Apparently she was not delighted either.
Good.
Common ground.
At midnight, they had no final number.
They had a range.
The estate owed Clara at least twenty-four thousand pounds even under the most favorable interpretation for Harcourt.
Possibly closer to thirty.
Harcourt could not pay thirty thousand immediately without selling property.
That was the truth Augusta had feared for years.
Julian said:
“Then we sell.”
Augusta stared.
“What?”
“The Bath house.”
“No.”
“We barely use it.”
“It belonged to your grandmother.”
“She is dead.”
Augusta’s face changed.
Julian softened slightly.
“The estate does not collapse because one house is sold.”
“You don't understand what property means to a family.”
Clara looked toward him.
Julian replied:
“I am beginning to.”
That ended the night.
Not the ball.
The family part.
Clara left through the side entrance with Lydia.
No attempt at secrecy could help now.
Half of London had seen Augusta unmask her.
By breakfast, the story had mutated.
Miss Bellamy had entered Harcourt House disguised as a duchess.
False.
She and Julian had been discovered kissing.
False.
Augusta had torn off the mask after recognizing stolen jewels.
Very false.
Clara was secretly William Harcourt’s illegitimate daughter.
Wildly false.
The trust issue appeared only in some versions because financial wrongdoing required more concentration than romance.
One newspaper column referred vaguely to “a dispute of guardianship and fortune.”
That was enough.
Clara stayed home for four days.
Not hiding.
Recovering.
Lydia refused callers.
Julian sent one note.
No flowers.
No declarations.
The note read:
I am sorry I made a private accounting public by answering my mother in anger.
Your claim will proceed exactly as it would if we had never danced.
J.H.
Clara read it three times.
Then put it away.
Good.
No request to respond.
She did not.
Augusta spent the same four days furious at everyone except herself.
Then Amelia entered her morning room carrying three newspapers.
“You are famous.”
“I was already famous.”
“For the wrong thing.”
“Leave.”
Amelia sat.
“No.”
Augusta glared.
Her daughter opened one paper.
“Apparently Clara is a French spy.”
Augusta rubbed her forehead.
“Wonderful.”
“Another says Julian has secretly married her.”
“He has not.”
“I assumed.”
Amelia lowered the paper.
“Do you dislike her?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
Augusta opened her mouth.
Stopped.
Amelia waited.
“Because she threatens the estate.”
“That is money.”
“Yes.”
“You like many people who threaten the estate.”
Augusta stared.
“Name one.”
“Uncle Stephen.”
“That is different.”
“He borrowed four thousand pounds and never returned it.”
“Family.”
Amelia raised one eyebrow.
Exactly.
Augusta looked away.
Amelia continued.
“Do you dislike Clara because she is not titled?”
“She is well-born enough.”
“Rich?”
“She should be.”
That was the entire problem.
Amelia leaned back.
“Do you dislike her because Julian likes her?”
Augusta’s jaw tightened.
“I dislike my son being manipulated.”
“Do you think she is manipulating him?”
“I did.”
“And now?”
Augusta remembered Clara refusing any proposal until settlement.