The Proposition, page 4
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To her credit, Clemency Fry waited at least a moment before balking at his suggestion.
“You are a stranger to me, sir,” she reminded him. In trying to avoid him, she had gotten so close to the fire that he was afraid she might singe her skirts. “And an impertinent one at that. I am meant to marry Lord Boyle, why on earth should I wish to damage his reputation? Any disgrace he suffered would be mine to suffer too.”
Audric had expected resistance; in fact, had she agreed to help him without inquiry, then he would have immediately questioned her sanity. But he had not expected to be granted such a shocking boon; having overheard their argument on the terrace, he came equipped with plenty of sharp edges to chip away at her defenses.
“Not if you were to cut off any understanding.”
“Oh?” She raised one pretty little brow. “And why would I do that? Simply because you, a stranger, asked?”
“No, of course not, though I should think the way he spoke to you just now outside should be justification enough.” Audric made a wide circle around her, planting himself near the hearth. This allowed her to escape, if she so chose, and he wanted her to have that option. None of his plans would work if she felt forced into the arrangement. She had to decide for herself.
She had to want to see the cur destroyed.
In an ideal world, Clemency Fry would desire it as much as he did, might even be one of his clients, but that was probably impossible. She retreated to the middle of the library, drawing half away from him, as if shielding herself from an oncoming blast.
“So you were spying.”
Audric shrugged and swiveled toward the fire, holding out his hands to warm them idly. “Gathering information, more like.”
“Right. Spying.” Clemency rolled her bright gray eyes.
He could confess to himself that her beauty was something of a relief. If—when—she agreed to his plan, they might eventually marry, or at least mimic a courtship, and a sudden infatuation with a lovely young girl was easy enough to explain away. To the inevitable nosy gossips, it would not look at all suspicious. And her forthright manner, generally an unattractive quality in a woman, also made her uniquely suited to this challenge. The role she had been cast in required tenacity and wit, and a softer, duller girl would not do.
No, Clemency Fry had been perfectly cast. She simply did not know it yet.
“I do hope he was a degree or two more civil during your courtship,” Audric said. She was already shuffling toward the door, evidently intrigued by his bizarre proposal, but also smart enough to be wary of it. As stated, perfectly cast. Audric couldn’t help but pat himself on the back—it was all going to align just so. “If a man spoke to my sister the way Boyle spoke to you, I should hide him raw.”
Clemency blushed and froze, and he could swear the smallest smile flickered across her lips before she reined it back in. Indeed, he did not doubt the image he had just conjured for her was all that displeasing. “The nature of our courtship is none of your business, Mr. Ferrand, and before I leave you, I will politely suggest that you take less interest in the affairs of strangers.”
She began to go, the elegant train of her sapphire-blue dress whispering across the library rugs.
Audric calculated carefully, waiting until she was almost to the door, pitching his voice low, but still loud enough for her to catch as she left. “And what a sordid affair it is.”
It was almost too easy, pulling her strings. He somewhat hoped the other portions of his plan would be more satisfying to execute. She stopped midstride, then gradually spun to look at him, sending a withering glance in his direction. Continuing to warm his hands, he feigned surprise at her return. Streaking across the floor like a blue comet, she marched right up to him. At that range, her eyes were even more striking, and they were shining with violence.
“Pray, say that again.”
“I said nothing that should surprise you,” Audric told her evenly. “The man you have attached yourself to is not who you think he is.”
Clemency craned her neck back, her full lips pulling down into a grimace. “First and foremost, I did not attach myself to him like a barnacle to the bottom of a ship. We are engaged by mutual affection….”
“Indeed. It certainly sounded mutual.”
“Second.” She forced herself to go on, though she had turned flat white with rage. “Say more about the other thing. Quickly.”
Audric tilted his head to the side, bemused. “But, madam, as you so helpfully instructed, it is better to not take interest in the affairs of strangers.”
