The Dishonorable Miss DeLancey

by Carolyn Miller

  “I wish …” Featherington shook his head again.

  George and Ben waited, unwilling to say anything that might hinder the viscount from offering the apology honor demanded from his conduct towards Tessa.

  He glanced away, studying the glass-fronted satinwood armoire as if its contents fascinated. When he turned back, his expression was cool, inscrutable.

  “I suppose it is for the best,” the viscount said, eyeing Ben in an unfriendly manner. “I cannot in all good conscience align myself with a family who chooses to associate with one that has maligned mine.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  The viscount lifted a shoulder. “That young lady you were so often seen with. Miss DeLancey? She has scarcely been backward in her interest in my cousin’s husband, even after he was a married man.”

  Heat writhed through his chest. “You are mistaken.”

  “Am I? Just ask anyone about her. She even had the nerve to confront Lavinia at the Seftons’ ball.”

  No. He refused to believe it. Not shy, sweet Clara. She would never behave in a less than decorous manner. And as for still caring for the Earl of Hawkesbury … Had Ben misread her? Hadn’t she shown interest in him?

  “I can see you don’t know her for who she truly is,” their guest jeered. “Both she and her brother are corrupt.”

  “What about her brother?” George asked, puzzlement knitting his brow.

  A dark look crossed the viscount’s face. “If ever I see that fiend it will be far too soon. He’s a blackguard, blackhearted like his sister—”

  “Please do not speak of her that way,” Ben said in a low voice.

  “I’ll speak of her however I choose!” Lord Featherington said, angry sparks shooting from his usually mild eyes.

  “Yes, but what’s this about her brother?” George persisted.

  “He’s a thief, as well as a villain. It’s said he gambled away nearly fifteen thousand pounds at one sitting at Watier’s, betting that Hartington’s child would be a boy.”

  “Fifteen thousand pounds!” George paled as though he might faint.

  “Not quite fifteen. He’d gambled plenty before that. But the loss was still the same. Stupid fool. It was a girl, of course. Rose. A sweet little thing,” he added, with a sudden smile. “Hartington later married my sister, you know.”

  George blinked. “The Duchess of Hartington?”

  “Yes. Charlotte has done well for herself.” He glanced at Ben, his expression hardening again. “But your Miss DeLancey has not.”

  It was pointless to argue the true nature of his non-relationship with Clara, so he kept quiet.

  “The Winpoole debt had to be paid from somewhere, so the dowry it was.” He made an expression of distaste. “How unfortunate for her that it wasn’t tied up and unable to be touched as everyone expected. I suppose you’re extremely disappointed.”

  Ben clenched his hands, yet met his gaze evenly. “I have no right to be disappointed.”

  “No?”

  “I would never wish to be a man who considers it the wife’s role to bring financial stability to a marriage.”

  “No? Well, you’re the only one!”

  Ben shrugged, glancing at George, who looked suddenly abashed. Well, well. Perhaps George did not share his scruples, and the beauty he saw in Miss Windsor had more to do with the handsome marriage settlements her father would pay than with any physical attraction. He shook his head at his cynicism.

  The viscount snorted. “I will not attempt to argue with you but will say only this: if you choose to stay associated with that family I can have nothing more to do with your sister.”

  Anger pushed Ben to his feet. “Then you have said all you can say, and I must ask you to leave.”

  “But I am the—“ George protested weakly.

  “Head of the family, yes we know.” Ben said, eyes not leaving the viscount’s flushed face. “I am disappointed, my lord, that your scruples do not allow you to overcome your past prejudice. I know Tessa will be grievously disappointed, but I should not wish her to align herself with someone so petty-minded, who would allow gossip to dictate her choice of friends.”

  “Very well.” The viscount rose, offered a stiff bow. “Please convey my regards to your sister and aunt. I regret I am unable to take formal leave of them.”

  Ben dipped his chin in response. George murmured something of obligation, and their guest was gone.

  His brother stared at him open-mouthed. “I did not figure him to be quite so, quite so …”

  “Much a dandy?”

  He shook his head. “Quite so irresolute. I felt sure he would fight for her more.”

