The Dishonorable Miss DeLancey

by Carolyn Miller

  Tessa nodded, her golden-red curls gleaming dully in the late afternoon light.

  He hugged her closer. “I’m sorry, Tessa.”

  She sighed. “No, I suppose you are right. I always knew it was too good to be true.”

  “It doesn’t mean it’s over. But it might be wise to not encourage him quite so much.”

  “You … think it better I make him wonder about my affection.”

  “I suppose so, yes.”

  “Like you do about Clara?”

  Ben straightened. “I beg your pardon?”

  She turned to eye him, her gaze level. “You think we did not notice? You always seemed to brighten when she was around; you were always looking at her when you thought yourself unobserved.”

  His neck heated. “I did not.”

  She laughed mockingly. “Oh, yes you did. And yet you have the nerve to accuse me of aiming above myself when she is a viscount’s daughter?”

  Frustration stole through his chest, quiet and cold. “She is a viscount’s daughter whom I may have thought I admired at one stage, but there is one significant difference. She is not here, neither has she indicated any interest in me by any stretch of the imagination.”

  “You sound as though you wish she had.”

  He shrugged, helpless against his sister’s uncanny discernment. “And what would be the point? I cannot offer her anything resembling a secure future, not even a house.”

  “You wish you could, though.”

  A chuckle escaped despite himself. “Thank you for exposing my private concerns to our aunt here.”

  “Oh, I saw it, too,” said Aunt Addy.

  He strove for a blank visage, even as he cringed inside. “I trust I have not given Miss DeLancey the wrong impression,” he said stiffly.

  “That I cannot say,” his aunt said, in a far from reassuring manner.

  “But if you did not, that is probably a good thing if Lord Featherington is to be believed,” Tessa said.

  He felt as though he were being led into a trap, yet could not stop himself from asking, “Why?”

  “That to-do the other night at the Seftons’ ball? A Mr. Molyneux is making the most wild allegations, that she was quite rude to him.” Tessa’s blue eyes widened. “I told Lord Featherington not to be ridiculous, but you know what else he said to me yesterday?” She leaned closer. “He said Miss DeLancey had once been scandalously in love with the Earl of Hawkesbury.”

  “No!” Aunt Addy said, interest gleaming in her eyes.

  “Oh, yes. Apparently they were almost engaged!”

  Jealousy slid across Ben’s heart. He was a fool to have hoped Miss DeLancey had any thought of him. With an earl as a previous suitor, no wonder her parents did not wish their daughter to hobnob with mere gentry.

  “I have to wonder how someone can be considered almost engaged,” Tessa mused. “Surely a man either proposes or he doesn’t.”

  Both ladies turned expectantly to him. “I cannot speak to the matter.”

  “But worth thinking on, perhaps,” said Aunt Addy, a twinkle in her eye, “should one ever wish to do so.”

  He narrowed his gaze at her, which only caused both ladies to laugh.

  To change the focus, he cleared his throat in a manner that had afforded respect on not a few vessels under his command. “For someone who says he does not gossip, it’s surprising just how much Lord Featherington chooses to pass on.”

  Tessa’s brow creased. “Do you not like him?”

  “I cannot say with any degree of certainty. I have noticed, however, that sometimes he says one thing, such as claim to dislike gossip, but appears to do the opposite.”

  “I do not think you are being very fair.”

  Again, they were at their impasse. Ben with his doubts, Tessa with her defense.

  God, give me wisdom.

  He sucked in a breath, swallowed his pride. “Tessa, I think you might be right. Perhaps we should talk to George tonight.”

  She nodded, leaving him feeling a mixture of relief that his attempt at conciliation had met with success, and frustration that his brother would win again.

  “YOU CANNOT BE serious!” George’s look of incredulity had scarcely shifted since his arrival this morning, when Ben, Aunt Addy, and Tessa had mentioned something of the viscount’s attentions these past weeks. “The heir to the Marquess of Exeter?”

  They nodded, heads bobbing in unison like marionettes on a string.

