The Dishonorable Miss DeLancey Read online

  Mattie eyed him, then rose and exited the room.

  The fire snapped, crackling warmth through the wee hours. Outside, the wind continued its weird moan. He pressed against the pain still throbbing in his knee. The absence of his sister might bring a hush to the room but never to the questions in his heart. Why had God allowed him to live? Was it for nights like these, when he just might have made a difference?

  Matilda reentered the room carrying a fresh teapot and mug. She poured, he murmured thanks, and she resumed her seat. “Did you injure yourself?” She nodded to his dirt-stained leg. “You know the doctor wants you to be careful not to twist things again.”

  Too late for that. He batted away her worries with a genuine-enough-sounding laugh. “You worry too much, Mattie.” He turned to his clergical brother-in-law. “I’m afraid you’ll discover my sister has a tendency to overdo her gifts of compassion.”

  “One of the reasons I care for her so.”

  Ben smiled, pleased to hear his sister’s soft sigh and see the pink filling her face. “You’ll do well,” he said to the new husband, garnering an answering grin and a mild “I hope so.”

  Mattie put her cup down with a clatter. “So you do not know who it was?”

  He shook his head. “All I know is that she left that lantern.” He gestured to the small tin lantern on the table beside the door.

  “She?” His sister exchanged a glance with her husband. “Benjie has never been able to withstand helping a pretty maid in distress.”

  His smile dipped at her use of the long-familiar, long-despised nickname. “She wasn’t pretty.” Possibly untrue, but he’d barely been able to make out her features, shadowed as they were by that hood. All he knew was she possessed raven black hair and a high-pitched voice that suggested she was younger than her sweet, ripe form declared.

  “Oh! A hag!” Matilda chuckled. “Perhaps she’ll turn out to be a beautiful princess in disguise.”

  “I doubt it.”

  “How disappointing,” Mattie said. “Well, heaven knows you need a wife. Perhaps we’ll need to find this lady of mystery and learn her secrets.”

  Ben pushed his chair back, forced himself to rise without wincing. The poor wild creature he’d barely met tonight give up her secrets? “Good luck with that.”

  “We don’t need luck,” Mattie replied, an evil gleam in her eye. “We just need God.”

  He nodded, said his good-nights, and left to ascend the stairs to his bedchamber, his heart sinking. Experience chanted that Matilda would not rest until the mystery lady was found.

  CHAPTER TWO

  THE KNOCK DISTURBED her dreams. Wild dreams. Frightening dreams of plummeting, plummeting to hungry rocks below. Clara woke with a gasp, breathing hard, yet striving for quiet as the knock came again and the maid immediately entered the room.

  “Begging yer pardon, miss, but madam wants you downstairs.”

  A glance at the windows revealed sunlight peeking past the curtains. “What time is it?”

  “Near noon, miss.”

  She sat up in a hurry. “I had no idea it was so late.”

  “You missed services today.”

  They missed services most Sundays. Why should today be any different?

  Meg remained hovering near the doorway, as if unsure what to do. Clara fought the flicker of annoyance. Oh, to have a proper lady’s maid again, one who knew to wait to be granted admittance, one who could fix hair as well as she could hold her tongue.

  Meg moved half-heartedly towards the chair holding the abandoned pelisse.

  “Please leave it. I’ll deal with it later.”

  “Are you sure, miss?”

  “Of course I’m sure.”

  The look of chagrin on the woman’s face filtered regret through her heart, but Meg exited before Clara could apologize for her tone. Sighing, she pushed aside the bedcovers and moved to pull open the curtains. Other signs of her late-night exploits stared at her: the damp cloak, muddied shoes. She picked up the cloak, snapped it once, twice to get rid of the worst creases. Meg would doubtless have another word to Mother should further clothing be sent down for cleaning without reason. And Clara had possessed no reason to wear that cloak in days. No reason sufficient she could give her mother, anyway.

  She dressed in a plain morning gown, then moved to the dressing table to attempt to bring order to her hair. Despite merciless tugging, dark strands refused to settle. Again the wish for the services of a proper maid arose, was smothered. Until one could be certain the servants’ wages paid for their silence as well, Father had decreed no more staff were to be employed. Those few currently with them had served the family for years and kept their mouths shut from habit, if not loyalty.