Clemency shook her head, the reddish-gold ringlets framing her face burnished brighter by the fire behind him. “Ah, but it sounds as if you are acquainted with Lord Boyle, in which case you are not a stranger after all.”
“I see.” For a moment, he considered toying with her for a while longer. But he had not come to Round Orchard to torment her. She seemed as ignorant of her fiancé’s true nature as everyone else in the village. Audric had no wish to hurt innocents, and she had suffered enough indignation for one evening. “May I ask how long you have known the man?”
Her shoulders relaxing, her eyes losing their lustrous fury, Clemency walked a few paces to a nearby study table. She dropped down onto one of the chairs there, watching him intently. “You may. I was introduced to him last June, as the season ended. We began discussing a more permanent attachment at Christmas, though my father’s health has made him something of a recluse.”
“Then your time with him has been mercifully short,” Audric said, nodding. It was no wonder the rogue had kept her interest this long, though he questioned whether Boyle could hide his true colors from her much longer. Judging by their exchange on the terrace, his mask was already beginning to slip. “I myself have had the misfortune of knowing him nearly five years.”
“Five years!” Her eyes widened. “But he has never mentioned you!”
“No, I suspect he does not remember my name, and if he does, he never thinks of me. We are not friends, Miss Fry; I have known him for half a decade, known of him. Watched him deceive and dance his way around society, observed his wake from London to Paris and back again, ever one step ahead of the justice he deserves….” Audric realized his right fist was clenched so tightly that his nails had nearly drawn blood. Closing his eyes, he reminded himself that she need not know everything yet. It was better, in truth, if she remained ignorant of many things.
“Heavens, is he a criminal?” she asked, a dove-like hand clutched over her heart. “But how could that be? He is a baron!”
Audric caught the full-throated laugh before it erupted. “Miss Fry, forgive me, but I very much doubt he is a true baron.”
The poor thing had flattened herself against the back of the chair. Such a revelation could not be easy to hear.
“I cannot believe that….” she murmured, tears filming her eyes.
“These are not allegations I would make lightly,” Audric continued. “I have evidence, of course.”
“Evidence!”
Audric jerked his head up and away from her at the sound of footsteps. They were hurried ones, and before he could say another word, a red-faced girl in an elaborate rose-colored dress swept into the library. She huffed and puffed as she peered inside the door, caught sight of Miss Fry, and yelped.
“Miss Fry! There you are!”
Clemency leapt to her feet and took a few unsteady steps toward the girl in pink. “I am here, Miss Pickford, is something amiss?”
“I’m afraid so.” Miss Pickford grasped her bosom, desperate for air. “Your poor sister has fainted. Your mother says it is just the heat, but your family is taking her home now as a precaution.”
“Oh…Yes. Yes, of course.” Clemency spoke as if rousing herself from a dream. Her eyes flashed in his direction, but already Miss Pickford was leading her away. “I will come to Honora at once. Mr. Ferrand…”
Clemency paused at the door, one hand on the frame as she twisted toward him. It was impossible to read what lay hidden in her stare, but he had a strong feeling it would not be the last time he saw those beguiling gray eyes.
“Mr. Ferrand, you will excuse me,” she said, making her curtsey.
He grinned and bowed to her. “Go to your sister, Miss Fry. Worry not, I will see to it that we meet again, and soon.”
* * *
—
“It is all extremely mysterious and intriguing, Clemency!”
Miss Brock, thin as a reed and as sallow as one too, sat on the other side of Honora as the carriage rattled them home. Mrs. Fry, William, and Tansy were ahead of them on the road in the larger family carriage. Mr. Fry had not been well enough to attend, staying home in his study instead. By the time Honora was carried out and all the fussing was over, word had spread that Clemency had been seen in the company of Mr. Ferrand.
She had Imogen Pickford to thank for that. Honora’s fainting should have been the bigger story, but nobody seemed interested. Instead, the whispers were about Mr. Greer’s aloof cousin.
