The summer sun poured gold over the gardens of Ashworth Hall, and beneath the white silk pavilion, the finest families in the county had gathered for afternoon tea.
Ladies in pale muslin gowns laughed behind painted fans; gentlemen in dark coats spoke of horses and harvests. It was the first afternoon of a three-day summit, and every guest had come to be seen.
Clara moved between the tables with a silver tray, her head bowed, her steps quiet. At nine and twenty, she had served at the hall for nearly a year, and she had learned the great rules of a maid's life: be useful, be silent, be invisible. Her dress was gray wool, mended so many times that the patches had patches and the cuffs had frayed to soft threads, but it was clean, and she wore it with a strange, quiet dignity that none of the guests bothered to notice.
She was pouring tea for an elderly viscountess when it happened. A footman crossed her path too quickly. Clara turned to avoid him. The tray tilted, and a thin stream of tea spilled across the white tablecloth and onto the hem of a gown the color of summer roses.
The gown belonged to the Duchess Beatrice.
For a heartbeat, the whole pavilion seemed to hold its breath.
The Duchess rose slowly. She was four and thirty, beautiful in the cold way of polished marble, and her face had gone tight with fury.
"You stupid, careless girl," she said, and her voice carried across the garden like a whip crack. "Look what you've done!"
"Forgive me, Your Grace," Clara whispered, sinking into a low curtsy. "I shall fetch a cloth at once."
"You should stand still and be looked at!" Beatrice snapped.