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She Found a Letter Addressed to Him Among the Others — Until He Whispered, "This Is Impossible"

She Found a Letter Addressed to Him Among the Others — Until He Whispered, "This Is Impossible"

Chapter 29

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Lady Agatha’s nostrils flared. Denied a victory over Eleanor, she turned her artillery back toward Clara. "Quite. Still, one must consider the preservation of the family dignity. It falls upon the Viscountess to set the standard. Tell me, Lady Dunmere, is it true that you still insist on opening the post yourself? Like a common clerk?""I do, Lady Agatha," Clara replied smoothly, not missing a stitch."How extraordinary. And how... exhausting. I should think a woman of your new station would wish to elevate her pursuits. One cannot maintain an air of aristocratic refinement with ink stains on one's fingers.""I find ink washes off, Lady Agatha," Adrian said. His voice was low, and it held the quiet, dangerous edge of a drawn sabre. He walked over to Clara’s chair and placed his good hand on her shoulder. "Whereas cruelty and snobbery, in my experience, tend to leave a permanent stain on the character."A heavy, suffocating silence fell over the drawing room. Lady Agatha turned a mottled, unbecoming shade of purple. She set her teacup down with a sharp clatter and abruptly excused herself to her chambers, complaining of a sudden migraine.When the door clicked shut, Adrian released a long breath. He looked down at Clara, his thumb gently brushing the nape of her neck. "I apologize. I should not have lost my temper. She is a guest.""She is a menace," the Dowager corrected from the sofa, sounding delighted. "You should have thrown her out into the snow, Adrian. It would have been immensely entertaining.""She is frightened," Clara said quietly.Adrian frowned. "Frightened? Of what? Us?""No." Clara set her embroidery aside. "Of something else. Something she did not bring in her carriage."The following morning, at eleven o'clock, the post arrived.Clara sat at the great black desk, sorting the letters into her usual piles. Answer. Read. Burn. Adrian sat in the armchair by the window, reading the Times, the winter sun catching the silver streaks in his dark hair.Clara’s hands moved with rhythmic precision. A bill for horse feed. Read. A letter from the Duke of Somerset. Answer. A heavy, cream-colored envelope addressed to Lady Agatha Rokesby.Clara stopped.She did not intend to pry. She had long ago mastered the art of seeing everything and looking at nothing. But the envelope was demanding her attention. It was sealed with black wax, pressed flat and hard. The paper was expensive, but it had been folded in a hurry—the edges were uneven, the corners hastily creased.
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She Found a Letter Addressed to Him Among the Others — Until He Whispered, "This Is Impossible"

30 Part