The Dishonorable Miss DeLancey

by Carolyn Miller

  The prayer fell from her lips like she’d spat out poison. But inside …

  Inside, it seemed like something hard in her heart had cracked. Amid the hurt and clashing emotion stole a sweet softness, like the slow unfurling of forgiveness in her soul.

  She glanced up at the soft blue of sky. Could God hear her better out here? It certainly felt so. “Thank You.”

  A twitter of birds rose as one from the branches of a large elm. She watched them swirl and sweep through the sky, their movements graceful and majestic. As though they were putting on a show just for her.

  “Miss Clara?” Button drew alongside.

  She kept her gaze fixed upwards. “They are beautiful, are they not?”

  “Very nice, miss. But are you sure you wish to be here? I thought I heard you say something before.”

  “You probably did,” she agreed mildly.

  He frowned, rubbing his chin as if not sure how to take her. A flash of amusement cut through the dregs of the earlier heavy emotion. Yes, perhaps these days she was not quite the rigid, self-centered young miss he had always known her to be. If only she had behaved a little kinder, perhaps the earl—

  No! She swallowed. Gritted her teeth. Lord, bless him. When that didn’t seem to be strong enough, she muttered, “Bless him!”

  “Pardon, miss? Did you say something?”

  She turned to the groom. Found a smile. “Nothing to worry about.”

  When he continued to search her with an anxious air, she said, her smile now genuine, “God bless you, Button, for being so obliging these many years.”

  His widened eyes creased as he chuckled. “I gets paid to be obliging, miss.”

  She laughed, and the sound seemed to chase away more of the cobwebs in her soul. So she wheeled her hack towards Wigmore Place, and home.

  Somerset House

  Ben glanced around the principal chamber of Somerset House. The yellow walls were heavily lined with paintings, from floor to eaves, the position of each portrait or landscape seemingly designed more to ensure a maximum number of paintings on display than from any real finesse or desire to align according to subject matter. Not that he was any expert on art. The room bustled with the knowledgeable and the novice, those loudly proclaiming their artistic pedigree and those content to gawk, occasionally murmuring something about the colors and whether the images portrayed were lifelike or not. He most definitely fell into the latter category today.

  “Ah, Captain Kemsley.”

  Ben turned, encountering the puffy, self-important features of old Lord Babcock, the latest and most elderly of Tessa’s admirers. Fighting to maintain a pleasant demeanor, he bowed. “Good afternoon, my lord.”

  “Tell me, is that rather lovely younger sister of yours here by any chance?”

  “By any chance?” Ben’s smile thinned. “I was under the impression you thought her attendance today something of a certainty, given you were privy to the conversation after services on Sunday when such an arrangement was made.”

  “I … er …” The older gentleman looked nonplussed. “Well, now I do recall Miss Kemsley saying something of it to her friend.”

  “I rather thought you might,” Ben glanced away, saw Tessa talking with Miss DeLancey. Tessa’s friend seemed a little brighter today, her face animated, her gown as elegant as he’d come to expect.

  He turned back to see Lord Babcock had followed his gaze, and was now frowning. The baron met his gaze with a loud harrumph. “In fine looks, I see.”

  “Yes.” Both young ladies were.

  The baron gave another loud clearing of his throat. “A word to the wise, my boy. Young ladies like your sister should not be permitted to spend too much time with those around whom scandal clings. You might wish to steer her clear of such tittle-tattle.”

  Ben raised his brows, not bothering to hide his dislike anymore. “Thank you for your concern, but my sister—”

  “Your sister is not the problem, can I say,” Lord Babcock tapped the side of his bulbous nose.

  Coldness seeped through his chest. “Excuse me, my lord.”

  “Of course, Captain.”

  An exchange of bows later and Ben was stalking across the room, trying to stifle the desire to smack the self-satisfied glint from the older man’s eyes. How dare he insinuate Miss DeLancey was anything but honorable?

  By the time he reached the two young ladies, they had been joined by yet another admirer, a Mr. Dubois, if memory served. They exchanged greetings before the dark-haired young man said, eyes fixed on Tessa, “Do you not think the pictures most fine, ladies?”

