Caprice: The Masqueraders Series - Book One Read Free Page A

vicar, had assured her that it wasn’t her fault. She was of a different breed, the daughter of one of Wellington’s generals and the niece of a viscount, while Evelyn had been the grandson of a country squire. No doubt those distinctions made it difficult for her to appreciate simple joys.
    Clarissa smiled ruefully. Simple joys, indeed. If only her in-laws expressed joy of any kind, things might have been easier. But they were in deep unrelieved mourning over the loss of their only child. Any spark of joy or natural high spirits seemed the height of ingratitude in the face of their stunned grief. That was why she had taken to walking the cliffs each morning, to be alone with her growing restlessness.
    Almost impatiently she reached into her reticule and withdrew the gilt-edged envelope that had come in the morning’s post. The letter was from her aunt Heloise, for whom Clarissa held a fondness which she would have bestowed upon her own mother had the lady lived long enough to register in her daughter’s memory.
    A frown of concern marred her brow as she read the scant blurred lines. It was a request that she come visit her aunt, “before it is too late.”
    Though they had exchanged dozens of emotional letters these last six years, Aunt Heloise had never before resorted to such foreboding language—not even when she related her husband’s disappearance three years earlier. For her aunt to even hint at affliction, she must be at death’s door. Were those teardrops marring the words?
    The marshal light of battle which her deceased father would have recognized shone vividly in her dark eyes when she again raised them from the paper. Her aunt would not succumb to illness if she could help it.
    As she stared out across the glossy expanse of Channel water, a frisson of delight sped through her. She was going home, to England.

1
    England, April 1814
    Once the sloop from Jersey came to dock at Portsmouth, Clarissa was annoyed and then indignant to find herself suffering the interrogation of customs officers who swarmed over the ship. The apologetic captain informed his passengers that because the ship had come from the enemy French-influenced isles of Guernsey and Jersey, the English government felt it necessary to check for contraband and spies. From Clarissa’s observation, it appeared that the customs men were bent on seizing all the liquor, tobacco, and silks they found, regardless of whether or not they were legally held. Only after they had ransacked every cabin, opening trunks and barrels, spilling what they did not want willy-nilly over the floors and decks, did they allow the passengers to disembark.
    The disagreeable interlude left Clarissa impatient and angry. The crossing had been difficult, with a sudden squall causing delay. As each and every hour passed she had grown more anxious. By the time the port of Plymouth came into view, she was half convinced that her aunt must already be dead.
    As she stepped off the gangway, she was engulfed in the teeming life of the pier. Crates, bales, and barrels of every size and description formed an intricate maze through which she and the other passengers were forced to negotiate a path. Hundreds of boisterous soldiers and sailors, disembarking or waiting to board the many military vessels choking the harbor, stood about openly ogling the female passengers. As the daughter of a major general, Clarissa had long ago become accustomed to their high-spirited braggadocio. But now their scarlet coats and blue jackets were reminders of both her father and her husband and, with their deaths, all that she had left behind. Life on the Peninsula seemed a world away, as did the role of daughter of the regiment.
    When she raised her head to scan the wharf for a sign that might direct her to a coaching inn, she noticed that a couple ahead of her had paused to stare at the adjoining pier where another ship was unloading. As she reached them the woman pointed a finger as she said, “Would