The proposition, p.18
The Proposition, page 18
“I will ready the carriage.” Ralston snapped to the door with what Audric interpreted as giddiness. Were they that long overdue for diversion in this house?
“And I will find garments fitting for the occasion,” Delphine piped up, taking Miss Fry more resolutely by the arm and leading her back up the stairs. “We shall not be long, brother. See that the carriage is prepared and brought round, and do not think for one moment that I will change my mind or be persuaded to stay indoors.”
Watching the two ladies disappear up the steps, Audric could only vent a tired laugh. “Indeed, Delphine, indeed. No man is a match for the two of you in joined fortitude.”
15
Matton Hall was not at all what Clemency envisioned when told she was being all but taken hostage and hied to a “molly house.” In fact, it had all happened with such stupendous speed that she hardly had time to gather expectations. If she had, whatever those expectations were would have been utterly shattered by what she saw when walking through the tall, guarded, and inconspicuous doors of the assembly hall on Vere Street.
It was not at all a raucous place, and though her stomach seethed in a nervous tangle, she found herself exhaling a relieved breath as Delphine, arm tucked in hers, guided her across the clean tiled entrance toward a polished archway leading into a sort of modest ballroom filled with small tables meant for tea. The larger space was decorated with ivory bunting, wildflowers in delicate glass vases placed on each table. To the right of the archway, a number of trestle tables with refreshments were arranged, and attendants chatted amiably with those who came to peruse the sandwiches, cakes, and rolls. To the left, a well-maintained stage with a brass chandelier featured a lone fiddler, a young man in a lady’s dress with no cosmetics, his short mop of honey brown hair free as he played with obvious talent and gusto. A number of framed paintings hung on the brocade-covered walls. As they passed one, Clemency looked closer, finding that it was a bathing scene of two women in a wooded glade.
A space had been made for dancing before the stage, and two gray-haired, older ladies improvised their own steps, heedless of the rhythm or anyone watching. Most of the tables were taken, and a few curious glances were thrown their way. Clemency felt herself flinching each time, licking her lips, aware that her mother would squeeze her neck clean off her shoulders if she knew her daughter’s whereabouts.
Yet none of it seemed tawdry or, as she knew, illegal. In the carriage ride over they had rattled by a number of pillories outside the establishments on that street. Was it a warning, she wondered. If so, it seemed so cold to frequent a place like Matton Hall for tea and conversation while under threat of violence.
A willowy young woman in a petal pink frock swept over to them, beaming up at Mr. Ferrand. Clemency stowed her jealous thoughts, reminding herself that she had been brought there to observe and learn, not indulge in her own meaner tendencies.
“Mr. Ferrand, what a pleasure to see you again,” the woman said, then took stock of his company. Ralston had come inside with them and seemed constantly to hover protectively near Delphine’s side. “And you’ve brought company! How fortunate.”
“These ladies would prefer discretion, Miss Paisley,” Audric replied, giving her a respectful bow. “But for the afternoon, they are Miss Violet,” he said, gesturing to Delphine. “And Miss Rose.”
For my hair, Clemency thought, and smiled behind her veil. Delphine had been kind enough to outfit her in a sumptuous jewel-blue wrap dress, just big enough for Clemency’s larger frame, and a pair of sapphire hairpins to fasten a lacy black veil to her bun.
Clemency—Miss Rose—gave a polite curtsey in time with Delphine.
“And Ralston is plain Ralston?” Miss Paisley teased. “What am I saying? Ralston is as strapping as ever. All that riding in the country has done you well.”
Both she and Delphine turned to see Ralston, generally unflappable and serious, turn beetroot red. Delphine tittered beneath her dark purple veil.
“Is there room for us this afternoon?” Ferrand asked.
“Of course, Mr. Ferrand. There is always room for you and your party. Please, follow me.”