  “Which says something about his character, does it not?”

  “I suppose.” George’s face took on a thoughtful cast.

  Ben hoped his brother would finally see reason. He would have preferred the encounter to not grow ugly, but perhaps it was better for the truth to be made plain about the viscount’s lack of character. Want of character was like scurvy, an insidious disease that rotted a man’s body as sure as a lack of principles could destroy an otherwise charming man.

  Poor Tessa. He couldn’t help but now feel a sense of relief, but how would she cope?

  His hands fisted as the viscount’s words swam around his brain. Featherington’s ultimatum might have exposed his personal failings, but he’d also exposed further truth and, in the process, had flicked Ben on the raw.

  Ben had wished for something more with Miss DeLancey. It was pointless denying it any longer. Such a desire had only clarified with the surge of jealousy he’d felt upon hearing her name coupled with Lord Hawkesbury’s. Poor lass. He knew the ache of unrequited affection.

  His hands fisted, then released. He shook his head, working to sort truth from the eddies of deceit. But still, the thought of Miss DeLancey bailing up the countess did not sit right. She always seemed so meek to him. Brittle, yes. Aloof, most certainly. But she was not the first person to encase her emotions with a facade far different from internal truth. He refused to believe her capable of such an action.

  The door burst open and Tessa flew in, glancing around, her face alight. “Where is he?”

  Ben captured her hands, held them tight, forcing her to still, to look at him. “He has gone.”

  “What? Without speaking to me?” Her face clouded, before lighting again. “Has he gone to speak with his father?” Her eyes shone. “Oh! Is he getting a special license?”

  He swallowed. This would prove harder than he’d thought. “He is not.”

  “Then … where is he? Why did he not wish to speak with me?”

  Ben exchanged a glance with George, but for once the self-proclaimed head of the family seemed reticent about the duties of his role. Ben swallowed. “I think he would have liked to speak with you,” he allowed.

  “But you would not let him.” Her eyes filled with tears. “I always knew you did not like him!”

  “Dearest Tessa, you know that is not true.”

  “I cannot believe it!” Tessa cried, prying her hands free to hit him on the chest. “How could you do such a thing?” she sobbed. “I thought you cared about my happiness.”

  “I do,” Ben said, trying to capture her flailing arms and failing. “Please, Tessa, don’t be angry with me.”

  One small hand reached up. A nail scratched his cheek. He winced.

  “Oh!” Tessa covered her mouth with a hand. “I’m sorry.”

  “It’s nothing,” he said, accepting the handkerchief George offered with muttered thanks. He pressed the cloth to his cheek for a few seconds. Removed it to see the bright stain of blood.

  “Oh, Benjie!”

  He forced himself to smile. “Just another scar to add to the collection.”

  Her bottom lip quivered. A tear traced her cheek.

  “I shouldn’t worry,” said George. “You’ll probably think he deserves it once you hear what he said.”

  “What did you say?” Tessa demanded, all sign
of remorse gone.

  George continued, “Featherington said he wanted Ben to give up his association with Miss DeLancey, whoever she is.”

  “She was never mine to give up,” Ben gritted out.

  “Lord Featherington said that?” Tessa looked between them, eyes wide with disbelief.

  “Yes.”

  “How dare he?” Something like disgust crossed her face. “I thought him more honorable than that.” Her bottom lip trembled again, only this time it seemed no anger was left to check it. Her face crumpled, she shuddered, and her shoulders convulsed piteously.

  Ben drew her to his chest, felt her tears soak through his shirt. His throat burned, his compassion flayed ragged and raw, like the back of a deserter under whips. “I’m sorry, Tessa.”

  He refused to meet his brother’s glare, conscious in this moment of wanting nothing more than to provide some comfort for his sister’s despair. And he wrapped her closer—with his arms, and in his prayers.

  CHAPTER EİGHTEEN

  Brighton

  Late July

  THE GROUNDS OF St. Nicholas were abuzz with conversation. The congregation had grown sizable in recent weeks, with an influx of visitors from London, here for the summer months by the sea. Clara wandered past pockets of gossip concerning the latest exploits of the Prince Regent and his extended family as she searched for Matilda.

