Page 32 of The Proposition
She was about to suggest that Tansy join her on the same bench when the men returned, cutting her off, Jack Connors settling his bulk onto the seat next to her. It was suddenly very difficult to breathe. A million questions sprang to mind, but fortunately, William instantly launched into talk of what the neighboring farms could expect, and the local predictions for when the summer weather would properly begin. It afforded her the perfect opportunity to stare out the window and say nothing.
By and by, Tansy fell asleep, the afternoon whittled away by the two men conversing over the dull, serious things men of little acquaintance had to discuss. As the sun slipped to the horizon, even William succumbed to his drowsiness, his head falling onto Tansy’s shoulder while the two of them dozed, leaving Clemency and Mr. Connors in a taut, unfriendly silence.
“Time for tea, or well past it,” he said, puffing out an anxious breath and pulling a small bottle of sherry from inside his coat and uncorking it.
“You favor a potent brew, sir,” Clemency murmured, still gazing out the window. She knew then that, wedged into theseat beside him, there was no avoiding conversation. Briefly she had considered pretending to fall asleep—she did feel tired. Not just because of the long journey and the many stops on the road from Round Orchard to London, but weary in her bones. She felt tired of being caught between Boyle and Ferrand, for she was wise enough not to fully trust either of them. Even if Mr. Ferrand now sought to bring her into his scheme and pretend that they were equals in the execution of it, she did not believe for an instant that he had told her the full truth. There was something sly in his eyes, as ever present as the danger she saw lurking there.
Jack Connors chuckled and did not disagree with her.
Clemency shifted uneasily. She had lived on unsteady feet since her last interaction with Audric—a sensation like walking on constantly shifting sands. Half of her dreaded arriving in London, the other half of her eagerly awaited their next encounter. No matter how she tried to distract herself, her thoughts always returned to the pressure of his finger against her lips. It was as if with that single touch he had sewn a stitch to her skin, and it tugged and tugged, reminding her not only of his existence, but of the great distance between them. The farther he went, the more the pain of that pull seemed to be.
Something brushed her sleeve. Clemency sat up straighter, turning to find Jack Connors was offering her the bottle, the glass still shiny from his mouth.
“I did not think to find you so hospitable, sir,” Clemency said softly. She took the bottle from him, regarding it. She knew nothing about sherry, but the label looked expensive.
“Ah,” he said and fixed his small, intense eyes upon her,heaving a drastic sigh. “Because of our…shared acquaintance?”
Clemency drank quickly from the bottle, hoping that her brother was well and truly asleep. He would be scandalized to see her swigging alcohol like a pirate. But if she was to get any information at all from Jack Connors, she needed to earn his trust. God only knew what Turner Boyle had told him about her. Clemency handed him the sherry bottle and choked down the liquor; it burned and made two points of heat flare on her cheeks.
“You do not appear overly cross with him,” Clemency observed. “Strange.”
“We bicker and bicker, but it is always resolved come morning,” Connors replied. He gave a sad, bitter little laugh and stared down at the sherry in his hands. “Only…for once, he was not there come morning. I am sure this is all just a misunderstanding. Turner has a tender heart; he feels it all so deeply….”
Clemency blinked. Were they discussing the same man? The man who had snapped at her and called her a sphinx? Where was his tender, deeply feeling heart then? She bit back those questions, fighting against the burn of the sherry in her throat, picking her words with care. Mr. Ferrand had warned her, in a note that arrived at the house upon his departure for London, that the way forward demanded a degree of delicacy and finesse.
We have lost the advantage of surprise even if we have the scoundrel on the run, he had written.A cornered beast is desperate, and fights to the end with tooth and claw. Turner Boyle knows I am coming for him; therefore, we cannot afford even one more mistake. You do not know him as I do, he will vanish if pressed too far, and then, neither of us will have our satisfaction.
Audric thought himself very clever and sharp; Clemency could be clever and sharp too.
“I had no idea you were so close,” Clemency remarked lightly. That seemed to make him relax, and he gave another huffing laugh. “Almost like brothers. And if so, yes, brothers will quarrel, but all is forgotten and forgiven.”
“Brothers.” He drank more of the sherry. His nose had the permanent, splotchy red of a career drinker. “No, not brothers. Then…then, he did not often speak of me?”
In fact, he spoke of you only once and to make a hideous accusation.
Distant bells of warning chimed in her head.Delicacy. She turned toward the window again, determined to maintain an air of casual indifference. “He mentioned a disagreement,” she said, coy. “Some gentlemen’s business, but that was his reason for returning to London. He may not have given me the complete picture of the situation; it is surely not anything a woman should concern herself with.”
“Certainly not!” His voice shook with anger. She heard him slurp down more sherry. “It was only a misunderstanding. All over money, of course. So predictable. So vulgar!”
The carriage rattled more violently, bumping them back and forth. Clemency heard him swear under his breath and assumed he had spilled some of the drink on his coat. She sensed he wanted to keep talking, and simply looked down at her gloves, letting him swig and work up the courage.
“We are neither of us smart with money, that is for sure,” he muttered bleakly. “How his debts could all get called up atonce…Just an unfortunate turn. It will get handled, of course. Of course, it will get handled, but— My apologies, we should talk of something else.”
No, no, no…
“You owe me no apologies, sir,” Clemency said gently. “Your concern for him is touching, really. I know so little of his family—it is heartening to think Lord Boyle has such a devoted friend.”
Jack Connors pinched his lips together, then nodded, rubbing the side of his head as if a headache was coming on. “Yes. I am a most devoted friend. And I worry for him. I worry for him so. That is why you see me now, why I am going to London at all.”
Clemency offered him a plying smile. “To resolve your misunderstanding?”
“And to aid him however I can.” Connors clicked his nails nervously along the edge of the sherry bottle. He drew up his shoulders, pushing out his chest. “He needs to know there is no enmity between us, that I was and remain his stalwart ally.” Then he turned to face her, reaching clumsily for Clemency’s hand and finding it. He jerked it onto his lap, sandwiching her hand in his palms. “And he must know that he is in danger. That you are both in danger.”
“Me? Us? In danger, sir?” She licked her lips, letting her mouth drop open in maidenly shock. “What sort of danger?”
Connors glanced at William and Tansy, verifying that they were both still sound asleep, swaying together to the rhythm of the carriage wheels over the road. Outside, the sun had plunged below the horizon. Jack Connors stared into her eyes, the dark surface of his glinting with fear.
“I should have realized sooner…Damned drink, I should have stopped, maybe then I would have realized…but regret will not help him now. Or you.” Connors stumbled over his words, jumping from thought to thought incoherently. “He told me a frightening tale. When first he came to stay on my property, he told me: Jack, if a man by the name of Ferrand ever comes here looking for me, you tell him that I am not here. That you have not seen me in years. Tell him that I am dead. Dire, it all seemed. Most dire.”