They did, and Clemency felt her stomach growl with hunger as they weaved through the occupied tables to one on the far side of the stage, back a ways, just close enough to enjoy the music but not so close as to be overwhelmed by it. The men held out the chairs for the ladies, and then Miss Paisley wafted away, blown to the refreshment tables like a pretty pink cloud.
Clemency studied her as she left, envious of her shiny blond hair and the intricate braids it had been styled into, each weaving into the other, then pinned in a crown across her head. Her dress too was fine but not ostentatious, in last summer’s style, no doubt, but fitted so well to her figure that it maintained a timeless appeal. She had a dancer’s grace and swished through the maze of tables with her hands delicately aloft, her chin high, though her manner was impeccably warm and welcoming.
“They always overfeed me here,” Audric grumbled, settling into the chair beside Clemency’s. He tucked his knuckles under his chin and let his eyes wander to the fiddle player. “An old Parisian acquaintance introduced me to this place when last I was in town. I had come to hunt down, well, a quarry a client wanted me to find. Miss Paisley was kind enough to help. They find the most beguiling entertainers here, voices to rival any reputable opera house in London.”
“We must stay to hear them,” Delphine swooned. “You know how I adore a well-sung aria.”
“Out of the question,” he muttered. “We will be back in Grosvenor Square before dark.”
Clemency thought of the pillories out on the street and shuddered. How odd, she mused, that it should feel so cozy inside, lightly fragrant with perfumes and lacquered wood, while such an ugly threat awaited just outside the door.
Ralston and Delphine struck up an animated debate about the fiddler’s style—Ralston was for, Delphine found it a bit too meandering.
In a low voice, Clemency waited until they were distracted to lean closer to Audric. “Do you think Boyle comes often to such places?”
“No, not this one. This is a fine establishment; Boyle couldn’t afford it.” Audric smiled as Miss Paisley returned with a tray of assorted sweets for them, as well as summer wine and a bottle of sherry. Clemency knew it was impolite, but her stomach was making demands, and she snatched a buttered tart for herself. Audric smirked at her.
“Prescient, Miss Paisley, my thanks. And quite obviously hers as well.”
“Yes, thank you,” Clemency replied softy. “You have a lovely establishment here.”
Miss Paisley glanced at Audric with her entrancing hazel eyes and then gave an answering curtsey. “I will give your compliments to our proprietor, Miss Rose.”
Again, she told herself not to be jealous as Mr. Ferrand noticeably watched Miss Paisley leave them—she even threw a look over her shoulder that was clearly just for him.
“It is hard to imagine you coming here all alone,” Clemency told him. She nibbled her tart. “Or anywhere, for that matter. I can only picture you on your great hunts, pacing your office while concocting plans, spinning a dagger, and cackling at your own brilliance.”
“Occasionally I cease my cackling and put down my dagger and indulge in a bit of respite,” Audric replied, a little shuttered, in her opinion. “Very occasionally. And why can you not imagine me here? Among the company of women, among the company of men. Does that shock you?”
“Well, yes,” she admitted. Though the veil might make deception easier, she saw no benefit to lying. He had said it himself, hours earlier—her Round Orchard sensibilities were one way, and now that needle was moving ever so slowly and ever so slightly. “Are you shocked that I’m shocked?”
“No,” he said, chuckling. His green eyes flashed with interest as he too leaned in toward her. “You are taking it well, all things considered.”
“It is new to me, but I see no harm in it,” said Clemency quietly. “You must be patient.”
“You have not run screaming out the door, nor fainted in alarm,” he observed. “So I wager there is hope for you yet. I frequent many of these places when I am hunting curs. Often, they would blow through such establishments and make a greater mess. It alarmed me at first, the things I saw, but I have found more courage, kindness, and generosity in these refuges than in all the gilded operas, assemblies, and great houses of England combined.” He gestured broadly to the room. “Some of the men here might wear women’s clothes, and the ladies may dress as men, but they are not masquerading, here they are their true selves. Boyle is never himself to anyone; that is more reprehensible than anything you will find here before or after dark.”