  The timber-framed oval glass revealed her reflection. Lank hair. Skin too pale. Light green eyes deeply shadowed underneath. Her nose and eyelashes were still good, but her chin seemed too pointy these days. And was that a spot? She peered closer, angling her neck to examine her chin. Groaned. Definitely a pimple. Though why should she care when nobody else would …

  Her eyes filled. Shoulders slumped. How had it come to this? How had she, once the toast of London ballrooms, come to sitting in a cramped bedchamber in an ugly house on the farthermost outskirts of a once-popular resort town? Obsessing over a spot.

  It didn’t matter. None of it mattered. She herself apparently did not matter. Her value to her parents lay only in whom she might marry, and having failed to land the Earl of Hawkesbury as they’d so long wished—as she’d so long dreamed—their increasingly desperate attempts to fling her at any matrimonial prospect had diminished in both quantity and quality of would-be suitors. God knew—the world knew—at five-and-twenty she was a veritable old maid. Perhaps one day her parents would join her in giving up.

  She shook her head at her foolishness, blinking away the moisture. Surrender was a concept her parents had never learned. Mother still seemed to believe the earl would “come to his senses,” as she said, and divorce his wife to marry Clara, when any simpleton could see how devoted he was to Lavinia, Countess of Hawkesbury, gazing warmly at her as he’d never done with Clara. But still Mother persisted. That was the Winpoole way. After all, neither she nor Father had given up on Richard.

  “Miss?”

  Meg’s call broke into her reverie. She pushed away from her memories, refusing to glance at the looking glass, and made her way downstairs to the room that served as both parlor and breakfast room.

  “Is something wrong, Clara?” Mother asked, her brow knotted. “I cannot remember you sleeping this late.”

  “No. I’m just a little tired.”

  “Tired?” Father said, adjusting his newspaper with a snap and a frown. “You’ve barely stepped from the house in days.”

  Except at night.

  “How can you be tired?”

  “Oh, leave her be, Phillip,” Mother said. “All young ladies feel a little out of sorts at times.”

  “Well, it’s been going on for months now.” His dark eyes studied her, not without a trace of compassion, Clara thought. “I wish to know if there’s even any point in sponsoring another season for you.”

  A season?

  “Heaven knows the last however many have been a sad disappointment. What does it take for a young man to come up to scratch these days?”

  “If only Hawkesbury—”

  “Enough, Frederica! I do not want to hear your foolishness again. What’s done is done and can’t be undone, so I wish you’d stop this farcical nonsense and leave the poor man be.”

  “The poor man? After what he did to our dear girl?”

  Shame quivered afresh as her parents continued their familiar battle. How could she have been so gullible as to believe the earl had ever truly cared? She’d been swept along on a tide of emotion, ably supported by both her mother and his, the dowager countess who could never forgive Lavinia’s well-connected relatives for casting aspersions about the Hawkesbury family so many years ago. Her son’s marriage
to a woman the dowager despised had made the marriage difficult, a fact Clara had seen with her own eyes, and something that continued to spark hope in Mother’s breast, even if Clara could no longer share in her optimism—or wished to. There’d been something so tremendously affecting about how the earl’s wife had received them last year, her grace in a time of sorrow as indisputable as it was unsettling. Clara had yet to reach a point of wishing him well, but she could no longer wish them ill.

  “Well, what do you say to that?”

  She looked between them. What had just been said? “I beg your pardon?”

  Father coughed. “Perhaps there is no point in sending you again if you cannot be bothered listening when someone speaks. You really must try harder to act interested, my dear, if you want to land a husband.”

  “Yes, Father.” They continued to gaze expectantly at her. “Oh, and I do wish to visit London again.” Hope flickered within. Perhaps one of her old friends would be willing to receive her now. Anything had to be better than the infernal boredom of Brighton. A pleasure playground it might prove for those with sufficient funds and friends; a lonely outpost for those lacking either.