  Tessa did not answer. Miss DeLancey murmured, “Wonderfully fine.”

  Ben clenched his fists.

  “And you, Captain Kemsley?”

  “Mr. Kemsley,” he growled.

  “Ah, yes. I wonder what you think of this fine picture.” He pointed to a ship in flames.

  “I think it quite apparent the artist never stepped aboard an Indiaman in his life.”

  “Really?”

  “If he had seen such a ship, he would not have painted it missing a mast, nor would he have ignorant people call it fine when it is obviously a fabrication.”

  “Benjie!” Tessa whispered, her horror-struck expression making him aware of his faux pas, and the blushes of both Miss DeLancey and Mr. Dubois.

  “If you’ll excuse me,” the latter said, moving away stiffly.

  Ben swallowed bile and glanced at Miss DeLancey to make his apologies, but she’d turned to study a picture of a small rural scene.

  “That was too bad of you!” Tessa murmured.

  “Come now, surely you do not care what that jackanapes thinks. I noticed you barely looked at him, let alone spoke to him.”

  “That does not give you the liberty of speaking so rudely.”

  “Would you rather get rid of your unwanted suitors yourself, then?”

  A reluctant smile flashed. “I think I prefer your assistance.”

  Ben crossed his arms. So perhaps his forthrightness wasn’t considered entirely inane.

  Wading through the social mores had proved difficult at times. After the debacle at the Winpoole residence, Ben had received a severe scolding from his aunt and sister, the likes of which reminded him of a dressing down he had once received from his first captain. His relief when Tessa had secured her friend’s company today, following a brief conversation after services last Sunday, had been considerable. He was thankful Miss DeLancey had not severed his sister’s friendship—though he wondered how many more gentlemen seeking Tessa’s favor he might need to navigate away.

  “Ah, there you are!”

  That voice, the light suffusing his sister’s face, could only mean one thing.

  Ben turned and bowed. “Lord Featherington.”

  “Forgive me, but I could not wait a second more.” He turned to Tessa and began speaking of an outing to take place in a few days’ time.

  Ben noticed how Miss DeLancey had seemed to freeze before shrinking back, as if wary of receiving the viscount’s notice. He frowned.

  “Benjie?” Tessa laid a hand on his arm, looking up at him with a puzzled expression. “What is it? Do you not like the sound of Lord Featherington’s scheme?”

  Ben shook his head, turning to the viscount. “I must beg your pardon. I was distracted for a moment.”

  “Not surprising in a room like this. If it didn’t seem as though half of London were here, then these paintings would be enough to get your attention.”

  Ben swallowed a smile. “I rather think that is the artists’ intention.”

  “Mebbe.” Featherington gave a good-natured shrug. “Well, I cannot say I’ve ever cared overly for such things. My brother-in-law likes his pictures though, has some rather nice views of Venice in the breakfast room, as I recall. But for me, I’d much rather be outside than in. I say, did you see that rather striking painting of a burning ship?”

  Ben opened his mouth to speak but Tessa jumped in. “He did, and he doesn�
�t like it. Says it’s not true to life.”

  “Well, I guess a captain should know. Shall we say eleven on Friday, then?”

  “I … I shall have to speak with Aunt Addy.”

  “Of course. Well, I’ll be off. Got an engagement at Manton’s. I like to think I’m quite a good shot, but Hartington—Charlotte’s husband, y’know—most unassuming man imaginable, but an incredibly good shot. I’ll need to better mine if I’m to visit Northamptonshire for the hunt in October. Must be able to hit a wafer or three!”

  Ben nodded politely, though he barely knew of what the young man spoke. Hartington he knew to be the duke recently married to Lord Featherington’s sister, but wafers? He scarcely knew what to say to men of leisure, his life rather one of toil and command, and much preferred the honest reckonings of men who understood him, like Burford and Lancaster. While in past weeks he’d been invited by several gentlemen to various pleasure jaunts, he’d found the visits a challenge. He couldn’t participate in conversations about aristocrats he’d never met, nor engage in activities that strained his knee, and he’d little liking for gossip. Whenever talk of his exploits arose, he’d turn the conversation by introducing the topic of shelters and helps for the returning soldiers. This at least made his time feel somewhat more gainfully employed.

