CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
ANGER, THICK AND terrible, swarmed over him like spewing lava.
“You heard the lady. Get off.” In a dozen strides he was beside them. Had grasped the fiend’s collar. Hauled him to his feet. “How dare you?”
“Release me, you fool. Can’t you see she was begging for my attention?”
“She was begging for something else quite entirely. As for you …” He hefted a solid fist and thumped him in the jaw. A cracking sound echoed through the room; then Lord Houghton was sliding off the settee, knees crumpling, until his head landed on the floor with a satisfying thud.
Clara was by this stage sitting upright, trembling, her face a mask of terror. Ben felt the rage surge anew. “Did he … did he—”
Her eyes were wide, unfocused. A dread-filled moment later she shook her head.
“Thank God,” he breathed and sank down beside her and pulled her close. He felt her freeze, then slowly relax, and rest her head on his shoulder as her breath juddered in and out. He carefully wrapped both arms around her, drawing her closer still. He would not take advantage as that scoundrel had, but he would do his utmost to comfort her, as he’d comforted Tessa, and even Mattie when she’d been a girl.
Blood still rushed in his ears; she was sure to hear his heart threatening to flee his chest. His heart—that wished to run away with hers. A weak smile escaped. How fanciful this place made him. But he had to help her regain a sense of decorum before the door opened and others spied them. He cringed. How on earth could he explain this to her father? Worse, to the Regent?
His lips grazed her hair, and he marveled at the softness, at the scent, a clean combination that reminded him of roses and heather. She fit so snugly in his arms, he could tilt her head back, could kiss her—
“What is the meaning of this?”
Before he could remove his arms, Clara’s father was walking toward them, the heavy scowl on his face doubtless echoing the one Ben himself had worn when he’d entered earlier.
“I demand to know at once what you are doing here—” He stopped, gazed at the motionless figure on the floor, then at his daughter. The hard expression seemed to soften a fraction. “Clara?”
She wobbled to her father, hugging him as he patted her awkwardly on the back. His face when next he looked toward Ben held fury, a trace of white around the mouth. Ben rose, eyeing him, thankful he could reassure the man with a small shake of his head. The situation could have been so very much worse.
“I assure you, sir, I took no liberties,” Ben said quietly. “I came in, much as you did, and found him,” he nudged Lord Houghton with a toe, “trying to take advantage, and Clara—I mean, your daughter—doing her best to escape. I fear he had her at a disadvantage, though. I rather think he might have given her a drugged drink.”
“Clara? Is this true?”
She looked up at her father, her face piteous as she nodded. “I did … I did not know. I thought he was going to get the Regent.”
Her father gave her a hard look. “Tell me you did not wish for his attentions?”
“No. No! Of course not! I just wished … that is …” She shot Ben a pleading look.
“You wanted to speak to him on my behalf,” he guessed. At her nod, he took a step toward her before checking himself. “You did not need to, my dear. I could never wish for an interview with him if it came at such a cost.”
Her eyes filled with tears that spilled, trickling down her cheeks. His heart wrenched, and he wished violently for the right to hold her in his arms, but her father held her still, looking like a man prepared to throw himself before a cannon rather than let another man touch her.
“I don’t understand,” Lord Winpoole muttered. “Why would she speak to the Regent?”
A throat being cleared drew their attention to the doorway. Ben’s throat constricted as the Prince walked into the room, a frown upon his face. “Forgive the interruption, but I cannot help but be interested when I hear my name being bandied about.” He looked between them, saw the blotchiness of Clara’s face, and eyed Ben thoughtfully. “Somehow, sir, I did not suspect—”
He stopped, his gaze dropping to the prone figure on the floor. He lifted his quizzing glass, and then let it fall. “Well, I’ll be.” A mild oath fell from his lips. “Houghton, in the petticoat line?” He sighed, his gaze hard and steady as he faced Ben. “I suppose this to be an affair of honor.”
“Yes, sir.”
The Regent sighed again, turning to Clara. “Come, my child. I suppose you’ve had quite a shock, but surely it is not worth all these tears? I trust nothing has been irretrievably damaged?”
