Her fingers clenched within her lap. If only her brother had not always been able to read her quite so well. “If you are referring to my visitor, her name is Mrs. McPherson. She is the vicar’s wife and a dear friend.”
“My, my. We have come down in the world.”
“Says the man who has not dared show his face in polite society for over a year.”
He had the courtesy to flush.
Satisfaction coursed through her. “Are you planning on staying?”
“For a little while.” He lifted a nonchalant shoulder. “Who knows?”
With any luck, if he stayed while she went, he might be gone by the time she returned. She spread her skirts. “I go to London tomorrow.”
“Really?” His voice, his eyes suggested everything of boredom. Had the past eighteen months changed him that much? “P’raps I’ll come, too.”
“I’ll be staying some of the time with Lady Asquith. I cannot think she will be too pleased with your showing up unannounced.”
“Who said anything about staying with her? No, I’d much rather stay at my club.”
“I didn’t realize they still let you in.”
His teeth gleamed in a mocking smile. “Careful, Clara. You’re showing your claws. Though why you have any right to show me claws I cannot fathom.”
Again she struggled to withhold accusation. Again she failed. “Perhaps the scandal surrounding me would have been less if you had not behaved in such an ungentlemanly manner.”
“You and I both know I did it to help you.”
“Well it didn’t help!”
“But neither did your public pining over blasted Hawkesbury. I do not think it fair for me to accept all the blame.”
Because he didn’t accept personal responsibility for anything. She pushed to her feet. Arguing with her brother had always proved a fruitless exercise. “Excuse me. I still have a great deal of packing.”
“Of course you do.”
His dismissive words, the hardness in his gaze brought tears to her eyes as she hurried away. How had their once close relationship, the very one he referred to when he mentioned trying to help her so many months ago, transmogrified into something so tense and awful?
Another layer of heaviness settled around her shoulders as she made her way up the stairs. Her visitors today had made something abundantly clear. Her time in London would prove far more challenging than even she had once supposed.
London
Ben glanced around the opulent fittings of White’s, the leather padded seating, the crystal drops shimmering from the chandelier above. Visiting with Burford and Lancaster yesterday in a quiet coffee house had been like finding an islet of sanity in a tempestuous sea. Never in his wildest dreams would Ben have imagined the level of interest in his story. The initial meeting with the viscount had resulted in a veritable storm of attention as the news filtered through the clubs. He’d dined at White’s, been a guest at Boodle’s, been treated to dinner at Watier’s, been introduced to such illustrious personages as dukes and even Mr. Brummel, all the while sharing about his exploits in the sea on that last disastrous voyage off Africa’s southern cape.
“Captain Kemsley, was it true you swam with sharks when you were wrecked?”
He nodded, glancing around the table at the men who kept peppering him with questions. No one seemed to believe the waters were warm in that part of the world in January, let alone shark-infested. Flying fish seemed as fantastical to his listeners as his account of his trek for help.
Ben took another sip of water, his memories surging like the tide to shore. The realization the morn following the storm that they were hemmed in by impassable cliffs. His decision two days later to risk no lives but his own in swimming back out into the sea until he finally found access across a low headland. He rubbed his knee, worsened by the long trudge across endless sand dunes, before finally, finally finding help at a remote village.
“I trust you do not mind sharing?”
Ben glanced at Lord Featherington, who had asked the question. “Not at all.”
He didn’t mind sharing, except he didn’t especially like the stirring of memories best forgotten, nor that he felt this constant need to remind them he was not some great hero, that in fact it was God who had enabled so much of what had happened to come true.
He’d prayed, and God had miraculously untangled the ropes.
He’d prayed, and God had given him strength to reach Miss York, even if the waves had stolen her life.
He’d prayed, and God had sustained him on that march to find help, three days sun-scorched, foodless, his only water what he could lick from the dew-drenched blades of grass each morning. So many times he had wanted to give up, but the knowledge that so many desperate people for whom he was responsible remained helpless on a lonesome beach had kept him going. That, and God.
