“But of course,” he muttered.
Clara’s smile grew fixed. She nodded, curtsied again, and made her farewell amidst promises of seeing the two ladies on the following evening.
Mr. Kemsley asked her direction. She gave it, then handed over her packages at his request, before settling her hand on his forearm as they walked toward Wigmore Place.
Awkwardness refused her speech. He had said nothing, his silence as condemning as his frown suggested. Was he that shocked by her lack of escort? Her lip curled. Perhaps he was worried that being seen in her company might taint him …
A carriage passed them. A flower seller hawked her wares. “Flowers for the missus?”
Clara cringed, but Mr. Kemsley only shook his head.
What could she say? She had no wish to speak and possibly reveal herself. She had no wish to even be in his company, despite the tug within insisting he held a burly kind of appeal. She supposed she should be more grateful to the man who had saved her life, but what if he exposed her? She was already a laughingstock in so many of society’s circles. Lady Asquith’s musicale was supposed to be a safe place, a refuge where she could recover some social standing. How could Tessa think of inviting Featherington of all people? She shuddered.
“Miss DeLancey?”
She stumbled to a halt. Peered up at him. His sandy brows had pushed together.
“You do not appear well. Should I call a hackney?”
Resentment at his comment on her appearance warred with reluctant appreciation for his consideration. A hackney would mean she could return more quickly and he could be freed from his obligation that much sooner. “Thank you,” she murmured.
He looked at her sharply, studying her for a long moment, before raising his hand for a passing cab driver to stop. Two minutes later she was at the front door of the nondescript house her father had rented.
“Thank you, Mr. Kemsley.” He nodded, passed back her packages. “I am … I’m sorry you were obliged to go so far out of your way.”
“It was no trouble.”
She doubted that. She had seen him pay the cabdriver, seen the battered leather pouch in which he kept his coin. She hoped he did not feel too badly used. “I … I hope Tessa and your aunt enjoy tomorrow night.”
“But not me?”
Her mouth dried. She swallowed. “I thought you did not care for such things.”
“So you wish me not to attend?”
The blue of his eyes seemed to hold a magnetic quality. She could not look away. “I … I do not wish you … not to attend, sir.”
His brow creased, then smoothed, as something like a smile pulled at one corner of his mouth. “You are a mystery, are you not, Miss DeLancey?”
Fortunately, the door opened, preventing her reply. She hurried a curtsy and hastened inside, up the stairs to where her bedroom overlooked the street.
Sure enough, he stood there still, gazing at the house, the frown she’d come to associate with him firmly returned. He stood a moment longer, then turned, swished his hat through the air, descended the steps, and strode from view.
Her heart thudded. Had he recognized her? Remembered that dreadful night? It would only be a matter of time until he did. Oh, what could she do?
Asquith House, Park Lane
A night amongst toffs and the pretentious was not his usual idea of fun, but Tessa and Aunt Adeline had left no room for his backing out. He’d been surprised at their enthusiasm and not a little dismayed at the excitement twinging his chest. The boy who’d dreamed of visiting different lands across a moonlit sea eager to attend Lady Asquith’s soiree? The boy who’d hated anything stuffy and formal keen to pretend he had enough musical nous to hold his own amongst those who knew an oboe from a clarinet?
Ben shook his head at himself. He was a fool to pretend his desire to be here was anything but a wish to see the intriguing Miss DeLancey again.
He peered past a large lady whose gaudy headdress contained a dozen ostrich feathers. He knew precisely how many for he’d counted them during the insufferable wailings of the previous performer, a lady of high title but less certain pitch, according to Aunt Addy’s whispers. Due to an unfortunate crush of vehicles on Piccadilly, they’d arrived a little late and been relegated to the last row. While Tessa and Aunt Addy had been disappointed not to see Miss DeLancey, he couldn’t help but be glad for the chance to gather his composure, to harken back to the days when he recalled how a gentleman behaved at such events, during his one foray into the upper class years ago. Around him sat the ton of London society; he was loathe to embarrass his relatives with anything less than gentlemanly manners and demeanor.