This last was said with a hooked brow and knowing gaze. A wave of revulsion passed through Ben.
Clara either missed the insinuation or chose to ignore it, as she drew herself up to face the Regent squarely. “F-forgive me, sir, but I am unaccustomed to being attacked.”
“Especially by someone in your employ,” her father muttered, with a narrowed gaze.
The Regent’s face grew a little pink. “My dear girl, I do not understand what you were doing with him in the first place. I cannot think he dragged you in here. I do not recall hearing any screams.”
“I wished to speak with you, remember?”
“Clara!” her father said in agonized tones.
She pressed on, eyes fixed on the Prince. “I … I thought he would fetch you—”
“My dear, I’m hardly one either willing or able to be fetched, as you so obligingly put it. I had not entirely forgotten our little tête-à-tête prior to our exquisite performance.”
Ben’s heart wrenched as she blushed to a hue to match her gown. “I am sorry, sir. I meant no disrespect.”
“Yes, well, I begin to see,” the Regent said. “Houghton has hardly been a man to let opportunity pass him by. It all begins to make sense.”
Clara bit her lip. If it was possible, her cheeks had colored even more deeply.
“It may surprise you, but I had not disregarded your request. When Lord Heathcote thought he saw a scarlet-clad young lady enter my chambers here, I was surprised, but not unwilling to learn what you wished to say.”
Ben stepped forward. “Sir, I—”
The Regent held up a hand. “I wish to hear my songbird speak.”
Clara’s chest drew up as she dragged in an audible breath. “Sir, it concerns Mr. Kemsley here.”
“It does?” The Regent turned toward Ben and held up his quizzing glass, revealing a grossly magnified eye. “I am simply agog.”
“Sir,” she continued, “forgive me, but do you not recognize him?”
“Clara, please,” Ben began, stopping as the Regent’s frown grew more pronounced.
“Clara, is it?” He eyed Ben with curiosity. “This grows more interesting by the minute.” He waved to her. “Please continue, my dear. I simply cannot fathom what might be so important that it’s worth this contretemps. I haven’t been so diverted in ages, and I assure you, I know very well how to be diverted.”
Ben caught her quick glance, the way she swallowed, the slight lift of her chin. With a steadying voice she continued. “Mr. Kemsley may not have told you he was a captain in your father’s navy.”
“Captain, you say?” The bright blue eyes turned to him. “Made post?”
“Yes, sir. I was captain of the Ansdruther.”
There was a pause, then a blink of recognition, the Prince Regent’s face lighting. “I remember! You are the man who saved all those people. Well, I am pleased to meet you.”
Ben swallowed the retort. Willed his face to assume pleasantness. “And I you, sir.”
“Well, this is something. Thank you, Miss DeLancey, for drawing this to my attention, although why it could not have been said out there amongst my other guests I do not know. Now, forgive me, I have been absent long enough. No one likes an absent host after all.” He made a move as if to go.
Clara shot Ben a frantic look. He shook his head to dissuade her, but she
ignored him and ran after the Regent. “Your Highness?”
“Yes, my dear?” he said, with a trace of impatience.
“Sir, forgive me, it is just,” she swallowed, “it is just that when reports of Captain Kemsley’s heroism reached England, it was reported that you wished to reward him.”
“What?” the Regent turned back to him. “Is this true?”
Ben swallowed, inclined his head. “I was not in England at the time, sir, but my sisters kept the newspapers where such things were reported.”
“Really?” The Regent seemed to hover, obviously torn between continuing this conversation and wishing to return to his guests.
Ben stepped forward. “Perhaps, sir, it might be better to continue this conversation when you are not otherwise engaged?”
Relief streaked across the Prince’s features. “Yes, yes. A very good idea. You must speak to my secretary—”
He paused, eyed the man still lying on the carpet and sighed. “Hmm. Perhaps not. You appear to have told him what you thought already.”
Ben could only incline his head and wait.
“One punch?”
