Playing to Win by Diane Farr Read Free Book Online Page B

your way, you absurd child, at least tell me where you
were going when you lost it. I will engage myself to deliver you to
your friends, or your family, or wherever it may be that you were
headed."
    Clarissa struggled again to think of an
answer, and could not. She took refuge in hauteur. "I have told you
already, Mr. Whitlatch, that my affairs are not your concern! I am
very well able to take care of myself."
    He gave an inelegant snort. "Yes, I
have seen exactly how well you are able to take care of yourself!
You forget. I found you in the power of the most notorious
courtesan in Western Europe."
    Clarissa's eyes flashed. "You needn't
sneer, Mr. Whitlatch!"
    "You needn't pitch gammon,
Clarissa!"
    "I do not know what ‘pitching gammon’
means, but it sounds excessively vulgar. And I have not given you leave to call me by my Christian name!"
    "Pitching gammon, my good girl, means
you are trying to hoodwink me. You won't succeed, so you may stop
trying! And I call you by your Christian name because I do not know
your surname."
    Clarissa, much agitated, rose and
crossed to the fireplace. She wished her knees did not tremble
so.
    Mr. Whitlatch's voice sounded behind
her, now edged with suspicion. "Well? I ask you again: Who are you?
La Gianetta told me you were her daughter."
    Her back to Mr. Whitlatch, she leaned
against the mantel for support. If she did not have to watch his
face while she said it, it was easier to say. Clarissa stared into
the fire and whispered, almost inaudibly, the shameful secret she
had spent her life trying to escape.
    "It is true. I am her
daughter."
    A brief silence fell. Behind her, she
could almost palpably feel incredulity and wrath struggling within
Mr. Whitlatch. Wrath apparently won. She heard the scrape of the
chair as he rose. Then his voice came, dangerously
quiet.
    "Do not try my patience further," he
said, through his teeth. "We are going to Morecroft Cottage. We are
going now. You will walk quietly out to the carriage, and you will
get in. And you will enact me no more of this charade."
    Clarissa turned defiantly to face him,
opened her mouth to speak—and saw the expression on his face. She
closed her mouth. This was not the face of a man with whom one
could reason. Mr. Whitlatch was very angry. It was clear that he
believed she had been trifling with him, and it was equally clear
he was not a man to be trifled with.
    He opened the door and held it for her.
"Go."
    He was more than capable of compelling
her if she defied him. Better to obey now and argue later. She
walked stiffly out without a word.
    As they exited the inn a boy sprang to
attention, let down the step and flung open the door of an elegant
post-chaise. Clarissa gathered her skirts and hesitated on the
step, peering in.
    Thank God, it had two wide benches; one
facing forward and one facing backward. They need not sit
side-by-side. But if she chose the forward-facing seat, he would
certainly sit beside her. She chose the rear-facing
seat.
    Mr. Whitlatch, entering behind her,
noted this maneuver and instantly comprehended its purpose. His
mouth twisted in a sardonic grin. They would look like prime
idiots, both sitting backwards, but it would serve her right. The
motion wouldn't bother him a bit after years at sea. She'd be sick
as a horse before they reached Marylebone. So he sat beside her,
tossing his hat onto the cushions in the corner. She immediately
got up and seated herself in the center of the
forward-facing bench.
    Before he could counter this move, the
boy who had been holding the door reached in. He deftly tucked a
lap rug round Clarissa, slipped a hot brick under her feet, touched
his cap to her, and shut the door. Clarissa's look of amazement
widened Mr. Whitlatch's grin.
    "You haven't traveled much, I
see."
    "Only on a stagecoach," Clarissa
admitted, wiggling her toes appreciatively against the hot
brick.
    She noted with relief that his voice
had suddenly sounded almost friendly. Perhaps the muted light