Page 22 of The Proposition
“We were just discussing arrangements for the season,” Tansy said, glancing at William. “In a week’s time we will depart for London, to stay with my father and see if he has need of us. Of course, Clemency stayed with her aunt, Mrs. Drew, last time, and their house might be grander, but I so prefer to have her near.”
“London has been much on my mind too.” Again, that odd smile crossed his lips, and he dragged his gaze over to Clemency. She turned her back and merged into the dark corridor. “If you will excuse me…”
Clemency made a fist with her empty hand and squeezed, then repeated the motion three or four times. Suddenly, her mind was a blank. She needed to remember all the clever,cold things she wanted to say, but now her thoughts betrayed her. His footsteps fell heavier on the inlaid tiles of the gallery, and he came near enough to share his warmth.
“Clemency…”
That was a new tone of voice. Acontritetone. She ignored him, staring up blindly at the portraits, pretending to be engrossed in something or other.
“I do hope you are willing to listen to my explanation.”
“Why are you late?” she asked, putting on a neutral air. She had no interest in her drink but sipping it casually did seem like the right thing to do to complete the picture of a bored, unmovable adversary.
“Foster’s Gate—”
“Could not possibly have flooded,” she interjected. “You hardly have a speck of rain on you. Try again, and try harder.”
At that, she expected him to lash out, or at the very least walk away from her. Their last exchange had been a tense one, but Turner seemed like a completely different person. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw his narrow shoulders slump forward. She almost pitied him. Almost.
“I am late because I went to settle things at the shop,” he told her in a desperate whisper. “Will you please look at me?”
The irony was too delicious.
“No, I don’t think I will. A look might be awfullysmothering.”
“Very well, I deserved that,” he muttered. “I did not…I did not conduct myself properly at the Pickfords’. I know that. I’m stupid, all right? Stupid and humbled. Will you accept my apology? On my honor, I will never speak to youthat way again. It was…It was rude and unacceptable, and I am terribly, terribly sorry.”
As apologies went it was quite good. Better if he had been on his knees, but Clemency could have a heart. She gave him the quickest look, then returned to surveying the art. “I was humiliated at the ball,” she said icily. “And I was humiliated again today.”
“I know…Iknow. I wish I had a better explanation for my behavior of late, but everything has been in such a tumult. Those debts…It is not my spending that is the problem, Clemency, or my lack of funds. A damned generous spirit has landed me in these dire straits. It’s Jack, you see, he—”
“Mr. Connors?” Clemency whirled to face him, nearly splashing sherry down his shirt. She knew little of the man, only that he and Boyle were dear friends, so much so that Boyle preferred to stay with Connors while in town instead of letting his own house. “What does he have to do with this?”
“Jack is…He is not always wise with money,” Turner told her, his cheeks flushing. He almost adjusted his hair, then stopped himself. His eyes shimmered in the low light. Was he actually going tocry? “I allowed him to use my credit around town, a mistake I will not make again. He has been the source of my misery and moods, and I have left his company. I should never have taken it all out on you, but he has made my life taxing indeed as of late.” Turner sighed and shook his head. “After settling my debts, I rode to Heathfield to take a room. I wanted to have it done, you see, to prove to you that I am serious about leaving his company.”
Clemency squinted. Jack Connors was a notoriously flamboyant and stupid man, which also made him aconvenient scapegoat. This revised story, however, did make more sense than the last.
“I wonder that you did not ask my father to stay here at Claridge.”
“After the way I treated you, dear Clemency, and with his poor health, I would not presume.” He closed his eyes for a long moment, composing himself. When he looked at her again, it almost made her heart clench. Looks like that had bewitched her over the summer, and they were potent indeed. “Say you can forgive me, please—I cannot bear to know that you think ill of me. I was so stupid. Stupid,stupid.”
“What I think of you isyourdoing,” Clemency replied, tipping her chin back. His self-flagellation was annoying, not enjoyable. “You cannot expect me to simply forget the awful things you said. That was but two days ago! Am I to believe you are now a different man entirely?” He turned away, silent. “How many Turner Boyles am I to encounter this week? Tell me now so I might prepare.”
“Give me a chance to make amends,” he pleaded. Swiftly, he reached for her right elbow, ignorant of the bandage there, his hand clamping down hard enough to make her see stars. Clemency hissed, jerking away. “Lord, are you hurt?”
“I…fell,” she whispered, retreating toward the portrait wall. She downed the sherry to try to mask the pain, but it felt like he had torn the wound open anew. “Blast, it may be bleeding again.” She twisted her arm, contorting, trying to see if crimson had leaked through the ivory silk of her sleeve. “Ferrand ruining my other gown and now this—”
His name was out of her mouth before she could consider the consequences. And now that bell could not be unrung. Itwas like she had cast a spell. Turner Boyle’s embarrassed flush disappeared, replaced by a ghastly pale, as if just the name “Ferrand” had sapped him of all life and left him an upright corpse.
“What did you say?” She almost couldn’t hear his whisper over the beating of her heart.
Well. She couldn’t take it back now, could she? He was the liar here, not her.
“Mr. Ferrand,” Clemency said, pretending not to notice his bizarre reaction. “He is taking Beswick, he startled me on my walk, and I stumbled into the river.” She was speaking too quickly to be casual, but she charged ahead. “That was why I needed more fabric, my favorite walking gown was mangled, I bled all over the sleeve and tore it.”
“Y-Yes,” Turner stammered. “Yes, of course. Your sleeve. New fabric. What appalling luck. But you are feeling well now?” He passed a shaking hand over his face.
His behavior was now too obvious to reasonably ignore. Clemency held her arm more loosely, studying his face. “Well enough, though it still stings. Are you acquainted with Mr. Ferrand?”