  “Tessa, you could be a marchioness!” He looked at Ben. “Our sister, a marchioness!”

  “Yes, but George—”

  “I don’t see what the problem is. How can you possibly object?”

  “He has said nothing to give the slightest indication of permanent attachment. Nothing to indicate his intentions.” Ben eyed his brother. “She has no dowry to speak of. Nothing that would attract a gentleman seeking a wife.”

  “You do our sister a great disservice, I must say!” George said, bristling.

  “I speak the facts plainly. Tessa knows that.” He gave her an apologetic look.

  “And her portion is not exactly nothing. She will receive one thousand pounds when she marries.”

  Ben released a low whistle. “Well, I can hardly conceive a marquess rejecting that sum of money, can you?”

  “Sarcasm does not become you, Benjamin,” Aunt Addy said, a reproving look in her eye.

  “Neither does not living in reality,” he muttered. In a louder voice he said, “Perhaps if George were to meet the viscount—“‘

  “Oh, yes, George! Please do,” Tessa beseeched, hands clasped.

  “George might be able to ascertain his intentions better than we have managed so far,” Ben concluded. Appeal to his brother’s pride, appeal to his brother’s sense of superiority. “Seeing as he is the head of the family.”

  George puffed up, peacock-like. “Well, yes, I imagine he would wish to listen to me, seeing as I am responsible for you, Theresa.” The pride suffusing his face softened as he gave their sister a benevolent, almost fatherly look. “When would suit the viscount?”

  “He … he attends White’s, I believe.”

  “White’s?” George frowned. “I believe that to be something of a betting parlor.”

  “It also has quite a nice dining room,” Ben said.

  “Be that as it may, I cannot approve a man who gambles,” George said, eyeing Tessa sternly.

  She flung a worried, almost pleading look at Ben. Well they both knew of the viscount’s propensity for a flutter. While Ben did not like it, he was in no position to object. Besides, the viscount could well afford to.

  He shot her a half smile of understanding, before addressing George once more. “Perhaps White’s would not be the ideal location. One needs to be a member, after all.”

  “Spoken like someone who wished to be a member and failed,” George sneered.

  Ben adjusted the sleeve of his coat. “Actually, I have attended more than once, and while I can recommend the steak as quite good, the pretension is greater, so I have no appetite to become a member, I assure you.”

  Tessa nodded. “He’s gone to White’s as the guest of Lord Featherington and Lord Hawkesbury. He’s been four times now!”

  “Five,” he said, in as meek a manner as possible.

  Just as he suspected, his brother’s eyes bulged with a mix of surprise and irritation. “Well! I gather there is a lot to be said for acting like a hero.” George’s eyes narrowed. “Has the Regent paid you anything yet?”

  “No.”

  “Hmm. Pity, but not unexpected. You know what a spendthrift he is.” He drew himself up, as if wishing to put aside an unpleasant interlude. “But talking about our profligate Prince is hardly of concern now. I shall send Lord Featherington a note requesting an interview, and we shall see what comes of it.” He directed a thin smile toward their sister. “I trust you will neither encourage nor discourage the gentleman, Theresa. Remember, it behooves you to act modestly and not give him the idea y
ou are anything but an innocent young maid.”

  “But she is an innocent young maid!” Ben interjected.

  George sniffed. “I would remind you, Benjamin, that as head of the family, my opinions …”

  Ben ignored the rest of his brother’s rambling self-adulation, muttering an excuse as he left the room. Trusting Tessa’s future to their brother was going to require some serious amount of prayer.

  Brighton

  “And how was London, Miss DeLancey?” Lady Osterley said.

  “Pleasant enough,” Clara said, her forced smile at this unwanted visit to the Osterley mansion beginning to falter.

  Lady Osterley sniffed. “Well, I suppose one can afford to be cavalier when one has had several seasons.”

  Clara swallowed the sting. Perhaps her ladyship wasn’t quite so harmless as she’d previously imagined. She lifted her chin. “I have had several seasons now, it is true.”

