Lady Honoria turned toward him in disbelief.
“Julian!”
“No marriage should proceed merely because its arrangements are convenient.”
Clara looked up sharply.
He continued.
“Miss Langley is free to reconsider. So am I. Until the matter is settled, no invitations will be issued, and no date will be announced.”
A peculiar silence followed.
Lady Honoria studied him with narrowed eyes.
Then she looked at Clara.
Then back at Julian.
At last she said, “Something happened this afternoon.”
Julian raised his glass.
“A great many things.”
“I should like to know what.”
“In due course.”
“Julian—”
“Aunt, I assure you I have not run mad.”
Lady Honoria leaned back.
“Then I can only conclude that Miss Langley has somehow managed to improve your manners in the space of a single day.”
Clara's lips curved.
Julian glanced toward her.
“That,” he said, “would be an extremely premature conclusion.”
Later that evening, Clara stood beside the window of her bedchamber and watched rain strike the terrace below.
Her room occupied the eastern wing of Alderwick House.
It was large and handsome, furnished with rosewood chairs, pale blue curtains, and an enormous four-poster bed whose embroidered hangings had probably cost more than her mother's school required for an entire year.
The contrast troubled her.
So did the duke.
Mrs. Porter sat beside the hearth, knitting with the determined expression of a woman attempting to restore order through the proper application of wool and needles.
“Miss Clara,” she said, “I cannot believe you actually went about the house dressed as a servant.”
Clara turned.
“You have mentioned that several times.”
“Because it remains astonishing.”
“It was only for a few minutes.”
“You were fortunate not to be discovered by some gentleman of questionable character.”
“I was discovered by a duke of questionable manners.”
Mrs. Porter sighed.
“Sir Edmund will be furious.”
Clara's smile faded.
“Yes.”
“And Lady Honoria may refuse to receive us again.”
“She has already invited me to examine her roses.”
“That proves nothing. Her ladyship might invite a highwayman to examine her roses if he knew how to prune them.”
Clara laughed softly.
Then she grew serious.
“Agnes, do you remember the letters my father kept from Sir Edmund Cross?”
Mrs. Porter looked up.
“Of course.”
“He trusted him.”
“Very much.”
“He appointed him executor because he believed Sir Edmund would protect my interests until I was sufficiently established to manage them myself.”
“And Sir Edmund has been a faithful adviser.”
“Has he?”
Mrs. Porter's needles stopped.
“What do you mean?”
Clara moved toward the little writing desk.
She opened her correspondence case and removed a letter from Sir Edmund.
It was dated six weeks earlier.
In it, he had urged her to accept the marriage without delay, explaining that the duke's temperament was difficult but his position unassailable.
You must not allow minor personal discomforts to interfere with an alliance that will secure your future.
She read the sentence again.
Then thought of Mrs. Beale's cottage.
The empty school shelves.
The false signatures.
“Agnes,” she said slowly, “what would happen to my mother's property if I married without a carefully drafted settlement?”
Mrs. Porter frowned.
“That is a matter for your solicitor.”
“Precisely.”
“Sir Edmund has been attending to it.”
“Yes.”
Clara folded the letter.
“And I believe that is what worries me most.”
A knock sounded at the door.
Mrs. Porter rose.
A footman stood outside holding a small silver tray.
“From His Grace, miss.”
Clara took the note.