The master of ceremonies introduced the next performer. Ben clapped automatically—not too loud, but not so soft as many of the namby-pamby men around here seemed content to do. His hands were not used to being encased in softest kid; his fingers still bore the callouses of career and cares.
His peripheral vision caught the sight of Viscount Featherington, whose bored expression as he glanced behind immediately brightened as he encountered Ben. He lifted his brow, as if to ask if Tessa were in attendance, to which Ben responded with a small nod. Featherington grinned, then turned back to face the front, seemingly as eager as Ben was for the interval to be proclaimed.
Another song, sung in Italian, which Ben could never hope to understand. His neckcloth grew tighter; his coat pulled harder. The navy coat of superfine Aunt Addy had insisted he wear felt like bands of steel encompassing him. He tried to subtly roll his shoulders and release the prick-ling tension. Couldn’t. Sweat dribbled down his back. How warm did Lord Asquith heat this place, anyway?
Finally interval was announced, to a collective sigh of relief from the back half of the audience. Viscount Featherington appeared, and after an exchange of bows and curtsies, turned to Tessa with a smile.
“I’m very glad you came. I confess I thought I’d expire on the spot if I had to endure another ear-piercing shriek from that last lady. A musical genius? I ask you!” He exhaled. “I was sorry to miss you earlier. I saved you a seat, but then Lord and Lady Pennicooke insisted on sitting there, along with their daughter.” His nose wrinkled. “I cannot but think of cabbage whenever I see Anne.”
Tessa blinked. “Cabbage?”
“I know,” Featherington continued, his gaze growing tender. “But when I see another young lady, all I can think of are stars and fire, and turquoise beauty, and pearls that cannot do justice to so fair a face.”
Ben frowned as Tessa’s cheeks grew rosy, before Aunt Addy directed her attentions elsewhere. Were such things truly what young ladies wished to hear? Wait—did Featherington truly mean them? Surely a viscount—an heir to a marquess, no less!—would need to look higher than Tessa if his intentions were honorable.
As if sensing his thoughts, Featherington looked at him. “Is something wrong, Kemsley?”
“It depends, my lord,” he replied in a low voice, angling his body so Tessa could neither see nor hear him, “on whether your flattery towards my sister stems from noble intentions or not. I would not have Tessa hurt by thinking more of your meaning than you do.”
“I … I hope she takes my meaning exactly as I intend.”
“As you intend?” Ben’s brows rose.
“I find her exquisitely charming.”
Ben glanced between them. “Really?”
“Yes, really.” The viscount studied her, a tender light in his eyes, before returning his attention to Ben with a grin. “You need not fear my attentions to your sister. Perhaps we should find someone for you to fix your attention on. I wonder—no. I wouldn’t wish you Anne Pennicooke; that is a measure far too hard even for someone who dared believe me of nefarious intent.” He continued glancing around before his gazed grew fixed, his mien hardened. “I might have known she would be here tonight.” He gave a dismissive snort. “Such a desperate creature. I suppose her godmother’s soiree the only invite she could wangle these days. They say she’s desperate for a hus
band.”
Ben frowned. He did not like Featherington’s description of some poor young lady; it felt too close to how Mattie might have once been described.
The viscount leaned in, “Quiet, here she comes.” He bowed stiffly, and then said in a louder voice, “Miss DeLancey.”
Ben’s breath caught. Featherington referred to her? He met her emerald eyes and quickly bowed. How could this glorious creature be denigrated in such a way?
He straightened, found the pale cheeks had flushed rosy red, as she glanced between him and the viscount. Had she heard his mean-spirited remarks? Why had Featherington’s comments been so unkind? Perhaps Ben should let her know he did not share the viscount’s opinion. He opened his mouth to compliment her on her gown—
“Oh, Clara!” Tessa hurried to her side. “I’m so sorry we missed you before. Tell me we have not missed your performance.”
“No. I am yet to perform.”
Featherington looked between them. “You know each other?”
