The proposition, p.13
The Proposition, page 13
“We bicker and bicker, but it is always resolved come morning,” Connors replied. He gave a sad, bitter little laugh and stared down at the sherry in his hands. “Only…for once, he was not there come morning. I am sure this is all just a misunderstanding. Turner has a tender heart; he feels it all so deeply….”
Clemency blinked. Were they discussing the same man? The man who had snapped at her and called her a sphinx? Where was his tender, deeply feeling heart then? She bit back those questions, fighting against the burn of the sherry in her throat, picking her words with care. Mr. Ferrand had warned her, in a note that arrived at the house upon his departure for London, that the way forward demanded a degree of delicacy and finesse.
We have lost the advantage of surprise even if we have the scoundrel on the run, he had written. A cornered beast is desperate, and fights to the end with tooth and claw. Turner Boyle knows I am coming for him; therefore, we cannot afford even one more mistake. You do not know him as I do, he will vanish if pressed too far, and then, neither of us will have our satisfaction.
Audric thought himself very clever and sharp; Clemency could be clever and sharp too.
“I had no idea you were so close,” Clemency remarked lightly. That seemed to make him relax, and he gave another huffing laugh. “Almost like brothers. And if so, yes, brothers will quarrel, but all is forgotten and forgiven.”
“Brothers.” He drank more of the sherry. His nose had the permanent, splotchy red of a career drinker. “No, not brothers. Then…then, he did not often speak of me?”
In fact, he spoke of you only once and to make a hideous accusation.
Distant bells of warning chimed in her head. Delicacy. She turned toward the window again, determined to maintain an air of casual indifference. “He mentioned a disagreement,” she said, coy. “Some gentlemen’s business, but that was his reason for returning to London. He may not have given me the complete picture of the situation; it is surely not anything a woman should concern herself with.”
“Certainly not!” His voice shook with anger. She heard him slurp down more sherry. “It was only a misunderstanding. All over money, of course. So predictable. So vulgar!”
The carriage rattled more violently, bumping them back and forth. Clemency heard him swear under his breath and assumed he had spilled some of the drink on his coat. She sensed he wanted to keep talking, and simply looked down at her gloves, letting him swig and work up the courage.
“We are neither of us smart with money, that is for sure,” he muttered bleakly. “How his debts could all get called up at once…Just an unfortunate turn. It will get handled, of course. Of course, it will get handled, but— My apologies, we should talk of something else.”
No, no, no…
“You owe me no apologies, sir,” Clemency said gently. “Your concern for him is touching, really. I know so little of his family—it is heartening to think Lord Boyle has such a devoted friend.”
Jack Connors pinched his lips together, then nodded, rubbing the side of his head as if a headache was coming on. “Yes. I am a most devoted friend. And I worry for him. I worry for him so. That is why you see me now, why I am going to London at all.”
Clemency offered him a plying smile. “To resolve your misunderstanding?”
“And to aid him however I can.” Connors clicked his nails nervously along the edge of the sherry bottle. He drew up his shoulders, pushing out his chest. “He needs to know there is no enmity between us, that I was and remain his stalwart ally.” Then he turned to face her, reaching clumsily for Clemency’s hand and finding it. He jerked it onto his lap, sandwiching her hand in his palms. “And he must know that he is in danger. That you are both in danger.”
“Me? Us? In danger, sir?” She licked her lips, letting her mouth drop open in maidenly shock. “What sort of danger?”
Connors glanced at William and Tansy, verifying that they were both still sound asleep, swaying together to the rhythm of the carriage wheels over the road. Outside, the sun had plunged below the horizon. Jack Connors stared into her eyes, the dark surface of his glinting with fear.
“I should have realized sooner…Damned drink, I should have stopped, maybe then I would have realized…but regret will not help him now. Or you.” Connors stumbled over his words, jumping from thought to thought incoherently. “He told me a frightening tale. When first he came to stay on my property, he told me: Jack, if a man by the name of Ferrand ever comes here looking for me, you tell him that I am not here. That you have not seen me in years. Tell him that I am dead. Dire, it all seemed. Most dire.”
