The Proposition, page 23
Secrets but not love. No, never love. I have sworn off it.
Maybe.
“But where is Lord Boyle?” Honora had asked as they were all at last settled down at the table and surrounded by the clinking music of knives and forks at work.
That was the last subject on Clemency’s mind, yet she drummed up a cool smile. She did not have to pretend to be unbothered at his conspicuous absence. “He has some business out of town to settle,” Clemency replied.
“Any respectable man settles his accounts and readies himself before marrying,” Mr. Bagshot pointed out from his place at the head of the long table. She didn’t mind his unwitting assist.
“Oh, but it is so soon!” Tansy squealed, scrunching up her nose. She and William sat across from each other, just to Honora’s right. “We shall all gossip our way back to Round Orchard after the assembly, and then our Clemency will be a married woman.”
“Hard to imagine,” William said with a chuckle.
“Why speak of me when Honora is here now?” Clemency redirected. It was uncomfortable to be the subject of their teasing and joy when so soon the cause for it would be dismantled. Indeed, Honora’s coming could not be better timed—she could attend the assembly in two days and be there in person for Boyle’s unmasking. She only hoped Mrs. Chilvers would not be too implicated.
“What is there to ask?” Tansy replied lightly. “We have already asked her thrice about the road conditions.”
“Clemency has been kind enough to keep me abreast of all your many adventures in London,” Honora said in her effortlessly polite way. Below the table, Clemency patted her knee in thanks for changing the subject away from Boyle. “Lady Veitch is frequently mentioned….”
And that was all it took. Tansy launched into her usual glowing recounts of their evenings with Lady Veitch and her daughters, and then veered suddenly to tell Honora of the most alarming pistol shot they heard just three nights before.
Clemency, more taken with what had come after the shot, had almost forgotten all about that part and flinched when Tansy pounded her fist on the table, mimicking the boom. Afterward, she could feel Nora’s eyes burning into her cheek. A sister’s intuition…
How unfair that she had to wait to tell Honora all. She yearned to write to Audric but knew they must be careful now that the assembly was nearly upon them. It was a risk, what she had done—kissing him in the rain, speeding off into the night in his carriage, kissing him some more. Thankfully, she had arrived home before Tansy and William, and dried herself down and tossed herself into bed before any of them could start up interrogations. The next morning, talk only revolved around the subject of the mysterious shot, and that was just fine with Clemency, who stared into her porridge, lost in thought. She must have looked dreadful, for she had slept not a wink that night, revisiting in her mind every moment she had spent in Mr. Ferrand’s company, every detail of his face and the exact warmth and pressure of his lips upon hers…
Lord, but she wanted to write to him. There was so much to say! So much to ask! She wanted to study him like a long-forgotten book, a tad dusty but attractive and serious and leather-bound, wanted to search through every word and all the marginalia for information. What was he like as a boy? Had he been in love before? What operas did he yet desire to attend? Did he possess a favorite dish? A favorite wine? Where might he want to holiday, and so on.
Clemency pushed her roast around on her plate and sighed. And none of it could be told to Honora. How was she to hold her tongue for three whole days? And after Honora had noticed there was something different about her too?
She was becoming a tangle of contradictions. A woman who eschewed love yet found herself tumbling helplessly toward it. A grand, romantic love. Miss Taylor would groan. How many times must Clemency forget and relearn this lesson?
When the dinner ended, they adjourned to the sitting room; general witticisms were exchanged, the pianoforte was by turns adequately and exceptionally played, motes danced in the butter-yellow candlelight. Then yawns were stifled and excuses made, beds more enticing than cards, and Clemency at last found herself alone with her sister, who would be occupying the room across the hall. Of course, after washing up and changing into her dressing gown, Honora came to her and the two of them sat on Clemency’s bed with their knees touching, just as they had done as girls in Round Orchard.
“Is it true?” Honora asked, running her fingers idly across the edge of her knit shawl. “Has it been Lady Veitch’s luxurious salons and nothing else all this time? How have you not gone mad?”