Miss Brock lived along the route back to Claridge, and with one spot open in their two-carriage retinue, nobody could find a reason to refuse her. Honora dozed quietly against Clemency’s shoulder, her skin growing brighter and healthier, and her forehead less feverish.
“Mr. Greer received a letter last month from his cousin, inquiring whether he might come to the ball, and further that he wanted to take up a house in Round Orchard,” Miss Brock continued as the carriage rocked them back and forth. Tiny webs of frost covered the windows, melting gradually from their breath. Ordinarily, Clemency ignored gossip, but now she was listening closely. The story after all did involve her. “That cousin is your Mr. Ferrand!”
“He is not my mister anything,” Clemency reminded her. No, indeed, she should like very much to forget he even existed. Five minutes in his presence and her entire world had been turned upside down. Could his claims be true? It was so absurd, so outlandish, it simply had to be a trick. Turner Boyle not a baron…How could he possibly live a lie that big and improbable? There had to be a mistake, a misunderstanding….
“It is likely he will take Beswick or Ashford, those are the only two available houses grand enough for a man of his fortune.”
Clemency groaned internally at the thought of him settling permanently in Round Orchard. Beswick was not two miles from where the Frys dwelled. Now she would never be rid of him. She wanted only information from him, then she would be glad if he never turned those cunning and hungry green eyes upon her again.
“A man of means seeking to take up a residence near his family does not strike me as particularly strange, Amy,” Clemency said.
“Oh! But it is strange! Mr. Greer has not heard a single word from his cousin in more than a decade. Mr. Ferrand’s family came and went from England, but years ago; by all accounts, they simply vanished,” Amy Brock continued. She had a high, squeaky voice, but Clemency had always found her endearing and, despite her vanity and gossipy nature, harmless. “He must be on the prowl for a wife!”
It was almost amusing to picture how her friend would respond if Clemency told the truth, that Mr. Ferrand had come to settle in Round Orchard only to destroy Turner Boyle’s life. A fact she had not told Turner himself. Making it a sly little secret. Big secret.
Clemency blanched.
“Imagine it! Beswick or Ashford let again, both with such lovely ballrooms! And the grounds…With spring upon us, perhaps there will be a garden fete. The dances will make tonight’s event look positively provincial!”
“Mr. Ferrand does not strike me as the type of man to host balls,” Clemency told her with a dry laugh.
Amy sat up straighter, fixing her with a squinty stare. “Really? Then how did he strike you?”
Again, the truth must be withheld. They were approaching Amy’s home, so at least she would not have to lie for much longer. Clemency puzzled over how to answer, and again she saw Mr. Ferrand in her mind’s eye. Amy, with her love of the newest fashions, would approve of his appearance, his suit well cut, not ostentatious but made with expensive fabrics. She might even find him handsome, with his agate-green eyes and strong jaw, lean face and horseman’s physique. To Clemency he could not be handsome, only a harbinger, a dreaded devil who had come to curse her with the mischief of knowledge.
The man you have attached yourself to is not who you think he is.
The words were burned into her brain. Turner had not come back to the house with them, choosing instead to stay at the Pickfords’. Clemency had gotten only a quick glimpse of her intended as they rushed Honora out the door, and she found the thought of being in his presence again challenging, to say the least. How could she not question him? Confront him? How would she keep such a secret until she heard the evidence and knew the truth?
“Shall I interpret your silence?” Amy Brock giggled.
“He is severe and very tall; he carries himself like a wealthy man but not necessarily a gentleman. I found him arrogant,” Clemency finally told her. “And cold.”
“Does he seem terribly French?” she asked.
Clemency smiled, wondering what that might entail. “No. I only noticed a subtle accent, and it was not harsh on the ear. And if you mean his arrogance, then perhaps.”
“Well, that is all disappointing. By all accounts he is rather exotic. Still, I should like to be introduced, and make my own appraisal. Ah! But here we are. How is your sister?”
