"She's gone."
Arthur's voice was a low rumble behind her. He stepped into the light of the window, dressed only in a loose linen shirt and dark trousers. He did not touch her right away. He stood beside her, looking at the empty drive, letting the reality of the morning settle over them both.
"Will she truly stay in Cornwall?" Clara asked, her voice quiet against the heavy glass.
"She has no choice," Arthur replied. "Without my funds, she is destitute. Without her reputation, she is nothing. She will sit by a smoky hearth and play solitaire for the rest of her days, entirely forgotten by the society she destroyed us to impress."
He finally turned to her. He reached out, his warm, rough fingers gently tracing the line of her jaw. "It is over, Clara. The house is yours."
Clara looked away from the window, turning her gaze inward to the cavernous bedchamber. It was magnificent. The walls were hung with pale blue silk. The bed, a massive four-poster masterpiece draped in velvet.
Yet the physical luxury meant nothing compared to the profound, terrifying safety of the man standing beside her.
A sharp, sleepy cry broke the quiet. It came from the adjoining room, the heavy oak doors left slightly ajar.
Arthur moved first. He crossed the room in swift, silent strides, pushing the door open. Clara followed closely behind.
The nursery had been hastily arranged by the housekeeper during the night. A large, ornate wooden crib had been dragged from the attics, but Leo was not in it.
He was sitting up in the center of a massive feather bed, clutching the edges of a fine linen sheet. His gray eyes were wide and frantic, darting around the unfamiliar, cavernous room. He did not recognize the silk walls. He did not recognize the roaring fire in the hearth. He only knew it was not the cooper's shop, and he was alone.
"Mama," Leo whimpered, his lower lip trembling.
"I am here." Clara rushed to the side of the bed, reaching out, but Arthur was closer.
The duke sat on the edge of the mattress. His massive frame dipped the feather bed, causing Leo to slide slightly toward him.
Arthur didn't hesitate. He scooped the frightened boy up, pressing Leo's small head against his broad chest.
"You are safe," Arthur murmured, his voice a deep, resonant hum that seemed to instantly ground the child. He rubbed a large hand over Leo's back. "You are in your home. No one is going to hammer barrels today. It is perfectly quiet."
Leo sniffled, burying his face in the soft linen of Arthur's shirt. His small fist reached up blindly, grabbing a handful of the fabric. Slowly, the frantic tension bled out of the boy's shoulders. He tipped his head back, looking up at Arthur.
"Tick, tick?" Leo asked, his voice thick with sleep.
A slow, devastatingly gentle smile broke across Arthur's face. He reached into his trouser pocket and pulled out the heavy gold pocket watch. He pressed the latch. The lid popped open. He held it to Leo's ear.
Leo listened to the steady rhythm, letting out a long, contented sigh, and rested his head back against Arthur's chest.
Clara stood at the foot of the bed, her hands covering her mouth. The lingering ghosts of the past 3 years—the cold, the hunger, the bitter betrayal—began to disintegrate, burning away in the warmth of the firelight.
Later that evening, the estate was quiet. The staff had adjusted to their new mistress with astonishing speed, largely due to Dawson's ironfisted management and Arthur's lethal warning.
Clara had not acted the part of a tyrant. When she ordered the kitchens to send up extra coal to every servant's quarter, ensuring no one in her house would ever sleep in the cold, she secured their absolute, unquestioning loyalty.
Arthur sat in the massive leather chair behind the mahogany desk in his study. A fire roared in the grate. The heavier account ledgers, the ones detailing Agatha's thefts and the forged payoff, sat on the edge of the desk.
Clara walked in holding two glasses of dark amber brandy. She set one on the desk and walked around to stand beside him. She looked at the ledgers.
"What will you do with them?" she asked.
Arthur picked up his glass. He took a slow sip, his eyes reflecting the flames. "They are proof of a crime. Proof of a lie."
He set the glass down, picked up the thick leather-bound books, and stood. He walked to the hearth.
Without a second of hesitation, he tossed the ledgers directly into the roaring fire.
Clara gasped slightly as the dry parchment caught immediately. The flames flared high, devouring the ink, the forged signatures, and the cruel mathematics of their suffering. The leather bindings cracked and curled, turning to black ash.
Arthur turned his back to the fire. He reached out and pulled Clara into his arms. He buried his face in her thick chestnut hair, inhaling the scent of expensive lavender soap, though to him she had never stopped being the girl from the bakery.
"They don't matter," Arthur whispered fiercely against her neck. "None of it matters anymore. The past is ash, Clara. I only care about tomorrow."
Clara closed her eyes, wrapping her arms tightly around his waist, anchoring herself to the solid, living reality of him. She listened to the steady beating of his heart. It matched the rhythm of the gold watch sitting on the desk.
It was the sound of time moving forward. It was the sound of a family finally coming home.