Page 23 of The Proposition
“Was he…I mean…who?” His tone aimed for breezy and fell short by about a mile. “No—or rather, I could have heard the name in passing. Is he new to town? Jack may have mentioned something about it. Or we may have been introduced at White’s….”
Either way, his lying was plain enough. Clemency let him drone on about other far-fetched ways they might have met, watching him dig his grave ever deeper. It was almost impressively clumsy, which suggested they really had known each other in some capacity. Mr. Ferrand had claimed Turnermight have no knowledge of him, but apparently even the arrogant Mr. Ferrand could be wrong.
“Do you know,” Turner said, stopping himself at last. He gave an airy, hoarse laugh and managed to give her a sparkling little smirk. His agreeable, attractive boyishness had returned. “Now that I speak of White’s, I do so miss London, and the season will be upon us soon. Could we not go to town? We could join your brother and his wife, as it seems an opportune time. And you must choose a wedding gown from London, dear, I am certain your mother will agree—”
He probably would have offered eight hundred more reasons if Clemency had not delicately put up a hand to shush him.
She had no interest in London at the moment, but she also had no interest in listening to Turner ramble on and on. The mention of Mr. Ferrand had left him unhinged, and she intended to begin her own sort of investigation. She stalled for a moment, choosing her response carefully. Unless she could begin to verify some of Turner Boyle’s stories, she had no intention of spending more time in his company. He had wasted enough of her time already. If Jack Connors really was the source of all his financial and social woes, then a bit of snooping was in order.
All these things could be understood, but she needed time.
“Well?” Turner reached for her hand, taking it carefully, and Clemency forced herself not to recoil. If this was to be smartly done, he must not suspect her true motives. “Let us away to London, and I will apologize in high style.”
“I…suppose I could be persuaded,” Clemency replied shyly. Over his shoulder, she saw Honora watching them, hernotes a little louder and harsher as she silently begged something of her sister. “Can you not go ahead and make the arrangements for us? I have promised Wednesday tea to Miss Brock, and she is always cross with me when I break our engagements. Is that agreeable?”
“Most,” Turner almost cried out. His entire demeanor changed, his cheeks ruddy once more, his shoulders shivering with pent-up energy, as if his skeleton might hop out of his skin. “Mostagreeable. Ah, but I will have that brandy now, as there is even more to celebrate! This will be ever so good for us, Clemency, you shall see. This is exactly what we need before the wedding, I am convinced—the delights of the city will put us both to rights. I promise all will be well, after all you are marrying a baron.”
Turner Boyle bowed and kissed the back of her hand, and after he had strode excitedly away, Clemency could not help herself, she rubbed her skin vigorously against the side of her skirts, wiping that kiss away.
8
The bundle of silks and ribbons arrived just as Clemency was on her way out the door. She was not expecting a delivery, but her name was written on the note tucked under the crisscrossed twine, and the boy who had run it up to the house scampered off before she could ask him any questions.
“What has come?” Honora asked, appearing behind her.
Clemency closed the front door, pulling off her bonnet and veering to the left, into the little informal family sitting room where the women often trimmed hats or read. A sprig of lavender rested on top of the note addressed to her, and Clemency slid it out from under the twine, smelling it as she set down the packet on a folding table near the fireplace.
“I am as surprised as you are,” she said.
“You must open it! I hope it is something lovely.”
“This is the paper Tindall and Batt’s uses,” Clemency observed, peeling open the wrapping to reveal a generous yardage of fanciful striped pink silk and muslin with delicate little roses in the weave. Some of the fabric she had ordered on Saturday was there too, with ribbons and buttons to match.
Honora gasped and ran her gloved hand reverently overthe pink fabric. “It appears you have an admirer, dearest. Perhaps your intended is apologizing in earnest?”
“Perhaps,” Clemency said with a chuckle. She would be impressed indeed if this was Turner’s doing.
“But after all that has happened,” Honora continued, watching Clemency unfold the note. “Could you really love him again? Can a gift erase the terrible way he made you feel?”
“No,” Clemency replied. “But it will be more tolerable to be married if he at least loves me and buys the occasional pink silk.”
“You say these things, Clemency, but I know you do not mean them. You are not a cold soul, try as you might to appear such.”
“No, Nora,” Clemency said, sighing. It had been so long since she had seen Turner’s hand. Even that made her heart twinge. Once, his penmanship filled her chest with fluttering wings. She ought to know love.No, you are finished with all that now. “You understand almost every part of me; the only parts I keep hidden are the ones that would disappoint you, and those parts are callous and withdrawn, but right now I must confess that they seem the truest parts of me.”
Honora crossed her arms, scrutinizing Clemency with narrowed eyes. “Well? Who is it from?”
Clemency held up the heavy brown paper and looked to the bottom for a signature. Even if there were likely only two candidates for sender, somehow she had immediately convinced herself the second one wasn’t a possibility. Her blood turned wintry in her veins.
“It is…it is from Mr. Ferrand,” she muttered. “How disappointing.”
And improper, though she was hard-pressed to discard such an odd gift. Honora rolled her eyes and flounced to the nearest overstuffed chair. “For how much you claim to despise Mr. Ferrand you certainly do speak of him often, dear sister.”
“It is only his loathsomeness that makes him worth discussing!” Clemency cried. “Now hush and let me read.”
Honora allowed her that, tucking her chin onto her hand and staring out the window at the fine day being wasted while they dawdled inside.
Miss Fry,
