She smiled at her vain imaginings. She would not go down that road again.
“Clara?”
She glanced up, met the bemusement in her father’s eyes. “Yes, Father?”
“You seem happier these days.”
“I feel happier these days,” she allowed. With her now daily practice of turning thoughts of loss into prayers of blessing, she felt nearly better, that were she to encounter the earl and his wife, she could greet them without feeling a niggle of discontent. Her smile twisted. Well, maybe not just yet.
“I’m glad. Whatever it is that is making you so, keep doing it.”
“I will.”
“Good.”
“Good?” Mother’s peevish voice preceded her entry to the room. “What on earth is good?”
Clara studied her in surprise. Her mother, known to be as fastidious as any lady who considered herself a pattern study for society, appeared to have dressed in a hurry. Her wrapper was awry, her mobcap skewed. She was holding a letter. She frowned at Clara, shaking the letter. “Can you tell me the meaning of this, miss?”
Amusement at her mother’s absurd request faded at the anger in her eyes. “I’m sure I cannot.”
“Nobody can, Frederica,” said Father, “until you deign to tell us what the letter contains.”
“Very well! Read it! Read the latest gossip about your daughter.”
The breakfast she’d just consumed slid uneasily through her stomach. “Mother, I assure you—”
Her words faltered as her mother held up a hand. Father finished reading the letter, his brow creasing. “I’m sure Lady Pennicooke misjudged things.” He handed the letter to Clara, his expression wry. “It wouldn’t be the first time that good lady has displayed imperfect understanding.”
“If you mean to imply that Amelia is less than honest, I simply cannot agree!”
As her parents continued bickering, Clara scanned the sheet of spidery writing. Her heart wrenched. How could someone misconstrue such an innocent visit? She glanced up. “She is wrong. I visited the art exhibition with Miss Kemsley and her aunt. I had no knowledge her brother would be there. I would never behave in a manner to draw such censure.”
Her heart panged. She’d had no certainty Tessa would be accompanied by the handsome captain, it was true, but she’d had a fairly firm suspicion that he would escort his sister as he had on so many other outings.
Mother snatched the letter back, rereading it with a moan. “Amelia says she has it on the very good word of someone else—”
“Who remains conveniently nameless,” Clara murmured.
“Who nevertheless assures her that the Honorable Miss DeLancey was behaving in a most indecorous manner with a young gentleman well known in naval circles. There”—she flung the letter down in the middle of the table—“can you deny it?”
“Mother, I promise I did nothing to warrant such spite. Nothing at all.” Save exchange glances a trifle too long with said naval gentleman. Her cheeks heated.
“It sounds like a lot of silly nonsense, if you ask me,” said Father, calmly finishing his sausages and eggs. “I’ve always held that Pennicooke woman to be amongst the silliest of our acquaintances.”
“Phillip! You cannot speak so.”
“I just did,” he parried, sotto voce, with another exchange of glances with Clara.
Fortunately, Mother was too busy being upset to hear her husband’s aside. “What nerve!”
“You mean writing such dross, then sending it, when she calls herself your friend?” said Father.
“No!” Mother’s cheeks grew blotchy. “Calling this Mr. Kemsley a gentleman!”
Clara knew herself to be unwise in venturing comment but could not refrain. “He is the brother of a baronet.”
“And a famous captain heralded by the Prince,” Father said.
“Yes, well he may have once been a famous captain lauded to the ends of the earth for all we know, but I ask you, who are his people? What are his prospects? I can’t but think him a good deal purse-pinched. No”—she shook her head decidedly—“I’ll not have my daughter throwing herself away on a man who can scarcely be considered a gentleman, much less fit to manage my only daughter’s future in the manner to which she is accustomed.”
Clara placed her fork to her plate with a deliberate clatter. “Mother, I think this a gross exaggeration. I assure you I do not hold the least whit of affection for him.”
The snap in her mother’s eyes dimmed to something approaching sorrow. “You still hold a candle for the earl, do you?”
“No!” Clara tempered her tone with a gritted, “No, I do not.”
“Well, I can see by that reaction someone is still a little upset,” Mother said with a sniff.
Clara clamped her lips together. Apparently there would be no convincing her mother.
“You are sure you do not hold a tendre for this man?”
“Oh, leave her be, Frederica. If she wishes to encourage the fantasies of a heroic sea captain, who are we to stop her?”
Mother gasped. “You would truly allow your daughter to be pursued by someone of his class?”
“She said it herself: she does not care for him.”
“But Amelia said—”
“Amelia is a pea-goose, and the sooner you stop listening to her gossip the better. Now, Clara, I gather from your apparel that you are going out today.”
“Yes.” She had previously informed them both, but as usual, they had forgotten. “To visit the Tower.”
“Not with that captain, I hope. I do not wish for further rumors about you racing around our friends.”
“One has to wonder why such people might be considered friends if they indulge in rumor-mongering about us.”
“Oh, Phillip! You are impossible!”
No, he was logical, Clara thought, a smile tugging at her lips.
“Well?” Mother said, turning back to Clara. “Is he?”