  Lady Osterley blinked.

  Beside her, Mother visibly wilted. “Clara, dearest, perhaps you should have some more tea. It is most delicious, I must say—”

  “It is delicious tea,” Clara said, happy to comply with her mother’s unvoiced wish for amity.

  Lady Osterley favored Clara with a slight curling in the corner of her lips, no doubt meant to represent a smile. “I like to think I serve my guests nothing but the best.”

  “Your pride serves you well,” Mother said.

  Well, her pride served her, Clara thought, hiding her smile behind her freshly refilled teacup. In all their interactions over the past year, she’d noticed that Lady Osterley did little that did not draw attention to her own self-importance or reflect her vaulting ambitions for her son.

  “Where is Reginald?” Clara enquired. “I am surprised not to see him today.” As he’d been every other time, gazing at her like a moonling, his conversation as stilted and awkward as a newborn foal’s first steps.

  “He will be disappointed not to have seen you, my dear, and gratified to know you enquired after him,” Lady Osterley said with a sigh. “He had some previous business and could not get away. Most unfortunate,” she said, with a triumphant air that suggested the opposite.

  Clara studied her. Had something been whispered to the Osterleys about her sad experiences at the Seftons’ ball? A twinge of regret streaked through her, followed by fresh determination. Did she really care for the opinions of such shallow people, whose interest in her extended only so far as her lineage? The Osterleys might possess an almost equally ancient name, but they were as venal as all those who’d once sought her for the dowry she was supposed to have brought to a marriage—the dowry Richard had gambled away. The Osterleys had clung on longer than most, perhaps believing they would somehow see its return, but it appeared that they, too, had given up on her.

  Strangely, the thought such people considered her unmarriageable did not sting the way it would have once. She’d read this morning in the Psalms about God’s love and His promise to take care of her regardless of circumstances. She did not need to impress these people, nor to play their games.

  Seemingly aware of her perusal, Lady Osterley left off her quiet conversation with Clara’s mother to offer Clara another thin smile. “I confess I heard something of your exploits in London from my dear niece, Lady Ashbolt.”

  “I wondered if that were so,” Clara said, with a sweet smile.

  Lady Osterley looked nonplussed for a moment before gathering her venom for another thrust. “It seems your conduct at the Seftons’ ball was much talked about.”

  “And still continues to be,” Clara said, her smile not shifting.

  “Yes, well … Hmm.”

  Clara glanced at Mother, whose face had abandoned its customary cool politeness to something approaching despair. Her conscience panged. Whilst Clara might care little for Lady Osterley’s pretensions, Mother still did, and the knowledge that her daughter was considered so scandalous by so many was anathema to her.

  “Mother, shall we go soon? Tea has been very pleasant, but we still have another call to make, remember?”

  “Another call?” Mother said, frown creasing her brow, as Clara eyed her steadily. “Oh, yes. Well, thank you, dear Lady Osterley. Your hospitality knows no bounds.”

  “Thank you, Lady Winpoole. It has been a pleasure, as always.”

  They rose, and after a surfeit of insincere expressions of gratification, finally departed, with Lady Osterley’s caution ringing in their ears.

  “You are always welcome, Frederica. And you, too, Clara. Pray do not forget to let us know when next you wish to visit.”

  Clara offered her arm to her mother as they walked along Marine Parade back to their house, the destination of their next call. She blocked out her mother’s grumblings about Clara’s conduct and the falsities of their hostess, conscious of one certainty: the next time they called, Lady Osterley would be certain to ensure poor, dimwitted Reginald be kept far away from the terrible man-chaser that was Clara.

  She began to laugh.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  IN THE END, George’s letter produced a response not entirely to everyone’s satisfaction, save perhaps Tessa’s. The viscount replied, deigning to visit Aunt Addy’s house in Curzon Street for the interview on Thursday next, on the proviso that Ben would also be in attendance. Whilst Ben was happy to attend, George was not so pleased, seemingly fearful his status as head of the family was under threat.

