Rushed to the Altar Read Online Free PDF

some sinister threat, and each time she ventured forth, Clarissa had to steel herself.
    She got up from the cot and went to the leather chest that contained the few possessions she had brought with her to London. This was never intended to be an extended visit. Once she had Francis in safekeeping, she would shake the dust of this grim city from her heels and they would find a safe haven, somewhere where they could hide for the next ten months. Kneeling in front of the chest she lifted the lid and took out the letter. It was an ill-written, misspelled scrawl, but the message was clear enough. If only she could find the anonymous messenger . . .

    The steward who answered the Earl of Blackwater’s imperative knock at the door bowed deeply. “My lord. May I say what a pleasure it is to see you?”
    “You may.” The earl handed him his hat and cane as he strode into the hall. “Is Mistress Griffiths at home?”
    “Yes, my lord. I’ll tell her you’re here at once. Would you wait in the parlor?” The steward opened the door onto a small, pleasantly furnished chamber, where gentlemen callers were accustomed to await their ladies. The room was empty and Jasper walked across to the window, looking idly out into the street, his hands clasped loosely at his back.
    The door opened again in a very few minutes. “Why, my lord Blackwater, this is a rare pleasure indeed.” A woman in a billowing sacque gown of a startling shade of yellow, her hair piled high beneath the folds of an elaborate striped turban, closed the door behind her and regarded her visitor quizzically. “Dare I hope you are come to do business at my humble establishment, my lord?”
    Jasper turned from the window, a slight smile on his lips. He bowed. “Good afternoon, Nan.” He put up his glass and remarked, “You are in remarkably good looks, madam.”
    “Oh, flatterer.” She waved a hand at him. “I’m fagged to death if the truth be told. Will you take a glass of Madeira?”
    “With pleasure.” He took a seat in the corner of the sofa, regarding her still with that faint smile. MargaretGriffiths, known to her intimates as Nan, was a woman of a certain age whose heavily painted face did little to hide the ravages of a life lived at the edge of debauchery. Her gown was suited to a much younger woman and the bubbling swell of an overripe bosom lacked the pristine creaminess the deep décolletage was designed to show off. But no one would make the mistake of dismissing Mother Griffiths as a raddled old hag past her prime. She was one of the sharpest businesswomen in the city.
    He swung his quizzing glass idly back and forth as he asked, “So, talking of business, how is it these days?”
    “Oh, well enough, as always.” She handed him a glass and took a seat opposite. “There are always customers for the commodity I am selling, in good times and in bad.” She sipped her Madeira. “But you, Jasper, have not been one of them, at least not since you attained your majority.”
    Jasper smiled slightly. He was remembering his first visit to Mother Griffiths’s establishment at the age of sixteen, escorted by his uncle Bradley on one of the viscount’s rare returns to England from his business empire in India. Lord Bradley had been horrified to discover that his nephew was still a virgin and had set about repairing the omission with a dedicated enthusiasm. That, of course, had been quite some years before his lordship had decided to return to the fold of the Catholic church. And Jasper was still unconvinced of that particular conversion.
    “Yes, you did enjoy your visits then,” MistressGriffiths said, reading his mind and the significance of the reminiscent smile. “What was her name, that young filly who took your heart? Meg . . . Mollie . . . Millie . . .”
    “Lucille.” Jasper corrected with a dry smile. “Lucy.”
    “Oh, yes, I remember.” She nodded. “Took your heart and broke it too, as I recall.”
    “I was a naïve simpleton.”