The guests had turned now, every eye fixed upon the trembling maid in her threadbare dress, and the Duchess saw her chance. She circled Clara slowly, her lips curling.
"Look at her cheek," she said to the gathered ladies. "Look at these clothes. Have you ever seen such rags at a gentleman's table? Patches upon patches, like something dragged from a beggar's washing line."
A few of the socialites tittered cruelly. Beatrice fed on the sound.
"Tell me, girl: did you sew this yourself, or did you steal it from a scarecrow?"
Clara said nothing. She kept her eyes on the grass, but her cheeks burned scarlet, and her hands knotted in her apron to keep them from shaking.
"Answer me!" the Duchess demanded.
"It was my mother's, Your Grace," Clara said softly.
The reply only delighted Beatrice more. "Her mother's! How very touching. A family heirloom of dishcloths." She laughed and gestured for the company to share the joke. "This is the trouble with hiring from the gutter—they bring the gutter with them."
It was at that moment that the Duke arrived.
Arthur Ashworth, six and thirty, had been walking the rose paths with two visiting lords when the commotion reached him. He was a tall man, calm and grave, with the sort of steady eyes that made servants stand straighter and guests choose their words with care. He crossed the lawn now, and the laughter thinned the moment he came near.
"Beatrice," he said evenly, "what is all this?"