“Of course not,” replied Clemency, rolling her eyes. “We must convince Tansy that she will not inherit Lady Veitch’s great fortune, no matter how many lectures she endures!”
Nora grinned. “And you have delivered my letter to Mrs. Chilvers?”
The name somewhat diminished Clemency’s joy. “Yes, I have. Only…I hesitate to tell you this, but she is part of this business with Boyle. It will all come as a shock, Honora, and you must prepare yourself.” She fetched the letter from Mrs. Chilvers, which she had kept under her pillow all those days.
At that, her sister frowned. “I cannot see how she is involved. She does not speak of him, though I have mentioned him in passing, and only in relation to you.”
“Yes, she said as much. In fact, we spoke at length, Honora, about some misfortunes that have befallen her. Life has shown her so much unkindness, and to survive she has taken regrettable actions.” Clemency took a deep breath and pressed the backs of her hands to her eyes. “You should hear it all from Mrs. Chilvers herself, Nora, but I cannot promise that Boyle’s downfall will not include her.”
“It is hard to imagine,” Honora breathed. She held the letter gently between her palms, her cheeks suddenly pink. “I thought Mrs. Chilvers had given me her true confidence, for we have shared so much of our lives through our correspondence…. I never for one moment thought she might be an unsavory character.”
“She is not unsavory,” Clemency insisted. Mrs. Chilvers was not a Denning Ede or a Turner Boyle; she refused to believe it was so. The widow had been so contrite, so sincere…. “She is complicated, and she has promised to give testimony against Boyle when the time comes.”
“So many secrets,” said Honora, eyes downcast. “If she is aiding Boyle, then Mr. Ferrand must despise her.”
“Do not worry about him. Mrs. Chilvers will not move against us.”
“Us is it, now?” Honora asked, perking up. A slow smile spread across her face. “Your letters mentioned Mr. Ferrand frequently. For a man you profess to dislike you certainly do speak of him often. Is there more to tell? Come, I am your sister, Clemency. You know I can be trusted.”
Naturally she could be, but Clemency felt protective of her scheme with Mr. Ferrand. Their interactions, experiences, even their friendship, must be kept hidden, and the plot itself, while also a secret, felt truly theirs. A unique bond, if an untoward one. She leapt from the bed and crossed to the window, fretting with the edges of the lace curtains that billowed gently from the humid night breeze.
“Clemency…”
“Oh, do not use that warning tone! I am powerless against it.”
“I know.” Nora laughed softly but made no attempt to follow her. “What have you left out of your letters? I know something has changed, sister. You look different. You seem changed. There is…a shift in your demeanor that I dare not try to explain. A private smile that I recognize, as I have worn it myself.”
She knew. A sister would. Clemency squeezed her eyes shut and let the curtains drop from her grasp. “You…You are imagining that.”
Honora had the grace to wait for a moment or two before murmuring, “Dearest, are you in love with him?”
“Oh God! No!” Not love. Never love. Clemency wilted. “No! Yes. I must be! Dreadful! Dreadful, dreadful,” Clemency wailed, crushing the heels of her hands into her eyes and spinning. She found her way back to the bed and collapsed upon it, and at once Nora stroked her hair and back. “You mustn’t tell anyone.”
She could hardly admit it to herself.
Honora laughed again, supremely gentle. “You know I would never. Besides, he is a single man with a fortune, why should you not love him and marry him? How is that at all dreadful?”
Clemency only tiptoed up to the idea of marrying Audric, for thinking about it in detail gave her prickles up and down her arms. Would they even be happy? Would they drive each other mad? “There is no understanding between us, Nora, not like that.”
“Could there be? You need not go through with your marriage to Boyle. And yet what would your cherished Miss Bethany Taylor have to say about this?” she asked, wryly.
“That I am a fool,” she wailed again. “I should not be falling in love. I should be avoiding men altogether!”
“We are all fools in love, surely even Miss Taylor could not begrudge you a happy heart?”