“Their pastries are very good,” Clemency told him, finding it was not at all easy to eat with the veil. “Thank you for bringing me here. I might read widely but there is no substitute for the education of experience.”
Audric stared at her for a long moment, until she wanted to hide her face even with the protection of the veil between them. She would have paid a high price to know his thoughts just then, or for him to bestow upon her another sudden kiss.
“I fear it will not be fun and games in the coming days,” he said darkly. “We must pursue Boyle’s past. His connections. We must know more if we are to humiliate him.”
“Denning Ede,” replied Clemency.
Audric’s green eyes snapped to hers with renewed vigor. Her breath caught. He leaned closer, so near that his words skittered across her chin, rippling her veil, and she sighed.
“How did you know that name?”
“At Lady Veitch’s Boyle was waving his name around like a sword,” she continued. “He’s apparently influential, and I cannot help but wonder if Boyle is using the man’s power like a parasol, shielding himself from the glare of suspicion.”
Under the table, she felt Audric’s hand clasp hers. She stifled a gasp, and let her fingers melt into his grip. They were plotting and planning, yet it felt as though they might be alone in a quiet garden, sharing an intimate discussion of poetry or song.
“Dear lady, you are developing a talent for the hunt.”
“I merely observe,” she demurred. “And listen.”
“And you are correct. I have stumbled across Ede’s name during my investigations too. I have been trying in vain to arrange a meeting in private, but the man is a ghost to all but the most powerful. Damnation. We must find a way to approach him, carefully, and inquire about Boyle.” He squeezed her hand with finality and let go and seemed ready to stand. But Clemency reached for him, dragging him back to her.
“Music. Music! He and Boyle share a passion for music—perhaps that is how their paths crossed. Surely there are any number of musical salons we could attend, and if the right society is present, then Ede might make an appearance.”
“Indeed, Miss Fry, that is sharp thinking. I will put my man Stanhope on it.”
“And I will ask Tansy to inquire with Lady Veitch.”
Clemency felt his hand tighten around hers again. “Now it is clear to me that I could not have done this properly without you.”
His eyes looked so bright, so clear, that she feared she might be the one to break this time and kiss him. Clemency took back possession of her hand, reluctantly, and clung to her cup of wine but did not drink it. A wave of sadness passed over her as she considered what might happen after their scheme was over. She had let go of her principles once to acquiesce to Boyle, she was not certain she could happily do so again.
Yet his hand…His lips…How could she ever forget the heat of him when they were parted?
“Miss Fry?” he asked, gentle. “Are you well?”
“I have chosen a wedding gown that will never be worn,” she murmured. He blinked hard and fast, and looked away from her. “But whenever I feel the revulsion rising in my gorge, I just remember what he has done to your sister, and to me, to the others I’m sure you know about but have not mentioned, and to poor Mr. Connors.”
“Poor Mr. Connors, is it?” His green eyes flew back to her, and he grinned, showing a dimple that made her want to reach out and trace it with her forefinger. “Hours ago you were willing to sacrifice him on the altar of society if it meant harming Boyle.”
“Perhaps I am taking after you too much,” she teased. “I shall need a dagger.”
“But you do not think so anymore?” He ignored her jab, leaning closer. “Do you see now why we must destroy that letter to protect his dignity?”
“I do,” Clemency told him, taking an uneasy sip of wine. “We should burn the letter, and when all comes to light, tell Connors to aim higher than such a false, unfeeling man. I know I intend to. I-If,” she stammered, “I ever deign to consider marriage again.”
“Yes,” Audric said and coughed, then fiddled with his napkin, suddenly taken with his sherry and a glazed bun. “Indeed. You deserve someone far worthier.”
You, perhaps? she wanted to say. But she kept silent. Clemency’s eyes drifted to the table to their right, where two well-groomed young men held hands and bounced their knees to the fiddle. To be as they were, naturally and openly in love…She wanted it badly but remembered how she had seen what she was desperate to see with Boyle. How she had dismantled her own misgivings about marriage to let him in, and then, he had made such a mess of things, slashing her heart and spirit to ribbons.