  “We won’t be able to go for a few more weeks. And I’m afraid we won’t be able to attend every social function of note,” Mother said with a sigh and a sideways glance at Father. “Cost, you know.”

  And a lack of invitations. Her fingers clenched. How long must she pay for her brother’s sins?

  “Never mind that,” Father continued. “She’ll get to the ones that matter. But I want you to put off this gloomy manner and find something of your sparkle. Men don’t like a sour face, my girl.”

  Men didn’t like her anyway, even when she hadn’t been so wretched in heart. She pasted a smile to her lips. “Of course not.”

  “There! That’s what I want to see. Now just act happy and all will be well. You’ll see.”

  She kept the mask glued on as she nodded. Well, if Father wanted her to secure a husband and leave the shelf of unwed ladies, she’d be the best little actress he’d ever seen.

  The organ’s piping continued as they exited the church into sunshine. David, dressed in his clergical robes, greeted them as he did the other parishioners, with the warmth and candor of his sermon earlier. Tessa released Ben’s arm and moved to talk with some other young ladies, their bright chatter suggesting a friendship of some standing. He studied the milling congregants, glad to finally get the chance to properly examine those attending. But still the lady who had haunted his dreams last night remained unseen.

  Young ladies there were aplenty, no doubt due to Matilda’s ease of manner, and unexceptionable family, but young ladies with midnight hair and flashing eyes were not to be found. Though perhaps a sermon on Leviticus was more inclined to induce dull eyes rather than flashing, regardless of the congregant’s age or gender. He esteemed his brother-in-law but could not esteem the dry-as-a-desert address given today.

  “Have you found her?”

  He glanced down at Matilda, peering around like a small, blond robin. “Found whom?”

  “Your mystery lady, of course. Don’t pretend you were not looking.”

  “Then, no. I have not.”

  “Hmm. Well, perhaps she goes to St. Michael’s. You might try there next time.”

  “Of course I won’t go there, Mattie. I’ll attend the service where my brother-in-law currently presides.” Even if the sermons weren’t to his taste. He glanced down, met the twinkle in her eyes.

  “I will speak to him about the sermon topics. He feels he must follow the bishop’s prescribed texts, but I think we both know if he does, the pews will empty faster than a sailor’s bottle of rum.”

  A chuckle escaped. “I don’t know if David will appreciate such candid opinions.”

  “Well I do know the bishop will not appreciate receiving fewer tithes than what’s required.” She eyed him, her gaze falling to his left leg. “How is it today? You seemed to be favoring the right on the way over.”

  He swallowed a sigh. She remained as observant as ever. “It works.”

  “But not as it ought. Don’t you think you should have it seen to?”

  “I told you before, Mattie. My knee is fine. I’m fine.”

  “No, you’re not,” she said bluntly. “I wish you’d have a grain of common sense and go back to your London man. You don’t want to be a cripple before you’re thirty.”

  But he was a cripple before the age of thirty. Mattie just refused to believe it. “Go talk to that older lady over there. She looks like she’d appreciate your advice.”

  She gave a sniff and marched away, leaving him to nod to those congregants who caught his eye and make small talk with those bold enough to speak with him. He thought he’d spoken long enough last Sunday about his time in Africa, but apparently not long enough for some of the men who wished to know more, before he finally steered their conversation to Napoleon’s latest deeds.

  Tessa soon returned, the remaining congregants dispersed, and they walked through the grassy churchyard, now abloom with bluebells and early buttercups. Such a contrast to the wild, uninhabited African shores where his desperate walk had only been cheered by the sparse and hardy white flowers that reminded him of tiny daisies. He shook off the memories, replying to Tessa’s observations about the improved weather as he ought.

  They passed the large residence of the parish rector, currently empty while he took extended leave in Ireland, his absence thus promoting David to the pulpit. The vicarage—a far more humble abode accorded the rector’s assistant—lay a twisting street away. Ben’s knee began paining again as he climbed the hill, forcing him to grit his teeth. If David and Mattie’s cottage did not possess so excellent a view of the sea and the cliffs towards Rottingdean, he’d be tempted to find accommodation that was far easier to navigate. Not that he could afford it, or—he grinned—that Mattie would permit him. He stumbled at the doorway, glad his sisters were too engaged in conversation to notice. David eyed him, however. Ben shook his head at his brother-in-law’s unspoken concern and collapsed into the sofa, from which he could see the shining sea.

