The Dishonorable Miss DeLancey

by Carolyn Miller

  For the first time that evening Clara’s smile became genuine. “Thank you, Lady Sefton.” She motioned to a nearby footman. “Would you like me to procure you a drink?”

  “Oh! That is very thoughtful of you, my dear. It is rather warm, with such a crush of people.” This was said with a complacent smile, so as to suggest a crush was exactly what she had hoped and envisaged.

  Clara hurried to the footman, returning with a glass of champagne for her hostess, who accepted it with a smile of thanks.

  “Have you been dancing?”

  “Yes, my lady. I was dancing with your husband’s cousin, and I’m afraid I might have made something of a faux pas.”

  “Oh dear! I cannot imagine poor Bertie causing anyone to do that.” She trilled with laughter. “Now there is no need to look like that, dear girl. Bertie thoroughly disapproves of me and dear William, so you can be sure we won’t take any of his venom to heart.”

  The relief seeping into her chest at her hostess’s earlier words drained away. “Venom?”

  “Don’t mind him. I never do. Sometimes we need to merely hold our heads higher when the gossipmongers feast. For what are we but to provide amusement for our friends?”

  Her words cut deep. Clara soon returned to her seat, watching the dancing with her smile firmly pinned in place, but only with half an eye. Was that truly the way of the ton? Where were the genuine friendships she’d sensed possible with people like Matilda and Tessa? They weren’t opposed to teasing, but underlying that was always a feeling of genuine affection. Did concern for riches and rank squeeze out desire for warmer emotions?

  Of course, Tessa wasn’t here tonight, her lack of rank naturally precluding her from such an event. And even if she were, Tessa was sure to not want to speak to her after that horrid trip to the Tower last week, whose horrors through history had only further dampened Clara’s day. Her heart writhed. Knowing the excursion was the last time she would be permitted to spend time with Tessa and family, knowing she should do nothing to encourage Mr. Kemsley nor to encourage the wisps of affection in her own heart, she’d acted so cold and aloof she would completely understand if they wished to sever all acquaintanceship. She would write a letter of explanation—as soon as she figured out what to say.

  Across the room her gaze met Harriet’s, her friend from their first season. Clara smiled, but the dancing soon blocked her from view. Resigned to sitting out another dance, she perched on her seat, waving her ostrich-skin fan slowly, hoping to assuage the heat in the room. She watched the nearby dancers: the Duke of Hartington and his new wife; the scandalous Lady Harkness dancing with the rakish and much younger Lord Carmichael; Mr. Molyneux, whose glare in her direction made her smile harder while she shivered inside.

  “Miss DeLancey?”

  Clara looked up. “Harriet! How good to see you!”

  “And you.” She studied Clara’s gown. “You look most dashing, I must say.”

  “Thank you. As do you.” She admired Harriet’s blue silk gown before saying, “It has seemed an age since we’ve met.”

  Twin spots of color appeared high on her cheeks. “I—that is, Mama would not, you know, after the trouble …”

  Clara’s smile grew brittle. “Of course she would not. I completely understand.” Her own mother would have been none too keen for Clara to maintain friendship with a young lady tainted by scandal. She pushed aside the hurt, patted the seat beside her. “Come, let us have a good catch up.”

  Harriet perched on the edge. “I’m afraid I have not very long. Mr. Molyneux solicited my hand for the next dance. He has quite an air about him, wouldn’t you say?”

  “Quite.”

  “And of course he’s Lord Sefton’s cousin, so it will not do to keep him waiting.”

  “No, indeed.”

  After exchanging a few reminiscences, their conversation languished. Clara fought to keep her smile, her spirits from slipping. Had lack of society numbed her conversational skills so much?

  “Oh, look,” Harriet said, with an air of relief, “here comes dearest Mariah! You remember, we all came out together. She married Lord Ashbolt a year or so ago and has grown terribly stout, but she’s still a good sort to know the latest scandal.”

  “Wonderful,” Clara said flatly.