Clemency frowned, realizing this inebriated oaf might have accidentally maneuvered her into a trap. Many now knew that she was an acquaintance of the Ferrands, and to lie about it to his face might risk too much. But the alternative, to slip up and give away just how close she and Mr. Ferrand had become…
We cannot afford even one more mistake.
“I know of the Ferrands,” Clemency squeaked. “Mr. Audric Ferrand and his sister, Delphine. They do not strike me as dangerous people. A little French, perhaps, but—”
“No. No.” Jack Connors squeezed her hand so hard she yelped like a kicked spaniel. He shook his head again and gave a strangled laugh. “That man is out to smear Turner, and all because of some ridiculous, ages-old flirtation! It should be water long under the bridge, but Ferrand is cruel and bored and singular, and guards his sister’s heart with Ladon’s fury. I hear she hardly leaves the house, for he is more jailer than brother.”
“Flirtation? I…” Clemency’s hand went slack in his grasp. In a way it was the most obvious explanation for Ferrand’s rage. But he had spoken of lies and secret identities, and Clemency had been utterly fixated on how those things affected her. And yet she had met Delphine, and the girl said nothing about it. But as Connors said, Audric kept Delphine in that big, empty house, how much did she really know about the people of Round Orchard? Did she even know about Clemency and Turner?
“Childish stuff,” Connors continued, sputtering. “Just the expected follies of youth! Ferrand has made a mountain out of nothing!”
“What manner of follies?” Clemency asked, narrowing her eyes.
“Oh. Oh!” It seemed he had remembered that she was, in fact, connected to Turner. “Nothing untoward, I assure you, Miss Fry. The Ferrand girl fell in love with Turner, but he did not return her affection. She was heartbroken, but they were children! He hardly even remembers it; I don’t think it occurred to him that she, or the brother, would hold such a grudge.”
No, Clemency thought darkly. Men rarely do consider such things.
Clemency pulled her hand free of his grasp, trembling. “Thank you, Mr. Connors. I am warned.”
“Good,” he murmured, taking up his bottle again. “That is good.”
Clemency swiveled toward the window, hiding her furious blush. If this was true, then she had sworn to help a man she had completely misjudged. That did not outweigh the obvious lies Turner had been telling her, but it concerned her deeply. She was to help Audric, be his partner, and all the while he was keeping these things from her.
Who haven’t I misjudged?
The answer, then, was to stand alone. To trust nobody. Clemency leaned heavily against the door, grateful for the cool kiss of the glass against her overheated face. Something was amiss…Many things were amiss. Delphine Ferrand had not struck her as a lovesick girl pining for some distant, unattainable gentleman. If anything, she seemed only frail, gentle, and young. Clemency reconsidered what Connors had just told her—they were children.
That seemed unlikely, given that Delphine appeared younger than she, and Turner older. How could they have been children together? She bristled. More lies. Lord Boyle had no doubt found Connors an easy man to deceive—how would he ever keep the stories straight while soaked in brandy and sherry? He wouldn’t question the little details, oh no, but Clemency would. She would have to be smart indeed to stay ahead of both Turner Boyle and Audric. Neither of them were telling her the truth, and she was tired of being the unwitting pawn.
She watched a twinkle of lights sparkle down the road, winking at her between the trees. Croydon. They would soon be able to stop and rest, and Clemency could untangle her thoughts in the comfort of a warm, solitary bed. She wished fiercely that Honora had come, for only Nora would give her the kind of sensible, measured advice she needed.
A leaden weight fell on her shoulder. Clemency squeaked and twisted to see Mr. Connors slumped next to her, fast asleep, curled up around his sherry bottle like a boy snuggling his toy bear. Carefully, she found the cork where it had fallen on the floor and wedged it into the precariously tipped bottle.
Clemency yearned for her sister. For London. For solid ground. And she told herself she did not yearn to see Audric again, but that, she sadly knew, was just another lie.
