Page 26 of The Proposition
“I hope they are not!” Delphine cried, half-interrupting. She smirked and picked up her teacup with two trembling hands, steadying it, her cheeks pink, while Clemency pretended not to notice her fragility. Her accent was stronger than her brother’s, more distinctly French. “I miss the fashions of Paris and little else. Conversation is blood sport there, oh, but I do not have the stamina for it. My heart is sewn firmly to my sleeve. No, I think my constitution is better suited to a place like this.” She trailed off wistfully, then glanced toward Clemency. “I should like to meet these ladies you mention. Indeed, I should like very much to have new friends.”
“Then you shall have them.” Clemency wasn’t sure what had gotten into her. She had not meant to become so friendly with Miss Ferrand, but she could muster only pity and interest when she looked at the girl, as pale and pretty and breakable as a porcelain doll. One, it seemed, that had been locked away from society for too long. Whatever her ailments, she did not deserve to be shut up indoors all day. A woman would go mad, especially in a huge, echoing monstrosity like Beswick. An odd little bird, this girl, but friendly and clever too.
Out of the corner of her eye, Clemency noticed Ralstonsnap to attention. An instant later, Mr. Ferrand came charging out the door, bringing with him the crackle of a lightning storm as he strode toward them through pockets of leafy shadow to bow to them, standing a handsbreadth from his sister.
He had clearly just come from riding, his hat tucked under one arm, his dark curls pleasantly mussed, the familiar green coat that Clemency had draped over her shoulders now buttoned tightly across his chest.
“Miss Fry. Delphine.”
Before the women could speak a word, he noticed the dense mantle blanketing his sister.
“Are you chilled?” he asked, at once solicitous, hovering over his sister and adjusting the shawl higher up her shoulders.
“Do not fuss, Audric. Miss Fry and I were just discussing all that is to be found here, and she has vowed to bring me into Round Orchard society!”
Clemency would not phrase it that way exactly, but she smiled and took another sip of the very excellent tea. The cream probably came from the same cows, but somehow it tasted fresher.
“Has she? How quaint. May I steal Miss Fry for a moment, Delphine? There is a matter I wish to discuss with her.” His green eyes swept across the table to Clemency, and she felt her jaw tighten with…something. She told herself it was anxiety. A nasty little voice suggested instead it was excitement. He had been right about Boyle’s finances, and if Mr. Ferrand had been smug before, she could not imagine what he would be now.
“A matter? What matter?” Delphine looked back andforth between them, sitting up straighter. “Oh, I will not snoop in your affairs, brother, but do not detain her long. You may have saved her from the river, but she has saved me from the pain of boredom.”
Clemency stood and fought the urge to fidget. Coming around the table, Mr. Ferrand nodded subtly toward the wide promenade that ran the length of the back of the house. They walked side by side, leaving behind the tea table and Delphine, who continued to drink her tea softly, Ralston crossing to join her and bend down to whisper something in her ear.
“Mr. Ferrand—”
“Miss Fry—”
They both broke into tense laughter. Clemency pursed her lips and kept her eyes trained on the woods to her left. Feeling his presence was more than enough, looking at him would only unnerve her to the point of tongue-tied stupefaction.
“That gift of silks was not necessary,” she said softly, her voice hoarse. “But it was…generous. Thank you.”
He was quiet for a moment. “And how am I to interpret your coming here? Are you at last ready to listen to me? Are you prepared to believe?”
They had gone a polite ways from the tea table, and Clemency paused, turning slowly to face Mr. Ferrand, her back resting against the stone bannister of the promenade. “Something…” She sighed, frustrated. The speeches she had rehearsed failed her. “Something is amiss, that much I believe. He came to me last night, the picture of contriteness, I might add, and when I mentioned your name—”
His face darkened, and suddenly Mr. Ferrand was angrier than Clemency had ever seen him. None of her cheek or sass had ever made him look ready to bite his tongue in half. He reared back, then closed his eyes tightly, gesturing vaguely with his hat. “I never asked you to keep my name out of this, so I have no right to scold you…”
“Mr. Ferrand—”
“Were you testing him? Or were you testing me?” he snarled. “Am I now to assume you are working against me?”
“No!” she almost shouted, offended.
But Mr. Ferrand ignored her, pacing a tight line back and forth in front of her. “I considered you many things, Miss Fry, but never stupid.”
In his rage he had begun to perspire, and he reached into his pocket for a handkerchief, taking one out and dabbing at his shiny face. Something small and soft, white and dark red, drifted out of his pocket, falling to the ground. Clemency stooped and snatched it up before he could notice, pulling the little scrap of fabric taut and recognizing it at once. It was a piece of her sleeve, torn and bloodied, and it looked as if someone had twisted it errantly, like one might twirl a lock of hair.
Mr. Ferrand froze. Clemency searched out his eyes, holding the scrap of sleeve up for him to see. Anticipating him, she jerked it away before he could grab it out of her hand.
“I considered you many things, Mr. Ferrand, but never sentimental.”
“Are you laughing at me?” he whispered, eyes burning.
“No,” Clemency replied simply. She offered the scrap back to him, and he took it with a ferocity that left herbreathless. “Nor am I working against you. It was a mistake, my saying your name, I assure you it was not said with any agenda.”
He blew out a breath through his nose and nodded, his rage seemingly quelled. “It was bound to happen sooner or later. And what was his response?”
Clemency had to smile, recalling the sheer terror that crossed Boyle’s face. “Boring excuses, lies, but then he suddenly became so desperate to leave one might assume he soiled himself.”
