Tessa grabbed Clara’s hand. “See? You must help me. I cannot have her know just how simply I am usually attired.”
“I’m sure she’d still be able to see your natural grace and charm even if dressed like a pauper.”
Lord Featherington coughed. “A charming thought, Miss DeLancey, and ’tis kind of you to say, but I rather doubt it. Mama is something of a stickler for fashion. But never mind.” Before another word could be said, he’d tucked Tessa’s arm under his and they walked away.
Ben turned to Clara, who by now had regained all poise from earlier in the evening. “Do you feel a little better now?”
“A little better, yes, thank you.” Her smile faded. “I do not know what I would have done if you had not come in—”
“Please, don’t think on it anymore. Houghton is a scoundrel and a man whom you need never deal with again.”
“But the Prince wished me to return on Tuesday. What if he is here?”
He clasped her hand. “Then I will be here to protect you.”
How he wished he could always promise to do so. They stared at each other a moment longer, until he became aware that her parents were approaching. He released her hand, stepped back a pace. “Once again, I thank you for what you’ve done for me and for my sister. I can but pray for both circumstances to resolve as God sees fit.”
“Clara?” Her mother approached, looking between them with a piercing stare. “Are you quite well? Your father has told me you were taken ill.”
“I …” Clara coughed, her eyes beseeching, as Lord Winpoole met him in a level gaze.
He did not like to lie, but he also preferred avoiding unnecessary trouble. “Miss DeLancey is feeling better, ma’am. She was just now talking to my sister, who was most grateful for your daughter’s assistance in several matters.”
“Really?” She frowned, glancing between him and Clara.
He refused to take offense. “Your daughter is most magnanimous in her thoughtfulness towards others. My family is deeply appreciative.”
“Well, er, good, then.” She gave him a puzzled look before peering at her daughter. “Clara? You seem a little peaky. Do you wish to see the fireworks or shall we go home? I confess I have something of the headache and have no inclination to stay if you do not desire it, but I’m prepared to stay if you want.”
“I would much prefer to go home,” Clara murmured.
“Good,” her mother said, with a relieved smile. “For really, I could not bear to stay a moment longer. These things can get quite tiresome, although I will admit that it was quite nice to hear so many people singing your praises. Lady Sefton was quite impressed …”
As she ushered Clara away, Ben caught a quick glimpse of Clara’s eyes before she was turned determinedly to the exit.
Which left him standing with Lord Winpoole. The viscount shuffled his feet, glancing away, before finally holding out a hand. “I suppose I must thank you.”
Ben shook it. “I meant what I said, sir.”
The viscount released his hand and looked down.
“I will do my utmost to protect her, all her days,” Ben swallowed, “if you were to so honor me with the privilege.”
“I gathered you … cared for her, but …”
Ben’s heart grew taut. Here it came.
Lord Winpoole shook his head. “But what can you offer her? She has little dowry, I’m afraid to say, and by all accounts neither have you much money. And you’ve no title. I won’t deny that you have more character than some, but character won’t feed or house my daughter.”
The hope stirred up from earlier was drifting away. “I hope the Prince will recall his promise of restitution when we meet again.”
“Prinny? He’ll be lucky to remember he invited us for Tuesday, let alone that you wished to remind him of any obligations he’s obviously long forgotten. No, I’m sorry Kemsley, but as a father who must ensure his only daughter makes the most advantageous match available, I cannot encourage you to entertain any hope.”
“But sir—”
“Good evening to you.”
Something akin to despair coiled inside him as the viscount turned to follow his wife and daughter.
Cold reality had blown hope far away.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FİVE
Tuesday
CLARA HUDDLED ON her bed, snatches of memory from the past few days running through her head. Her sense of victory last Friday after her performance, when she’d met the eyes of society and known herself to be esteemed once more—victory that had quickly slid into utter fear amid the lecherous gropings of Lord Houghton. Her shame when discovered by Mr. Kemsley, a feeling that melded into extreme gratitude and reassurance, knowing she was cared for by someone as capable of knocking down her enemy as praying for her. For a few minutes, she’d allowed herself to believe that in his tenderness she’d find a future, that she could be loved for being who she was, that he’d meant those words about her sweetness, even as she doubted him. Surely that look in his eye was not prideful deception, nor the way he’d gazed upon her mouth, nor his words about a kiss.
Her eyes filled. She blinked the tears back. Was it better to blink or let them fall? She could not afford red eyes tonight, but neither did she want them to look puffy. Oh, why was she so concerned anyway? What could any of it matter?
But it did, and she allowed her thoughts to wander back to that moment of tender refuge. That he cared for her, she knew. Or had thought she’d known. He had made it plain that evening, but upon their next meeting after services on Sunday, she had not been so sure. He had scarce looked upon her, much less spoken to her. After their previous time together, where she’d thought such intimacy had been exchanged with scarcely a touch, his aloofness had hurt in a way she’d not imagined possible since the earl’s rejection so long ago.
Had she done something to upset him? Perhaps, upon reflection, he’d realized she was not so sweet as he avowed, and he believed her actions wanton, like Father had implied. Her throat constricted. She took in a shuddery breath. Had she thoroughly spoiled things between them? Would her actions from years ago forever haunt her?
