“Anything, any color, and Friday of next week,” he said, ticking off his fingers. “I will, of course, be sending you an invitation.”
“Oh, thank you, my lord. You are too kind.”
Mother’s gratitude saw him to the door and saw her floating through the remainder of the day. Lord Houghton’s card was placed in the most prominent position on the silver salver atop the hallstand, right where their surprisingly high number of other visitors that day would be sure to notice. For to each visitor, even Lady Osterley—whom Mother had decided was not so very dead to her after all—Mother had crowed of Clara’s good fortune, determinedly riding across any turn in conversation, taking her moment of glory for all its worth.
Clara sat quietly, answering enquiries more from habit than from real interest, as the morning’s visitor and his extraordinary news had near numbed her to all else. Could it really be true that, far from being a social pariah, she would now be somewhat celebrated? And while she was certain many other young ladies had been invited over the years, neither she nor any of Mother’s visitors seemed to know of one either so young or so lacking in title. Daughter of a viscount she might be, but few unattached ladies considered mere Honorables received such honor. Their visitors were vocal in their comments and nearly unanimous in their approval. She smiled. Perhaps she would not be considered quite so dishonorable, after all.
“Oh, she must wear blue!”
“He likes Haydn.”
“He hates anything that reminds him of that Fitzclarence woman.”
“He prefers young ladies to wear white.”
“Are you invited to dinner?”
“You will be able to tell us all about those heathenish refurbishments!” Even Lady Osterley had seemed more humbled than hostile. “Oh, I remember when I was invited to the Pavilion, back when my poor husband was alive, God rest his soul. Such an odd sort of place—”
“Yes, well, you weren’t invited to perform, were you, Lady Osterley?” Mother said, a nasty glint in her eye. “Besides, we are not talking about things dating from so many years ago, but things that matter today.”
Unsurprisingly, Lady Osterley soon felt it time to take her leave. Even less surprisingly, Mother made no attempt to stop her.
When the door had firmly closed behind her, Mother had snapped her fan open, as if needing to cool down after all the hot air. “How that woman can have the nerve to come here as if she had not treated me in an abysmal manner yesterday, I do not know.”
“We do not always behave in the manner in which we ought,” Clara felt it necessary to say. Lady Osterley’s visit had made it plain that it was Clara’s words that had induced her ladyship to treat Mother in such a rude fashion. That knowledge had kept her from making few comments of any kind in that lady’s presence.
Mother simply shrugged away excuses, before turning with mouth agape. “Oh my dear!”
“What is it?”
“We shall simply have to get you a new gown! Oh, however will we afford it?”
“We do not need to, Mother. Lady Sefton commented on how well I looked in the red gown at her ball. I could simply wear that again.”
“No, no, no! That will never do. We must get you a new one. Oh, I’m sure your father will not mind.”
“Her father will not mind what?” said a deeper voice.
“Oh! You’re back at last! Oh, darling husband, our Clara has received news of the highest honor! You will never guess!”
“That she has been asked to play at the Pavilion?” he said, a twinkle in his eye.
“Oh, you guessed!” Mother said, her face falling.
“I had it from at least three people on my way here. You did not think such news would remain secret for long, did you?”
“I suppose not,” Mother said, with a return to her self-satisfaction.
“And I suppose this good news must lead to the purchase of new fripperies and furbelows for my clever daughter?” He turned to Clara with a smile. “You have made us very proud, my dear.”
She swallowed the lump in her throat. “Thank you, Father. I just hope I will not disappoint you.”
“Of course you won’t disappoint us,” Mother said. “Not when you’re going to be practicing every day until your moment arrives. And especially not when you’ll be wearing whatever the finest mantua-maker in Brighton can make you,” she slid a look at Father, who offered a slow nod of approval.
“There! See? You will be wonderful, I assure you.”
Their faith in her instilled confidence in herself, and she went to bed that night filled with visions of gowns and music and hope, beneath which swirled the knowledge that such an event might prove her last chance to find a husband who finally met with her parents’ approval.
“She has what?”
Matilda’s face lit with a big smile, her most genuine since their arrival in Brighton this morning. “Clara has been invited to play at the Pavilion. She goes Friday next week, so the invitation said. I saw it yesterday,” she said smugly.
“How wonderful for her,” Tessa said, her face brightening for the first time in over a sennight. “I’m glad somebody has good news in her life.”
This last was said with a look at Ben that left him in no doubt as to whom she still blamed for her present misfortune. Since their disastrous last meeting, nothing further had passed between the viscount and any of the Kemsley connection. Word was that Featherington had left London to head north to spend time at Hawkesbury House, to be followed by a stint in Northamptonshire with his sister. Ben could only pray that the viscount’s time away would resolve matters and help him see clearer direction for his future.
To his own mind, Ben couldn’t help but be glad they’d returned south, to put even more miles between Tessa and her lost paramour. Even if it did come with the added burden of a brother, and the challenge of seeing the ever-intriguing Miss DeLancey again. And now this news about the Regent, exciting as it was, proved just how far out of reach she remained.