Tessa had said he would be. If she admitted that, Mother was sure to ban her attendance. But she couldn’t lie. Clara swallowed. “I believe so.”
“In that case, you cannot go.”
“But I have promised.”
“You shall have nothing more to do with that captain, do you understand me?”
Father banged his fist on the table. The crockery and cutlery rattled. “Frederica, you are being ridiculous. Do you really believe our daughter would forget her rank and become entangled with such a man?”
“She’s already been inveigled into indiscreet behavior by that family,” her mother muttered.
“Enough!” Father turned to Clara, his eyes filled with frustration. “You gave your word, so you must go today. But I trust you will take heed to yourself and your family’s reputation. We cannot afford more idle speculation.”
“Of course, Father.”
“And after today, I do not think it wise for you to accept further invitations. Your mother might be forced to her smelling salts, and I cannot have that, you understand?”
She nodded meekly. After Richard’s disgrace, Mother had retreated to her bedchamber for almost a month. It was only the promise of removal to a discreet abode in rural Sussex that had lured her to taste fresh air once again. Twelve weeks later, her mother’s complaints about the draftiness and dampness of the Sussex estate combined with complaints about a lack of company had led to their reestablishment in Brighton, in a house far more appropriate for a family in much-reduced circumstances. Clearly, it was best to avoid triggering repetition. Who knew where they might be forced to remove to next time?
Mother rose from the table with a sniff, refusing to look at Clara as she exited. Clara drew an internal sigh of relief, the departure reducing concern that she might succumb to maternal pressure to remain, and forgo a final outing with the Kemsleys.
Clara rose from her seat, kissed her father on the cheek, and ventured to the hall, where she gave instruction for Meg to bring her blue pelisse, bonnet, and reticule while she waited in the drawing ro
om for Tessa’s arrival. Avoiding Mother was probably the most prudent course of action she could take right now. She perched on a gold-striped settee, thinking over all Father had said.
Perhaps he was right. She had better take heed to herself and guard her heart, her emotions, and their reputation. The dishonorable Miss DeLancey was not an appellation she wished to incite.
Something had changed.
Ben glanced at the brunette, who had scarcely said a word all day. While polite, the animation Clara possessed at the art exhibition was gone, and her conversation—what little there was—was directed only to Tessa or his aunt. All through the treasure room, the Royal Menagerie, the visit to the Bloody Tower’s sad rooms of poor prisoners mysteriously disappeared—through it all, Miss DeLancey had scarcely looked at him. What had happened?
He exchanged a glance with Tessa, whose small shrug indicated her confusion about their near-silent guest. Fortunately, Lord Featherington’s presence had kept matters rolling, his virtual ignoring of Miss DeLancey seemingly reciprocated.
Ben tucked Tessa’s hand on his arm and strolled along the battlements. “Is Miss DeLancey unwell?”
“I don’t know. She seems a little sad.”
“Has Aunt Addy learned anything?”
“She says not.” Tessa sighed.
“Shall I distract Featherington while you see if you can get her to admit what is wrong?”
“I don’t know how much good it will do, but yes, if you don’t mind.”
Ben spent the next quarter hour discussing with the viscount the latest news from Belgium concerning the Duke of Wellington’s activities. Apparently the Duchess of Richmond’s ball had been disrupted by the news of Napoleon’s rapid approach. Officers who had been dancing one hour had scurried the next to the front line, some still in their ball clothes. It was a very near thing.
As Featherington continued discoursing, Ben’s insides knotted and gnarled. How he wished to still be involved. How he wished he knew with certainty what the viscount’s intentions were towards his sister. He glanced across to where Tessa and his aunt were talking at Miss DeLancey. Talking at, for it seemed she still barely responded. His fingers clenched. Had something been said? Why did he care? He shouldn’t care. She should be as nothing to him.
He frowned. She had seemed most keen to avoid his company today, avoiding his gaze, moving aside when he drew near, barely speaking to him. To test his theory, he descended the rough-hewn steps and made his way to her side. “Miss DeLancey, are you enjoying yourself today?”
She nodded, turning away, but not before he caught the sheen of tears.
He followed her gaze, watching the muddy water of the Thames swirl and eddy below them. The tension between them felt tangible, heavy. What could he say to break such a mood?
Aunt Addy joined them, her glance and pursed lips at the brunette beside him speaking volumes about their lack of success in learning what was wrong.
As though his aunt had enquired of him, he began to point out ships of interest, coupled with a few stories about his time on different crews. Gradually he sensed the young lady beside him begin to relax. He dared to peek at her. Soft afternoon light shone on her face, revealing an almost wistful expression. It was all he could do not to touch her hand, to remind her that they were alive and this day was worth living.
But he could not do that. He could not allow himself to become imprisoned by those eyes and that smile. He could not—dared not—permit these feelings in his heart to develop any further.
As if sensing their need for something to gaze upon, the sun shifted behind a cloud, then reemerged to filter golden light through the arched stone windows atop the White Tower. The stone seemed gilded in the sun, the drama and bloodthirsty history forgotten, like a fairy-tale castle come alive.
“It is beautiful, do you not agree, Miss DeLancey? Like something from a dream.”