She turned, careful not to disturb the elaborate coiffure the hairdresser had labored over for hours. At least Tessa was not displeased with Clara. Her brother—indeed, both brothers—might have reservations, but Tessa seemed desirous of continuing the relationship, especially in light of her interview with Lady Exeter. “Oh, tell me Clara. What must I do? What should I wear? You must advise me!”
Clara had promised to lend her assistance, and Tessa and Matilda’s morning visit yesterday had left Tessa arrayed in one of Clara’s near-new London gowns, a creamy muslin overlaid with tiny rosebuds. It was most appropriate for a girl of Tessa’s years and now, neatly altered by Matilda’s nimble fingers, looked as though made for her.
Their return visit later that evening had gone well, Tessa exuberant with success, the marchioness so impressed she had invited Tessa to dine with her while the men dined at the Pavilion tonight, which thus necessitated another borrowed gown. Clara smiled, wondering if continued assistance might mean her wardrobe would be forever depleted, unless Lord Featherington finally summoned courage enough to make his wishes known to his sire. She knew Mattie held no objections to the match; she’d said as much yesterday. Apparently Lord Featherington had joined them for a meal on Sunday after services, the subsequent interview among the men leaving them all convinced his intentions were as genuine as his faith, a faith that saw him forego gambling and intemperance for solicitude for others, revealed in the sizeable donation he’d made to the Sailors and Soldiers’ Hostel.
Her smile faded. Would Mr. Kemsley ever speak to her father? Or would he think it more honorable to wait until things were settled with the Regent, and he could offer more than just his heart? Her spirits dipped. That is, if he still wished to make Clara an offer at all …
She bit her lip. Perhaps he had already spoken to her father. That might account for why Father had barely looked
at her these past days, and every conversation between them had felt stilted and constrained. Her heart jolted. What if Father had not given his consent?
Her eyes burned; she willed away the tears. She would not spoil tonight. Besides, all this worry reflected lack of faith. She’d seen God answer even unspoken prayers; surely He knew and would intervene and cause her paths to straighten, as she trusted Him?
She closed her eyes, let out a sigh. Help me trust You, Lord.
A measure of peace lodged in her soul. She did not need to worry. Everything was organized, from tonight’s meal and their transportation to the Pavilion, to Clara’s music—Mozart’s Piano Sonata Number 11 in A Major—and her attire tonight. Her red gown from London had been altered once again, with lace inserts on the sleeves and neckline to avoid immediate recognition, thus saving Father further expense, whilst still making her look elegant. She needed only to rest, to sleep, to not think. She’d done all she could do to ensure Tessa would be seen by the viscount’s family in the best possible light, had done all she could to ensure Mr. Kemsley would have his case heard. All she could do now was hope, and pray, that the evening lived up to her wildest imaginings.
She squeezed closed her eyes. Relax. Trust. Believe. She breathed in. Released air slowly. Relax. Trust. Believe. God was in control. So relax. Trust. Believe—
A long, slow creak snapped her eyes open to the door. She gasped. “You!” Her brother smiled his thick-lipped smile. “Hello, Clara. It’s been a while.”
“Not long enough,” she muttered, pushing into a sitting position. “What are you doing here?”
“What reason do I need to see my family whom I love?”
“Love?” She snorted. “You do not love us. If you did, you would never have caused us so many problems,” she said bluntly.
His eyes widened. “How can you say such things? My own dear, sweet sister.” His gaze grew hard. “I hear you’re going to the Pavilion tonight.”
“How did you know?”
He shrugged. “I have my sources.”
“Good news travels fast.”
“News, anyway.” His eyes seemed cold in the dim light of the room. The planes of his face shadowed as he glanced at his fingernails. “I did not know you still associated with the upper echelons of society.”
“I imagine there is quite a lot you do not know about me.”
“I probably know more than what you realize,” he said, in a tone that sent a chill up her spine.
She swung her legs off the bed, pulled on a wrapper. The day was warm but inside she felt more icy than a treat from Gunter’s. “What is it you want?”
He sighed. “What is it anyone wants these days?”
“Money,” she said flatly.
“You know me well.”
The old indignation rose. “What’s the matter? My dowry not enough?”
“I really wish you wouldn’t harp on about such things.”
“I’m sure you wish a lot of things.” She shook her head. “We have so little. And you cannot barge in expecting Mother and Father to turn around and give you more. They cannot even speak of you without getting upset!”
“Still?”
“Still! You hurt us all immeasurably.”
“Yes, well, some things cannot be helped.”
“Of course they can,” she said, eyeing him with dislike. “You chose to gamble, you chose to steal, you chose—”
“Goodness. You’re beginning to sound as self-righteous as that chilly little cow I felt up for you at the Bathurst ball.”
“For me?” She pushed to her feet, her fingers clenched. “How dared you treat her so? In attacking Lavinia you did me great disservice! I can never forgive you for such an act.”
“No?” He took a pinch of snuff. “Decided to forget the earl, have we?”
“Yes. They are married, and happily so, I might add. What’s more, I am glad!”