  The viscount talked on, his farewell to Tessa taking an inordinate amount of time. Perhaps Ben being adrift in London wasn’t completely futile. It had provided opportunity to safeguard his sister from some of the more determined suitors who had found her too much at liberty to answer their every invitation to a drive through Hyde Park, or the theatre, or another of those dreadful musicales that seemed so popular.

  With a bow and a flourish, the viscount finally disappeared. Perhaps he liked Tessa’s ability to listen as much as her fair face.

  “Clara?”

  The brunette turned from her perusal of the art lining the walls of Somerset House. He ignored the strange pang as her gaze flicked past him to settle on Tessa. “Yes?”

  “Have you ever been to the Tower?”

  “I don’t believe so, no.”

  “Wonderful! Do you think your parents would permit you to attend? Lord Featherington has invited us for an excursion on Friday. He must have overheard my wish to visit last week. He is all that is thoughtful, is he not?”

  “Indeed.” Miss DeLancey’s voice sounded strained.

  “So, will you come? Benjie mentioned recently he would like to visit, and although some of the history sounds most gory, I confess I would still like to see it.”

  “I … I am sure I am busy that day. I am sorry.”

  “Oh! But it would not be the same without you.”

  “The viscount did not invite me, Tessa, so I hardly think it will matter if I do not attend.”

  “You are far too modest! I, for one, would miss your company immensely.”

  “You are very kind, but I cannot think the viscount would like it.” “Well if he objects to you, then I object to him.”

  “I really think—”

  “And Benjie would like you to come, too.” Tessa turned to him. “Wouldn’t you?”

  He swallowed, aware of the skeptical expression in Miss DeLancey’s eyes that made his answer suddenly important. What could he say? There was no possible polite answer, save, “Of course.”

  Miss DeLancey studied him for a moment as she bit her lip.

  Remorse for his careless words earlier surged again. “Miss DeLancey, we would truly value your company.”

  She blinked and ducked her head. “I would not wish to intrude on your plans.”

  “Our plans these days seem quite fluid. Tessa needs only mention the barest scraping of an idea and one of her besotted swains instantly gets up a notion to carry out her every wish. Why, one fellow thought she might like to see the tightrope walker at Vauxhall Gardens, then had the nerve to create a fuss when he’d ordered an elaborate picnic for an evening that proved impossible to attend due to a prior engagement. Soft-hearted Tessa here then felt so sorry for the chap that she nearly had us all going to the man’s excursion to Astley’s Amphitheatre to see the horse ballet.”

  Her smile peeked out. “You seem much put upon.”

  “I am much put upon,” he said. “Thank you for understanding.”

  “You’re welcome,” she said, meeting his gaze with a look of conspiracy, even as Tessa protested.

  For a moment, he was trapped in the shimmering depths of that gaze. Her eyes reminded him of the water near the Seychelles, a beautiful garland of isles off the coast of Africa. His ship had once moored there for repairs, and he and his crew had spent a magical week eating fruits and fish from the tropics whilst swimming in a warm blue-green sea, so unlike Britain’s cold waters. One day he’d managed to escape the crew to go exploring, and whilst on the lookout for snakes and scorpions, he’d stumbled across a stream wending through the rainforest. Under a canopy of palms and ferns, he’d jumped into the clearest water he’d ever seen, water he could see through to the sandy depths, water that tasted as clear and fresh as anything fallen from the heavens. Her eyes reminded him of that: clear, fresh brightness, whose depths he wanted to—

  “Benjie?”

  His sister studied him with a strange smile on her face.

  “Yes?”

  Her smile broadened. “I just wondered why you were staring at Miss DeLancey for so long.”

  He fought the fire climbing up his neck, heat he was sure matched the color painting Clara’s cheeks. “I beg your pardon,” he muttered before moving across to pretend interest in a rather vividly painted picture of a sinking Portuguese man-of-war. He frowned. The rigging lines were wrong. Clearly the artist had never—

  “Benjie?” A small hand curled into his arm. He met Tessa’s repentant gaze. “I’m sorry.”