Clemency rolled gracelessly onto her back and pouted. “There is so much to untangle! I had no interest in ever marrying, but then Boyle changed my mind, and then he changed it yet again. And for weeks I had thought myself decided on spinsterhood, and yet Mr. Ferrand…the thought of a life with him, a forever life, does not seem dreadful. Rather, it moves me. It moves me to dream. But dreaming is so dangerous, and dreams are terribly fragile.”
Nora patted her hair again, then giggled and swooped down to plant a kiss on her forehead. “Then dream away, Clemency. You are quite allowed to change your mind. Your smile tells the story, and if that smile tells true, then it will be a happily ever after.”
22
Clemency realized she ought to appreciate the glamour of the assembly hall more, but it was all a bit fuzzy behind the knowledge of what must be done that evening. Her skin felt alight, as strange and hot as when Audric touched her or embraced her, or even glanced at her with his intense emerald eyes. The assembly had seemed a distant thing for so long, but now it had come, and she must play her part, and Audric must play his—Turner Boyle must be disgraced, confronted with his scheme to legitimize his title before the whole of the ton, so that he might not squirm out of the scrutiny and accusations again.
And then Clemency would be free of all the games and nonsense, free to finally profess her heart to Audric.
That sent another jolt of fear through her. She stood under the dazzle of candles made crystalline by the many chandeliers and handled her cup of punch rather roughly, spinning it ever in her silk-gloved fingers. Beside her, dressed in a ravishing green gown, Honora tapped her fan lightly on her wrist to the beat of the music, her ringlets bouncing as she pursed her cherub lips and searched the sea of unfamiliar faces.
A green dress. Searching. That at least broke through the fog of nerves gripping Clemency. She leaned into her sister, both of them squashed against the wall near the dancing while a steady river of attendees ran by, a constant stream of beaded silk and fluffy cravats.
“But where is your Mr. Ferrand?” Honora suddenly asked.
Clemency swallowed hard and shrugged. It was best not to think of him yet. She knew he would appear at the right time, when all was to be revealed. First, Boyle must show himself, must ask Clemency to dance, and then he would be shown the papers they had taken from Mrs. Chilvers, the forgery plot revealed. They hoped to keep Ede’s name out of it, as he was powerful enough to enact his own reprisals, and thus she would reveal Boyle’s true parentage only if he forced her hand. Then, at last Audric’s presence would be required, as he would swoop in to gallantly take her hand, wrenching her from Boyle and toward the dance floor for a triumphant turn.
She began to sweat.
“Let us not speak of him,” she told her sister. “For it has come to my attention that you have shed your widow’s weeds. This shade of emerald nearly does you justice, sister. But who is it for?”
Honora paled and fussed with one of her curls. “What a foolish question. No, your love life is far more interesting of late.”
“Tonight is not about love, Honora, but about revenge. Besides, if Mr. Ferrand is here we will quickly find him; he is not difficult to spy in a crowd.” No, thought Clemency, it was hard to look at anything but him when he was present. “Tell me more of this gown, Nora. I insist!”
Clemency finished her punch and felt Honora’s delicate hand take her by the wrist firmly, then tug her into the flow of folk leaving the dance hall. They snaked their way through the overpacked, perfume-soaked room to the west corridor running alongside, with large French doors placed at intervals where one might peek in and observe the festivities. They found a quietish corner near an imposing bust of someone or other, Honora’s forehead nearly touching the bust’s pointed beard as she sagged against it.
“Nora, are you well?” Clemency frowned and leaned closer.
“I…am. I think. Oh, I do not know! The gown…You are right, Clemency. Something has changed in me, just as something has changed in you. And just as you are made different by blossoming love so am I.”
Clemency’s eyes grew wide. She couldn’t help but be enveloped by a smile, for nothing could bring her greater joy than knowing her sister could open her heart again. “Nora! How could you? Who is he? I must know, tell me at once and let us find him here so I might apply my most vigorous judgment. Is he handsome? Is he kind? Say he is kind—”
“Dearest…”
She still looked pale, the roses in her cheeks faded away. It occurred to Clemency, then, that they must be twins with their pallor and perspiration. But what made her sister so anxious?
