Diary of an Accidental Wallflower

by Jennifer McQuiston

  “Daniel . . . is something wrong?”

  “Lady Austerley . . .” He held the letter out. “She’s gone.”

  Chapter 30

  Of all the ways Clare had imagined returning home, being left alone on the front steps of Cardwell House might have once required the furthest stretch of her imagination. But now that it was real, it seemed her imagination had left out a few additional important facts.

  Such as how bruised she felt by the notion of this hurried good-bye.

  And how on earth she was going to explain the bowl of frogs in her arms.

  Daniel pressed a quick kiss to her forehead. “I could spare a few minutes if you want. Come in and speak to your father.” But in the gruff tenor of his voice, it was clear his mind was focused on other things. Not that she blamed him. She had been nearly as shaken by the letter bearing news of Lady Austerley’s passing as he, and she’d spent the long bus ride to Mayfair immersed in her own thoughts, contemplating life and death and everything in between.

  “We already discussed this.” She hugged the bowl tighter against her chest. “You are needed at Berkeley Square, and I . . . I would prefer to speak to my family alone.”

  “Shall I come later, then? Perhaps for dinner? There is still much we need to discuss.”

  Clare nodded, feeling a bit dizzy as she stared up at this man she’d chosen to entrust with her heart. After the violence of last night’s storm, the morning had dawned clear, and the sun was bright and unforgiving against his unshaven face. He’d not put on a hat during their hasty departure, and in this moment, his face drawn in lines of grief, he looked much as he had that day in Chelsea, frowning down at her but so impossibly handsome her eyes hurt at the sight of him.

  But today his anguish had not been caused by her. His pain was for another kind of loss, and she felt helpless to comfort him. He’d told her he loved her, just before it all began to unravel. She felt needy, wanting to hear it again, wanting to whisper it back in his ear.

  But he was clearly hurting, and she would not be an added burden to him now.

  She kissed his cheek, then turned and began to walk slowly up the gleaming white steps of Cardwell House, the bowl of frogs wobbling in her arms. On the top step she paused and pulled in a lungful of fresh air, imagining it was courage. She needed a bit at the moment, her slippers hesitating to take the last step. She’d made her choice last night with eyes wide-open, and she did not regret a moment she’d spent in Daniel’s arms. But there was more to discuss this morning with her family than her feelings on the matter.

  Clare stood on the top step and stared at the door she had known her entire life, as though seeing it for the first time. She dreaded the thought of the coming conversation. She could accept these circumstances in her own life. Indeed, she even knew a welcome twinge of relief. Hers was a fresh start, a chance to shed the false coat of Society that had never felt right, a future with Daniel smiling at her across the breakfast table, the Times spread out between them.

  But she hated to think of what this could mean for Lucy and her debut next year.

  Was she being too selfish, to want a chance for her own happiness, when it meant someone else must sacrifice theirs? It seemed patently unfair that Lucy should suffer a fate not of her own making, merely on account of a sister’s ruin. Perhaps she could suggest that Father double Lucy’s dowry, take the five thousand pounds that had never been rightfully hers and bolster Lucy’s chance for success, in the hopes it would help overcome the stigma that would almost certainly come with this decision. She wished she had an answer, a magic solution that would make it all go away, but she knew as well as anyone the harsh realities of the ton.

  And standing frozen on the front steps was not bringing her any closer to a solution.

  She kicked at the door with her slipper, but when no one came, she somehow managed to open the door with the bowl of frogs balanced precariously against her chest. She stepped inside just as a flustered-looking Wilson tore into the foyer. He skidded to a halt, gaping at the frogs, then panted, “Miss Clare, there you are! I’ve been looking everywhere for you.”

  She tried to smile, though her heart thumped nervously at his obvious panic. It seemed her absence had been noted. “Good morning, Wilson,” she said with false brightness. “Is everyone at breakfast?”

  “Everyone?” The butler’s voice sounded strangled. “That is one way to put it.”

