Page 16 of The Return of the Rake

Though her aunt had discovered the existence of the club, for Reverend Honeywell had been very stern in his disapproval of Clara’s intention to keep it from her, her aunt’s reaction had been everything Clara had expected. ‘Vulgar’ was the word that cropped up most often, and spoken with vindictive satisfaction, for why should other women enjoy themselves when she was miserable and angry and alone?

Clara sighed, knowing she was now guilty of unkindness too, but having spent too much of her life under Aunt Edna’s thumb, her compassion for the old woman had been sorely depleted. So, she felt no compunction in lying about her whereabouts and denying all knowledge of what the club was up to. It was easy enough to do, for Edna knew how socially inept her niece was, and was hardly surprised at her having no part in its society.

“Anne, who is that?”

Clara looked at Izzy, following her gaze towards a striking young woman with an abundance of wild dark hair. There was a rather untamed look about her, her wide blue eyes at once cynical and wary.

“I do not know,” Anne said slowly. “But I believe we are about to find out.”

“Forgive me for approaching when we have had no formal introduction,” the woman said rather diffidently as she arrived before them. “I am Miss Eustacia Foxworthy.”

“No forgiveness is required, I assure you. We are all equal in this society,” Anne replied warmly, offering her hand to the woman, who shook it with a grateful smile.

“Hmph, some are more equal than others,” the dowager snorted under her breath, for which comment her granddaughter soundly hushed her.

Anne continued, disregarding the old woman. “With her approval, might I introduce you to the Dowager Duchess of Hawkney and her granddaughter, Lady Della Seymour?”

The dowager inclined her head regally, looking beadily at the newcomer, who curtsied with all the grace of a dancer, and rather too theatrically for that lady’s taste, judging by the flicker of annoyance in the dowager’s eye.

“This is Miss Isabelle Honeywell,” Anne hurried on, before the dowager could say something cutting that Clara suspected Miss Foxworthy might just relish. “And Miss Marwick and Miss Clara Halfpenny. I am Mrs Adamson, proprietress of this establishment, and I am pleased to make your acquaintance.” Anne held her hand out with a smile.

“Likewise,” the woman said, taking Anne’s hand and shaking it with an assurance normally only seen in men.

She was a fascinating creature to Clara’s timid eye, with a way of dressing that was at once rather shocking and yet wonderfully self-possessed. Her hair was restrained, if barely, by a colourful scarf, which would have sent Aunt Edna into an apoplexy ranting about loose women. There was a demure, yet somehow rather mannish cravat at her throat and she wore a gown that was as severe and plain as any governess could wish for, and yet highlighted curves of such a voluptuous nature, Clara could not help but stare. Indeed, Clara could only imagine what a stir the woman made walking down the street alone, assuming she had done so to attend the meeting today.

“Foxworthy,” Izzy repeated, considering the name. “Oh, I know! You have rented Seagull Heights. Papa mentioned it to me.”

“If your father is the Reverend Honeywell, then you are to be congratulated, miss, for he is a dear man and has been so very welcoming to myself and my brother.”

“Your brother?” Izzy repeated with a touch too much nonchalance. “Papa did not mention—”

“Yes, indeed, for it would be a shocking thing for a female person to live all alone, would it not? What trouble we might get ourselves into if left to our own devices,” Miss Foxworthy replied with such a mocking light to her eyes that Clara realised she was in the company of a woman her aunt would consider a revolutionary and dangerous indeed. “Still, Sebastian is easy enough company and troubles me very little.”

“Seagull Heights is rather a lonely prospect, Miss Foxworthy,” Anne said, clearly of a mind to invite the new young woman to find society with them whenever she might desire it.

“Yes, isn’t it splendid?” she replied with obvious relish. “You cannot imagine how hard I have searched for such peace, and the light—oh, the light is marvellous, and the way the sun sparkles upon that endless stretch of blue for the view is quite spectacular—but now I sound like Sebastian, maundering on about some prospect or pretty scene until my audience falls asleep,” she said with a laugh that was as infectious as it was lovely.

“Are you an artist, then?” Izzy asked.

“I am, and my brother is a poet, not that either of us have the least bit of fame nor fortune, so perhaps we only have pretensions in that direction, but we do our poor best.”

“I should be fascinated to see your work, should you ever be of a mind to indulge me,” Lady Della said, surprising everyone, apparently not least Miss Foxworthy.

“Well, Seagull Heights is rather remote, as Mrs Adamson remarked, and it is certainly not grand, though it has a deal of faded elegance I find rather charming. But if the prospect does not alarm you, I should be happy to receive you. Any of you, should you desire to call upon me. Only you must take me as you find me,” she warned, looking entirely earnest. “If I am working, I am afraid the entire house may go to hell in a handcart, and I should not care a jot.”

Oh, how splendid she was, Clara thought wistfully, wishing she had an iota of the woman’s assurance, and her obvious lack of care for what the world, or anyone, thought of her. How freeing it must be not to care for the opinions of others.

“I think I may speak for everyone when I say it only makes us even more curious to visit you,” Lady Della said frankly, earning herself an approving laugh from Miss Foxworthy.

“Then come, by all means, and welcome. But don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

Chapter 4

Ghosts walk where they will.

The Mermaid’s Tale, Little Valentine, East Sussex, 3rd October 1815.

King made his way down through the entrance hall and out of the hotel, disappointed to find no sign of Mrs Adamson. No doubt she was putting her feet up after the success of her club meeting. At least he assumed it had been a grand success, judging by the quality of the music that had drifted through the open window of his room, and the sound of applause that had followed it. He found himself curious about the club, about what it hoped to achieve, for he had glimpsed the women entering the dining room and, whilst some of them had been exactly the kind of respectable matrons he had imagined might attend such a musical recital, there had been others who certainly were not. Indeed, he felt certain he recognised Mrs Bagot, the butcher’s wife, and two of the young women who had gone in, giggling and chattering, looked like kitchen maids done up in their Sunday best. And then there had been that old lady wearing a king’s ransom in diamonds that had made his fingers positively itch.