“Better, I think,” Clemency said, taking Honora’s hand and holding it gently in her lap. “Good evening, Amy.”
“Good evening, Clemency. Give my love to your sister when she wakes.”
The carriage door opening and closing allowed in a wintry visitor, and Clemency shivered, drawing Honora’s shawl higher up her sister’s arms. Suppressing a yawn, Honora stirred.
“Is she gone?” she asked without opening her eyes.
“You took ill at the ball, so I will not scold you for leaving me alone to entertain her,” Clemency teased.
“You seem out of sorts,” Honora murmured. “Even with my eyes closed.”
“You’re mistaken. I am perfectly all right.”
Nothing more was said. Honora dozed and Clemency gazed blindly out the window, seeing and perceiving nothing, locked in her own thoughts, coming to the conclusion that she would probably never be “perfectly all right” again.
When the carriage arrived at Claridge and slowed up to the doors, Clemency roused her sister and helped her down and across the crisply crunchy gravel to the front doors, one of which was helpfully and unexpectedly propped open by their father, waiting there with a cane and shawl, a concerned pout on his pale lips as the two girls ducked inside.
“To bed at once, I think,” he said, touching Honora gently on the shoulder. “I can rely on you not to keep her up all night with wild stories from the dance?”
“Of course, Papa,” Clemency assured him, painting on a weary smile. “Besides, it was a dull evening at best. I’m sure I cannot think of a single memorable moment.”
“I’m sure.” He was a smart enough man to smirk at that and roll his eyes, but he relented and escorted them to the stairs, saying his good nights and leaving Honora in Clemency’s care. The two sisters did as he asked, going straight to their bedchambers, but after Clemency was washed and changed, and her hair taken down and put into fabric curls, she sneaked into Honora’s room through the small door that adjoined their rooms. When they were little, they stayed up nights whispering to each other through the crack, feeling very clever and roguish indeed.
Honora’s dark hair was swept over one shoulder as she brushed it. Their maids had been dismissed for the evening, leaving the girls to gather on Honora’s bed in the comfortable glow of a few dwindling candles and the dusting of starlight allowed in by the still-open curtains. The room smelled sweetly of beeswax and rose water, and the sprigs of dried marigold and thyme tucked into the cupboard drawers to keep their linens fresh.
“Something has happened,” Honora observed quietly while Clemency took the brush from her and sat at her back, raking the bristles through her sheet of silken hair. “Will you not tell me? You shall have to become a far more convincing actress if you wish to fool me and Papa.”
For a moment, she considered keeping the secret all to herself, but if she trusted anyone in the whole world completely, it was Honora. Her elder sister had ever been a confidante and guardian, and Clemency would burst if she had to go on without telling a single soul.
“Oh, Nora. I don’t know what to think or do. Or what to believe!”
“Dearest, what do you mean?” Nora spun a little, and Clemency dropped her hands and the brush into her lap. “What happened?”
“So much…So much, I hardly know where to begin!” Clemency sighed and shrugged, then let her shoulders sag. She felt tired enough to sleep for an age. “I know now why Turner has cooled.”
“And?” Honora pressed. “What did he say?”
“That I am…insipid and smothering. That he liked me better when I was indifferent to him. I knew it. He wanted the challenge of winning my heart, not my heart for its own sake.”
Honora gasped. “No. How could that be true? What man would not want his beloved to return his affection? Then he has broken it off between you, or you have broken it off…”
“No. No, nothing has been decided,” Clemency said, each word making her feel stupider. After the way he had spoken to her, how could she go on pretending it was an understanding and not a farce? Yet she needed him, needed his money and standing. If it existed.
“That is not all,” Clemency continued. “Mr. Greer’s cousin came to speak to me privately. I was not fit to return to the dance after speaking to Turner, and so I hid in the library, but this man sought me out.”