Tessa gave an artless smile. “Of course! It’s due to Miss DeLancey’s kindness that I’m even here tonight. We’ve become friends, you see.”
“Friends?” The viscount’s expression took on something approaching a sneer.
“In Brighton,” Miss DeLancey said softly. Her gaze met Ben’s before falling away.
Featherington offered an arm to Tessa. “Hope you don’t mind, Kemsley, but I feel the need for a little liquid refreshment, as does your sister, I believe.”
Tessa only waited the briefest moment for a nod from Ben before traipsing off with her suitor. Her suitor? Perhaps a better alternative to poor Braithwaite, but surely the viscount’s father would have a say in the suitability of any prospective daughter-in-law. His smile of politeness fell. And when the marquess discovered just how little Tessa would bring in terms of title or dowry, he was sure to put an end to any romance between them.
He dragged his attention away, only to encounter Miss DeLancey’s uncertain look. Aunt Adeline was chatting to a dowager nearby. It was left to him to attempt to smooth the waters. “Miss DeLancey?”
Her eyes seemed shaded with sadness; her mottled cheeks spoke of embarrassment.
Compassion twisted within. “My sister has been looking forward to hearing you perform.”
She nodded, bit her lip. Her gaze skittered away.
He stepped closer. “Miss DeLancey?”
She glanced up. Her eyes were shining with tears.
He moved to shelter her from the perusal of the curious. Frustration burned within. What was he supposed to say? Clearly the viscount had some kind of grudge against her. But what was it that could make her cry?
“Clara?” A thin querulous voice was immediately followed by a thin, fussy-looking woman.
Recognition tugged at him. Of course; she was the mother he’d had the misfortune to encounter after services.
Lady Winpoole’s elaborate coiffure turned to him, her mouth turning down in dislike. “Who is this person, Clara?”
Defensiveness rose within. He tamped it down. Offered a small bow. “Benjamin Kemsley, at your service.”
“Hmph,” she sniffed. “I hardly think you would ever prove of service to me.”
Heated words rose, then fell as he noticed her daughter’s anxious expression, the way she bit her bottom lip.
“Please excuse me.” He offered a bow to them both and moved to join the queue lining up for liquid refreshments. He now understood why some men found such things necessary.
“Kemsley!”
Another of the gentlemen from White’s hailed him, and they began a discussion of Napoleon’s tactics that lasted right up until the bell tinkled to announce the recommencement of the program. He resumed his seat, apprehensive when he discovered Tessa now sat next to the viscount in front. When questioned, Aunt Addy said she had given permission, so he could scarcely argue. But was encouraging such a futile connection wise? Wouldn’t it just lead to aching hearts?
Consumed as he was with his sister’s plight, Ben barely heard the first performer. Only the sound of applause jerked his attention to the fore.
The master of ceremonies rose. “And now, may I encourage you to acknowledge our next performer, Miss DeLancey.”
The applause was much muted, dimmed as it were by the murmurs filling the room. He saw how her cheeks paled, then grew rosy, the way her chin lifted as if summoning courage. Clearly she knew her name was being whispered about in a manner less than complimentary. He frowned. But what were people saying?
She settled at the pianoforte, glanced up once, with almost a scared look, then began to play.
Ben shifted in his seat, ostensibly to get more comfortable, but actually to eavesdrop on the talkative couple in front.
“Shameless! … poor thing … earl, you know … Richard … gambling debts … ran away!”
The words raced around his heart as the music intensified. How could they malign an innocent lady? His indignation was soothed somewhat by the excellence of the musicianship. Compared to some of the others, her playing seemed flawless, the piece sounding far more technically demanding than any he had heard before. He leaned back against his seat, pleasure filling his senses. While she might have manners that made Tessa seem bold, she also possessed far more skill than he could have imagined. Emotion seemed to roar through her fingertips, demandingly, pleadingly, until the audience’s murmured conversations quieted to respectful awe. He smiled, glad she’d had the chance to show her critics she could not be silenced.
And when she finished, he sat a little higher, gladness stealing through him as she looked up and caught his eye.