It was on his walk he’d rediscovered the Sustainer of life, found his faith reinvigorated. Otherwise he would have toppled over, his bones would now be crow-picked and sun-bleached, and he would be lamented by a few, not celebrated by so many. He had faced the impossible and survived. Thank God for His enabling.
“And you really didn’t eat for three days?”
“Apart from a few shellfish on the beach, no.”
There was a general cry of “Get the man another plate of beef!” which he declined with a smile. “Thank you, but I do not suffer hunger now.”
How to turn the conversation to something of his faith? He did not wish to live in the past so much these days. “You know, I certainly could not have done it without God’s sustaining power.”
They drew back, faces nonplussed, as if he dared suggest something scandalous, like Napoleon might win this latest conflict enveloping Europe.
All except the Earl of Hawkesbury, whose interest in the welfare of returned soldiers had set him apart from others similarly titled. Lord Hawkesbury leaned in. “Sometimes it is only when we are at our lowest that we realize our need for Someone higher than ourselves.”
Ben nodded, eyeing the tall man curiously. He was an ex-soldier; that much was obvious from his upright demeanor, the way others lost any hint of slouch when he walked through the door. His aunt had obligingly expounded upon Lord Featherington’s friends and relations, so he knew Lord Hawkesbury was connected by marriage. What else had Aunt Addy said? The earl and his wife had suffered some kind of loss last year? No wonder he seemed to understand. Tragedy had a way of plumbing the depths of a man’s character. But was he a believer, too?
Conversation veered to the Duke of Wellington and the situation in Belgium. Opinions were sought, offered, dismissed, scorned. The earl was appealed to, as a veteran of the Peninsular campaigns. His answers, weighted with grim experience, soon sobered the younger members of the gathering. Ben found another layer of respect for the viscount’s cousin by marriage.
Later, when the others had left, save Lord Featherington and the earl, the conversation left Ben pleased to learn his initial guess had been correct. The earl shared Ben’s grace-based faith: faith that recognized meritorious works could never match the work done by Jesus on the cross, faith ably demonstrated through practical works as those which the earl had tried to perform for those in his company left maimed or worse.
The earl met Ben’s scrutiny with a small smile. “I make no claims for recognizing the needs for such assistance. It was not until I met my wife that I truly realized how important my actions could be.”
“Lavinia is never backward in offering her opinions,” murmured the viscount.
“Nor is she backward in offering her assistance,” Hawkesbury said mildly.
Featherington flushed. “She is a very good woman, that is true.”
The earl’s smile hitched up a little farther to one side. “Tell me, Kemsley, do you object to ladies who perform good deeds?”
“Of course not. In fact, my sister is married to a clergyman.”
“Really? My wife is the daughter of one. Imagine that.”
Ben caught the earl’s sardonic glint and turned to Tessa’s would-be suitor. “I happen to know both my sisters are very suspicious of those who despise such things.”
“Really?” The viscount’s brows drew together. “I would hate for her—I mean, to be thought of as not caring about those who are less fortunate.”
Ben bit back a smile as the earl nodded gravely. “To be regarded as selfish, a man who cares more for how one ties a neckcloth than his fellow man, why that would be something to abhor, would it not?”
The viscount turned to Ben. “Please tell me how I can help you to assist those men.”
“Of course.” Ben glanced at his pocket watch. “But it will have to be another time. I promised Tessa I would meet her at Hookham’s.”
Featherington’s eyes rounded with hope. He looked so much like a desperate pup Ben had no heart to deny him. He fought a sigh. “Perhaps we could discuss such matters on the way.”
A short time later they were walking along Piccadilly, the hustle-bustle of traffic doing little to curb the young man’s keen questions. Ben wondered again about Lord Featherington’s notice of his sister. Clearly he would be expected to marry well, but to fix so much attention on someone with neither connections nor fortune to recommend her seemed foolhardy at best, destined for causing Tessa pain at worst.
