He couldn't have been more than 2 and a half years old. The child was bundled in a coat that was entirely too large for him, the sleeves rolled up in thick cuffs.
He was clutching a small wooden toy, a carved horse with half its mane chipped away.
"Mama, look!" the boy piped up, his voice bright and clear, pointing at a scruffy dog trotting past the stall.
Clara's rigid, tired posture instantly melted. She knelt down right there in the mud, regardless of the filth soaking into her hem. She brushed a damp curl away from the boy's forehead.
Her smile was devastating. It was the same smile she used to give Arthur.
"I see him, Leo," she said softly. "लेकिन keep your hands in your pockets. It's freezing today."
The boy turned his head. For a fraction of a second, the child looked directly across the market square, right at Arthur.
The ground beneath Arthur's boots seemed to drop away. The noise of the market vanished, replaced by a deafening ringing in his ears.
The boy had dark chestnut hair. Yes, but the face, the stubborn tilt of the chin, the sharp, straight brow, and the eyes, they were pale, striking, storm-cloud gray.
They were Arthur's eyes. Looking back at him from a child's face, the math crashed into him with the force of a physical blow.
Three years ago, she left. The boy was walking, talking. Two and a half.
My son.
For 10 seconds, Arthur did not breathe. He merely stared, a ghost watching the living.
As Clara took the stale loaf, tucked it into her woven basket, and took the boy's small hand in hers, she turned to walk away, heading toward the narrow, winding alleys that spiderwebbed away from the market square.
Arthur moved. He didn't make a conscious decision to follow. His body simply propelled him forward.
He shoved past a farmer carrying a crate of chickens, ignoring the man's angry shout. His boots splashed heavily through the puddles, closing the distance.
He caught up to her at the mouth of a dark, narrow cobblestone street.
Clara.
He didn't shout. He barely raised his voice above the drumming rain, but the word landed like a brick.
Clara stopped. Her spine snapped straight. For a moment, she didn't turn around.
He watched her shoulders rise as she took a deep, shuddering breath. When she finally pivoted to face him, all the color had drained from her face, leaving her looking like polished marble.
Her eyes met his. The shock there was genuine, raw, and terrified. She instinctively pulled the boy behind her leg, shielding him from view with her body.
"Arthur," she whispered.
The sound of his name on her lips sent a sharp, agonizing jolt straight through his ribs.
"Your Grace," Arthur corrected her, his voice devoid of any warmth. He let his gaze drag over her faded clothes, her chapped face, before snapping back to her eyes. "It has been 3 years. I must say, Clara, you don't look like a woman who absconded with £5,000. Did you gamble it away? Or was the man you ran off with utterly incompetent with finances?"
Clara flinched. Not a dramatic gasp, but a small, sharp flinch, as if he had struck her across the face. Her grip on the handle of her basket turned her knuckles stark white.
"I don't know what you are talking about," she said, her voice shaking, but her chin tilted up in a defiant, familiar defiance.
"Don't lie to me. Not today."
Arthur took a step closer, towering over her. He smelled the cheap soap on her clothes mixed with the dampness of the rain.
"My mother showed me the ledger. She showed me the withdrawal. She showed me the letter you left on the silver tray in the foyer, detailing exactly how much my affection was worth to you."
Clara's brow furrowed, a genuine look of bewilderment fighting through her terror. "A letter? Arthur? I never wrote you a letter. I left because your mother threatened to have me arrested for theft if I didn't get out of London. She sent her men to my boarding house. They dragged me out into the street with nothing but the clothes on my back."
Arthur stared at her. The cynical wall he had built around his heart began to crack just a fraction. He searched her face for the lie.
He was an expert at finding lies. Society was built on them. But Clara's eyes were wide, desperate, and blazing with a bitter truth.
"She told me you agreed," Clara choked out, the old wound bleeding fresh in the cold rain. "She told me you realized a duke couldn't marry a shopkeeper's daughter, and that you permitted her to deal with me."