He chuckled nastily. “That I will believe when I see it.”
“What do you mean?”
“Hawkesbury and his little farmhand wife are also going tonight.”
“What?”
This time his chuckle had an even more unnerving quality. “You seem a little startled. Not quite what you hoped?”
“It makes no difference to me. I have no interest in that quarter.”
“So I’ve heard, whereas I …”
She refused to bite. Refused to bite. Refused to—“What have you heard?”
He laughed. “I heard you have been spending an inordinate amount of time with a certain former captain of His Majesty’s Navy.”
“What of it?”
“Such low taste, my dear. Hardly what I would expect from you.”
“People change. You proved that well enough.”
His face darkened. “I see your propensity for nasty talk has not left you entirely.”
“Only when it comes to people worthy of it,” she murmured.
He loomed over her, his face mere inches from hers. But she refused to back away, refused to let him see her sudden fear. “I need you to do something for me, Clara.”
She laughed in disbelief. “I think your days of being able to demand my cooperation are long gone.”
“You can think that all you like, but you will do what I say.”
“You cannot make me.”
“No?”
Before she knew it, he had her hand twisted behind her back and was pulling painfully, even more painfully. “Stop!”
He jerked harder. “You want me to stop? Then you must agree to what I say.”
“How can I agree when I don’t even know what it is you want?”
“Agree!”
Her arm felt like it would snap. How could she play tonight? She felt a shriek rise within. “Fine! Stop. What is it?”
He released the pressure slightly, and she yanked her arm away. “I want you to speak to Hawkesbury tonight.”
“What? No.”
“I want you to speak to him outside, while the fireworks are on. I want you to take him aside and let him see just what he’s missing.”
She stared at him in horror. “You want me to do what?”
“Kiss him, hold him, do whatever. I know you are not as virtuous as you’d like our dear parents to think.”
“How dare you?”
“Did you think your sordid little tête-à-tête in the Regent’s chambers would go unnoticed? I assure you, it did not.”
Her senses began to swim. “Who told you?”
He laughed. “Who did not, you mean? You know your conduct is the talk of Brighton now.”
“No. Nobody saw us, nobody knew.” She tried to still herself, to listen to what she knew was true. Memories screamed at her instead.
London society eyeing her askance, sniggering behind raised fans. The on dit—oh, the poisonous gossip!—she knew only too well. Knew what they had said. Knew what they would say.
Richard laughed again, soft and pitilessly. “Surely you did not think such things would go unnoticed? The Regent built that monstrosity with the intention of keeping scandals secret, but they could never be kept secret from all his staff.”
“Did Houghton—”
He smiled.
“I don’t know what Houghton told you, but he lies.”
“No matter. Enough smoke and people are all too willing to believe there’s been a fire.”
She swallowed. “I cannot. I will not treat the earl that way.”
He grabbed her hand, crushing her fingers mercilessly. “You will.”
“Richard, stop!” Tears sprang to her eyes. “You’re hurting me!”
“I know. I find I have a taste for it these days, and it proves most difficult to stop.”
“Please, Richard, I don’t think you really want to hurt them.”
“You would be surprised.” Blackness crossed his face. “I never thought I hated anyone until I met him. In abandoning you, he poisoned all my chances.”
“No, you are wrong. He did not
abandon me. He just did not love me.”
“His reasons do not matter. It still amounted to the same. The loss of our good name, our prospects. Our financial security.”
“But that was not the earl’s fault! He did not steal Father’s money and gamble it away.” She eyed him steadily, saw him flush. “And my actions were not wise. I reveled too much in self-pity. I should have concealed my hurt rather than go along with Mother’s schemes to win him back, but I was deluded into thinking myself more highly sought than I ever was.”
“How can you defend him?” He muttered a curse. “After what he did?”
“I forgave him.”
“Forgave him?” He looked at her incredulously, his grip loosing.
“Please, Richard,” she snatched her hand away, rubbing uselessly at the pain. “What you are asking is against everything I believe.”
“So you are like them now? I heard rumors that you’d gotten religious, that you even helped out at some pathetic sailors’ shelter, but I could not in all my wildest imaginings credit that with any degree of truth.”
“I have.”
“And I bet Mother doesn’t know, does she?”
She stared at him. Where had the sweet-natured little boy gone? The one she used to laugh and play with? “I do not like you.”
“No, well you’re not the only one.” He glanced away, and for a moment she caught a glimpse of something that looked faintly like vulnerability. Her brother—the vile, invincible Richard—vulnerable?
Pity mixed with sorrow, renewing her resolve. “Richard, please. Please talk to Father. There has to be another way.”
He shook his head. “There is not.” His gaze fell to her hands, then crawled back to her face. “You know I met a man called Johnson. He proved most illuminating.”
“I do not care.”
“No? He used to be Hawkesbury’s agent at his little pile in Gloucestershire. He hates the man almost as much as I do.”
“I do not care. I will not help you. You can break my fingers if you like, but it will only make me more sorry for you than ever.”
Something flickered in his eyes. “You dare pity me?”
The Dishonorable Miss DeLancey Page 25