They found Tessa and Aunt Addy deep in concentration, perusing the shelves. Any doubt about Tessa’s partiality was instantly dismissed by the way her face lit at the sight of Ben’s companion. He exchanged glances with his aunt and patiently waited until the two younger members of their party had exchanged conversation and promises to be at Lady Asquith’s musical evening the following night.
“I cannot wait,” Tessa confided. “I’m looking forward to seeing my friend perform.”
“And I am looking forward to seeing you,” the viscount said, smiling.
He bowed, exited, and after Tessa secured the book held for her, they continued home.
Ben frowned, trying to remember the details of tomorrow evening’s invitation. Tessa had received the surprising invitation from her friend Miss DeLancey, hadn’t she?
He wondered about this mysterious woman. What did she look like? Aunt Adeline had refrained from saying much, conscious of not wishing to taint Tessa’s opinion, if the guarded look had been any clue. But even when he’d managed to ask her—font of societal knowledge—what news she had on the mysterious lady, she had merely shrugged.
“I believe there was something concerning a broken engagement.”
Which induced pity, not distress, did it not?
She’d frowned. “I do recall hearing about some trouble with a brother. Very wild, they say. But I cannot recall exactly what it was. You must remember I was engaged with other matters at the time.”
Like his uncle’s ever-worsening illness.
He shook his head at himself. Why was he even bothering to listen to gossip about Miss DeLancey, anyway? Matilda seemed to regard her highly, and she was not exactly a fool when it came to measuring the worth of a person’s character. And Tessa, though young and naive, had never said anything that might make him suspect anything out of the ordinary. Really, he should be ashamed of himself for even speculating on the young lady in question. Why, he was no better than the young bucks at White’s earlier, gossiping around a table as if in possession of all the facts. But still, he could not but wonder a little about the young lady Matilda had been less than subtle about. Would she ever capture his attention so much as that mysterious clifftop girl? Would she look as striking as the brunette he’d bumped into in Brighton?
They rounded a corner.
He collided with a figure. The figure he’d just imagined: dark hair, pale green eyes, fair skin.
“You!”
She blinked. Her mouth fell open. She stepped back a pace.
“Clara!”
Tessa knew this girl?
Apparently so, for there was an exchange of smiles and hugs that left him confused—and not a little envious. He tamped down the feeling. Who was this girl who’d haunted his dreams?
Tessa turned to him, her smile as bright as her hair. “At last you get to meet.”
Ben frowned; then when his sister refused any further introduction, he introduced himself. “Good afternoon. I believe I have seen you before at church in Brighton. My name is Benjamin Kemsley.”
He heard an intake of breath, which triggered another wisp of memory. When—
“Benjie?” she whispered.
His lips flattened as the green eyes slid to Tessa as if for confirmation. Nobody called him Benjie if he could help it; his sisters however seemed never to have understood that decree.
“And you are … ?” He put up his brows.
She moistened her bottom lip, drawing attention to its pink plumpness. Surely to kiss—
Stop! He gave himself a mental shake, realizing her nerves had still refused her answer. He felt his frown deepen. Why would anyone be nervous to give their name?
Tessa chuckled. “Oh, Ben. Stop scowling. Your face is enough to frighten a small child.”
Or a beautiful young woman.
Tessa drew forth the young lady—Clara, was it?—and held out her hand. “Clara, meet my favorite brother. Benjie, this is the friend I was telling you about. This is Miss Clara DeLancey.”
CHAPTER NİNE
HIM. THE MAN on the clifftop. The man from the Steyne. The man she’d tried avoiding for so long. Matilda and Tessa’s brother: the man who had saved her life.
Was that a flicker of remembrance in his eyes? Did he recognize her as the one who had behaved so foolishly on that wild night weeks ago? Nausea slid through her stomach. What should she do? What could she do? She couldn’t very well avoid him now.
Clara shivered as he enveloped her hand in his. Just as he had that night so many weeks ago. Breath hitched. She swayed—
“Miss DeLancey!”
