The Dishonorable Miss DeLancey

by Carolyn Miller

  “I am not the one befriending unscrupulous men. I may not have an unblemished reputation, but I have done nothing illegal or immoral, despite what you may think.”

  He stared at her a long moment.

  Lord, give me wisdom. “What is it you hope to achieve? Even if I did talk to Hawkesbury as you wished, what could that possibly accomplish?”

  He shook his head. “You don’t understand. I … I have gotten into trouble with some moneylenders and need to pay them back. Johnson still has some of Hawkesbury’s money hidden, but he’s promised me a portion if I can cause the earl another scandal.”

  “And you believe him?”

  His eyes shadowed. “I have no choice.”

  “But you want me to play a part? That is so very wicked!”

  “I need money. He promised, and you …” He shrugged. “Your infatuation is widely known, and Johnson is keen to do Hawkesbury a bad turn if he can.”

  “I will give you what I have. It isn’t much, but—”

  He looked oddly touched. “Your pittance will not cover the air I breathe.” He shook his head, his mien hardening once more to what she’d become accustomed. “You will help me, dearest sister, else I’ll make sure your little redheaded friend gets a visit from a viscount’s son that she never wants to remember.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SİX

  FOR A MAN deemed inadequate by a viscount, Ben found himself surprisingly at ease among his aristocratic dining companions, all of whom were titled and moneyed at a level far beyond him. Perhaps it was Lord Palmer’s warm welcome, perhaps it was the fact he was seated at the opposite end to Clara’s father, nearer the Marquess of Exeter and Lord Hawkesbury, men unaware of his dashed hopes, and with whom he did not need to pretend about such matters. He could not help notice Lord Winpoole refused to meet his gaze, which fired hope that perhaps Clara’s father felt as uncomfortable as Ben. Regardless, the Prince Regent’s stories were entertaining, resulting in much laughter, though that was probably helped along by the copious amounts of alcohol being consumed.

  The earl, he noted, had barely touched his glass; Lord Featherington, too, seemed uninterested in following Lord Palmer’s spirited attempts to match the Regent glass for glass. It was a slightly woozy company that finally stood when the gong was rung, but fortunately not by Lord Houghton, whom they had yet to see. Whether or not he had been dismissed, Ben did not know; he only hoped so, for Houghton should never hope to be retained.

  He joined the others in the gallery beyond, a drawing room with rich blue drapery that provided relief from the excess of chinoiserie elsewhere. The Regent spouted on about his new designer, a certain Robert Jones, tasked with transforming the dining room into a feast for the eyes to stage such banquets as befit the future King. With talk of enormous chandeliers suspended from gigantic silver dragons, and rich decoration designed to put the other rooms in the shade, Ben couldn’t help but wonder if the Regent had forgotten his promise to think upon his request. Perhaps Clara’s father was correct and the Regent no sooner promised something before dismissing it from his mind. His fingers clenched, relaxed. He could not afford to think like that. He needed to trust God instead.

  The conversation continued over port and cigars, from which he again refrained, having never acquired the taste—or the means—to indulge in them. Talk turned to war, and the final days of Napoleon’s campaign before his final capture and removal to Elba. As someone who had served under Wellington in the Peninsular campaign, Lord Hawkesbury’s opinion was sought, and it wasn’t long afterwards that the earl turned to Ben and said, “But enough from me. I would like to hear again of your most marvelous miraculous escape.”

  The conversations elsewhere stilled. Ben caught the Regent’s eye; was that a flash of guilt? The Prince looked away. Ben swallowed. “I would not wish to bore anyone, as I am sure most have heard the story not a few times.”

  “Nonsense. It’s a tale of survival that never grows old,” the earl said, with a steady look that made Ben suddenly wonder if he, too, knew of Ben’s difficulties. He felt the heat rise up his neck. Was this an opportunity from God, after all?

  He told his story briefly, unsurprised as he concluded to hear Lord Palmer’s voice the loudest among the resounding cheers. He glanced briefly at the Regent, whose face held interest, but nothing more.