  As the sunlight bounced light across the glassy water, in stark contrast to last night’s tumultuous waves, his thoughts drifted to Matilda’s earlier words. He pressed against the throbbing in his knee. Perhaps he should see Dr. Townsend again. If he saw the old sawbones, he might also have opportunity to catch up with Burford and Lancaster. Perhaps he’d write and see if they were amenable to a visit. Perhaps a trip to London might not be such a bad idea, after all.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Two days later

  CLARA WALKED THE half mile along Marine Parade into town, glad to escape Mother’s worries which seemed to line each room like heavily papered-over walls, making their home feel ever smaller and even more restrictive. She’d abandoned her clifftop walks; they held no pleasure now. Who knew if that man might return, might recognize her? She shuddered. What if he did? What if she recognized him? Her heart raced. She dragged in a quiet breath, willing herself to calm, in case her companion noticed.

  Meg’s faded, fixed features suggested she remained oblivious as always. She trotted alongside, completing errands for Mother whilst supplying nominal chaperonage. Not that Clara needed a chaperone. At five-and-twenty she scarcely need worry about the propriety of such things. But Mother still did, so Clara did not argue, acquiescence the lesser of two evils.

  Clara paused by the iron railings, not too close to where the bathing boxes waited, and shifted the books in her arms. The breeze, so much a part of Brighton life, had settled for moments of bad temper, puffing fiercely now and again, as if to remind pedestrians of its capability. She sucked in brine-laden air—cool, sharp, invigorating. Well she could understand why Dr. Russell had recommended the benefits of seaside visits in the middle of last century. Just breathing in the sea’s freshness made her feel healthier, cleaner somehow. Almost like the cobwebs of her soul could be blown away; that possibility hung aro
und the corner.

  Which was ridiculous. As pretty as Brighton might be, out of season it was just another fishing village. It might host the Prince Regent’s famous Marine Pavilion, but he was not due to arrive for several more months. And until he did, neither would the fashionable set, who so often took their cues from the King’s heir, like bees buzzing around a rose. So Brighton would remain dull until he tired of London, which she supposed was not such a bad thing. Society-less Brighton held the advantage that nobody knew her. Nobody would gossip. Fewer people to judge. Society-less Brighton also held a disadvantage, however. Nobody might know her, but even after months of living here, neither did she know anyone.

  A seagull wheeled solo in the sky, cawing high above a small fishing boat, as if eyeing a prize forever out of reach. A sudden ache swept through her, causing her breath to catch and heat to fill the back of her eyes.

  “Miss?”

  Clara broke from her reverie to glance at the maid, whose expression spoke of unutterable boredom. “Yes, Meg?”

  “I might head to the market now, if you’ve no objection.”

  “No, of course. I must return these books to Donaldson’s. I shan’t imagine it will take very long.” She eyed the maid steadily. “I imagine your errands will take considerably more time.”

  Meg blinked. “I … er, of course, miss.”

  “Then I will bid you good morning and see you at home.”

  “Yes, miss.”

  Clara hastened away before the maid could change her mind. Walking alone, even if it were only such a little way, felt so freeing. She crossed the Parade, hurrying past a draper’s cart turning into Manchester Street, walked along the Steyne, and entered the library.

  The elegant building was quiet at this time of day, which meant she returned the borrowed books more efficiently than doing so at a more fashionable hour might allow. She moved past the lounge where the newspapers were kept, rushing to escape detection by the overly friendly Mr. Whitlam, a stout, gout-afflicted older gentleman who seemed to have taken up residence in the sofa by the window and made it his mission to speak to her whenever she visited the library. She ducked behind a large wooden bookcase. She might be lonely, and perhaps a tiny part of her still dreamed of finding a husband, but she was not that desperate! Rounding the corner she found the novels that formed the substance of her reading matter—and Mother’s. Two young ladies stood perusing the shelves: one a blond, one a redhead.