Warm hands on her elbow, her shoulders. Tessa’s blue eyes clouded with concern. Soft murmurs of alarm came from the well-dressed older lady behind them.
Clara pushed iron into her spine, forced a smile onto her lips. “Forgive me. This heat, you know.” She fanned herself as if hot, trying to ignore their lifted brows hinting of suspicion.
The older lady chuckled. “I’m sure my nephew does not mind the thought of young ladies swooning upon making his acquaintance.”
Clara’s cheeks heated to something she was sure approximated the flush spreading across Mr. Kemsley’s face. Now she really did need to fan herself.
“Miss DeLancey? Clara?” Tessa still held her elbow, the tiny freckles dusted across her nose golden in the sunlight. A frown appeared between her eyes. “Please, let Benjie find you a hackney. You do not appear well.”
Clara forced a laugh to her lips. “I am very sorry for worrying you, Tessa. There is nothing wrong with me but what a brisk walk cannot fix.” A brisk walk preferably in the opposite direction of “Benjie” Kemsley. She slid him a glance. Surely he must suspect who she was by now.
He wore a frown much like he had minutes ago, his lips a flat line. Did he remember? Oh, she hoped not! Hadn’t he thought that troubled person atop the cliff a poor, unfortunate elderly lady? Her heart twisted. Unfortunate she might be, and definitely poorer than before Richard had gambled away the Winpoole fortune, but elderly? Really?
Beside her Tessa and what must be her aunt were still murmuring about a hackney, but Clara could not drag her gaze away.
Now she studied him more closely she realized just how solid he appeared. The coat appeared molded to his shoulders. No wonder he’d been able to haul her up safely from the cliff edge—he looked like he had strength enough to haul an elephant from the seabed. But despite his strength, despite the square planes of his face, his watchful eyes held a look of something softer. They were lined with a dozen creases, as if he smiled a lot, or had undergone a painful trial not long ago.
“Clara?”
She startled. T
urned to Tessa, a smile plastered on her face. “I’m sorry. I believe this is your aunt?”
“Oh! Of course.” The knot between Tessa’s pale brows smoothed away as she completed the introductions.
Clara curtsied. “Mrs. Harrow.”
“Miss DeLancey.” The older lady curtsied in response. “I understand my niece has you to thank for the invitation for tomorrow night?”
She nodded. “I’m sure Lady Asquith would be pleased to have your company as well, if you so wish.”
“Thank you. There is nothing I like more than to hear well-performed music. I understand from dear Theresa that you are an excellent musician.”
The tension in her shoulders diminished. How nice to hear praise for a change. “I think she has overestimated my ability,” she murmured.
“I’m sure the truth will be revealed tomorrow night.”
The deeper voice drew her gaze back to Mr. Kemsley. “Were you planning on attending, sir?”
He shrugged. “I confess musical soirees hold little appeal.”
“Oh, but Benjie, you must go!” cried Tessa. “You must be our escort. How else can we attend?”
The solidity of his face eased a fraction. “I thought you’d prefer young Featherington to escort you.”
Lord Featherington? Clara’s head grew woozy. Not him. Dear God, protect her from him. Protect her from his family’s criticism.
“Clara?”
She squeezed Tessa’s hand. “Please excuse me. I must return home. It was good to meet you.” She nodded to Mrs. Harrow, half met Mr. Kemsley’s eyes, before turning—
“Oh, Benjie will accompany you.”
Clara closed her eyes momentarily. She turned to oh-so-helpful Tessa. “Thank you, but that will not be necessary.”
“Of course it is necessary,” Mrs. Harrow said. “Young ladies do not walk around London unescorted.”
Clara tilted her chin, but kept her protest locked behind a tight smile.
The older lady’s gaze remained steady, piercing, as if she knew some of Clara’s secrets but had decided to ignore them in the interest of propriety. “My nephew will escort you. Won’t you, Benjamin?”
The Dishonorable Miss DeLancey Page 8