Page 34 of The Proposition
And there were the letters, of course.
They had been waiting for her on a silver dish in the downstairs hall, just below the mounted ship’s wheel, salvaged from the first vessel the Bagshots ever commissioned. Clemency had quickly thanked the butler offering the silver dish and tucked the letters away. She recognized Turner’s hand on the top one, Audric’s on the one below.
Clemency shuffled the sealed letters on her lap anxiously, realizing that just like Tansy, she found herself torn between two impossible choices. If only her options were as benign as two pretty dresses. At last, she decided she could wait no longer, and cleared her throat softly, drawing Tansy’s attention.
“The right one,” she said, grinning. “I think the lace on the hem is finer.”
“Yes! That is the answer.” Tansy scooped the gowns into her arms and nodded, running over to brush a sweet kiss on Clemency’s cheek before retreating to the door. “Do not grow too fond of your solitude, I shall be back before you know it for your thoughts on shoes and gloves!”
“I am your faithful servant,” Clemency told her gently. With a giggle, Tansy bustled out the door, mercifully closing it on her way out. “Oh, thank God,” she whispered, practically tearing the first letter in half in her zeal to unfold it.
She spread it out on her lap, but it was only a short note. Boyle had stayed briefly with a friend but felt the accommodations were lacking and would instead be joining them all at the Bagshots’ Gracechurch townhouse. Clemency went pale. That was bad. She had come to London with the intention of studying Turner’s past, his lies, his connections…now he would be practically on top of her every moment of the day. How would she sneak away to meet with Mr. Ferrand? How many stories would she need to concoct to explain her frequent absences? She had assumed he owned at least a townhouse in London of his own; that he apparently did not gave Mr. Ferrand’s accusations only more weight.
“Arriving tonight,” she muttered, squeezing her eyes shut. “I should have known it would not be easy. Always more complications…”
Tossing the letter onto the desk, she opened the next, cracking the heavy black wax seal. It was not stamped with the now familiar Ferrand crest, but she recognized the wax itself, like something out of Lathom’sThe Midnight Bell.
Miss Fry:
Please send word the moment you arrive in London. We have much to discuss, and even more to plan. Events are unfolding rapidly, more rapidly than I care to admit. Should you cross paths with our quarry before we meet, I beseech you: Treat him with all deference and kindness, dote upon him, and do nothing to arouse his suspicion. An unpleasant prospect, I know, but give your most convincing performance.
Now that he is aware of my presence, he will be watching us as closely as we are watching him. I have enclosed directions to my home, but be discreet. If you call, be certain that you are not followed and wear a dark veil.
Burn this letter after reading.
The note was left unsigned, but its author was obvious enough. How typical of Audric, giving her nothing but curt orders. Had she been foolish to feel warmth in that finger he pressed to her lips and in the kiss they shared? Maybe it was all imagined.
Sighing, she committed the address to memory and strode to the fire, tearing the letter into tiny pieces before scattering them in the hearth. Afterward, she found herself standing much where Tansy had been, in the ruminating place, not knowing whether she should close the curtains and rest awhile, or bathe and dress at once, and ask Tansy’s driver to take her to Grosvenor Square.
Of course he lived there. He probably lived down thestreet from the lofty Lady Veitch. They were certainly best friends. She did not like when her own thoughts took a mocking tone, but it was hard to resist—Audric felt himself so superior that he could command her this way and that, and not even sign his name at the bottom of a letter. The paranoia of it all was rather oppressive, she thought. Oppressive and unmistakable, for she dreaded seeing Turner Boyle again, especially if she was expected to play a part, and simper, and lie to his face.
The idea of it, of having to flirt and bat her eyelashes while quashing her disdain, made up her mind for her. She was bone-weary and desirous of sleep, but there was plenty of daylight left. Trudging to the closet, she picked through the clothes she had brought, searching for something adequately dark and morose, something to suit her equally dour mood.
It wasn’t fair. She ought to be able to just avoid them both and take in a show, do as she pleased, but staying in would assure her a night of dealing with Turner. Going out alone was unthinkable, and therefore she stood pinched between the two men that had become the Scylla and Charybdis of her social life. And interior life. She did not dare suggest the word heart. There was no room left in her mind to consider anything else, her thoughts, obnoxiously, strayed ever to her problems, and more specifically, ever to Audric and his annoyingly kissable mouth. She didn’t understand him. Why hide Delphine’s feelings for Lord Boyle? It seemed like the perfect way to appeal to a woman’s sympathies. In fact, knowing that Lord Boyle had toyed with Delphine’s feelings would make Clemency only more inclined to help Audric with his scheme. She liked Delphine.
There had to be an explanation for such an omission.
The charitable part of her said that he was trying to spare his sister embarrassment, but the increasingly cynical portion of her brain insisted there was something more…. Something he very much did not want her to know.
Well. She would not find out more about it by avoiding Mr. Ferrand or his sister. And she would absolutely not resign herself to an evening of flattering the strange and unknowable Lord Boyle. She unearthed a black lace fichu from the top shelf of the closet and held it up.
“What will I tell Tansy?” she said, sighing as she stood and walked to the slightly warped looking glass propped near the window. Clemency draped the black lace over her face, and found it made her gray eyes even more startling. She looked dangerous and tempting, and she told herself it would be a diverting role to play. A nervous prickle began in her stomach, a warning, perhaps, or a little sparkle of excitement.
Her eyes brightened with an idea. “Honora asked me to deliver a letter to her friend here in town,” she practiced, shocked and unnerved by how convincing, how natural it all sounded. “She said it was a matter of some urgency, but I promise to be home before dark. Just leave a bit of cold supper upstairs for me; it will be no trouble at all.”
—
The house at Grosvenor Square was less grand than Clemency expected. In fact, it was downright modest compared to the soaring monument to wealth and ostentation she had imagined. She told the driver to wait, and vowed she would not be long, then pulled out her veil and draped it over herface, watching as a wigged servant darted out from the townhouse door to help her down.
“Thank you,” she said softly, brushing off her skirts as she stood staring up at the Ferrands’ London home. The family had become a puzzle to her, and this place was just one more piece. It was difficult to fit along the rest, the opposite of Beswick’s sprawling grounds and castle-like profile. Indeed, this townhouse, while certainly nice and claiming a fashionable address, blended in among the other slim, white-stone buildings with their gated, shallow yards and nondescript walkways. Nothing distinguished this one from the next, and Clemency could only hope she had remembered the address correctly as she followed the wigged man up the stairs and into the warm foyer.
Here too, she found the home clean and tidy, sparsely furnished, a decidedly masculine air to the dark red patterned rug and lacquered tables. A few stuffed stag heads were hung on the wall opposite the door, a sturdy table beneath for calling cards and the post.
A mirror was to her right, the only visible touch of opulence, for it was immense and perfectly clear, not a ripple to be seen, something that had been purchased at great expense.
Clemency caught her reflection and gasped. She hardly looked herself, dressed not in her customary light blues and pinks and whites, but in a deep burgundy wrap-style dress, the only dress she had brought dark enough to match the delicate black veil draped over her head and hair. The combination made her appear older and certainly more mysterious, and had she seen this reflection as a stranger, she would think unfavorable things, and make assumptions about where that woman was going and whom she was going to meet.
Her heart beat a little faster, and she couldn’t quite decide if she liked this new guise or feared it. Her thoughts swirled, especially the idea that she was becoming someone else, someone more like the daring authors and thinkers and heroines she admired, willing to stake their very reputations to follow their hearts. Was that so bad? She was ready to eschew love and marriage forever, so she could at least look the part.