“Something is the matter,” Clemency murmured, brow furrowed. “He is married or…or destitute. Out with it, Nora, you know I threaten to judge only in jest. It matters only that you are happy.”
“No, no.” Nora sighed and pushed away from the statue, throwing up her hands and nearly dropping her fan. “You have it all wrong. But how could you not? Oh, but I am stupid. Stupid, stupid…” She shook her dark ringlets, then turned back toward Clemency and gasped, pointing with the tip of her fan. “Look! Boyle has come. He approaches with a most determined stride.”
And so he did. Clemency steeled herself, pretending to laugh ardently at something Nora had said, fluttering a hand over her heart. She knew the rosy pink stripes of the gown flattered her, that it was a perfect complement to her red-gold hair, and that the low scooping neck showed her advantageously; better yet, the dreamy concoction had all been made with the scandalous gift of fabric and ribbons from Mr. Ferrand, lending it a secret power known only to a few…. But still, knowing all that did not lessen her dread. She wanted to appear perfect, so that the loss of her would hurt Boyle all the more. She felt she knew him somewhat now and thought the theft of a desirable jewel would sting and sting deep.
He would not just lose the right to his title tonight, but his right to her.
His blue eyes lit at the sight of her, and he swept a courtly bow over her offered hand, whispering a kiss against her knuckles.
“The radiance of the evening is made shabby by your beauty,” he purred, giving them both a catlike smile. His timing could not have been worse. Clemency kept hold of his hand, itching to toss it away, but twisted back around to her sister, giving Honora a helpless sigh.
“Go,” Nora said. She grinned and seemed almost relieved for the interruption. “Nights like this were made for young couples. Go, enjoy yourselves.” Then, knowing of course that Clemency’s heart remained with someone else, she said more softly, “Know, sister, that I am not far.”
Clemency nodded, her hands perspiring hard, and let herself be led back to the sweltering crush of the dance. Her sister would follow, she knew, in case she was needed. Also, she suspected, to watch for the mysterious Mr. Ferrand.
Boyle led her through the assembly with the unearned confidence of a man who stood, he thought, on top of the world, having gotten there through deceit and cruelty. He did not know, however, that the world he stood upon was cracked and ready to crumble, the weight of his hubris enough to bring the whole thing crashing down. Even Clemency could admit there was an elegance to his profile as he held his head high and escorted her, and when they had found the beating heart of the dance, and he brought her forward to take their places in the Allemande Cotillion. They were steps she knew well, but Turner’s hand holding hers firmly felt all wrong, and her hand had become slimy beneath the glove.
“Miss Fry,” he said softly, his voice just above the music as he bowed to her. Clemency gave her curtsey and smiled, one eye on him, the other fixed over his head, searching urgently for Audric. In the wall of faces behind Turner Boyle, she spotted Tansy and William, and her sister. Lady Veitch and her daughters would be elsewhere, with the more fashionable set, if they had deigned to come at all. She spied Denning Ede arriving, and her corset felt twice as tight. He must be left out of Boyle’s humiliation if at all possible.
Where are you? Clemency thought desperately. How long would he make her wait?
They began to move in a circle while the violins soared, Turner oddly close for the demands of the dance. His lips lowered to her ear, and she braced for more of his lies.
“I must admit, you played a cunning hand.”
Clemency jerked her head away, smile still firmly and uncomfortably in place. “What are you talking about?”
“You and Ferrand. You really almost had me, might have humiliated me entirely and given the game away. But you must keep your eyes on your cards at all times, my dear. Your focus drifted, and now the advantage goes to me.” His hand gripped hers so hard she gasped, and Clemency broke protocol to swivel her head and glare at him.
“I have no idea what—”
Turner’s blue eyes became ice, the ease and grace of his movements directly contradicting the cool edge to his voice. “I know what you’re about, and what you think you can prove. You can dig into my affairs and follow me, Clemency, but I can give chase too. Imagine my surprise when I discovered you making a fool of yourself all over town with Mr. Ferrand. But then, foolish recklessness runs in the family.”