He would not have said that, she thought, if he loved you. He would have suggested himself. He would have spoken up.
“This fiddler is quite good, I think,” Mr. Ferrand said to his sherry.
“He plays excellently,” Clemency agreed, withering into her chair. Then she said no more, realizing she could not hear the music above the disappointed drumming of blood pounding in her ears.
“Mr. Ferrand, you appear positively morose, something that you know is expressly forbidden in Matton Hall.” Miss Paisley had returned with a fresh bottle of wine for them. Ralston reached for it at once, refilling his cup and offering Delphine some too. On the stage, the fiddler plunged into a spirited rendition of “Auretti’s Dutch Skipper.” “Now that you have had your refreshment, a dance could prove uplifting.”
He folded his napkin and wedged it next to his sherry glass. “Please, Miss Paisley. You know I have little interest and even less ability where dancing is concerned.”
“Nonsense, you dance as well as any gentleman I have seen.”
“Then one can only conclude that you have not seen any gentlemen dance.”
At that, Delphine turned away from her conversation with Ralston and reached across Clemency to swat Audric with a fan. “He is lying, of course. He danced often and handsomely in Paris, I witnessed it myself.”
Audric shifted, uncomfortable. “That was many years ago.”
He seemed genuinely disinclined, and Clemency refused to join in the bullying, though he turned to face her, clearly expecting her to side with her fellow ladies.
“This tune is better danced with a group,” she said softly.
“Alors, I fancy a dance,” Delphine stated, standing. Ralston hurried to accompany her, but it was Miss Paisley who reached her first, taking Delphine nimbly by the tips of her gloved fingers and leading her away to the space before the stage.
“Del— Miss Violet,” Audric grunted, standing. “Mind your condition. The doctor advised—”
“I will not overexert myself,” Delphine promised with a wave.
Clemency felt strange sitting there while everyone else stood and fussed over Delphine. Staring after the two ladies, Mr. Ferrand’s face had turned an alarming shade of purple, his green eyes wide and apoplectic. His concern was moving, if a bit exaggerated, and Clemency found herself reaching out to touch his sleeve. As soon as she had, Audric roused himself as if from a dream, staring dumbly at the place where her hand touched him.
Before she could regret the gesture, he had taken her hand in his, cradling it gently in his palm.
“Damnation. We have no choice but to join them.”
Clemency chuckled. “No choice? Does God himself compel us, sir?”
“If she is overtaken with fatigue I should rather be near to intervene,” Audric said, leading her away from the table without further questioning or consultation. “She would insist upon strength she does not possess.”
Whatever her opinions of Delphine, and they were generally high, Clemency did not pretend to know the extent of her ailments. She did sometimes appear frail and sickly, but now with Miss Paisley she gave an animated performance. The two women held hands and circled, weaving between invisible couples.
“Do you know the steps?” Audric asked, releasing her hand and taking up a place across from her.
“I do,” replied Clemency with a sigh. “Even in little, provincial Round Orchard we have dances, sir. You attended one.”
“Of course. A silly question.”
“Do try to have fun,” she teased as they came together and took hands again. He grasped her with a confidence that made her feel at ease, that suggested he did, in fact, know his place on the dance floor. His face was taut with concentration, brows low, lips tightly pursed.
“This excursion was a foolish idea,” he muttered.
“Your foolish idea,” she reminded him. “We can take our leave at any time, though if we leave now, while Miss Violet is enjoying herself, you may never hear the end of it.”
Audric smirked and shrugged one shoulder, back in his spot across from her, next to Miss Paisley, executing a few bars of elegant footwork before returning again to take Clemency’s hands. She tried not to glance away when they rejoined, but his gaze, boring down into her, felt at times too intimate to bravely tolerate. But she made the attempt, and let herself blush freely. The pink could be blamed on the exercise.