  “Did you know this fine young man not only saved all those people, but then has spent a great deal of his prize money on helping those poor families whose husbands and fathers did not return?” the earl continued. “I think such manner of man most admirable and am so pleased to see him included in an evening like this.”

  “Hear, hear,” the assembly cried. Still the Regent said nothing.

  Ben glanced at Clara’s father; he looked down.

  “I thought you were to get some honor,” Lord Palmer said, turning to Prinny. “Didn’t you once say this man deserved rewarding?”

  “I may have,” the Regent allowed.

  “You certainly did,” the Marquess of Exeter said. “I recall now reading about it at the time.” He shifted to face the Regent fully. “You said such an act deserved a knighthood at the least, with suggestion of financial reward, also.”

  “That does sound like something I might say …”

  “Well? What of it?” Lord Palmer said. “You cannot say you have no funds when you were boasting just moments ago about all your fancy furbelows in yonder dining room.”

  The Regent frowned. “Are you daring to question my word?”

  “Well, have you paid him?”

  The Prince’s face pinked. “I cannot say.”

  Lord Palmer turned to Ben. “Well, has he paid you?”

  Through the course of his career, he’d been in some tight spots, but none so awkward as this. “Not as yet,” he replied in a low voice.

  “I wonder, Mr. Kemsley,” the Earl of Hawkesbury said, “just how much of your prize money was spent on helping those poor sailors?”

  All eyes swung back to him. His neckcloth grew uncomfortably snug. “I could not say.”

  “I think you should,” Hawkesbury murmured, hazel eyes glinting.

  “Spit it out, man. How much?” Lord Palmer reiterated.

  Ben calculated rapidly. “Near two thousand pounds, I believe.”

  “So when that is added to the costs associated with his unfair dismissal from the Admiralty, it seems he’ll require at least five thousand to make things square,” the earl said.

  “Five thousand?” The Prince looked aghast.

  “Or do you intend to take a wife, Kemsley? If so, better make it ten,” said Lord Palmer, the twinkle in his eye becoming more pronounced.

  “Ten?” the Regent spluttered. “I am not made of money!”

  “No.” Lord Hawkesbury eyed the Prince across the top of his wine glass. “But surely it would be in your best interests, Your Highness, for the good people of England to see you reward one of their own, rather than knowing he was shortchanged because you preferred to festoon your summer palace with more dragons.”

  In the hush that followed, Ben could almost hear the Regent’s thoughts ticking. Could his approval ratings, never high due to his well-reported profligate lifestyle, afford to be further damaged by refusing to keep his word? Ben’s mouth dried, his heart thundered frantically, blood rushed in his ears. Dear God, please look on me with favor …

  “I will think on it,” the Regent said finally.

  “Think on it? How much time do you need to think?” Lord Exeter frowned. “We’ve all heard Mr. Kemsley’s story. His valor cannot be denied. Are you really going to continue to ignore him for the sake of a few pounds?”

  Again, a strained silence stretched across the room.

  The Regent finally turned to Ben, a look not wholly pleasant in his eye. “Did you put them up to saying this?”

  “Put them—No, of course not.”

  “No one has put anyone up to anything,” said Lord Exeter, “but I will say this. If you don’t fulfill your word to
night, I shall make a point of stating such things the next time Parliament meets.”

  There was an inward hiss, as if the room’s occupants had taken a collective gasp.

  “You?” The Regent laughed, not with amusement. “You barely attend as it is, yet have the nerve to threaten me?”

  “I attend sittings most regularly,” said Lord Hawkesbury, his manner, his gaze intense as the soldier he’d once been. “And I will not be backward in promoting what this man is due.”

  “Quite right,” muttered Lord Palmer. “Come on, Prinny. You do not want a revolution on your hands. Best give the man a knighthood and the rhino he deserves. Best not to be seen clutch-fisted, else the people may revolt.”

  The Regent’s face flickered before he smiled genially at all. “Of course not. Such a thought is completely revolting!” He laughed at his own wit. “Mr. Kemsley”—protuberant blue eyes met Ben’s—“please forgive my tardiness in this matter. I trust a knighthood will prove satisfactory?”

  “Of course, sir.”

