
    "Tea it shall be," he promised. "I will
be back directly." And he exited, closing the door behind
him.
    Clarissa unclenched her shaking hands
and sent up a silent prayer of thanksgiving. She had been left
completely alone in a room on the ground floor!
    Grisham's was a modern hotel, and its
elegant windows were large. To her relief, the first window she
tried slid open easily on well-oiled hinges. The windowsill was
even clean. What luck. Gathering her skirts around her, Clarissa
sat on the sill, swung her legs over, and jumped lightly into the
mews.
    Twenty minutes of Mr. Whitlatch's
company had been quite enough.

Chapter 3
     
    The mews behind Grisham's was dark,
narrow and extremely cold. Like most alleys, it was also ripe with
unpleasant odors. Clarissa decided not to let her skirts drop until
she reached the street.
    Panic urged her to hurry, but she
hesitated for a moment. How unfortunate that she could not reach
high enough to close the window behind her! Mr. Whitlatch would
instantly know which way she had gone. Well, that could not be
helped. She would have a head start, at any rate.
    Clarissa had seen little of London—in
fact, practically nothing, since she had arrived squashed into the
middle seat of a stagecoach and had been confined in her mother's
house ever since—but she felt confident that if any person wished
to elude another, the crowded streets of London would be an
admirable place to begin. And if Mr. Whitlatch did find her there,
she could scream for assistance. Surely he would not accost her in
public.
    Or would he? Clarissa shuddered. If
anyone could be that brazen, Mr. Whitlatch was the man. She had
learned more in the past half-hour about the relationship between
men and their mistresses than she had ever cared to know. She was
still reeling from the shock. He would hold the pursestrings, would
he, and force her to dance to whatever tune he cared to pipe?
Horrible!
    She must get away, and at once.
Stepping carefully over a small heap of refuse, Clarissa hastened
to the end of the mews, shook out her skirts, and, with her heart
racing, walked sedately out into the street.
    No shrinking, or looking bewildered!
she admonished herself, quelling the impulse to break into a run.
She had no idea where she was. She also did not know where she was
going, nor what to do when she got there.
    No sense fretting about it. She had
prayed that an opportunity for escape would present itself. Well,
it had, and she had seized it. The die was cast.
    Clarissa chose a direction at random,
and walked at a pace she hoped would appear brisk and purposeful,
rather than hurried. She was careful to keep her head lowered. It
was unusual for women to walk unaccompanied in London, and Clarissa
wished to attract as little attention as possible. Passersby might
notice her, but at least (she hoped) they would not be able to
describe her face.
    She wished now she had thought of some
ruse to get Mr. Whitlatch to bring some of her luggage to her
before she escaped. There hadn't been time to think of anything.
But if only she had desired one of her bandboxes to be brought to
the coffeeroom, pretending to need a comb or some such nonsense,
she could have taken the bandbox out the window with her. If I were
carrying a bandbox, she thought wistfully, I might pass