11
“What do you think?” Tansy asked brightly, holding aloft two nearly identical muslin frocks. “Papa has invited me to tea with Lady Margaret Veitch, and I simply cannot decide. Ooh, can you believe it? To be seen with her ladyship, and at her home in Mayfair, no less!”
Clemency inhaled, hard-pressed to get a word in, and Tansy immediately silenced her again, whirling in a fantastical circle, the two dresses flaring out like wings as she spun. “And Papa is convinced she wants to hire our fleet for an exclusive contract. Dearest, it seems sure our luck has changed, the winds are blowing our way, and I am ever so glad you are here to experience it with us. Finally, don’t you think? Finally! We so utterly deserve this.”
Tansy flung the muslins back onto her bed and hurried to Clemency’s side. She sat at the writing desk near Tansy’s window. Two dainty pink curtains wafted lightly, blown by the gentle spring breeze, carrying with it the scent of baking bread, smoke, lady’s perfume, and horse manure, an odor specific to Gracechurch Street, in Clemency’s experience. William and Tansy would take their own larger London house soon, though construction to expand the property left it currently uninhabitable.
“They are both delightful,” Clemency assured her. “And you will look striking no matter what you choose.”
“Do you think so?” Melting a little, Tansy knelt on the worn carpet, tucking her side against Clemency’s legs. “I am so nervous. I have never met someone of her rank before…what if she is snobby and scary, and I say something stupid without meaning to?”
“Just remember yourself, Tansy,” Clemency counseled with a laugh. She did not share Tansy’s fear of the aristocracy. Perhaps her interactions with Lord Boyle had soured her against the gleam and shine of it all. But then again, according to Mr. Ferrand, he was not a baron at all. And anyway, Lady Veitch sounded like something one hacked up while ill. Shrugging, Clemency adjusted the lace cap covering Tansy’s dark curls. “Remember who you are—the daughter of a fine and successful man, and the wife to…well, to William, and he is quite good, I suppose. Despite the lopsided head.”
“You’re a horrible tease.” Tansy giggled, popping back up to her feet and returning to the bed, and the devilishly difficult decision before her. “Hmm…” She murmured to herself as she regarded both dresses.
Clemency’s eyes slid to the two letters burning on her lap. Her fingers itched to tear them open, but she knew better than to do so with Tansy there. The Bagshots’ two-story house on Gracechurch Street was cozy and clean, the rooms a bit poky and cramped, but kept in a way that made one feel instantly at ease. There was no pretension or attempt to seem more than they were—a rising merchant family who had struggled and eked out every coin they earned. Clemency admired it, their subtle style, their acceptance of just who they were and how they had made their way in the world.
Mr. Bagshot still lived at the house, of course, his office and warehouse not far away. Mrs. Bagshot had passed some years ago, and only Mr. Bagshot, one of his brothers, and the staff lived in the townhouse. Yet a woman’s touch was everywhere—the furnishings chosen by Mrs. Bagshot maintained and revered, as if her memory lived in the sofas and blankets and paintings.
Clemency was staying in Tansy’s childhood room, while she and William occupied one of the larger suites. Mr. Bagshot and his brother were not at home when they arrived, detained by business at the wharf.
That was just fine with Clemency, for she longed to be alone in the feminine nook of Tansy’s old room, dried flowers hanging from the eaves, a fresh bouquet of lilies on the desk, the view onto the street allowing for ample daydreaming and people watching….
And there were the letters, of course.
They had been waiting for her on a silver dish in the downstairs hall, just below the mounted ship’s wheel, salvaged from the first vessel the Bagshots ever commissioned. Clemency had quickly thanked the butler offering the silver dish and tucked the letters away. She recognized Turner’s hand on the top one, Audric’s on the one below.
Clemency shuffled the sealed letters on her lap anxiously, realizing that just like Tansy, she found herself torn between two impossible choices. If only her options were as benign as two pretty dresses. At last, she decided she could wait no longer, and cleared her throat softly, drawing Tansy’s attention.
“The right one,” she said, grinning. “I think the lace on the hem is finer.”