“A dream,” she murmured. “Yes. It has been a dream.”
And the look on her face and that in her eyes when she finally met his gaze filled him with a sad and desperate certainty.
Their times of golden adventures had come to an end.
CHAPTER THİRTEEN
THE SEFTONS’ BALLROOM glistened and gleamed with the cream of London society all wearing their smartest attire and their most impenetrable, smiling facades. Clara followed in the wake of Lord and Lady Asquith, wearing her own best gown, courtesy of her godmother, and her own veneer of half-smiling indifference. For at this, her first real ball in a year among those considered her social equals, she was not going to let anyone see just how nervous she felt. Her time in London had led up to tonight. This ball, whose ostensible objective was to celebrate Wellington’s defeat of the French menace once and for all, held an underlying purpose, the same as any occasion when young ladies could dance with young men: opportunity to mingle with marriageable material.
Behind her, she could hear her parents murmuring hellos to long unvisited acquaintances. Mother had been unsure about attending, her concern about the possible reception given Clara fading when she considered what possible reception might be her own. It had only been Father’s most strenuous efforts that had made Mother don her best silk gown and ruby necklace and venture to Arlington Street. The evening at the Seftons was not to Clara’s liking, but her parents had decided during the carriage ride they would not permit anyone to treat them in a manner less than what their rank deserved. So Clara had determined to be poised, to be gracious, to give nobody the impression she had ever held so much as the tiniest little candle for a certain earl.
Clara nodded to Miss Pennicooke, whose mother had proved one of Mother’s false friends. Anne’s eyes flickered down Clara’s gown, as if unsure what to think. Clara knew herself to have dressed out of mode for most unmarried ladies, but the whites and creams deemed essential for the freshly come out had never suited her. Lady Asquith’s gift of a claret gown had seemed somewhat shocking at first. But the color was muted by the embroidered lace overdress gathered under the bust, and the sleeves were cut so beautifully, she could not but be pleased. Even Father had said how well she looked, and she herself thought she had never looked better. Half smile fixed in place, she met Anne’s widened gaze, gave her another cool nod, and walked to where the chaperones sat.
She glanced around the room. Eyes met hers, looked away, before conversations began behind fluttering fans. Her chin tilted, her smile grew strained. She would not let them see how excruciating she found this.
Lady Asquith turned, eyeing Clara with a smile of satisfaction. “Dear girl, that color makes you look positively resplendent! Now, shall we see if we can find you a partner?”
Clara nodded, heart writhing as her godmother sent her husband to find someone. Once upon a time she’d needed no one to find her a partner; young men had simply come flocking. Now she was five-and-twenty, virtually dowry-less, and plagued by scandal. Her looks were all she had to entice some man to come up to scratch, as Father so inelegantly put it.
Her search around the room continued. Were any of her old acquaintances here? Both Lady Asquith and Mother had felt sure they would be, her godmother’s discreet enquiries leading her to confirm that Harriet Guthrie née Winchester was expected to be in attendance.
Finally Lord Asquith returned, trailed by a gentleman of unassuming mien with whom she was unacquainted. Lord Asquith performed the introductions, and she took Mr. Molyneux’s hand and joined a nearby set that was forming. Mr. Molyneux was not a tall man, and both his demeanor and dearth of conversation suggested he had been coerced into dancing with her. Her attempt to engage him in conversation had so far been met with monosyllabic replies.
“Do you enjoy dancing?”
“No.”
Her misgivings gave way to amusement. “Then one must wonder why you attend a ball?”
“Really?”
His raised brow speared a quiver of embarrassment through her. Still she attempted to push aside the hurt, and smile like she remembered. “Do
you not think the musicians wonderfully fine?”
He’d glanced at her, then up to the minstrel’s gallery. “Fine, I’ll grant you, but hardly so wonderful as to deserve nonsensical praise.”
Anger at his churlishness streamed hot across her chest. When next they had opportunity to speak, she summoned up the sweetest smile she could find. “Have you a headache, sir?”
“What?”
“I am not used to partners so inclined to be displeased. I’m surprised the Seftons invited you.”
He smiled nastily. “William Sefton is my cousin.”
Her insides froze. The music drew to a close, but still her mouth continued to speak words that refused restraint. “Then I am sorry.”
“So you should be, Miss—”
“For him.”
Ignoring his gasp, she tilted her chin and left the dance floor.
Lady Asquith frowned as she drew near. “What is it, my dear?”
Clara told her in an undertone, eliciting her godmother’s sigh. “I am afraid he’s always thought of himself more highly than he ought. But he has a tongue when he chooses to use it. I think our best bet is to find Lady Sefton and get in her good graces.”
She rose, sailing through the press of people with ease, while Clara trailed in her wake, attempting to keep her head high. They found Lady Sefton near the door, fanning herself as if exhausted from her hours of welcoming her guests.
The two ladies exchanged air kisses and a little conversation before Lady Sefton turned to Clara. “Miss DeLancey.” Her gaze traced down Clara’s gown, not uncritically, before meeting Clara’s gaze with a smile. “I must say, not everyone could wear that color, but you most certainly should.”
The Dishonorable Miss DeLancey Page 12
