The Dishonorable Miss DeLancey

by Carolyn Miller

  Finally the dreadful lurching of the carriage stopped, and she was half lifted, half dragged down. “Stand up, you silly chit.”

  She promptly collapsed on the ground.

  “Clara, enough!” Richard seized her arm, jerking her higher. Pain shot up her arm, forcing her to release an almighty wail.

  Slap!

  A violent stinging sensation roared across her cheek. Her face swung round, her neck wrenching, as she saw the open palm come again, and woozily ducked from harm’s way.

  “Richard!”

  “How dare you address me so?”

  There was the sound of another slap—one not aimed at Clara—then a cry, and muffled whimpers. Perhaps Meg would not be travelling any farther, after all. Clara forced herself to her knees and glanced up to see two fishermen watching by a rowboat, their mouths agape. Mortification enveloped her more thoroughly than if she’d been dropped into the midst of the Channel. How humiliating!

  She slowly rose, and stood, feet slipping on the tiny stones, her knees trembling, but aiming to muster as much dignity as possible. She looked at her brother. “Why are you doing this?”

  “I need money, Clara. What was I supposed to do?”

  “You were supposed to behave as a gentleman.” She nearly spat the word.

  “Haven’t you heard? I appear to have lost any claim to that label right about the time you lost any right to be called an Honorable.”

  She refused to let the old wound sting. Time to change tack. “Where are you taking me?”

  “You’ll find out soon enough.”

  He yanked her forward, muttering curses as she tried to escape his grasp. Oh, if only the fishermen knew to rescue her! But how could they recognize her as anything but a strumpet, dressed as she was in a thin nightgown, with blood trickling down her face. Probably they’d not think anything of a finely dressed gentleman beating a woman or two. Surely no hope of help could be expected from them.

  No, she’d have to keep praying those angels on guard on that wild night so many months ago knew to look on Brighton’s beach this cool dawn. She stumbled, stones biting into her feet. About half a mile offshore she could see a small yacht waiting.

  “Miss DeLancey.” She froze. “I did not expect to find you quite so eager to meet me here.”

  Stomach curdling, she slowly turned to meet Lord Houghton’s gaze. “What do you want?”

  He smiled. “I’m here to make sure you end up married to the right man.”

  “And who might that be?”

  “Why me, of course.” He looked her over, the predatory glint in his eyes receding into a frown. “Although I did not expect to see you arrayed quite so … casually. Nor so bloodied.”

  Bile rose in her mouth. She swallowed. “I’m afraid you’re mistaken.”

  One graying brow pushed high. “Not a situation I’m terribly familiar with, I admit. Tell me, my dear, how am I mistaken?”

  “About the man who is right for me to marry.”

  “Clara,” Richard said in a warning voice.

  “It certainly isn’t you! You are a vile, wicked man. I despise you.”

  “Clara!”

  “In fact, your evil only makes my husband-to-be look all the more heroic! He may not have an old title or a great estate, but he loves me and wants what is best for—ow!” She rubbed her arm where Lord Houghton had pinched her.

  “Don’t hurt her,” Richard muttered.

  “That’s rather rich, coming from somebody who already has,” Lord Houghton sneered. “But then one might expect anything from a man willing to sell his sister.”

  Clara swiped at the trickling blood and eyed her brother. “You sold me?”

  “He promised me money, Clara,” he muttered, looking down. “I had no choice.”

  “You always have a choice.” She sank onto the beach. If Lord Houghton wanted her, she would make that as difficult as possible for him. “See, Richard? A choice.”

  “Get up,” Lord Houghton said.

  Clara refused to move, sinking her fingers into the ground. She fisted her hands around large pebbles. Did stones still kill monsters today?

  “Get up!” Lord Houghton yanked the arm Richard had hurt earlier, forcing her yelp of pain—and to release the rocks.

  “Stop it!” Richard cried. “Clara, I know what you must think of me, but you must do what he says.”

  “It makes no difference now what she thinks,” Lord Houghton said, putting his hand in his coat pocket. “You got her here as you said, and dressed quite appropriately I must say, considering what activities I have planned shortly.”