“Yes! That is the answer.” Tansy scooped the gowns into her arms and nodded, running over to brush a sweet kiss on Clemency’s cheek before retreating to the door. “Do not grow too fond of your solitude, I shall be back before you know it for your thoughts on shoes and gloves!”
“I am your faithful servant,” Clemency told her gently. With a giggle, Tansy bustled out the door, mercifully closing it on her way out. “Oh, thank God,” she whispered, practically tearing the first letter in half in her zeal to unfold it.
She spread it out on her lap, but it was only a short note. Boyle had stayed briefly with a friend but felt the accommodations were lacking and would instead be joining them all at the Bagshots’ Gracechurch townhouse. Clemency went pale. That was bad. She had come to London with the intention of studying Turner’s past, his lies, his connections…now he would be practically on top of her every moment of the day. How would she sneak away to meet with Mr. Ferrand? How many stories would she need to concoct to explain her frequent absences? She had assumed he owned at least a townhouse in London of his own; that he apparently did not gave Mr. Ferrand’s accusations only more weight.
“Arriving tonight,” she muttered, squeezing her eyes shut. “I should have known it would not be easy. Always more complications…”
Tossing the letter onto the desk, she opened the next, cracking the heavy black wax seal. It was not stamped with the now familiar Ferrand crest, but she recognized the wax itself, like something out of Lathom’s The Midnight Bell.
Miss Fry:
Please send word the moment you arrive in London. We have much to discuss, and even more to plan. Events are unfolding rapidly, more rapidly than I care to admit. Should you cross paths with our quarry before we meet, I beseech you: Treat him with all deference and kindness, dote upon him, and do nothing to arouse his suspicion. An unpleasant prospect, I know, but give your most convincing performance.
Now that he is aware of my presence, he will be watching us as closely as we are watching him. I have enclosed directions to my home, but be discreet. If you call, be certain that you are not followed and wear a dark veil.
Burn this letter after reading.
The note was left unsigned, but its author was obvious enough. How typical of Audric, giving her nothing but curt orders. Had she been foolish to feel warmth in that finger he pressed to her lips and in the kiss they shared? Maybe it was all imagined.
Sighing, she committed the address to memory and strode to the fire, tearing the letter into tiny pieces before scattering them in the hearth. Afterward, she found herself standing much where Tansy had been, in the ruminating place, not knowing whether she should close the curtains and rest awhile, or bathe and dress at once, and ask Tansy’s driver to take her to Grosvenor Square.
Of course he lived there. He probably lived down the street from the lofty Lady Veitch. They were certainly best friends. She did not like when her own thoughts took a mocking tone, but it was hard to resist—Audric felt himself so superior that he could command her this way and that, and not even sign his name at the bottom of a letter. The paranoia of it all was rather oppressive, she thought. Oppressive and unmistakable, for she dreaded seeing Turner Boyle again, especially if she was expected to play a part, and simper, and lie to his face.
The idea of it, of having to flirt and bat her eyelashes while quashing her disdain, made up her mind for her. She was bone-weary and desirous of sleep, but there was plenty of daylight left. Trudging to the closet, she picked through the clothes she had brought, searching for something adequately dark and morose, something to suit her equally dour mood.
It wasn’t fair. She ought to be able to just avoid them both and take in a show, do as she pleased, but staying in would assure her a night of dealing with Turner. Going out alone was unthinkable, and therefore she stood pinched between the two men that had become the Scylla and Charybdis of her social life. And interior life. She did not dare suggest the word heart. There was no room left in her mind to consider anything else, her thoughts, obnoxiously, strayed ever to her problems, and more specifically, ever to Audric and his annoyingly kissable mouth. She didn’t understand him. Why hide Delphine’s feelings for Lord Boyle? It seemed like the perfect way to appeal to a woman’s sympathies. In fact, knowing that Lord Boyle had toyed with Delphine’s feelings would make Clemency only more inclined to help Audric with his scheme. She liked Delphine.
There had to be an explanation for such an omission.
