Page 10 of The Proposition
“You’re mistaken. I am perfectly all right.”
Nothing more was said. Honora dozed and Clemency gazed blindly out the window, seeing and perceiving nothing, locked in her own thoughts, coming to the conclusion that she would probably never be “perfectly all right” again.
When the carriage arrived at Claridge and slowed up to the doors, Clemency roused her sister and helped her down and across the crisply crunchy gravel to the front doors, one of which was helpfully and unexpectedly propped open by their father, waiting there with a cane and shawl, a concerned pout on his pale lips as the two girls ducked inside.
“To bed at once, I think,” he said, touching Honora gently on the shoulder. “I can rely on you not to keep her up all night with wild stories from the dance?”
“Of course, Papa,” Clemency assured him, painting on a weary smile. “Besides, it was a dull evening at best. I’m sure I cannot think of a single memorable moment.”
“I’m sure.” He was a smart enough man to smirk at that and roll his eyes, but he relented and escorted them to the stairs, saying his good nights and leaving Honora inClemency’s care. The two sisters did as he asked, going straight to their bedchambers, but after Clemency was washed and changed, and her hair taken down and put into fabric curls, she sneaked into Honora’s room through the small door that adjoined their rooms. When they were little, they stayed up nights whispering to each other through the crack, feeling very clever and roguish indeed.
Honora’s dark hair was swept over one shoulder as she brushed it. Their maids had been dismissed for the evening, leaving the girls to gather on Honora’s bed in the comfortable glow of a few dwindling candles and the dusting of starlight allowed in by the still-open curtains. The room smelled sweetly of beeswax and rose water, and the sprigs of dried marigold and thyme tucked into the cupboard drawers to keep their linens fresh.
“Something has happened,” Honora observed quietly while Clemency took the brush from her and sat at her back, raking the bristles through her sheet of silken hair. “Will you not tell me? You shall have to become a far more convincing actress if you wish to fool me and Papa.”
For a moment, she considered keeping the secret all to herself, but if she trusted anyone in the whole world completely, it was Honora. Her elder sister had ever been a confidante and guardian, and Clemency would burst if she had to go on without telling a single soul.
“Oh, Nora. I don’t know what to think or do. Or what to believe!”
“Dearest, what do you mean?” Nora spun a little, and Clemency dropped her hands and the brush into her lap. “What happened?”
“So much…So much, I hardly know where to begin!”Clemency sighed and shrugged, then let her shoulders sag. She felt tired enough to sleep for an age. “I know now why Turner has cooled.”
“And?” Honora pressed. “What did he say?”
“That I am…insipid and smothering. That he liked me better when I was indifferent to him. I knew it. He wanted the challenge of winning my heart, not my heart for its own sake.”
Honora gasped. “No. How could that be true? What man would not want his beloved to return his affection? Then he has broken it off between you, or you have broken it off…”
“No. No, nothing has been decided,” Clemency said, each word making her feel stupider. After the way he had spoken to her, how could she go on pretending it was an understanding and not a farce? Yet she needed him, needed his money and standing.Ifit existed.
“That is not all,” Clemency continued. “Mr. Greer’s cousin came to speak to me privately. I was not fit to return to the dance after speaking to Turner, and so I hid in the library, but this man sought me out.”
“Mr. Ferrand?” Honora asked. “The one Amy seemed so excited about?”
“The very same.” Drawing in a shaky breath, Clemency collected her thoughts before continuing. She felt nervous and tender, as if her entire body had become one big bruise. “He has had some previous dealings with Turner Boyle, though he did not elaborate, but the implications are grave.”
“How are they acquainted?”
Clemency shook her head, rustling the scraps of fabric tied into her red-gold hair. “I am not certain, but Turnermust have done something despicable to the man, for Mr. Ferrand is determined to see him destroyed.”
“Destroyed!” Honora tucked her feet up onto the bed and turned toward her fully, taking Clemency’s hands in hers. “Yet he gave you no reasons?”
“One,” she whispered. Her throat was closing up around it, around the ugly allegation. She didn’t want to speak it aloud. “He claims…He claims that Turner Boyle is not the man we know, or purport to know, that he is not even a baron. But I looked into the man’s eyes, and I suspect he would accuse Turner of far greater evils.”
Honora was struck speechless. Her mouth hung open as she squeezed Clemency’s hands. Then she frowned and exhaled through her nose, taking back the brush and running it swiftly, anxiously through her tumble of dark hair. “No. That cannot be. Papa gave your match his blessing, and Papa is an excellent judge of character.”
“But would he know?” Clemency replied. “If everything we know about Turner is a fiction, then he must have taken great pains to make the story believable. I doubt Papa actually investigated the Boyle lineage. No, Nora, think. We have all taken him at his word. We had no reason not to.”
“Then you believe Mr. Ferrand?” her sister asked, cocking her head to the side. “Lord, he must have been persuasive.”
“I do not believe him,” Clemency hurriedly assured her. “Before we were interrupted I demanded proof, of course. I shall wait to receive it and then make up my mind.”
“Sensible of you,” Honora said with a laugh. “I for one cannot counsel you to believe a man of such short acquaintance, or one with such a dark agenda. After all you havespent adequate time in Boyle’s company, surely you would have noticed if something was awry?”
Clemency picked at the lace hem of her nightgown and sucked in her cheeks, ashamed. “You should have heard the way he spoke to me tonight, Nora. You might think differently if you had.”
“Men lose their tempers,” Honora told her, sounding more like a mother than an older sister. “I should know; I was married to one for nearly two years. Edwyn never raised his voice, but he had his moments. They were always troubling, those moments. Once, I dropped a necklace that belonged to his mother; there was not even a scratch upon it after inspection, but Edwyn did not speak to me for days. It seemed a cruel punishment for such a small crime. When such things happened, I always wondered to myself: Do I know this man or have I committed myself to a pleasant image?” She sighed and looked momentarily lost. “Perhaps it is the pressure of your impending nuptials, the confines of marriage might frighten Boyle.”