  She cocked her head, taking a closer look at this man who kept her family running in top order. The servant’s normally combed-over hair was disheveled, his waistcoat askew. “Has Mother come down for breakfast this morning, then?” Clare asked sympathetically.

  “Er . . . yes. Your mother has joined the family for breakfast.” He looked from right to left, and his voice dropped to a haggard whisper. “They asked for you, but then Mr. Alban came to call.” Wilson mopped his brow with a kerchief pulled from one pocket. “I did not tell Lady Cardwell, per your previous instructions, and it seemed Lord Cardwell would also not be a good choice, given that the morning is already in upheaval. And I could not find you anywhere, and that was when I feared you had—”

  “It’s all right,” Clare soothed, fearing for the poor man’s health. Poor Wilson. They each had their secrets, and he was charged with the keeping of all of them. “All that matters is I am here now.” She handed him the bowl of frogs. “Where is Mr. Alban?”

  “I have installed him in the drawing room, my lady, but made sure not to mention anything to Lady Cardwell. I hope that meets with your approval?”

  “Yes, of course. You may tell my family I will be in shortly.” She offered an apologetic smile. “And you no longer need to hide word of Mr. Alban’s visit from Mother. I should not have asked you to keep that secret from the start.” Indeed, if she had been more honest, none of this would have progressed to the point at which she now found herself.

  He looked relieved. “Very good, Miss Clare.”

  She set off toward the drawing room, resolved to tell Mr. Alban once and for all why he must no longer come to call.

  “Miss Clare!”

  Clare looked over her shoulder.

  Wilson held out the bowl. “Are these to be taken in to breakfast then?” He looked stricken, as if perhaps they were intended to be breakfast.

  “No.” She stifled a smile. “The frogs are for Geoffrey, a gift from Dr. Merial. You may put them in his room.”

  Mr. Alban was pacing by the picture window, his hat in his hands, looking very much like a man with an important question on his mind. She stepped inside, smoothing a hand down the front of her wrinkled skirts. It was odd, but for this coming audience her feet were not inclined to hesitate. Her ruin was already assured, thanks to the rumors Sophie had circulated. There was no thought of denial or of sweeping it aside. For once, she was determined to face the ton and their judgments head on. For now, though, she would start with the future Duke of Harrington.

  She put on a smile. “You are up early today, Mr. Alban.”

  He turned. “My apologies, Miss Westmore. I had a matter of some urgency to discuss with you.”

  It was startling to see him now, and, with more educated eyes, see the strong resemblance to her own features. He was the only connection she had to the gentleman who had sired her, and she imagined now she might see some of that man in Alban’s face.

  “I know my timing must be very inconvenient,” he went on, “but I must beg a moment to explain something, and ask you a question.”

  Clare felt a jolt of worry. “There is no need to apologize. In truth, there is a vital matter I must discuss with you as well.”

  “If I might be permitted to speak first.” He twisted the brim of his hat in his hands. “At the musicale, I wanted to ask you an important question, but you left before it could be said.”

  She shook her head, trying to dislodge the thought. “Please, Mr. Alban, I beg you not say anything more.” Bile crept up the back of her throat. “I cannot marry you, under any circumstances
.”

  “Marry you?” His mouth opened in astonishment. “Miss Westmore, I must assure you, that is not the nature of my interest in you.”

  “It isn’t?” Clare stared at him in surprise. “But . . . all those waltzes. The times you came to call—”

  “I wanted to know you.” He walked toward her, hazel eyes searching her own. “Since I met you, I’ve been struck by the oddest sense of familiarity. I called on you in the hopes of meeting your family, sorting out whether my thoughts might be true.”

  “Thoughts?” Clare echoed, taking a cautious step backward, until the wall met the stiffened blades of her shoulders. He took another step toward her, and she froze. She didn’t know what to think, and permitting him to come too close was something she was not yet prepared to do. But he didn’t look dangerous or deranged.

  He looked nervous, the absolute opposite of how a future duke should look.

  “Miss Westmore . . . I must beg that you forgive this presumptive question. I assure you, I mean no harm.” He spread his hands, his hat loosely clutched between his left fingers. “But is it possible . . . is it conceivable . . . that you might be my niece?”