“So,” George said ponderously, looking between Mattie, Tessa, and Ben. “So this Miss DeLancey to whom you refer is the infamous Miss DeLancey we’ve heard so much about?”
“I don’t know about infamous,” Mattie bristled.
“Then clearly you have not been privy to the information we have received.”
Before Ben could stop him, George started detailing some of Miss DeLancey’s notoriety the viscount had shared during that last interview.
Mattie simply looked at him. “Is that it?”
“Well, yes,” George blustered. “Should there be more?”
“I wouldn’t know, and I shouldn’t care to hear it if there was.”
“Well! I never—”
“Oh, stop it George. You’ve told me nothing but malicious gossip, and nothing that poor Clara did not tell me herself.”
“She told you?” Ben couldn’t help asking.
She gazed at him, the speculation in her eyes causing his neckcloth to feel uncommonly tight. “She did. And I admit I quite understood her viewpoint.”
“Yes, well, I imagine if you only heard her side of things then you would feel that way.”
“George, be quiet!”
At Mattie’s snapped comment, George’s mouth fell open, then closed, making him look far more fishlike than baronet.
“If you must insist on imposing your company on my husband and myself, then may I ask that you refrain from acting out all of your usual pomposity.”
Tessa caught Ben’s eye, her amusement plain to see. He smiled. He could not be unhappy with his brother’s plight at the mercy of their sharp-tongued sister, not when it brought light to Tessa’s eyes.
George scowled at him. “Of course you would find her atrocious manners amusing. But then, you’ve always been her favorite.”
Only because I don’t behave like a pretentious bufflehead, he thought, but didn’t say.
“George,” Mattie continued, as if speaking to a very young child, “I understand you do not li
ke people to have opinions not your own, but please do not try to press your ill-informed ideas upon us.”
“Ill-informed?”
“How would you know what account is correct if you have not spoken to the parties concerned? Have you even met Clara or Lady Hawkesbury? No? Well, how can you know for sure what was said? Believing such things without real proof is hardly the act of a gentleman. And one can hardly think Lord Featherington to be unbiased in such a matter, can one? Especially when it concerns his cousin, and he’s just been held to account by the brothers of the young lady he was interested in, which resulted unfavorably for him.” She looked thoughtfully at Tessa. “I cannot help but wonder if his reaction to such things a trifle malicious.”
Tessa flushed.
“Now Matilda, as the head of this family I must insist—” His words broke off at Matilda’s peal of laughter.
She gasped, hands on her knees. “Oh, Aunt Addy wrote you’d taken to referring to yourself in that way, but I had no idea!” She gurgled again. “Oh, George, if you only knew what you sounded like!”
For the first time in Ben’s memory, George looked a trifle uncertain. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“You! Your posturing knows no bounds! May I remind you that you are not head of my family? That responsibility falls to my husband. Remember him? You came to our wedding eight months ago, as I recall.”
“David, yes, of course.”
“Well then, your opinion about my conduct or my friends must remain simply that: opinion. You have no right to insist upon anything as far as I’m concerned. On the other hand, your assertions concerning being head of the family might matter a little more with Benjie and Tessa …”
She smiled a toothy grin that made Ben think the viscount not the only one capable of malicious behavior.
“Having captained my own ship for some years now, I confess I don’t feel in particular need of George’s guardianship,” Ben murmured.
Tessa and Mattie gave smothered giggles.
George grew red. “I still cannot like this family’s association with someone who is known to have been in the thick of such rumor and speculation, especially when it may unduly affect the expectations of our own family.”
This last was said with a sidelong look at Ben, prompting his hands to clench. “Your scruples do you merit.”
George seemed to miss his sarcastic tone. “It was Amelia’s parents, actually,” George said, inspecting his fingernails.
“I see.” Mattie eyed George firmly. “Well, perhaps you can inform Amelia’s parents that if the heir to the throne can have no objection to being in Clara’s company, neither can they object to her being in ours.”
“Amen,” said Tessa.
“Bravo,” said Ben.
And George found it necessary to soon leave.
CHAPTER NİNETEEN
THE DOOR BANGED open. Clara glanced up from the battered pianoforte, her music stilling for an infinitesimal moment before her breath released and she resumed playing. The anticipation thrumming in her veins all week was not due chiefly to the invitation to play at the Pavilion. As exciting as that was, as busy as her days had become through a myriad of shopping expeditions, visits to the mantua-maker, and music practice, each night her dreams made her freshly aware that her nerves were due mainly to one thing: seeing Mr. Kemsley.
She had not dared think of him much in recent weeks, had shoved away each sly thought of him, determining to think on things other than the man who had almost entangled her heart, the man who had so quickly found himself a bride. Fortunately Matilda had been too busy with other matters to mention such things again. And Clara had not dared speak of him to Mattie, sure her friend would have teased and carried on in a way that Clara would not have been able to have borne it. But she was conscious now, every time she walked the street, entered Donaldson’s library, heard the front door open, that one day she would see him again and would have to pretend everything was perfectly well.