  Thursday morning arrived, the viscount was announced, he entered the drawing room, made polite enquiry about the ladies of the house, and after a brief exchange of such politenesses, so it began.

  “Thank you for coming, my lord,” George said.

  “Not at all.” The viscount, flicking open a golden snuffbox, offered it around.

  George’s brow knit. The taking of snuff was almost as abhorrent as the vice of gambling. Leaning forward in the belligerent manner of a French barque, he fired the first shot. “My younger brother has expressed some level of concern about our sister’s reputation.”

  The viscount’s gaze flicked to Ben, the pleasant expression sliding away to something harder. “Oh, he has, has he?”

  Ben smiled, aiming for a conciliatory pose. “Come now, my lord. My concerns are nothing new to you. You are aware I have only the interests of my sister at heart.”

  “As do I,” said George, shooting Ben a displeased look.

  “Your sister is … lovely,” the viscount said.

  “But do you think her lovely enough to marry?”

  Lord Featherington sat back as George gasped at Ben’s forthrightness. But he had no wish to play games. No wish to continue this frustrating dance of dalliance. “My lord?” Ben prompted, brows raised.

  “I … er, I confess I had no thought of matrimony at this time.”

  “Really?” Ben said, as George grew slack-jawed. “You surprise me.”

  The sarcasm was not lost on the viscount, whose cheeks reddened.

  “May I ask your intentions towards my sister?”

  “You’ve asked me that before,” Lord Featherington muttered.

  “And you have failed to provide a satisfactory answer.”

  Their guest’s lips flattened in an ominous line.

  After a show of clearing his throat, George said, “Please forgive my brother, my lord. Benjamin, perhaps you should leave the questions to me. Especially as I am responsible for Theresa’s well-being, after all.”

  Ben gestured for George to continue, his unflinching gaze refusing to leave Lord Featherington’s face.

  “My lord, please understand we all appreciate the attention you have paid my sweet little sister. Your notice has permitted entrée to levels of society we had dared not presume.”

  Ben folded his arms, watching his brother, whose smug face declared his lie—George had never not dared presume such things.

  “But she is so young, you see. Only seventeen. And if your attentions continue, then she is at risk of not attracting the attention of a gen
tleman who will offer for her.”

  The viscount’s jaw tightened. A muscle ticked in his cheek, beating in and out.

  Finally, after what seemed an age, the viscount spoke. “I wish your sister no ill.”

  “Of course not.” George gave a desperate, wheezy chuckle. “We would never think such a thing.”

  Featherington turned to Ben, an eyebrow lifting.

  Ben shook his head. “I never thought you capable of harm. Just carelessness with her reputation.”

  “Many thanks.”

  So apparently the viscount could appreciate the subtleties of irony, as well.

  There was another long, uncomfortable pause, as they watched the viscount play with his snuffbox, variously opening then snapping shut the lid. Finally he sighed. “I would not have her—“ He shook his head. “I could not hope to—”

  “To convince your father of the suitability of the match?”

  Ben looked at George with surprise. Perhaps his brother was more shrewd than he’d given him credit for.

  The viscount looked a little shame-faced. “It is not my father, but my mother. She is always on about family honor. She would never countenance—“ He stopped.

  “Such an opportunistic young lady as my sister?” George said, something like anger hardening his voice.

  Featherington shook his head. “I know Tessa is as far from opportunistic as the moon from the sun.”

  “Just remember that when you are surrounded by those deemed more worthy simply because they have more money or titles than my sister,” George snapped.

  The viscount blanched. “I never meant to hurt her.” He glanced at Ben. “Please believe me.”

  “Tessa is young,” he replied. “She is not without friends. She has faith to comfort her.”

  The viscount swallowed.

  Ben noted the action with a grim sense of satisfaction. Yet another way their match was unequal. Tessa possessed a childlike faith so strong in trust, while her swain seemed to regard their beliefs as something quaint, a product of their rural upbringing. His comments to that effect, and his sporadic church attendance, had not gone unnoticed or uncommented upon, either.