  Clare gasped in surprise. “You know?”

  “I suspected.” His gaze softened. “Hoped, I suppose.”

  Her mind raced backward, over all the conversations they had shared. She could see it now, of course. During his visits he’d dwelled upon on the weather. Her lack of resemblance to her family. Painful, ordinary things. She had naively presumed his strong interest lay in a particular direction—namely, whether she would make an appropriate duchess. But with the veil of self-absorption finally lifted, she could envision a different interpretation.

  He’d suspected their family connection.

  He pulled a miniature from his pocket, and this time Clare let him approach. She was tempted to close her eyes, but then she looked down and caught her breath. A young man was painted on the small canvas. Her greedy gaze fell upon starkly familiar features. The pert chin, brown hair, hazel eyes . . .

  Her father.

  “You look just like him, you see.” Alban held it out, and after a moment Clare dared to pick it up, though her fingers shook with the effort. “I worshipped him when I was a child. I was still a small boy when he died, and I was devastated by his death, as were my parents. But in you, a piece of him clearly lives on.” He smiled gently. “I am so glad to have uncovered the truth.”

  Clare’s palm curled possessively around the miniature. “But why?” she somehow managed to say. “My illegitimacy hardly does either of us credit.”

  “Illegitimate?” He sounded shocked. “Why would you presume that? Benjamin had married your mother, before he died.”

  “But my mother said he was killed in a carriage accident en route to Gretna.” She lifted a hand to her mouth, catching the gasp of uncertainty. Actually, that wasn’t entirely true. Her mother had not actually specified on which side of the journey the accident had occurred. Moreover, Mother had confessed a need to guard her reputation, in order to marry quickly.

  A confessed elopement might have destroyed her chance at such security.

  “Last week, I sent my steward to Gretna,” Alban said. “I told him to search every blacksmith shop, every parish register he could find.”

  Her lungs felt heavy, bruised. “Why would you do such a thing?” she choked out. “Why confirm such a scandal?”

  “Because the scandal you speak of is my fault.”

  “You started the rumor?”

  He looked uncomfortable. “It was more that I made the mistake of posing the question of your parentage to your friend, Lady Sophie, at the start of the Season, and she proved more malicious than I had imagined. Once the rumors began to circulate, I knew I needed to move quickly. My steward returned last night with proof of my brother’s marriage in hand. You are his daughter, Clare. His legitimate daughter. And far less a scandal to know their union was lawful, I should think.”

  Clare leaned back against the wall, not trusting her knees to hold. She couldn’t quite wrap her head around the legitimate part.

  Alban spread his hands. “’Tis not as grand as being recognized as a viscount’s daughter, but my family is respectable enough, particularly now that circumstances have made me the duke’s heir. My brother died without much, but what little bit of money he had set aside was properly invested. In the twenty years since his death, it has turned a handsome profit. About six thousand pounds now, I should think. That money should go to my brother’s child. I cannot undo what Lady Sophie has done, but perhaps, in this small way, I can make some amends.”

  Oh God, oh God, oh God. Surely he was not serious.

  But if he was joking, he was a better thespian than even Sophie.

  A clatter of shoes and voices at the drawing room door pulled Clare’s attention beyond the immediate conundrum of her birth and the money she was apparently to inherit. Without warning, her family began to pour into the drawing room.

  Mr. Alban watched them come with a raised brow. He bent his head to her ear. “They really don’t look anything like you, do they?” he chuckled.

  “No.” Clare shook her head, her lips twitching as she watched them come, chattering in their familiar, comfortable way. “But that doesn’t mean I do not love them.” It would have once been her worst nightmare, Alban’s exposure to her family’s boisterous and eccentric nature. But in this moment she wanted only to introduce them all.

  “Ah, Clare, there you are.” Her father beamed. “I’ve an important introduction to make.”

  “As do I.” She turned to Alban. “Mr. Alban, you’ve met my mother last night, and Lucy during your last visit, but may I present my father, Lord Cardwell, and my brother, Geoffrey?”

