Page 46 of The Proposition
“At Lady Veitch’s Boyle was waving his name around like a sword,” she continued. “He’s apparently influential,and I cannot help but wonder if Boyle is using the man’s power like a parasol, shielding himself from the glare of suspicion.”
Under the table, she felt Audric’s hand clasp hers. She stifled a gasp, and let her fingers melt into his grip. They were plotting and planning, yet it felt as though they might be alone in a quiet garden, sharing an intimate discussion of poetry or song.
“Dear lady, you are developing a talent for the hunt.”
“I merely observe,” she demurred. “And listen.”
“And you are correct. I have stumbled across Ede’s name during my investigations too. I have been trying in vain to arrange a meeting in private, but the man is a ghost to all but the most powerful. Damnation. We must find a way to approach him, carefully, and inquire about Boyle.” He squeezed her hand with finality and let go and seemed ready to stand. But Clemency reached for him, dragging him back to her.
“Music. Music! He and Boyle share a passion for music—perhaps that is how their paths crossed. Surely there are any number of musical salons we could attend, and if the right society is present, then Ede might make an appearance.”
“Indeed, Miss Fry, that is sharp thinking. I will put my man Stanhope on it.”
“And I will ask Tansy to inquire with Lady Veitch.”
Clemency felt his hand tighten around hers again. “Now it is clear to me that I could not have done this properly without you.”
His eyes looked so bright, so clear, that she feared she might be the one to break this time and kiss him. Clemency took back possession of her hand, reluctantly, and clung to her cup of wine but did not drink it. A wave of sadnesspassed over her as she considered what might happen after their scheme was over. She had let go of her principles once to acquiesce to Boyle, she was not certain she could happily do so again.
Yet his hand…His lips…How could she ever forget the heat of him when they were parted?
“Miss Fry?” he asked, gentle. “Are you well?”
“I have chosen a wedding gown that will never be worn,” she murmured. He blinked hard and fast, and looked away from her. “But whenever I feel the revulsion rising in my gorge, I just remember what he has done to your sister, and to me, to the others I’m sure you know about but have not mentioned, and to poor Mr. Connors.”
“Poor Mr. Connors, is it?” His green eyes flew back to her, and he grinned, showing a dimple that made her want to reach out and trace it with her forefinger. “Hours ago you were willing to sacrifice him on the altar of society if it meant harming Boyle.”
“Perhaps I am taking after you too much,” she teased. “I shall need a dagger.”
“But you do not think so anymore?” He ignored her jab, leaning closer. “Do you see now why we must destroy that letter to protect his dignity?”
“I do,” Clemency told him, taking an uneasy sip of wine. “We should burn the letter, and when all comes to light, tell Connors to aim higher than such a false, unfeeling man. I know I intend to. I-If,” she stammered, “I ever deign to consider marriage again.”
“Yes,” Audric said and coughed, then fiddled with his napkin, suddenly taken with his sherry and a glazed bun. “Indeed. You deserve someone far worthier.”
You, perhaps?she wanted to say. But she kept silent. Clemency’s eyes drifted to the table to their right, where two well-groomed young men held hands and bounced their knees to the fiddle. To be as they were, naturally and openly in love…She wanted it badly but remembered how she had seen what she was desperate to see with Boyle. How she had dismantled her own misgivings about marriage to let him in, and then, he had made such a mess of things, slashing her heart and spirit to ribbons.
He would not have said that,she thought,if he loved you. He would have suggested himself. He would have spoken up.
“This fiddler is quite good, I think,” Mr. Ferrand said to his sherry.
“He plays excellently,” Clemency agreed, withering into her chair. Then she said no more, realizing she could not hear the music above the disappointed drumming of blood pounding in her ears.
“Mr. Ferrand, you appear positively morose, something that you know is expressly forbidden in Matton Hall.” Miss Paisley had returned with a fresh bottle of wine for them. Ralston reached for it at once, refilling his cup and offering Delphine some too. On the stage, the fiddler plunged into a spirited rendition of “Auretti’s Dutch Skipper.” “Now that you have had your refreshment, a dance could prove uplifting.”
He folded his napkin and wedged it next to his sherry glass. “Please, Miss Paisley. You know I have little interest and even less ability where dancing is concerned.”
“Nonsense, you dance as well as any gentleman I have seen.”
“Then one can only conclude that you have not seen any gentlemen dance.”
At that, Delphine turned away from her conversation with Ralston and reached across Clemency to swat Audric with a fan. “He is lying, of course. He danced often and handsomely in Paris, I witnessed it myself.”
Audric shifted, uncomfortable. “That was many years ago.”
He seemed genuinely disinclined, and Clemency refused to join in the bullying, though he turned to face her, clearly expecting her to side with her fellow ladies.
“This tune is better danced with a group,” she said softly.