  “I am sure there are many officers from these wars who have distinguished themselves through eminent service and thus deserve high honor. Their names should be preserved for posterity, accompanied by such marks of distinction they have so nobly earned.” The Regent looked around the table. “What say you all?”

  “I say he needs more than a fancy medal or two,” Lord Palmer said. “Give him the Garter at least. And don’t forget the money. Man cannot live on promises alone.”

  “Of course not.” The Regent offered Ben a tight smile. “For your illustrious valor, I trust you will think a sum of five thousand pounds reward enough?”

  “Sir, I do not know what to say,” Ben stammered.

  “A thank-you shall suffice.”

  He wanted gratitude now? Ben did not care. “Thank you, sir.”

  “Still think it should be ten,” grumbled Lord Palmer.

  “One always thinks it should be more when it’s not one’s own money.”

  No one pointed out to the heir of the throne that the money he spent could scarcely be called his own. The Regent rose, his smile as gracious as if he’d not been strong-armed into finally rewarding Ben. “Shall we see if the ladies have arrived? I must confess to a hankering for their company and their music after such serious matters of state.”

  Hawkesbury rose, offered his hand to congratulate Ben, but his gaze was to the Regent. “I trust, sir, that we shall be informed of Kemsley’s ceremony soon?”

  The Regent coughed. “As soon as I am able. I need a new secretary, see.”

  “Oh?” Lord Palmer said. “Old Houghton finally left you?”

  “He proved … rather less than satisfactory.”

  Lord Winpoole gave a decided nod before meeting Ben’s gaze and flushing. Ben eyed him steadily, his good fortune still ringing in his ears. Five thousand pounds? Surely enough to buy a small holding, and if invested well, enough to live off for a number of years. But would it be enough to satisfy Lord Winpoole? A knighthood would make Clara a lady and would afford him a level of respect and honor even if he weren’t inducted into the Order of the Garter.

  Moments later, he was in the midst of a sea of congratulations, some of which seemed more about joy in squeezing money from the Regent than for any meritorious act of Ben’s. But he would not complain, and with such illustrious personages as his witness, he felt reasonably certain that this would be a promise the Prince felt honor bound to keep.

  They filtered through to the Yellow Drawing Room, where the ladies were arrayed. Ben’s eyes searched hungrily for Miss DeLancey; she was sitting with her mother, near Lady Hawkesbury, as they listened to Lady Sefton speak in hushed tones about the Princess’s latest trials.

  Clara’s father went to speak directly to his wife; she listened then looked straight at him. Ben offered a small bow, turning, as Lord Hawkesbury clapped a hand on his shoulder. “Well, I cannot say there have been many evenings with the Regent that have made me glad, but this has been one of them. Well done, Kemsley, well done.”

  He shook his head. “I think it more your doing, my lord, and that of Lord Exeter and Lord Palmer.”

  “Yes, but they would not have supported you if you weren’t so unassuming. Nobody likes a proud man, and when your cause was so worthy …” He tilted his head. “Was there reason to wish for more? Lord Palmer hinted of a young lady?”

  Ben’s smile grew strained. “I had hoped so, but cannot be certain. Her father deemed it impossible, but whether he continues to after this news, I cannot tell.”

  “What? Never tell me he is here! Tell me at once, and I’ll give you a reference of the highest order.” The earl’s eyes gleamed. “Who is the lucky lady?”

  “I … I do not wish to cause embarrassment, sir.”

  “Quite right. Go talk to her and her father, then, and if you need my help, just ask.”

  Ben muttered something of his obligation, and the earl strode to his wife, pointedly ignoring the lady whose name Ben had just refrained from saying.

  He swallowed. What would happen when the earl learned who Ben wished to marry? Would he condemn him and withdraw his support? Or would the grace his wife extended to Clara be something Lord Hawkesbury could show one day, as well?