  Her father’s gaze moved from Alban to Clare, then back again. Clare could see a flare of understanding—or perhaps, more correctly, suspicion—in the hardening of his jaw. “I’ve heard a lot about you, Mr. Alban.” He hesitated. “But this first sight of you is something of a surprise to me, and I am sure you understand why.”

  Alban inclined his head. “Yes. The resemblance is striking, isn’t it?”

  Her father rubbed the back of his palm across his forehead. “Well, Harrington’s heir or no, you must know I cannot give my blessing for you to marry my daughter.”

  Alban lifted his hands in assurance. “I have come as a matter of family, not matrimony.”

  As Clare exhaled in abject relief at the lack of histrionics, it occurred to her there seemed to be too many people in the room. She counted in her head. Lucy, Geoffrey, Lucy . . .

  Her eyes pulled back to the doorway. Two Lucys?

  But no . . . there was a stranger who looked like Lucy, hesitating just outside the door. And perhaps not a stranger, either. Because the young woman had fly-away blond hair. Westmore blue eyes. And—as she finally tripped forward—a tendency to fall over her feet.

  “I followed your advice.” Clare was startled to hear her mother’s voice close to her ear. “I told your father he could bring Lydia here. You were correct, it was the right thing to do. And perhaps now we can all heal, as a family.”

  Understanding dawned. At last it all made sense. Wilson’s distress, and his declaration that everyone was awaiting her at breakfast.

  “But . . . what about Lucy’s Season?” she whispered back, her mind stumbling over all the reasons Mother had initially objected to having the girl come to Cardwell House.

  “We may need to postpone Lucy’s debut for a few years,” Mother confirmed in a low voice. “But then we’ll just have to make it so grand she rises above the gossip.”

  Clare turned her mother’s words over in her mind. Could it really be so simple? Her own reputation no longer mattered, but she was still worried what this all might mean for Lucy. But maybe Mother was right. Time had a way of easing the worst sort of gossip, and in a few years Sophie and Rose would hopefully be married and moldering away in their husbands’ country estates, unable to damage Lucy
’s reputation with their snide remarks and misplaced wit.

  And perhaps—gossip or no—it wouldn’t be a terrible thing to give Lucy a few more years to grow into her skin and out of her crazy ideas.

  Clare pressed the miniature she still held into her mother’s hand, then stepped toward the young woman who was looking shyly in her direction. As she contemplated what the future might hold for all of them, her heart felt a stone lighter.

  Or perhaps that it was finally full.

  She smiled. “And Mr. Alban, may I also present my sister, Miss Lydia Westmore,” she said, and then folded her newest sibling in her arms.

  Chapter 31

  Sighing in pleasure, Clare set down her fork on top of her empty plate.

  Her corset was now groaning against its seams, but tonight the discomfort was easy to overlook. Far from being a formal affair, the meal carried the ring of laughter and the hum of enthusiastic conversation. She’d finished her entire plate before she realized it.

  And her heart was every bit as full as her stomach.

  Lydia and Lucy were seated side by side, blond heads bent close, giggling over the plans they were making to feed the ducks in Hyde Park tomorrow. Geoffrey was explaining the principles of electrifying a doorknob to a much-bemused Mr. Alban, demonstrating the manner of twisting the wires around the knob by wrapping his napkin around his fork.

  And by the warm look her parents were exchanging down the dining room table, it seemed clear that dyspepsia had been banished from Father’s menu tonight.

  There was only one person missing to make the meal perfect. And while he had not yet come, as he’d said he would, Clare could see that it was long past time to introduce her family to the idea that she planned to spend the rest of her life as Mrs. Daniel Merial.

  She felt suddenly breathless. Not out of fear, but out of anticipation. No matter their reaction to what she was about to say, this was the choice she wished to make. She would not be swayed by her mother’s remonstrations or tears. Neither would she be swayed by Father’s talk of dowries or peers. She was no longer interested in making a proper match.