  Oh, dear God!

  “Now all that remains is payment.”

  Richard’s eyes gleamed with avarice, and he stretched out a hand.

  The sound of a gunshot ricocheted off the streets of early morning Brighton, freezing Ben’s steps. God forbid Clara was hurt! He could never live with himself—

  “Come on!” Braithwaite tugged at Ben’s arm, almost dragging him towards the shore. Thank God for his friend, whose presence offered a measure of reassurance. There was precious little to reassure otherwise.

  He refused to let his mind wander over the exchange of looks between Clara and the earl. He refused to wonder whether she would accept Ben’s suit.

  The recriminations intensified one hundredfold. This was his faulty plan. His mistakes. How could he have lost Richard twice in one night?

  They ascended a rise. Beyond, the sea glistened with the promise of daybreak. But there’d be no cleansing swim today. Ahead, he could see several fishermen gawking at the scene below on the beach. Nearby, a woman sprawled on the ground, her hysterical sobbing suggesting they should slow their steps.

  Braithwaite moved beside her, helping her up to a more dignified position. “Miss?”

  Clara’s maid. The third figure from earlier. Ben fought the rising tide of panic. “Where are they?”

  She pointed to the beach.

  Ben gestured for Braithwaite to follow, and skirted the shore in reconnaissance. The beach was surprisingly deserted, save for three figures stopped halfway to a small rowboat where two men waited. Beyond, a small sloop, its sail trimmed for speed, bobbed in the water. It could only mean one thing: Clara was meant to sail to France.

  His mouth dried. From here he could see the gleam of Lord Houghton’s gun, could see Richard sprawled on the sand, and Clara bending over him, shoulders convulsing as if she were crying. No sounds reached him at this distance. Lord Houghton yanked at Clara to stand, but she shook her head.

  What could he do? Although he could more than hold his own in a fist-fight, he was too far away to assist now. And he had no weapon. Dear Lord, help us!

  “Kemsley.”

  He jumped. “Hawkesbury!”

  The earl focused on the figures below. “Forgive the surprise. Apparently my army scouting training still proves its worth. Now, what do we know?”

  “It appears working with Johnson wasn’t enough for DeLancey, and he had another rig with Houghton. That old lecher appears to have shot him. Clara’s behavior suggests it might be fatal.”

  “Might be the best thing for that family if that scoundrel—Forgive me, Kemsley. I should not speak ill—”

  “I quite understand,” Ben muttered. He’d never hated anyone with more intensity than he did Richard right now, though Houghton was coming a very close second. How he wished for a ship so he might keelhaul the pair of them. His hands fisted; he exhaled slowly. Such thoughts would not assist Clara. “What shall we do?”

  “I borrowed a pair of pistols from our host last night. I thought you could have one—”

  Ben shook his head. “I’ve never been a crack shot.”

  “Ah. I was considered something of a marksman on the Peninsular, but using another man’s pistols means things are never guaranteed. And while you may think I have no liking for Miss DeLancey, I certainly have no wish to put a bullet through her. But if I provide a distraction, perhaps you two”—he nodded to Brait
hwaite—“can somehow remove her from danger, and we can ensure Houghton does not continue in his perfidy.”

  Ben breathed in the salty air, as the first gleams of sunrise stole across the sea. Thoughts churned within before gradually settling into clarity, and he finally felt like he was on firm land. “God help us,” he said aloud.

  “Amen.”

  CHAPTER THİRTY-ONE

  TEARS OBSCURED CLARA’S vision as she worked desperately to stem the blood blooming through Richard’s shirt. Dear God, help us.

  His mouth sagged, and he looked at Clara with something approaching disbelief. “I did not realize …”

  She managed a weak smile, trying to communicate her forgiveness. “Honor among thieves is never really honor, is it?”

  His face seemed suddenly forlorn, like a lost little boy. “I never meant things to turn out like this. I only wanted money. When I realized Johnson only wanted to kill Hawkesbury it was too late. Houghton offered money, and I—”

  “Shhh, don’t speak. You need your strength.”

