Like Lord Arden.

Clarissa would never forget the awful argument she had overheard, and running into the room to find Beth on the floor, clearly having been driven there by Lord Arden’s blow. The next day Beth had had an awful bruise.

She’d said it was over, was a problem that had been dealt with, but it had been a lesson to Clarissa. Handsome men could be whited sepulchers. On her twenty-first birthday she would have a hundred thousand pounds or more. Folly indeed to put it into the hands of a man, and herself totally in his power.

Up the stairs and along the familiar corridor, every corner of the school was familiar. She wouldn’t exactly say precious. Last year she’d been desperate to leave here and take up her life. Even though she’d known her parents didn’t care for her, she’d leaped at the chance to go to London. To have a season. To attend balls, routs, parties.

She’d known she was no beauty, and would have no dowry to speak of, but she’d dreamed of suitors, of handsome men courting her, flirting with her, kissing her, and eventually, even going on their knees, begging for her hand.

Instead, there’d been Lord Deveril.

She stopped and thrust him into the darkest depths of her mind. Loathsome Lord Deveril, his foul kiss, and his bloody death. At least he didn’t wait for her out in the frightening world.

She knew everyone was right. She couldn’t stay here forever.

She glanced down at her clothes, the beige-and-brown uniform all the girls wore here. She had nothing else to wear other than the London gowns that lay in trunks in the attic. She would never wear them again!

But she could hardly go on like this. She bit her lip on a laugh at the thought of herself—plump and fifty— trotting around Cheltenham in brown and beige, that eccentric Miss Greystone, with a fortune in hand and nowhere else to go.

But she had nowhere else to go. She would certainly never again live with her family.

She needed someone to talk to and knocked on the door of her friend Althea Trist. Althea was the junior mistress who had come last September to take Beth Arden’s position.

The door opened. Clarissa said, “I’m going to have to—”

But then she stopped. “Thea, what’s the matter?”

Her friend had clearly been crying.

Althea pressed a soggy handkerchief to her eyes and tried for a smile. “It’s nothing. Did you want something?”

Clarissa pushed her into a chair and sat nearby. “Don’t be silly. What is it? Is there bad news from home?”

“No.” Althea grimaced, then said, “It’s just the day. June eighteenth. The anniversary. Waterloo.”

Realization dawned. “Oh, Thea! You must feel the pain all over again.” Althea’s beloved betrothed, Lieutenant Gareth Waterstone, had died at the battle of Waterloo.

“It’s foolish,” Althea said. “Why today rather than any other day? I do grieve every day. But today…” She shook her head and swallowed.

Clarissa squeezed her hands. “Of course. What can I do? Would you like some tea?”

Althea smiled, and this time it seemed steadier. “No, I’m all right. In fact, I am to take the girls out soon.”

“If you’re sure.” But then it dawned on Clarissa. “Thea, you can’t. You can’t go to the parade! Miss Mallory would never have asked you if she’d thought.”

“She didn’t. Miss Risleigh was to do it, but she wished to attend a party. She is senior to me.”

“How callous! I will go and speak to Miss Mallory immediately.”

She was already up and out of the door as Althea was crying, “Clarissa! Stop!”

She hurtled down the familiar stairs, back to the parlor to knock upon the door. The parade was in honor and memory of the great victory at Waterloo. Althea could not possibly be expected to go there and cheer.

The knock received no response, however. She made so bold as to peep in and found the room deserted. She ran off to the kitchen, but there found that Miss Mallory had gone out for the afternoon. There were a great many parties taking place, and the better folk of Cheltenham had been invited to choice spots from which to watch the parade.

What now?

The school was closed for the summer, and only five girls lingered, awaiting their escorts home. There were only three teachers—Miss Mallory, Althea, and the odious Miss Risleigh.

What could be done?

The girls could do without their trip to the parade, but Clarissa knew that dutiful Althea would never permit that. There was only one solution. She ran back upstairs to her room, put on the brown school cloak and the matching bonnet, and returned to Althea’s room.

Althea was already dressed to go out.

“Take that off,” Clarissa said. “I am going to take the girls.”

Althea stared. “Clarissa, you can’t. You’re not a teacher! In fact, you’re a paying guest.”

“I was a senior girl until last year. We often helped out.”

“Not as escort on a trip like this.”