He glanced up, met the Regent’s shrewd gaze. “Yes.”
“I thought as much. Ever done much boxing?”
“A little, sir.”
“I pride myself on being one of Jackson’s premier students. Well, I was, you know. Ever faced him?”
“I have not had the pleasure,” Ben said. Or the means.
“Hmm. Well, I used to be quite the sportsman.” He patted Clara’s father on the shoulder. “Winpoole here knows, don’t you? I once rode my horse from London to Brighton and back in ten hours. Ten hours! Can you believe it?”
What was Ben supposed to say? That looking at the Prince’s girth now it was hard to believe him to have ever been anything of a horseman, let alone able to accomplish such a feat?
The Prince chuckled. “I see I shall have to bore you with more stories. I’m having a dinner on Tuesday. You must come, Captain Kemsley; and you, too,” he said to Clara’s father. “Gentlemen only, my dear,” he said to Clara, “but I insist you attend later for the evening fireworks. Perhaps you could play again, too.”
“Of course, sir,” Ben managed, echoing the viscount’s affirmation.
“I will give the matter some thought. You might wish to bring those clippings, although I’m sure my secretary—” He stopped. Sighed again, examining his nails. “The trouble is, he’s been such a good secretary.”
Though not a good man. A hempen cravat would be too good—Ben swallowed the surge of hatred toward the unconscious man.
The viscount stepped forward. “I should not wish to be forced to call out a man who assaulted my daughter’s honor.”
“No, no, of course not.” The Prince waved a careless hand. “We will talk more, but first I must return to my guests. They have been kept waiting quite long enough.” His face lit. “And we are to have fireworks! You know I simply adore fireworks.”
Except when they occurred between a guest and his secretary in his chambers, apparently.
“Now, if you’ll excuse me?” And the Prince took his estimable presence from the room.
Clara seemed to slump. “I am so sorry.” She peeked up at Ben. “I thought he would see reason and would give you your dues.” She glanced at her father. “I had no wish for all … for all this.”
“Clara,” Ben began, “all is not lost. And you must not blame yourself—”
“She most certainly should!” Lord Winpoole snapped. “What did you think you were doing, trysting with the Regent of all people? I do not know what to think!”
She blanched and swayed.
Ben hurried toward her but was checked by her father. “As for you, young man, what possessed you to think you should encourage my daughter to speak on your behalf? I would have thought you a man of more courage than that!”
Ben’s retort was cut short by Clara’s pleading look, as she placed a hand on her father’s arm. “Father, please, he did not know.”
“I would never wish a lady to speak on my behalf,” Ben said stiffly.
“And yet you stood there, letting her do all the talking for you, just now, didn’t you?”
“He could scarcely contradict the Prince’s request, could he? Father, Mr. Kemsley rescued me from Lord Houghton. You should be weak with gratitude, as I am.” Her voice had grown shaky. “It was horrible!”
“There, there, my girl”—he patted her awkwardly—“no need for tears.” He met Ben’s gaze atop Clara’s head. “I suppose I am obliged to you, again.”
Again? Had she told her father about that clifftop encounter? “You must believe, sir, that I would never permit your daughter to be harmed if I could at all prevent it.”
The older man shuffled uncomfortably. “Yes, well.” He harrumphed. “Good, then. Now, we best get back. Your mother will be frantic for you, my dear.”
Clara put a hand to her head. “I do not feel quite able to face all those people, Father.”
“Oh.” Frowning, the viscount looked at her, then up at Ben. “Is it too much of an imposition to request you stay with Clara while I find my wife? I cannot imagine we will be staying for any fireworks tonight.”
“Of course, sir. I only ask that if you see my sister, you might request her to join us? She was with Lord Featherington and I suspect she may be quite as anxious as your wife as to our whereabouts.”
Clara seemed to draw herself up. “I’m making too much trouble. I will come.”
“Well …” The viscount seemed undecided.
“Sir, I will escort Miss DeLancey back. We will rejoin you shortly.”
“Thank you. Much obliged.” And the viscount exited.