  “Oh, yes, apparently he wants the Pavilion transformed into some sort of temple! A Hindustani design, so I’m led to believe. Oh, yes, my husband had it from the Chamberlain, Lord Houghton himself. Can’t say I care for such things myself, but you know Prinny’s never been one to do things by halves …”

  “… the Queen and the poor Princess, a sad thing, indeed. But is it any wonder, when she’s pursued by a rogue like that soldier? But he won a medal, so I suppose he cannot be all bad. Frightfully handsome they say, and possesses a good seat on a horse …”

  “… Imagine, wearing red to the Seftons’! I ask you!”

  Clara froze. She recognized that voice, the topic of that conversation. She glanced over her shoulder, saw Lady Osterley bend her head towards her cronies. “I won’t deny my Reginald was quite miffed, but I told him that a lady of her advanced years cannot afford to be so very choosy.”

  Clara smiled wryly to herself, casting aside the sting to appreciate the absurdity. Did Lady Osterley mean that as an insult to Clara or her own son?

  Her gaze met Lady Osterley’s widening one. Clara’s smile broadened. “Good morning, my lady.”

  “Miss DeLancey. I did not see you there.”

  “So I gathered. How is dear Reginald? Please send him my best regards.”

  The older lady’s face darkened to a shade of puce sure to be unhealthy. Clara sketched a curtsy and moved on, working to not allow the barbs of the ladies’ hostility to hook her heart. What was it Matilda had said? To pray blessings over her enemies? Heavenly Father, please help Lady Osterley find happiness. And Reginald, too. And help me not to allow her poison to infect me.

  “Clara! Oh, there you are.”

  “Matilda!” They hugged. “I was looking for you.”

  The brightness in her friend’s face faded. “And I you. Oh, I’ve so much to tell you.” She glanced over her shoulder. “I’m sure nobody would miss me, and if so, well, too bad. I simply must speak to someone or else burst. Can you spare a moment?”

  “Of course.”

  Matilda laid a hand on Clara’s arm, drawing her to a slightly less busy corner, near where the stone bell tower jutted.

  Clara eyed her friend, whose wan look gave cause for concern. “Matilda? You do not seem well. What is it?”

  Matilda’s eyes filled. “It’s poor Tessa. I received a letter from her yesterday. She writes that the viscount has called things off.”

  “Oh! Poor thing. I imagine she is devastated.”

  Matilda nodded miserably. “They’re planning on returning here in the next few days.”

  “Of course.” Clara bit her lip. She would not ask. She would not ask … “Benjie and George are coming, too.”

  A flicker of joy, then she remembered. She willed her emotions back to neutral. He would be as nothing to her, just as Lord Hawkesbury was.

  “He’ll be bringing his intended, too.” Clara’s heart gave another traitorous jolt. “He wants us to meet her.” Matilda muttered, “Thinks it only befitting his status as head of the family.”

  “Pardon?”

  “Oh, never mind. But I do hope I might rely on you to help Tessa through this difficult time.”

  “But of course. Anything I can do, please ask.”

  Matilda nodded, her countenance lightening a little. “I knew I could rely on you. You are a true friend.”

  Clara’s eyes filled. Nobody had ever said such a thing to her before. She blinked away the emotion as an elderly parishioner summoned Matilda.

  “Ah, Clara, at last.” Mother’s disgruntled voice reached her. “Are you ready? I have no wish to rush you, but I cannot stay a second longer. Would you believe that awful Lady Osterley had the nerve to give me the cut direct? Cut me?”

  Clara swallowed a throb of guilt. Matilda might believe her a true friend, but Clara’s actions had proved rather less than that of a loving daughter. “Are you sure she simply did not see you?”

  “Of course she saw me! How could she not?” Mother gestured to her Sunday finery, a somewhat brighter than usual arrangement of pink that had required all of Clara’s tact to assure still looked appropriate for one of her Mother’s years. Her face closed in consternation. “I cannot believe I ever gave that woman the time of day. How dare she, a trumped up little nobody from the back of Romney’s Marsh, have the nerve to snub me, whose lineage can be traced back to Charles the First? I ask you!”

