Page 29 of The Proposition
“My God but he works fast,” Audric said with a sigh. “Not four days in town and he is already scouting Miss Fry’s replacement. He must be looking for someone richer, or stupider.”
“And how is she, eh? Was my information accurate?” Stanhope had every reason to be smug. He had been the one to pick up Turner Boyle’s scent in Round Orchard, following the trail from assemblies in town where whispers of a potential engagement to Miss Fry had lingered. After that, he had compiled a thorough dossier on her and her family, describing a young woman of middling fortune but better-than-average appearance, whose public disdain for marriage made her a tempting challenge for Boyle’s act.
“She is everything you described,” Audric replied, clipped.And far more. “We should watch him carefully when it comes to this Mrs. Chilvers, I will not have him cheat and ruin another innocent while we stand idly by.”
“Assuming she is his target and not his ally….”
“Assuming that, yes. I suppose it would be far wiser to assume nothing in regards to Boyle; he will be a slippery foe now that he has been alerted to my presence.” Audric was about to turn his attention to the next page in the stack Stanhope had brought him when a sudden fear gripped him. He went still, his eyes looking ahead but not reallyseeing.
“Sir?” Stanhope prodded.
“This is my greatest hunt yet,” Audric murmured. “If we fail…but we cannot. There is too much at stake. We cannotmiss a single detail. Boyle will be my final quarry, and either my greatest success or my utter ruination.”
—
Clemency muttered under her breath, pricking her finger for the third time in as many minutes. To her right, bent over the hem of their shared focus, Honora shot her a warning glance.
“Have a care, sister,” Honora said with a laugh, a dark curl hovering in front of her eyes. She brushed at it with annoyance. “I will not have you bleeding all over this silk, not after the hours I have poured into it this week.”
Four days had passed since her eventful visit to Beswick, and she had seen nothing of Audric, receiving only a brief, dashed-off message explaining that he was on his way to London, and that he would make contact with her once she arrived the following week. Perhaps foolishly, she had hoped Delphine might extend an invitation or call at Claridge, but the Ferrands remained silent. She had been distracted ever since, her thoughts coalescing around the singular feeling of Audric’s finger pressed to her lips. Clemency was not one to enjoy being silenced by anyone, yet she returned to that moment again and again, not with anger but with curiosity.
Her mother, also present to work feverishly on Clemency’s new London gown, had noticed the gift of fabric from Mr. Ferrand, and then the message of his that arrived a few days later. The quality of the paper and the practically Gothic black wax seal sent her into a conniption that showed no signs of stopping.
Ordinarily, Mrs. Fry would not sit and sew with her daughters, but lately she had been conspicuously present,joining them to cut flowers, trim hats, and now assist Honora with her needlework. She had developed a bothersome passion for the minutiae of Clemency’s days, the timing of which was not the least bit subtle.
“He is so distressingly rich,” their mother was saying, ignoring Honora’s warnings to Clemency. Just like Clemency, Mrs. Fry seemed to be in her own world, lost no doubt, in visions of “distressing” wealth. “But a better age for Honora, I think.”
At her side, Honora went pale, her needle flashing faster through the cloud-soft pink silk.
“You know I have no interest in marrying again so soon,” Honora demurred softly. “And besides, it is quite plain that Mr. Ferrand’s attentions are elsewhere.”
Clemency, with what she considered extreme benevolence, waited until her sister had withdrawn her needle to jab her with an elbow. “It is neighborly politeness and nothing more,” Clemency assured them both. Indeed. It was common, was it not, to share a coiled, smoldering kiss with neighbors? Just a friendly gesture. Clemency winced, for whenever she remembered the sensation of kissing Audric, her face flamed impossibly.
Irrespective of her confident tone, neither listened. They did not seem to notice her blushing either. In fact, Mrs. Fry, dressed for winter in a mountain of shawls despite the spring warmth (she always, always had a chill) adjusted the lace cap covering her strawberry-blond waves and clucked her tongue.
“A lady can change her mind, you know,” she was saying, directing her gaze to Clemency. “I recall a time not so longago when Lord Boyle did not appear to treat you with appropriate affection, my dear.”
At that, Clemency almost stabbed herself again. So her motherhadnoticed Turner’s chilly demeanor. That she had never said a word about it until a richer prospect came along only made Clemency’s heart sink to her toes. Was money all anyone thought about? Her intended? Her mother?
“You despise the French, Mother, remember?” asked Clemency, trying to concentrate on the bit of ribbon she was tacking to the puffed sleeve of the gown.
“Not when they have five thousand a year!” Mrs. Fry exclaimed, cackling in a way that suggested her daughters were to knowingly join in. They did not. “I would heartily let you marry a potato if it had five thousand a year.”
“Now there is an image,” Clemency replied lightly, though a darkness lingered in her soul. It was odd to hear a man she was coming to respect reduced to a tawdry number. She rather thought kissing a potato would not fill her with such flutterings and tremblings. “I should wonder what Father would say to a potato. Do you think it would make a pretty proposal?”
“A very down to earth one, I should think,” Honora teased.
Clemency smirked, brushing off her mother’s exasperated sighing.
“The pair of you…” Mrs. Fry set down her needle and thimble and stood, sweeping dramatically into the hall. They had been at work in the cozy little room where Clemency had gone to inspect the bundle sent from Mr. Ferrand. Despite being in the hall, she could be heard perfectly as shelamented: “My daughters. A perfectly handsome widow who is content to wither away alone, and the finest beauty in the county resigned to marry a mere baron!”
“Mother!” Clemency nearly shouted. Honora did not seem nearly as shocked or offended. “Mr. Ferrand has no title at all, you must at least be consistent in your prejudices.”
Mrs. Fry pressed her lips together tightly as if holding back tears. “I must do nothing of the sort!”
She whirled by Mariah, who had returned with hot water for the tea. The two young ladies shared a silent, furious stare. It was not until their mother had clomped out of earshot that Honora spoke up again, only in a whisper.
“It is not so bad to wither,” she said, her shoulders sloped suddenly as if she were caving in. “And I do notfeelwithered. Do I look it?”