Which it was, she told herself, gritting her teeth as yet another broken sailor in stained and tattered clothes lined up for soup. As Mattie ladled out a fresh batch, Clara continued to play while resuming her contemplation.
She was playing at the sailors and soldiers’ shelter for the first time in weeks. Upon mentioning her desire to become involved again, Mother had insisted—among threats of swoons—that she cease, but Clara had been equally adamant she wished to help. So while Mother was having her own fittings for a gown—Father’s generosity extending to new outfits for all—Clara had managed to creep undetected from the house to the hall and offer her services to a surprised Matilda. Ever short of volunteers, Mattie had not hesitated—nor questioned her—all the while murmuring apology that she could not bring Tessa to the shelter, as she was far too young to be exposed to such things. “And really, neither should you, seeing as you’re a fine lady and all.”
“Not so very fine,” Clara had demurred with a smile.
“Fine enough for the Regent.” Mattie’s eyes twinkled. “Oh, I am sorry I cannot introduce George to you as yet. But I will as soon as Amelia arrives.”
“Is she still in London then?”
“Yes. My brother has been finding it something of a challenge to find appropriate accommodation for Amelia and her parents—apparently they’re sticklers for a certain degree of elegance. When he learned we could only accommodate Tessa and Benjie, George was not best impressed. But then he saw the modest way in which we live, and I think he was relieved.”
“But surely your brother should take care of Amelia’s family?”
“And so he is.”
“I mean your brother Benjamin.”
Matilda had looked at her in a puzzled way before a destitute sailor had interrupted.
It had proved most confusing.
Clara shook her head again, refocusing on the task at hand. She should probably only stay for another quarter hour, half hour at most. If Mother were to discover that Clara preferred performing for charity than practicing for the Prince, she might never live it down.
“Miss?”
She glanced up. Jumped. How long had that man been standing there? She offered a small smile. “I beg your pardon.”
The large man jerked a nod, eyeing her in a way she found a trifle disturbing. “Ye got a proper smile or is that the best ye can do?”
Her chin lifted, her eyes narrowing. “I beg your pardon?”
He chuckled, revealing a set of very stained teeth. “Ye seem to be doing that a lot, begging me pardon and all.”
She ceased playing, eyeing him coldly. “You have your soup. It is best eaten when hot.”
“Ooh, listen to ye, all hoity-toity. What are ye then, a duchess come to hobnob with the riffraff? Seen all ye wanted, or do ye want to see some more?”
The nerves from earlier took on another layer, prickling her skin. Really, the man was standing too close. Her nose wrinkled, and a wave of nausea threatened. How long since the man had had a bath? She glanced around the room. Where was Matilda? Where was Mr. McPherson? Where were the other volunteers?
The man chuckled again, taking a step closer to the table separating the dining area from where she sat. “Ye looking fer the others? I got ’em outside. Poor Braithwaite got in another stoush and is outside being fixed up good and proper. Ain’t nobody here but me and me mates.” He jerked a thumb behind him.
Clara looked at the grimy faces he indicated. They met her gaze boldly before turning attention back to their bowls. Not one of them seemed cut from the cloth of a gentleman. She swallowed. “I will scream if necessary.”
“Scream? Whatever would ye need to do that fer?” Quick as a wink he was behind the table, advancing slowly.
She rose, bumping back the stool as she clutched the music sheets to her chest like a foolish child. “Sir, I—”
“Sir, is it?” She could feel his stale, hot breath on her. She refused to wince. “A minute ago ye were looking at us like scum and now it’s sir, is it?”
“Course ye were,” he sneered. “Plenty of people see us and never think, do they? Why should ye be any different, even if ye are pretending to care?”
“Wilson!”
The name cut through the room, taut as a whip.
The hair on the back of her neck rose.
She recognized that voice. She recognized that figure striding through the room.
Her mouth dried, the sheets of music slipped from her grasp and landed on the floor with a hiss.
“Miss DeLancey?”
Ben rushed toward her. She seemed so pale, almost trembling, as if the man he’d elbowed past had hurt her. He wrapped a brotherly arm around her shoulders and escorted her to a seat, all the while glaring at the man who’d frightened her so. There was a reason he was not in favor of gently bred ladies involving themselves in such activities.
“Miss DeLancey?”
She dragged in a breath and glanced up at him. Her face was so close he only had to shift his head forward a little and he would finally know the taste of her lips.
As if sensing his thoughts, she jolted and tugged away. “Mr. Kemsley.” “The very same.”
No trace of a smile crossed her face. “I … I did not know you would be here.”
“Apparently neither did our friend Wilson.”
“He is not my friend.” She shuddered.
He frowned, searching her face for the truth. “Did he hurt you?”
“No. No! He did not. I was just … alarmed. He seemed a little threatening.”
“I’m not surprised. He is not exactly a small man.”
“Neither are you.”
Her glance met his, then shied away, leaving him with a slow curl of pleasure unfurling in his stomach. What was she not saying—that she felt safe with him? It was ridiculous, he knew, but the thought brought him no small amount of gladness. “I think it probably best to return you home.”
The Dishonorable Miss DeLancey Page 18