  “You’re nothing but a fool,” Lord Houghton snarled. “As if I’d give you money.”

  “Houghton!”

  The voice from the headland stole their attention. Lord Hawkesbury.

  Houghton swore and grasped her to himself. A muzzle pressed against her ear. She felt herself sway, but she would not faint. She would not! She had to help save—

  “Let her go, Houghton,” the earl called, lifting a pistol.

  “Never!”

  “Let her go,” Richard’s voice came weakly. “Clara—”

  “Richard, I forgive you.”

  She was dragged away from her brother, along the beach to where a small rowboat sat. The two fishermen she’d noticed earlier were gone.

  “Where are those fools?” Lord Houghton muttered.

  “Perhaps they didn’t like your method of payment.”

  He lifted the gun again. She flinched, and he laughed, eyes hard and cold. “Get in.”

  “I’d rather die here with my brother than go anywhere with you.”

  “That might still be arranged. Now get in.” He wrenched her arm—why did they always choose her weakened left arm?—and forced her inside the small boat. She huddled in the rear, arms wrapped around herself to ward off the chill coming from the water as Lord Houghton tugged the boat to the water, his weapon still prominently displayed. She glanced over her shoulder. This position revealed the earl moving closer, pistol still raised, consternation on his face. No doubt he wished for a clear shot at Lord Houghton; how gratifying to know his resentment toward her was not so deep that he’d willingly risk her an injury.

  With a few grunted pushes, they were in the water, and Houghton was rowing out to the small sailing boat. Waves were small, variously pulling them deeper, then pushing them back, but Lord Houghton persisted, with strength surprising for both his age and air of sophistication. She peered back at the shore. Lord Hawkesbury now seemed a speck; she could see figures clustered around Richard. Her heart cramped anew.

  “Hawkesbury can’t help you now,” Houghton said. “Your stupid sailor is nowhere to be seen.”

  Her insides froze. She hadn’t seen Mr. Kemsley in an age. Had he given up on her, too?

  “Nobody is going to help you now, Miss DeLancey.”

  Except, that wasn’t quite true, a small voice murmured.

  Lord, what should I do?

  A verse from a psalm read on Sunday surged to mind, something about how God was mightier than the mighty waves of the sea. She eyed the water. How deep was it? Could she swim? She wasn’t bound. Once they reached the boat, she might not have another chance to escape. How she wished now she had tried swimming as she and Mattie had discussed so long ago!

  “Do not get any ideas,” Lord Houghton warned. “I will not fish you out.”

  “Is that a promise?”

  “What?”

  “As I said earlier, I’d rather die than spend any more time with you.” She stood, rocking the small vessel wildly.

  “Clara, no!”

  But she ignored him, jumping from the boat to plunge into the stingingly chilled water.

  Ben rubbed the seawater from his eyes, watching from the prow of the sloop as Clara vanished into the depths. No! He climbed up on the side. He couldn’t lose her. Houghton was yelling, searching frantically, but the sea remained too dark, the water too murky. Houghton would never find her in time. So he dived in.

  The water at once stung and sedated. He’d forgotten until he’d dived the impact on his nose, and now struggled to breathe. He’d be lucky to even have a nose once this day was done.

  With a gasp he broke the surface, then swam with clean, sure strokes, working to keep the terror at bay. God had proved faithful so far, giving Braithwaite and Ben strength to disable the two men Houghton had hired for the rowboat, then the ability to swim out to the sloop undetected by the ship’s crew, who now lay bound or out cold, taken by surprise when they’d climbed aboard. Surely God would remain faithful now.

  Eventually he reached the bobbing rowboat, where Houghton was swearing worse than any sailor Ben had ever heard.

  Houghton turned. “About time! I hoped one of you would notice the wretched girl—” He peered at Ben more closely. “Wait! Aren’t you—”

  Ben duck-dived down, away from the yelled obscenities, ignoring the intense pain in his nose as he searched for a trace of white.