Ben turned to see Clara visibly wilt. He wrapped an arm around her shoulders.
“I’m so sorry,” she repeated, eyes awash with sorrow. “I’ve burdened you enough, and now Tessa—”
“Forget Tessa. I’m sure she’s having a good time. I only hope she’s managed to thoroughly convince the marquess and marchioness of her merits.”
“She’s such a sweet girl, I’m sure they cannot fail to see that.”
“Sweetness is a quality that can never pass unnoticed.”
Her gaze lowered.
He tipped up her chin. “What is it?”
“I have never been considered terribly sweet,” she whispered. “I’m afraid I’ve made too many people think I’m simply terrible.”
“I suspect you’re simply fishing for compliments, now.” He smiled.
“Mr. Kemsley—”
“Please, call me Ben.”
She shook her head. “Mr. Kemsley, you do not know—”
“On the contrary, sweet Clara, I do know, and I know there is no sweeter girl I wish to kiss than you, right now.”
Her eyes widened. “Sir!”
“But I will not, not after what has happened, and not if you don’t wish it.”
“But I—” Her cheeks flushed. She touched them. “Oh, it’s so warm in here.”
He agreed. But it had nothing to do with how the Prince preferred to heat his rooms. “We should return.”
Sliding his arm from their embrace, he offered it for her to lean on, exultation dancing in his heart. She wanted his kiss; propriety had merely refused to let her confess such a thing. He placed his other hand on hers and gently squeezed, and her eyes met his again, the green fire still shadowed.
They passed back into the whirl of color, able to join the general movement to the doors from where the Regent’s voice could be heard, “Quickly! The fireworks are almost at time!”
He scanned the room, relief washing through him as Tessa met his gaze. Her face lit, she leaned up to murmur something to Lord Featherington, whose arm she clutched, before leaving him to weave through the guests still trying to attain the gardens.
“Ben! Wherever have you been?” Her brow puckered as she glanced at Clara. “Hello, Clara. You were missed. Lady Sefton was asking about you.”<
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“I … I was taken unwell.”
“You poor thing. That must be why you look so pale. Good thing Benjie is so strong, isn’t it? No wonder you must lean on him.”
His neck burned as Clara dropped his arm. “Tessa.”
She turned to him, her overly innocent blue eyes now alive with excitement. “Oh, Ben, you’ll never guess! Henry introduced me to his parents!”
“Henry, is it?”
“Yes. Oh, and you’ll never know this: I am to have tea with the marchioness on Monday. Imagine! Me, having tea with a marchioness!” She fanned her face with two hands. “I hardly know what to think!”
“I’m so pleased for you, Tessa,” Clara murmured.
“Henry is so very kind. He was telling me about his time with his cousin and sister up north. It seems he’s found deeper purpose now that he believes as we do. He told me not a day went by that he did not regret leaving me without a word. He seems quite changed.”
This was said with a half-pleading, half-defiant glance at Ben that made him swallow a smile and murmur something about arranging a more civil interview with the viscount soon.
“Oh, I am so happy!” She drew both of Clara’s hands into her own. “I cannot thank you enough, dearest, sweetest Clara. You have been so very good to me. I was telling Henry about how you have helped me with tonight—”
“I hope you didn’t tell him how you were invited.”
“A little credit, please. Believe it or not, sometimes I know when to speak and when best not to.”
“Then you are well on the way to being able to hold your own in having tea with a marchioness,” Clara said, with a strained smile.
“Do I hear my mother being referred to?” Lord Featherington joined them. “I hope you don’t mind that I’ve rather stolen your sister’s attention tonight,” he said to Ben. “Thing is, she’s proved rather popular here, and I thought it best to make my intentions plain.”
Ben hooked a brow. The viscount flushed but held his gaze steadily. Well, then. He gave a tiny nod. “I do not mind. Thank you for being so assiduous in your attentions.”
“Thing is, my mother has rather taken to her. Thinks her the best-dressed person here, barring herself of course. She’s always pleased to see someone with natural taste.”
The Dishonorable Miss DeLancey Page 24