  Harriet waved, drawing Mariah Ashbolt to their side. After an exchange of curtsies and awkward remembrances, her two friends launched into a discussion of the matrimonial prospects of a number of the young ladies present tonight, coupling observations on their gowns with tidbits about their persons that ranged from inane to cruel. As Clara listened to such condescension—gossip she was well aware she would have once participated in, before becoming the star feature—she realized anew how little she shared in common with these ladies.

  The music ended, releasing her from the stultifying chatter and artificial expressions of goodwill, as the two young ladies she’d once considered friends returned to their posts where their next partners collected them. Clara’s heart ached. Not once had they asked after her, how she had coped these past months, even though she’d enquired about them. Had she truly once been so self-absorbed to not venture to ask after another?

  “Clara?”

  Lord Asquith’s voice broke from her reverie. She forced a smile to her lips. “Yes, sir?”

  He held out a hand. “I believe this next dance must be mine.”

  “I believe it must be. Thank you.”

  Her eyes filled, and she followed him blindly into the fray. Around her, gentlemen danced with ladies they had chosen, presumably not been forced into dancing with through coercion or pity. Was she so very pitiable that nobody save those manipulated by her godmother were willing to dance with her?

  She performed the steps mechanically, clapping hands, pirouetting, turning to the right then left. Her smile felt like it might be crushed, probably under Lord Asquith’s feet—he was no dancer. But his kindness welled further emotion in her eyes, in her throat. She blinked away the burn, swallowed the pride. Lord Asquith need not know his kind actions felt as shaming as sackcloth and ashes. She smiled at him, he beamed back, and she turned her head away. Then froze.

  Heat suffused her cheeks. She was bumped from one side, had to drag her gaze away, before hurrying to catch up to where the movements of the dance had taken the others in their set. Had anyone noticed this latest gaffe? She wished to groan, to collapse in a heap as Mother had after learning of Richard’s indiscretions, but she could not. Too many eyes were watching, too many lips would murmur.

  The Earl of Hawkesbury, face set like stone, moved past her, his arm around his wife as if protecting her from such a contaminant as Clara. Another bump suggested that her distraction had not gone unnoticed, and she forced herself to focus blindly on the remaining maneuvers of the dance. The music came to an end, Lord Asquith returned her to her seat, she thanked him and sat down.

  Clara drew in a breath, waving her fan, thankful the exertions of the dance gave some excuse for her hot cheeks. She had thought herself well in hand, but seeing him, seeing his wife, she still could not fully hide her reaction. She drew in another shuddery breath. When would this pain end? It was as though a string was attached between them and tugged at her while he remained immune. He had not even looked at her! Accepting a glass of lemonade from a passing footman, she reflected further. Perhaps the prayers for blessing him were working, because the sting had been less potent than usual. Perhaps she was the only one who had noticed …

  Lady Asquith leaned across, speaking behind her fluttering fan. “I saw what happened.”

  So that hope was futile.

  “You must not let him see he still affects you. Hold your chin high, flirt with someone else, preferably higher ranked.”

  So when the only man available and more highly ranked than the earl requested her to stand up with him, she gritted her teeth and accepted. Arthritic Lord Broughton—whose quest for a wife younger than his own children had long been the talk of many a society household,
and had nearly overtaken her own family’s proclivity for inducing gossip—was little more than a lecher, eyeing the low neck of her gown with a practiced eye, holding her hand and touching her waist far longer—and far higher—than propriety deemed necessary. But she held her head high, smiled as if it didn’t hurt, and performed the movements as she had a dozen times before.

  The number of ladies in attendance exceeded the gentlemen present, precluding Clara a partner for the supper dance. She followed her parents and the Asquiths to the supper room, managed to eat while maintaining the smiling facade, maintaining the illusion before excusing herself to visit the ladies’ withdrawing room.

  Relief cascaded through her. Finally her smile could drop, she need not pretend—

  “Miss DeLancey.”

  She blinked. Swallowed. Dredged up a smile and curtsy. “Lady Hawkes-bury.”

  “Tonight has been quite a crush, don’t you agree?”