  Clara patted her arm. “Never mind her. I am sure it is a misunderstanding that will be resolved later.”

  “I have no wish to resolve things with her. She is as one dead to me.”

  Her mother’s histrionics were nothing new. Clara offered a guilt-tinged smile. “Then shall we depart?”

  “Yes. Call the carriage at once, if you please. I cannot abide breathing the same air as her.”

  Good thing Lady Osterley was as one dead to Mother, Clara thought wryly, as they threaded through the dispersing crowds.

  “Miss DeLancey?”

  She turned. Met the dark gaze of a tall, handsome older gentleman. She raised a brow.

  He bowed. “Forgive me, we have not been properly introduced, I know. I am—”

  “Lord Houghton?” Mother moved beside her, hand outstretched. “How are you?”

  He bent over her hand, looking up with a smile. “Frederica. It’s been too long.”

  “Far too long,” Mother said, with an expression not dissimilar to that of a cat eyeing a bowl of cream. She gave a trill of laughter, her attitude a million miles away from what she’d expressed only seconds ago. “Tell me, what can the Prince Regent’s Chamberlain want with my daughter?”

  Clara blinked. “You serve the Prince Regent?”

  He nodded. “When His Highness is in attendance at the Pavilion.”

  “Oh!” she said, impressed.

  He smiled, quite a pleasant smile for someone who must be nearer Father’s age than her mother’s. It made him seem much younger. “And that is what brings me to wish to speak with you. But not here, not now,” he said glancing around at the curious eyes and ears turned their way. “Perhaps I might be permitted to call upon you tomorrow?”

  “O-of course,” she stammered.

  “We should be delighted, my lord,” Mother said gleefully.

  With another bow and a smile, he departed, leaving them clutching his card in wonder, before their carriage was called, and Mother dragged her past Lady Osterley, whose expression was everything Clara felt sure Mother had hoped it would be.

  What did Lord Houghton wish with her?

  Next day

  “LADIES, PLEASE FORGIVE my enigmatic approach yesterd
ay. I had no wish to embarrass or alarm you.”

  “Oh, Lord Houghton, please. We barely gave the matter a second thought, did we, Clara?” Mother said, with a stern eye, as if they had not spent the whole of yesterday and this morning in avid speculation.

  “No, Mother,” she said dutifully, aware their guest held amusement in his expression.

  “I’m so glad,” he said. “As I mentioned yesterday, I have a request that is certainly not meant to alarm you.”

  Clara swallowed. “A request?”

  “Yes.” He eyed her directly. “Miss DeLancey, your name was drawn to my attention recently when you were in London.”

  Her cheeks heated. “I see.”

  “Yes. Lady Sefton mentioned you.”

  Clara exchanged a look of horror with her mother. Oh, no!

  “She mentioned she had been speaking with Lady Asquith—”

  “She had?”

  He chuckled. “Yes. Your godmother, I believe? Apparently your performance was quite the talk of the night.”

  She froze. Which performance did he refer to? Her musical performance, or her dramatic flight from society the night of the ball?

  His warm chuckle came again. “There is no need to look so worried, my dear. I mention it simply because the Prince Regent is always a fan of musical talent.”

  Oh, her musical performance. The tightness in her shoulders relaxed, then resumed. Please God he hadn’t heard about the other!

  “I had hopes of persuading you to attend an evening at the Pavilion in the not-too-distant future when he is next entertaining.”

  What? Clara could only stare.

  Mother, on the other hand … “The Prince wants my Clara to play for him?” She gave a screech of joy. “Oh, the heavens are smiling at last! I knew one day we would see justice.”

  Lord Houghton cleared his throat, as if to hide the laughter his eyes revealed as they turned to her. “I trust that is affirmation you will attend?”

  “Of course she will,” said Mother. “Oh, could anything occur more wonderful? Oh, dear Lord Houghton, please convey our immense gratitude to His Highness. Oh, and tell us if there is a particular piece he prefers? And what is his favorite color? It would not do for Clara to dress in something of which he is not particularly fond. Oh, and when do you think this most auspicious event may be?”