Page 9 of The Proposition
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“It is all extremely mysterious and intriguing, Clemency!”
Miss Brock, thin as a reed and as sallow as one too, sat on the other side of Honora as the carriage rattled them home. Mrs. Fry, William, and Tansy were ahead of them on the road in the larger family carriage. Mr. Fry had not been well enough to attend, staying home in his study instead. By the time Honora was carried out and all the fussing was over, word had spread that Clemency had been seen in the company of Mr. Ferrand.
She had Imogen Pickford to thank for that. Honora’s fainting should have been the bigger story, but nobody seemed interested. Instead, the whispers were about Mr. Greer’s aloof cousin.
Miss Brock lived along the route back to Claridge, and with one spot open in their two-carriage retinue, nobody could find a reason to refuse her. Honora dozed quietly against Clemency’s shoulder, her skin growing brighter and healthier, and her forehead less feverish.
“Mr. Greer received a letter last month from his cousin, inquiring whether he might come to the ball, and further that he wanted to take up a house in Round Orchard,” Miss Brock continued as the carriage rocked them back and forth. Tiny webs of frost covered the windows, melting gradually from their breath. Ordinarily, Clemency ignored gossip, but now she was listening closely. The story after all did involve her. “That cousin is your Mr. Ferrand!”
“He is notmymister anything,” Clemency reminded her. No, indeed, she should like very much to forget he even existed. Five minutes in his presence and her entire world had been turned upside down. Could his claims be true? It was so absurd, so outlandish, it simply had to be a trick. Turner Boyle not a baron…How could he possibly live a lie that big and improbable? There had to be a mistake, a misunderstanding….
“It is likely he will take Beswick or Ashford, those are the only two available houses grand enough for a man of his fortune.”
Clemency groaned internally at the thought of him settling permanently in Round Orchard. Beswick was not two miles from where the Frys dwelled. Now she would never berid of him. She wanted only information from him, then she would be glad if he never turned those cunning and hungry green eyes upon her again.
“A man of means seeking to take up a residence near his family does not strike me as particularly strange, Amy,” Clemency said.
“Oh! But itisstrange! Mr. Greer has not heard a single word from his cousin in more than a decade. Mr. Ferrand’s family came and went from England, but years ago; by all accounts, they simply vanished,” Amy Brock continued. She had a high, squeaky voice, but Clemency had always found her endearing and, despite her vanity and gossipy nature, harmless. “He must be on the prowl for a wife!”
It was almost amusing to picture how her friend would respond if Clemency told the truth, that Mr. Ferrand had come to settle in Round Orchard only to destroy Turner Boyle’s life. A fact she had not told Turner himself. Making it a sly little secret.Bigsecret.
Clemency blanched.
“Imagine it! Beswick or Ashford let again, both with such lovely ballrooms! And the grounds…With spring upon us, perhaps there will be a garden fete. The dances will make tonight’s event look positively provincial!”
“Mr. Ferrand does not strike me as the type of man to host balls,” Clemency told her with a dry laugh.
Amy sat up straighter, fixing her with a squinty stare. “Really? Then how did he strike you?”
Again, the truth must be withheld. They were approaching Amy’s home, so at least she would not have to lie for much longer. Clemency puzzled over how to answer, and again she saw Mr. Ferrand in her mind’s eye. Amy, with herlove of the newest fashions, would approve of his appearance, his suit well cut, not ostentatious but made with expensive fabrics. She might even find him handsome, with his agate-green eyes and strong jaw, lean face and horseman’s physique. To Clemency he could not be handsome, only a harbinger, a dreaded devil who had come to curse her with the mischief of knowledge.
The man you have attached yourself to is not who you think he is.
The words were burned into her brain. Turner had not come back to the house with them, choosing instead to stay at the Pickfords’. Clemency had gotten only a quick glimpse of her intended as they rushed Honora out the door, and she found the thought of being in his presence again challenging, to say the least. How could she not question him? Confront him? How would she keep such a secret until she heard the evidence and knew the truth?
“Shall I interpret your silence?” Amy Brock giggled.
“He is severe and very tall; he carries himself like a wealthy man but not necessarily a gentleman. I found him arrogant,” Clemency finally told her. “And cold.”
“Does he seem terribly French?” she asked.
Clemency smiled, wondering what that might entail. “No. I only noticed a subtle accent, and it was not harsh on the ear. And if you mean his arrogance, then perhaps.”
“Well, that is all disappointing. By all accounts he is rather exotic. Still, I should like to be introduced, and make my own appraisal. Ah! But here we are. How is your sister?”
“Better, I think,” Clemency said, taking Honora’s hand and holding it gently in her lap. “Good evening, Amy.”
“Good evening, Clemency. Give my love to your sister when she wakes.”
The carriage door opening and closing allowed in a wintry visitor, and Clemency shivered, drawing Honora’s shawl higher up her sister’s arms. Suppressing a yawn, Honora stirred.
“Is she gone?” she asked without opening her eyes.
“You took ill at the ball, so I will not scold you for leaving me alone to entertain her,” Clemency teased.
“You seem out of sorts,” Honora murmured. “Even with my eyes closed.”
