She simply dropped it onto the glowing coals. The parchment curled, turned black, and erupted into bright orange flames. Theodore stepped up behind her. He didn't ask what it was. He wrapped his arms around her waist, pulling her back against his solid chest, resting his chin on the top of her head.
"Poison?" he asked quietly, watching the ashes drift up the chimney. "Just London," Clara replied, leaning into his warmth. "It seems Lord Weston is coming for a visit." Theodore let out a short, surprised breath.
"Thomas is coming here? In November? The man hates mud more than he hates the French. My mother believes he's coming to continue your scandalous secret affair behind my back," Clara said dryly. Theodore choked on a laugh, burying his face in her neck.
"God help us. Thomas is terrified of women, horses, and open spaces. You will have to entertain him, Clara. I am hiding in the stables." Clara turned in his arms.
She looked up into his pale gray eyes. They were entirely clear, free of the shadows that had haunted him when they first met. "Let them come," she said fiercely, reaching up to cup his jaw. "Let Weston come."
"Let the entire House of Lords come. If they want to look for a monster in this house, I will gladly show them one." Theodore's expression shifted. The humor faded, replaced by that deep, raw reverence that always made Clara's breath hitch. He brought his hands up, wrapping his long fingers around her wrists, anchoring her to him."
"You would fight them for me." he said, sounding genuinely awed. "I would burn their society to the ground for you." Clara whispered, pulling him down to meet her lips. It wasn't a promise born of romantic fiction.
It was the grounded, cynical, unyielding truth of a woman who had finally found something worth bleeding for. When the kiss broke, Theodore pressed his forehead against hers. "They can keep London. We have the moors."
"Yes." Clara agreed, closing her eyes against the warmth of his skin. "We have the moors."
Lord Thomas Weston arrived 3 days later, looking as though he had been dragged behind the stagecoach rather than riding inside it. He was a slight, thin man with spectacles that constantly slipped down his nose and a hairline that was staging a rapid retreat. When he stepped into the cavernous entrance hall of Ironwood, shaking a dripping umbrella, he let out a prolonged, theatrical groan. "I have crossed into the underworld." Thomas announced to the echoing stone walls.
"Theodore, if you have lured me to this frozen hellscape only to murder me and hide my body in a bog, I beg you to do it quickly. I cannot endure another minute in damp wool. A deep, booming sound echoed from the top of the stairs. It took Clara a moment to recognize it as a laugh. It was loud, unrestrained, and entirely genuine."
"Theodore jogged down the stone steps, taking them two at a time. He grabbed his friend by the shoulders, clapping him on the back hard enough to make the smaller man stumble. Thomas, you survived the mud. "Barely," Thomas wheezed, adjusting his spectacles. "And I was forced to share a post-chaise at an inn with a man who smelled distinctly of pickled onions."
It was harrowing. I demand brandy, a vast quantity of it." His eyes shifted past Theodore, landing on Clara, who was standing quietly near the library doors. Thomas instantly froze. The dramatic complaints vanished, replaced by a rigid, terrified politeness."
"He pulled off his wet gloves and offered a stiff, awkward bow. "Your Grace, a profound honor. I apologize for my intrusion. I did write ahead, but the postal service north of the Thames is largely fictional." Clara stepped forward.
She looked at this man, the supposed secret lover, the crux of the vicious rumors that had plagued her husband. He was clutching a leather satchel to his chest as if it were a shield, trembling slightly from the cold. He was not a threat. He was a brilliant, socially anxious academic who was terrified of her. "Lord Weston," Clara said, her voice warm and entirely devoid of aristocratic hauteur.
"Theodore has told me a great deal about your work on the Roman aqueducts. I took the liberty of having a fire lit in the blue guest room, and Mrs. Gable has a tray of hot tea and a very large decanter of brandy waiting for you. Thomas blinked behind his thick lenses. He looked at Theodore, then back at Clara."
"Roman aqueducts.
He told you about my translations? He did. Clara lied smoothly. Theodore had never mentioned the aqueducts, but she had read the titles of the letters stacked on his desk. I am eager to hear your theories regarding the mortar compositions.
The tension drained from Thomas's shoulders so fast he visibly sagged. A massive, relieved smile broke across his face. Mortar? Yes. Fascinating subject.
The volcanic ash, you see. It changes everything. Theodore caught Clara's eye over Thomas's shoulder. The look he gave her was one of absolute, undisguised devotion. "Thank you."
his gray eyes said, for the next three days, Ironwood was filled with the sound of debate. The two men occupied the study, unrolling massive parchment maps across the floor. Clara did not withdraw to her drawing room as society dictated a wife should. She sat with them. She read her ledgers, occasionally interjecting to correct Thomas's atrocious mathematical calculations regarding supply costs.
There was no illicit romance. There were no hidden glances. There was only the comfortable, deeply platonic bond of two men who had found solace in ancient history when the modern world proved too cruel.
But London was not done with them.