  Memories surged, of another lady lost at sea, of another dangerous night and horrible adventure. A life he should have saved.

  Gritting his teeth, he pushed aside water, thrusting forward through choppy waves. There!

  He pulled closer, closer. Clara was flailing, hair streaming behind her, white gown adhering to her body like some mythical Grecian sea-nymph.

  He drew near, grasped her hands, and tugged her up to break the surface, where she coughed and spluttered, gasping as she released the seawater.

  “Good girl.” He hooked an arm around her torso, and kicked toward safety, allowing waves to propel them towards shore. Behind him, he could hear Houghton’s screams. Ahead, past the whitecaps, he could see Hawkesbury’s frantic pacing and figures huddled around Richard’s body. His clutch firmed. He finally had Clara in his arms, able to prove himself again, to set to rest the failures of the past.

  They reached the shallows, and he stumbled forward to collapse on the pebbled beach, Clara still in his arms. Her green eyes were wide with fright, she was muttering incoherencies, her hair tangled in her face. Ben smoothed away the dark strands from her eyes, from the bloodied graze on her forehead. “Hush, my love, you are safe now.”

  The moisture sheening her face was not only seawater. “You won’t leave me?”

  “Never,” he promised.

  She burrowed into his chest, clinging tight. He wrapped his arms around her, until her trembling ceased, and the heat stirring within bade him to remember he’d been born a gentleman, and she a viscount’s daughter. He reluctantly released her, shifting away, conscious of onlookers, of feet hurrying toward—

  “Kemsley! Look out!”

  A shot blasted from behind. Beach pebbles scattered in an arc less than a foot from Clara’s head. Ben hurled himself across her, spanning yet not touching her, the protectiveness surging within demanding he shield her from all danger.

  “Ben!” Terror rimmed the green of her eyes, her shivering becoming marked.

  “Stay still.” He gritted out a reassuring smile, his knee throbbing as he maintained the awkward position, bracing himself with his elbows and feet to avoid contact. Heaven forbid her mother—or any of Brighton’s infamous gossips—see them in such a shocking near embrace.

  Another shot rang out. Behind him, he could hear a man’s scream, then a thud.

  Clara gasped, hers eyes widening even more. She was so close, he could see golden flecks in her eyes, feel her breath on his cheek, see her rosy lips tremble, inviting him to offer comfort the way he dreamed. Still he dared not move.<
br />
  There was a crunch of boots on stones. He lifted his head as Hawkesbury neared, a gleaming pistol hanging loosely in his hand.

  The earl offered a grim smile. “There’s no need to worry now.”

  Ben pushed away and sat up, as the man Clara had once loved stripped off his coat and helped her into it. Jealousy flickered. He tamped it down, working to stem his insecurities by avoiding gazing at the pair murmuring together, choosing instead to focus on the small boat bobbing out at sea, the slumped figure of Houghton pitching with every shifting wave. A sharp breeze cut through his sodden clothes, reminding him of the need to find his coat and dry garments.

  He drew in a ragged, painful breath, then forced himself to rise and walk unsteadily away.

  CHAPTER THİRTY-TWO

  THE SICKROOM HELD the stench of death. Even in departing this world, Richard’s calamitous influence held sway. The poison leaching through his body from the bullet wound had led to a fever that weakened him a little more each day. The doctor could do little for him; Clara could do nothing save pray and hope her oft-stated forgiveness eased his mind. He rambled about conquests and depravity, of which she tried hard not to hear. When he was really bad—describing his dealings with some of the light-skirts he’d encountered—the doctor or Father would insist she leave, and she would escape gratefully.

  “Clara.” Richard’s over-bright eyes turned to her, the sheen on his brow evidence of burning sickness.

  She sank a little lower in the chair, the better for him to see her face. “What is it?”

  “I am dying.”

  Her eyes pricked, her throat clamped, forcing her to nod in answer.

  “I … I didn’t realize …” His voice trailed off, as had happened many times when he would either lose his thoughts or fall asleep.