  “Y-yes.” She studied the dainty countess before her, her gown, her coppery-blond curls piled on top of her head—everything à la mode. How could she have ever mocked Lavinia?

  “Miss DeLancey?”

  The gray eyes studied her. Was that compassion in her eyes? Her heart twisted. “Yes?”

  The countess offered a sweet smile. “I suspect you may think me gauche, but I will confess to being glad we do not need to attend such entertainments too often. I still find these things a little overwhelming.”

  “And overwhelmingly artificial.”

  “Yes.” The earl’s wife’s eyes glinted as she nodded.

  Such understanding elicited a trickle of warmth towards Lavinia, quickly followed by shame at how she had treated her in the past. Clara swallowed, remembering the last awful time they had met. “I hope you are well now?”

  Lavinia stilled, her eyes sparkling with something now more akin to sorrow. “Thank you.” After a moment she continued, “I am trying to leave the past behind, to remember God’s plans are good.”

  The moment stretched between them. Emotion tumbled within her heart. How could any of this be considered good? She swallowed. “It is not always easy, leaving the past.”

  “No.” Lavinia studied her, before holding out her hand. “I have been praying for you.”

  Tears burned Clara’s eyes as she clasped her hand. She swallowed, murmured, “I have been praying for you, also.”

  The gray eyes widened slightly, before a charming smile filled Lavinia’s features. “Thank you.”

  A lump formed in Clara’s throat. She sensed opportunity in this moment. She had to say this, now. “I … I am sorry for”—she swallowed—“for how I have treated you.” And the earl, she added silently.

  “The past has passed, would you not agree?”

  “You … you forgive me?”

  “How can I, imperfect that I am, hold unforgiveness when we’ve all been forgiven so much by One so perfect?” Her smile returned, gentle. “My mother told me long ago: Forgiveness sets us free.”

  Clara nodded, her emotions clashing with the awkwardness of knowing others saw them, would no doubt be gossiping about the strange encounter. She released her hand, wished the earl’s wife well, stammered an excuse about needing to speak with Lady Asquith, and scurried away. Finding her godmother engaged in conversation, she swerved to hide behind a pillar where she would not be spotted by Lavinia. How bizarre an encounter! Never had she imagined such goodwill to one so long despised. Perhaps they might never be friends, but it no longer seemed—to Clara, at least—that they were foes.

  “… the very dishonorable Richard DeLancey.”

  What? Clara peered over a shoulder, where one of the dowagers continued speaking to another chaperone about her brother. A large potted fern hid her from view. She shrank against the wall as the ladies continued.

  “I cannot see how they can show up here, pretending all is well. What about the money? And the poor sister? She has so little to offer now without that dowry. Have you seen her tonight? Poor dear, her looks appear to be fading fast. And wearing scarlet!”

  “A scarlet woman, if you ask me,” said the other.

  Clara writhed. Really? People thought that of her?

  “Is it any wonder she’s resorted to the likes of that Kemsley man? What? You have not heard of him? Did something heroic near Africa, I believe, was supposed to receive a great deal of prize money from the Prince Regent for his efforts, but didn’t. You know what Prinny is like. If he doesn’t do something straight away, he’ll just as likely say he never intended it to happen. Takes a pet about the most absurd things. Did you hear about the theatre manager’s daughter? Apparently she has a child Prinny refuses to recognize …”

  Their voices faded away. The hammering in her chest dropped a fraction. When she judged herself sufficiently composed, she returned to the ballroom, smiling brightly, trying to catch the eye of anyone who might wish to dance with her, thus showing the spiteful cats just how wrong they had been.

  And then it happened. In an attempt to escape the beady eyes across the ballroom, she lifted her gaze and met the cool hazel eyes of Lord Hawkesbury. His lip curled with scorn. Her insides chilled. All her good intentions drained away.

  Fortunately, a gentleman came to her rescue, and she’d agreed to dance before realizing it was the ancient Lord Broughton again. Somehow, through tear-blinded eyes, she managed to stumble around the ballroom, before he released her early, sending her tripping into the next set of dancers. Cheeks afire with mortification, she rushed to find Lady Asquith, who took one look at her before beckoning her husband and Clara’s parents, and taking them home.

