Page 27 of The Proposition
Mr. Ferrand gave a bark of laughter, startling a few birds out of a nearby tree. “And what else? Did he say anything?”
“He tried to deny knowing the name,” Clemency told him. “Clumsily, I might add. Very clumsily. And then he suggested we leave for London. He has gone ahead on his own, and I told him I would join him soon.”
“Yes, yes, of course. Good.” Mr. Ferrand nodded, his eyes far away as he made some private calculation. “He wants to get you away from me, away from what I have already told you. And he wants to flee his debts.”
“He blamed them all on Jack Connors, the man he was lodging with,” Clemency said. They began to walk again, this time at a more leisurely pace. She felt comfortable, unexpectedly so, as if she were strolling with a friend and not a lunatic who had dropped out of the sky and into her life like a cannon.
“Your man is never responsible for his own mistakes and faults.”
“He is notmy man,” Clemency snorted.
“Very well.” Mr. Ferrand paused again, but this time heregarded her with a small, secret smile. “Our man, then, if you like. Our quarry.”
In the strained silence that fell between them, Clemency tried to understand the confessional urge that rose in her like a hiccup. It couldn’t be suppressed. Mr. Ferrand had been right about Turner Boyle, and she wanted to know more. She couldn’t help herself, she had to. She had to know the depths of the darkness that swirled around the man she had loved. A single drop of poison had fallen into the well of that love, but had swiftly spread. Mr. Ferrand did not press her, and for that she was thankful. For once, he afforded her the polite silence and the time to find her words.
“There is…I have a theory.”
Mr. Ferrand leaned back against the house, crossing his boots at the ankles, propping one elbow on the back of his left hand. “Indeed? I love theories.”
“What if I told you that the ebb and flow of ‘our man’s’ affections seem to follow the ebb and flow of my family’s fortunes,” Clemency began, knowing she ought not to share such private things with a half-stranger, but also knowing that nobody else would understand it like he could. “That he proposed when all seemed quite secure, then grew cold during our financial hardship, and now his heart changes once more, just as our hardship ends.”
“If you told me that,” Mr. Ferrand replied with equal care, “in the strictest confidence, of course, then I would answer that you are perceptive. And you are learning. And you are correct.”
Clemency had already supposed it to be true, but his response, and even just her saying it aloud, made it feel real,and terrible, and unbearably shabby. Honora would never accept such things unless she heard it from Turner Boyle’s mouth directly, but Clemency felt the truth of it in her soul. He wanted her money and nothing more, and if the Bagshots’ ships had fallen to piracy or storms, then their fragile understanding would probably be over within the month.
Marriage. A foolish, fantastical notion. Miss Taylor had guided her well from beyond the grave, or tried to, at least. Maybe being unlovable could be a freedom, that she could now, permanently, be unshackled from the dream of a lasting romance.
She spun around, scrunching her face into a ball until the desire to cry passed.
“Miss Fry…”
“I’m quite all right,” she murmured, forcing herself to face him again.
Mr. Ferrand pushed away from the wall, taking a single step toward her. When it was clear that she would not burst into tears, he asked gently, “Do you remember what I told you at the ball?”
“You told me many things, sir.”
“A proposition,” he said. “I had a proposition for you. We were interrupted before I could explain it fully.”
Clemency pulled back her shoulders, concentrating closely on his words because it was easier than thinking about the sick, venomous feeling in her stomach. “You wanted to dismantle his life,” Clemency recalled. “Ruin him.”
“And do the details interest you now?” he asked.
She gave a mad giggle, hardly believing the sound that came out of her mouth. “Does it involve a duel? A rapierthrough his guts? If so, you have my wholehearted consent, sir.”
“Not as clean as that,” he said with his own dry chuckle. Mr. Ferrand took out his handkerchief again and offered it to her, and Clemency realized only then that tears had started to creep down her cheeks.
Pressing her lips together, she accepted the cloth and touched it to her eyes. The silk square had his leather and juniper scent, and the faint perfume of his sweat. She felt suddenly light-headed, and she wondered if he would catch her if she fell.
“It begins with his bills coming due,” Mr. Ferrand continued, that predatory hunter’s gleam coming into his eyes again. This time, Clemency was not wary of it. No, indeed, it ignited her. “All of them at once. That I have seen to already. It continues with a journey to London; you will follow him there and you will pretend to know nothing, and you will let him crawl back into your good graces, sickening as that may sound.”
Clemency narrowed her eyes and began to speak, but Mr. Ferrand took another step toward her, and laid his forefinger over her lips, silencing her. His skin was cool and dry, calloused. She stared up into his eyes, not shy, but trembling and afraid. She did not know if she trusted him, but in that moment, foolishly or otherwise, she damn well wanted to. His hand slipped over her jaw, cupping her face, his thumb grazing her gently parted lips. What the devil was he doing? Was he going to kiss her? Did she want him to?
She feared very much that yes, she wanted him to.
“You will let him think he has won his prize, that his future is secure, that you will promise to pay all of hismounting debts, ignorant of the landslide of humiliation he would heap upon you.” Mr. Ferrand’s voice dropped to a deadly whisper, and Clemency could not tear her eyes away from his. “And then I will be in London, and I will court you, and he will be powerless to stop me ripping away everything he ever wanted or thought he had. I will break his bank, his heart, and his spirit.”
Through the finger touching her lips she could feel the pounding pace of his heartbeat. Hers raced just as fast. When he pulled back from her, Clemency felt the fear drop away, a veil torn from her gaze.