  “It is not kind to tease your friend,” he said in a low voice.

  “No.” She peeked over to where Clara’s fixed study of a still life of fruit cascading from an epergne made him wonder if she was using the time to recover from embarrassment, too. His sister’s attention returned to him. “I did not think you would mind being teased, however. Why is that, I wonder.”

  He shook his head, working to keep his voice from being overheard. “Do not think that just because you have found success in London society that a similar feat is possible for me. I am not someone the parents of well-bred young ladies will ever deem marriage material. Considering I have little in the way of either income or prospects, I will think myself fortunate if a lady of lesser social standing than even us will consider my proposal. I certainly cannot aspire to a viscount’s daughter.”

  A pucker appeared in her forehead. “But you think Lord Featherington will offer for me?”

  “I don’t know. I certainly hope so, for your sake, otherwise he’s been making a monkey of himself these past weeks. But I would think a marquess of the king’s realm would have quite a lot to say about such a match, so I pray you will not pin all your hopes on him.”

  She bit her lip, her downcast expression making him wish he could drag his words in again. But it was best she knew the truth, wasn’t it? Best she learned that dreams did not always come true, no matter how many pretty words might be spoken, or even how many prayers were offered. Just because someone prayed did not mean God would answer the way one imagined. God’s will still prevailed.

  He gently squeezed her hand, steering her back to where Aunt Adeline was chatting with Lord Beevers, the young buck whose invitation to the exhibition had revealed him far more cognizant of art than any of his guests could pretend.

  Lord Beevers appeared to notice them, if the way his eyes brightened and how he broke off his conversation with Aunt Addy were any indication. “Miss Kemsley! I trust you have enjoyed yourself today?”

  After being assured that she had, and expressing hope for another excursion in the not-too-distant future, Lord Beevers was summoned by a man requesting his opinion on a rather large landscape, and they were rele
ased.

  Aunt Addy sighed. “Thank goodness. I don’t know why you thought yourself suddenly enamored of art, Theresa, but I trust the next young man will have sense enough to be able to converse on something else. I now know far more about the preparation of canvases before painting than I ever had wish to know.”

  Tessa gave a soft giggle. “Thank you, Aunt Addy. I knew I could rely on you.”

  “My sister the schemer,” Ben said, with a glance at Clara.

  The lady smiled, and once again he felt a surge of camaraderie, a surge of affection, swiftly chased by the galling knowledge that attractive as he found her, his words to Tessa earlier were only too true. His smile faded, and he glanced away. He could not afford to mislead her, could not afford to stir up feelings—neither hers nor his—with no hope of satisfaction.

  For how could a humble sailor ever hope to win a viscount’s daughter?

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  “WELL!”

  Father’s exclamation drew Clara’s attention at the breakfast table. “What is it, Father?”

  He lowered the newspaper. “It appears Napoleon has been routed on the eastern flank, and he’s concentrating a great deal of resources in the west. Wellington better be ready.”

  “Where is he situated, Father?”

  “Could be anywhere now,” he said, tapping the newspaper. “These reports are days old.”

  “Do you think Wellington will succeed?”

  “He does not have much choice, my dear.” A rare smile cracked his face. “I must say it is good to see you take an interest in things other than fashion, or the latest on-dit. Too many young ladies these days have no interest in anything beyond what immediately affects them. Mind, best not to let your mother hear such talk.”

  “Of course not, Father.”

  They shared a smile of understanding.

  She lowered her gaze and sipped her tea, thinking back to the visit two days ago to Somerset House. Despite Tessa and her aunt’s misgivings that the excursion to the Royal Academy’s exhibition might prove dull, Clara had enjoyed examining the array of paintings. She’d never laid claim to being an art connoisseur, but the experience had reminded her of how things used to be. She’d even seen a number of acquaintances there, people who had smiled and not sniggered and turned away. And then that moment when she’d encountered Mr. Kemsley’s intent gaze, a gaze so full of warmth, evoking a feeling of perfect connection, her heart fluttered again at the recollection. Surely Tessa’s brother did not hold her in admiration.