  There were no bouquets the following day.

  There were many tears and recriminations.

  For the ball, of which such high hopes had been fostered, had proved yet another spectacular failure.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  “I CANNOT BELIEVE it!”

  Ben glanced up from the newspaper; Wellington’s narrow victory against Napoleon’s forces had filled columns for days. “Cannot believe what?”

  Tessa’s bottom lip grew pronounced, in the manner it had since she was a young girl whenever she was upset. She held out a letter. “Clara. She writes to say she’s returned to Brighton.”

  He snatched up the letter, read the perfect copperplate ream of regrets. Clara was sorry … family concerns drew her home … hoped Tessa continued to enjoy her time …

  “I don’t understand. One minute she was so warm and affable, the next it was like she had no wish to know me.”

  “You cannot take this personally,” Ben said, patting her hand. “Remember not everyone’s actions need revolve around you.”

  She chuckled, drawing her hand away, even as she mock glared. “You are quite abominable, sometimes.”

  “I know,” he said meekly, eliciting, as he’d hoped, another spurt of laughter from her.

  “At least Lord Featherington hasn’t abandoned us.”

  “No.” His mood dipped. The viscount’s attentions had yet to wane, which only served to increase Tessa’s hopes and his own misgivings. It couldn’t end well, could it? He believed in miracles, but surely she’d be deemed a poor match for a future marquess. But how to dissuade his sister without causing further upset? He’d mentioned his concern to Aunt Addy, but she had only waved off his fears with an assurance that neither heart was fully engaged.

  Ben was not so sure. There were moments when he’d seen a special light in Tessa’s eyes he’d never witnessed before. And even for the viscount, a kind of softening wonder in his expression when he gazed upon Tessa suggested she was some form of heaven-sent creature. Ben could not like it, could not trust it. Tessa, twelve years Ben’s junior, to be thinking of marriage? He settled back in his chair, eyeing his breakfast with disfavor.

  The dining-room door opened, admitting Aunt Adeline in a state that could only be described as agitated. He pushed to his feet but she waved him back down, clutching a letter in her hand, saying with a distracted air, “Oh, my de
ars. Have you received one, too?”

  “A letter from Clara?” Tessa said. “Oh, Aunt, it is just too bad of her.”

  “Clara? What’s this about Clara?”

  “She’s returned to Brighton.” Tessa thrust the letter towards her. “She gave a host of trumped-up excuses, but I think she does not wish to see us anymore.”

  “No, no. You must not think that, Theresa. She is a sweet girl, I am sure, though rather at the mercy of those society-obsessed parents.”

  She cast Ben a swift look which gave him pause. What could Lord and Lady Winpoole have against them? Was it something against him? He gripped his coffee cup more firmly.

  Aunt Addy continued. “I have had a letter also. From your brother, of all people.”

  “George?”

  “He is the only brother you have, is he not, Benjamin? He writes to say he intends to come to London and stay a few days.”

  “Why?”

  “That is a mystery his letter does little to elucidate. He merely states that he intends to visit us on the twenty-seventh. And today is the twenty-sixth!”

  “Typical George,” Ben muttered. “Never thinking of anyone but himself.”

  “Well, he did at least write to inform me.”

  “Inform you, yes. Not request permission.”

  “Hmm. Well, I suppose as baronet he might not feel permission necessary.”

  “I don’t like it,” said Tessa. “First Clara goes, then George comes. He’ll spoil everything.”

  Ben picked up his coffee cup, eyeing the two ladies sitting across the table. “He must have some reason for coming. He rarely comes to town, so it must signify something of import.”

  “I wonder what it can be,” Tessa said, eyes rounding. “Do you think he is unwell?”

  “No,” he scoffed. “George was in the pink of health only two weeks ago. He’s probably here for some fancy London tailor to fix him up with expensive, baronet-worthy clothes.”

  Aunt Addy nodded. “Perhaps that is it, for a baronet must be seen to dress appropriately.”