  “Kemsley!” Lord Featherington shook his hand. “Have to say that was one of the more spectacular moments of my life. Don’t think I’ve ever heard Father fired up about another man like that. Not even old Hartington got such praise.” He grinned. “Between you and me, I think Father is softening to the idea of Tessa being the future marchioness. Mama thinks she’s young enough that she can mold Tessa into her own pattern, said she’s quite a pet—her words exactly, no word of a lie—and thinks settling down young might even be the making of me! I told her she’s exactly right, and Mama likes it whenever she’s told such things, so it wouldn’t surprise me at all if she’s told Father that he needs to be as supportive of you as possible. Can’t hurt to have a naval hero in the family, and if he’s got a title and some money—well, all the better.”

  So his good fortune might have more to do with others than he’d thought. Ben grinned, noting how Clara turned to him, her eyes huge in her white face.

  His joy evaporated. Something was wrong. Now he watched her, he could see she was unnaturally still, had barely moved since they’d entered the room. Was it the memories of the last time she’d visited the Pavilion? Was it confusion over his intentions? He’d been too upset on Sunday to do much more than steal one glance. Had she misread that as lack of interest? Or was it something else?

  He watched her carefully. Saw the way her eyes stole to the earl. Jealousy seared his chest. Did Clara still care for him?

  A cleared throat brought Ben’s attention to her father. “Kemsley, I congratulate you. I did not think you’d be so honored.”

  Ben held his gaze squarely. “I know.”

  Lord Winpoole flushed. “I … I might have spoken too hastily before. I admit to not always being privy to the workings of my daughter’s heart, but if you still wish to wed her, I shall not be opposed.”

  “Thank you,” Ben said, working to keep the edge from his tone. “Your support is appreciated.”

  He glanced back to where Clara still surreptitiously peeked at the earl. But did he want to marry into a family more concerned with title than character? More importantly, did he want a wife who loved another?

  Lord Winpoole held out a hand, which Ben shook blindly.

  He glanced up and saw the Earl of Hawkesbury’s sudden frown.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  WHAT WAS SHE to do?

  The earl was close, so close she could smell his heady scent of bergamot and fresh linen. But how could she distract him? The idea he’d even listen to her was laughable; he’d made no secret of his contempt, turning away rather than looking at her. She fought a cringe. Thank God his wife was more forgiving, Lavinia making a point of inviting Clara to sit with her, asking her about her growth in God, before the ever chat
ty Lady Sefton had commanded attention in her gossip about poor Princess Charlotte.

  But what could she do? She felt sick within; nerves straining so hard she could barely move a muscle. Then he’d entered, looking for all the world like he’d won the keys to a palace. She’d noticed how his eyes had instantly sought her out before several of the other men had distracted him with handshakes that looked awfully like congratulations. Her heart flickered. Had he managed to convince Prinny of his claim? She hoped so, for his sake as much as her own. But before contemplating matters further, she had to decide what should happen tonight.

  Before leaving, Richard had assured her there would be someone watching—this mysterious Johnson fellow, perhaps?—someone to ensure the earl was embroiled in scandal more vicious than he’d ever known. Since his departure, she’d worried and prayed, while her hands and fingers throbbed. How could she be party to such a scandal? She could not hurt Lavinia so. God would not wish her to participate in such a wicked scheme. But what did He wish her to do? Her stomach heaved, and she placed two tender fingers to her mouth.

  “Miss DeLancey?” Lavinia peered at her worriedly.

  She shook her head, and Lady Sefton said, “It’s the heat. It affects us all.”

  Clara smiled weakly as Mother retrieved a fan and began to wave it vigorously. Conscious she was fast becoming the center of attention, Clara lowered the fan. “Thank you, Mother, but truly it is not necessary.”

  “My dear, one minute you are flushed, the next you’re pale as a ghost. You are not well. Perhaps we should leave.”

  Leave? And escape the night’s dilemma? But surely it would persist for another day.

  The Prince called for attention before requesting Lavinia to perform, which she did to copious applause. Clara listened to the exquisite musicianship, certain her own efforts would not be so well executed. Another encore later, and the Prince turned to Clara.

  “Miss DeLancey?”

  She rose, rubbing her fingers in the hope the action might lend strength, and settled at the pianoforte. A quick glance up saw her parents smiling proudly, the Prince Regent looking expectant, and Mr. Kemsley’s intense gaze wholly fixed upon her face. She could not let any of them down.