Her fingers tightened slightly around her fan. "No, I suspect people confuse the two where you are concerned."
Clara looked across the room at Edward, who was laughing with Lord Pembroke. "People often believe what is convenient."
Nathaniel followed her gaze. "Including your brother."
"Especially family." She walked away before he could ask more.
The next morning brought rain hard enough to trap the guests indoors. Clara escaped after breakfast to a small writing room overlooking the east lawn. She had barely unfolded a letter when Edward entered and shut the door behind him.
"What did you say to Ashborne last night?"
"Several things. About Whitmore Park."
Clara looked up. "He asked."
"You discussed the drainage?"
"Yes."
"And the reserve?"
"Yes."
"Damn it, Clara." His voice dropped. "Pembroke heard enough to ask whether our accounts were strained."
"Our accounts are strained."
"Not publicly. Facts do not become less expensive because we whisper them." Edward planted both hands on the desk. "I need Pembroke confident in the estate."
Clara studied him. "Why?"
He straightened. "Because I do. Edward, leave it alone." That answer frightened her more than anger would have.
Clara folded the letter slowly. "How much?"
His eyes flickered. "What?"
"How much money have you borrowed?"
Silence. Rain tapped steadily against the windows.
"You manage household expenses," he said. "Nothing more."
Clara rose. "I managed them because you stopped doing it 3 years ago, and you will continue doing exactly what I ask."
"Not if you've endangered the estate." Edward's face hardened. "You forget whose estate it is."
Clara's voice became very quiet. "No, I remember every day."
He left without answering. Clara stood motionless until the door closed. Then she looked down at the letter he had interrupted. It was from Mr. Fletcher, Whitmore Park's steward. One line had been underlined twice. Miss Whitmore, the creditor has refused another extension. Unless the outstanding interest is paid within 30 days, he intends to proceed against the estate.
Clara read it again, then heard a floorboard creak beyond the half-open door. She turned. Nathaniel stood in the corridor. His eyes moved from her face to the letter trembling slightly between her fingers.
"Miss Whitmore," he said quietly. "What has your brother done?"
Clara folded the letter once, carefully enough to hide the underlined sentence. "I don't know yet."
Nathaniel remained in the doorway. "That was not the answer of a woman who knows nothing. It was the answer of a woman whose brother's finances are none of your concern."
"Fair." He stepped back.
Clara had expected another question. Instead, he inclined his head. "I apologize."
She stared at him. "That was remarkably painless."
"Do not become accustomed to it." He turned to leave.
"Your Grace." Nathaniel stopped. Clara looked at the rain streaming down the window. Asking for help had never come naturally to her. Asking a duke she had met yesterday felt absurd. "Do you know Lord Pembroke well?"
"Well enough to distrust him accurately."
"Would he lend money against an estate already carrying substantial debt?"
Nathaniel's expression changed. "Not unless he expected to acquire something more valuable than the interest."
Clara's fingers tightened around the letter. "That is what I feared."
Nathaniel entered the room but kept several feet between them. "How bad?"
"Mr. Fletcher says a creditor may proceed against Whitmore Park within 30 days."
"And your brother has told you nothing."
"Apparently, I am useful enough to repair accounts, but not important enough to be told when he destroys them." The bitterness escaped before she could contain it.
Nathaniel's eyes settled on her face. "You repair the accounts?"
Clara said nothing. He glanced toward the writing desk. "Last night you knew which fields flood, which leases should be shortened, and how much reserve the estate ought to hold."
"Those things are hardly mysterious."
"To half the landowners in England, they are sorcery."
Despite herself, Clara almost smiled. Nathaniel continued, "How long have you been managing Whitmore Park?"
"I don't manage it."
"Miss Whitmore."
She exhaled. "Three years. Since my father's death. Six months afterward, Edward discovered that mourning did not prevent bills from arriving."
She moved to the desk and opened a small leather portfolio. Inside were copies of tenant agreements, repair estimates, crop figures, and correspondence in her neat hand. Nathaniel picked up nothing until she nodded permission. He read several pages in silence. The rain softened outside. From somewhere down the corridor came the distant chiming of a clock.
"You negotiated this lease?" he asked.
"Yes. And reduced the miller's arrears in exchange for repairs to the southern bridge. It was cheaper than hiring another contractor."
"You were right."
Clara looked toward the fire. "Edward presented it as his idea at Christmas."
Nathaniel set the paper down. "Why did you allow that?"
"Because tenants needed the bridge more than I needed applause."
"Those are not the only choices."
"For women like me, they frequently are."
Nathaniel's expression hardened, though not at her. "No, they are the choices people offer you because you keep making their lives easier."
Clara looked at him sharply. The word struck too close.