“But,” said Clarissa, “I’m not a senior girl anymore. I’m only a few months younger than you are.” A lock of hair tumbled down, and she went to Althea’s mirror to tuck it back in. If she was going to do this she had better try to look mature and stern. Or at least sensible.

She pushed some more hair in and tried to straighten the bonnet.

“It is my responsibility,” Althea protested, appearing behind her in the mirror.

Clarissa couldn’t help wishing she hadn’t done that. Althea was a rare and stunning beauty, with glossy dark hair, a rose-petal complexion, and every feature neatly arranged to please.

She, on the other hand, had unalterably sallow skin and features that while tolerable in themselves were not quite arranged to please. Her straight nose was too long, her full lips too unformed, and even her excellent teeth were a little crossed at the front. Her eyes were the dullest blue, her hair the dullest brown.

It shouldn’t matter when she had a hundred thousand pounds and no need of a husband, but vanity does not follow the path of logic.

She put that aside and turned to put an arm around her friend. “There are only five girls left, Thea. Hardly a dire task. And you cannot possibly attend the Waterloo Day parade and cheer. If Miss Mallory knew, she would say the same. Now, go and lie down and don’t worry. All will be fine.”

She rushed out before Althea could protest anymore, but only ten minutes later, she could have laughed aloud at that prediction.

One, two, three, four—she anxiously counted the plain brown bonnets around her—five. Five?

She whirled around. “Lucilla, keep up!”

The dreamy ten-year-old turned from peering at a gravestone in Saint Mary’s churchyard and ambled over.

Unaware, she caused one hurrying woman to stumble back to avoid running into her.

Clarissa rolled her eyes but reminded herself that a noble deed lost its luster if moaned over. “Hurry along,” she said cheerfully. “We’re almost there!”

At least the youngest girl was attached to her hand like a limpet. It would be nice, however, if Lady Ricarda weren’t already sniveling that she was scared of the graves, she was going to be sick, and she wanted to go back to the school, now.

“We can’t possibly go back now,” Clarissa said, towing the girl out into the street. “Listen—you can hear the band.” She glanced back. “Horatia, do stop ogling every man who walks by!”

Horatia Peel was fifteen and could be expected to be some help, but she was more interested in casting out lures. She’d pushed her bonnet back on her head to reveal more of her vivid blond curls and had surely found some way to redden her lips.

At Clarissa’s command, she turned sulkily from simpering at a bunch of aspiring dandies. She was not a hard-hearted girl, however, and took Lucilla’s hand to make sure she didn’t wander off again.

Clarissa’s other two charges, Georgina and Jane, were devoted eleven-year-old friends, arm in arm and in deep conversation. They were no trouble except for their slow pace.

Afraid to speed ahead in case someone disappeared, Clarissa gathered her flock in front and nudged them forward like an inept sheepdog. It would be wonderful to be able to nip at some dawdling heels!

What would the world think if it could see her now? The infamous Devil’s Heiress, with a dubious past and a fortune, dressed in drab and in charge of a bunch of wayward sheep.

“Walk a little faster, girls. We’re going to miss the soldiers. Horatia, keep going! No, Ricarda, you are not going to be crushed. Lucilla, look ahead. You can see the regimental flag.”

She blew a corkscrew curl out of her eyes, reminding herself that this was a good deed. It would be horrible for Althea to have to be here. For her part, she didn’t mind some cheering and celebration. It was exactly one year ago today that loathsome Lord Deveril had died. One year since she’d been saved. Bring on the flags and drums!

She counted heads again. “Not long now. We’ll find a good spot to watch our brave soldiers march by.”

Her forced good cheer dried up when they popped out of the lane and into Clarence Street. People must have come in from the surrounding countryside for the festivities. The place was packed with a jostling, craning, chattering, pungent mob and all the hawkers and troublemakers that such a throng attracted.

A bump from an impatient couple behind them moved her on into the thick of the crowd with everyone around pushing for a good spot.

One, two, three, four, five.

“Let’s go toward the Promenade, girls. The crowd may be thinner there.”

“I want to go home!”

“Ricarda, you can’t. Hold tight to my hand.”

Hawk had a flock of schoolgirls in his sights.

After intensive investigations in London, he had come to Cheltenham in search of the heiress herself. She was clearly key, and she was being kept out of sight. He’d discovered that she wasn’t living with her family, or with her guardian, the duke.