He smiled wider, and she ducked her head.
Leaving him wondering all the more about the Miss Clara DeLancey who had long ago snagged his attention.
CHAPTER TEN
THE SCENT OF the half-dozen floral tributes filling the entryway teased Clara’s senses, reviving memories of years past when she had been considered one of the most eligible young ladies on the market. She lifted a posy, breathed in the sweetness, and read the card. Her spirits dipped as she recognized her godmother’s handwriting. She rifled quickly through the other tributes; they were more of the same. People who remembered her, but few from those under fifty, and none from any her parents might deem eligible suitors.
She tried to be pleased, to focus on the positive, to be glad for the thoughtfulness of so many after last night’s performance. But the lack of interest from any and all eligible young gentlemen showed just how shallow and fickle some men’s attentions could be. Hadn’t the Earl of Hawkesbury trained her to mistrust men’s motives? Her memories flicked back to the time he’d asked her to request Lady Asquith to invite Lavinia Ellison to play at one of her evenings. Until then she’d felt quite sure of his affection. Afterward, she’d known herself to be nothing but a romantic fool, something only further confirmed when Richard’s gambling debts had forced Father to dip into a substantial portion of the dowry to which she’d been entitled, resulting in the loss of all other suitors as quickly as the news spread amongst the ton. Believe a man who said he loved her? Good thing such weak emotions were stamped out of her now.
“Ah, my dear.” Clara turned to see Mother descending the stairs. “It is good to see a return of pretty tributes, is it not?”
“Yes.”
Mother picked up the cards, glancing at them before returning them to the silver salver. “I think last night went off quite well. I do hope it will help relaunch you back into society. We must ensure you get invited to the Seftons’ ball.”
Clara’s smile stiffened.
“The Asquiths were very kind to ensure so many of the better families were in attendance, but I could not help but wonder if some of their invites had gone astray.” A pleat appeared between her brows. “There did not seem to be quite as many young men as I had hoped, and as for that Mrs. Harrow creature, I cannot fathom how she could be in attendance, when so many of better lineage were not.”
&n
bsp; “She is the aunt of my friend Tessa.”
Mother waved a hand as she led the way to the drawing room. “Oh, I know it is unfortunate, and these things cannot be helped, but I do not understand why such persons have not sent a card of thanks for the privilege of attending last night.” She sniffed. “I do wish you enjoyed the company of some of the young ladies you used to know, those who know what is expected of them.”
Such as who? she longed to say, but didn’t. The only girl she’d ever really counted as friend, Harriet Winchester, had married and moved to the wilds of Scotland two seasons ago. She had few other friends. Perhaps she really was unlikeable.
Her self-examination was cut short by the arrival of Father. He greeted them, enquired briefly about how they had slept, then shook out a freshly ironed newspaper and began to read. Outside, cloud shadows rippled dimness through the room.
Mother frowned, darker than anything to be glimpsed from the drawing room window. “I do not think I like your continuing this acquaintance, Clara. I cannot foresee any advantage from these people.”
“Must we only speak with people who offer us advantage?”
“Well, I agree it is very kind of you to want to help the girl further her social aspirations, but I cannot think it does your credit any good. Especially at a time when we are doing our best to redeem it.”
Clara swallowed emotion, her protest dying upon her lips.
“Frederica, now really.” Father lowered the newspaper, glanced between Clara and her mother. “I think your words are a little harsh. The family is not exactly nobodies, are they?”
This last was said with a glance at Clara, prompting her to murmur, “Tessa is the sister of a baronet.”
Father nodded, his brows rising as he glanced back at Mother, as if to say, see?
“Yes, but only a baronet!” Mother’s face creased as if she were in pain.
“A baronetcy is hardly to be sneezed at.”
Should she point out she’d never met the baronet? That Tessa herself held far more social cachet as the object of attention from the heir to a marquess? Though perhaps refraining from mentioning the Exeter—and thus Hawkesbury—connection was the wiser course of action.
The Dishonorable Miss DeLancey Page 9