Page 33 of The Proposition
Clemency frowned, realizing this inebriated oaf might have accidentally maneuvered her into a trap. Many now knew that she was an acquaintance of the Ferrands, and to lie about it to his face might risk too much. But the alternative, to slip up and give away just how close she and Mr. Ferrand had become…
We cannot afford even one more mistake.
“I know of the Ferrands,” Clemency squeaked. “Mr. Audric Ferrand and his sister, Delphine. They do not strike me as dangerous people. A little French, perhaps, but—”
“No.No.” Jack Connors squeezed her hand so hard she yelped like a kicked spaniel. He shook his head again and gave a strangled laugh. “That man is out to smear Turner, and all because of some ridiculous, ages-old flirtation! It should be water long under the bridge, but Ferrand is cruel and bored and singular, and guards his sister’s heart with Ladon’s fury. I hear she hardly leaves the house, for he is more jailer than brother.”
“Flirtation? I…” Clemency’s hand went slack in his grasp. In a way it was the most obvious explanation for Ferrand’s rage. But he had spoken of lies and secret identities, and Clemency had been utterly fixated on how those thingsaffectedher. And yet she had met Delphine, and the girl said nothing about it. But as Connors said, Audric kept Delphine in that big, empty house, how much did she really know about the people of Round Orchard? Did she even know about Clemency and Turner?
“Childish stuff,” Connors continued, sputtering. “Just the expected follies of youth! Ferrand has made a mountain out of nothing!”
“What manner of follies?” Clemency asked, narrowing her eyes.
“Oh. Oh!” It seemed he had remembered that she was, in fact, connected to Turner. “Nothing untoward, I assure you, Miss Fry. The Ferrand girl fell in love with Turner, but he did not return her affection. She was heartbroken, but they were children! He hardly even remembers it; I don’t think it occurred to him that she, or the brother, would hold such a grudge.”
No,Clemency thought darkly.Men rarely do consider such things.
Clemency pulled her hand free of his grasp, trembling. “Thank you, Mr. Connors. I am warned.”
“Good,” he murmured, taking up his bottle again. “That is good.”
Clemency swiveled toward the window, hiding her furious blush. If this was true, then she had sworn to help a man she had completely misjudged. That did not outweigh the obvious lies Turner had been telling her, but it concerned her deeply. She was to help Audric, be his partner, and all the while he was keeping these things from her.
Who haven’t I misjudged?
The answer, then, was to stand alone. To trust nobody.Clemency leaned heavily against the door, grateful for the cool kiss of the glass against her overheated face. Something was amiss…Manythings were amiss. Delphine Ferrand had not struck her as a lovesick girl pining for some distant, unattainable gentleman. If anything, she seemed only frail, gentle, and young. Clemency reconsidered what Connors had just told her—they were children.
That seemed unlikely, given that Delphine appeared younger than she, and Turner older. How could they have been children together? She bristled. More lies. Lord Boyle had no doubt found Connors an easy man to deceive—how would he ever keep the stories straight while soaked in brandy and sherry? He wouldn’t question the little details, oh no, but Clemency would. She would have to be smart indeed to stay ahead of both Turner Boyle and Audric. Neither of them were telling her the truth, and she was tired of being the unwitting pawn.
She watched a twinkle of lights sparkle down the road, winking at her between the trees. Croydon. They would soon be able to stop and rest, and Clemency could untangle her thoughts in the comfort of a warm, solitary bed. She wished fiercely that Honora had come, for only Nora would give her the kind of sensible, measured advice she needed.
A leaden weight fell on her shoulder. Clemency squeaked and twisted to see Mr. Connors slumped next to her, fast asleep, curled up around his sherry bottle like a boy snuggling his toy bear. Carefully, she found the cork where it had fallen on the floor and wedged it into the precariously tipped bottle.
Clemency yearned for her sister. For London. For solid ground. And she told herself she did not yearn to see Audric again, but that, she sadly knew, was just another lie.
11
“What do you think?” Tansy asked brightly, holding aloft two nearly identical muslin frocks. “Papa has invited me to tea with Lady Margaret Veitch, and I simply cannot decide. Ooh, can you believe it? To be seen with her ladyship, and at her home in Mayfair, no less!”
Clemency inhaled, hard-pressed to get a word in, and Tansy immediately silenced her again, whirling in a fantastical circle, the two dresses flaring out like wings as she spun. “And Papa is convinced she wants to hire our fleet for an exclusive contract. Dearest, it seems sure our luck has changed, the winds are blowing our way, and I am ever so glad you are here to experience it with us. Finally, don’t you think? Finally! We so utterly deserve this.”
Tansy flung the muslins back onto her bed and hurried to Clemency’s side. She sat at the writing desk near Tansy’s window. Two dainty pink curtains wafted lightly, blown by the gentle spring breeze, carrying with it the scent of baking bread, smoke, lady’s perfume, and horse manure, an odor specific to Gracechurch Street, in Clemency’s experience. William and Tansy would take their own larger London house soon, though construction to expand the property left it currently uninhabitable.
“They are both delightful,” Clemency assured her. “And you will look striking no matter what you choose.”
“Do you think so?” Melting a little, Tansy knelt on the worn carpet, tucking her side against Clemency’s legs. “I am so nervous. I have never met someone of her rank before…what if she is snobby and scary, and I say something stupid without meaning to?”
“Just remember yourself, Tansy,” Clemency counseled with a laugh. She did not share Tansy’s fear of the aristocracy. Perhaps her interactions with Lord Boyle had soured her against the gleam and shine of it all. But then again, according to Mr. Ferrand, he was not a baron at all. And anyway, Lady Veitch sounded like something one hacked up while ill. Shrugging, Clemency adjusted the lace cap covering Tansy’s dark curls. “Remember who you are—the daughter of a fine and successful man, and the wife to…well, to William, and he is quite good, I suppose. Despite the lopsided head.”
“You’re a horrible tease.” Tansy giggled, popping back up to her feet and returning to the bed, and the devilishly difficult decision before her. “Hmm…” She murmured to herself as she regarded both dresses.
Clemency’s eyes slid to the two letters burning on her lap. Her fingers itched to tear them open, but she knew better than to do so with Tansy there. The Bagshots’ two-story house on Gracechurch Street was cozy and clean, the rooms a bit poky and cramped, but kept in a way that made one feel instantly at ease. There was no pretension or attempt to seem more than they were—a rising merchant family who had struggled and eked out every coin they earned. Clemency admired it, their subtle style, their acceptance of just who they were and how they had made their way in the world.
Mr. Bagshot still lived at the house, of course, his office and warehouse not far away. Mrs. Bagshot had passed some years ago, and only Mr. Bagshot, one of his brothers, and the staff lived in the townhouse. Yet a woman’s touch was everywhere—the furnishings chosen by Mrs. Bagshot maintained and revered, as if her memory lived in the sofas and blankets and paintings.
Clemency was staying in Tansy’s childhood room, while she and William occupied one of the larger suites. Mr. Bagshot and his brother were not at home when they arrived, detained by business at the wharf.
That was just fine with Clemency, for she longed to be alone in the feminine nook of Tansy’s old room, dried flowers hanging from the eaves, a fresh bouquet of lilies on the desk, the view onto the street allowing for ample daydreaming and people watching….
