Why?
The answer seemed increasingly obvious.
If neither trusted the other, neither would question the arrangements made on their behalf.
Sir Edmund led Clara aside while Lady Honoria discussed dinner with the duke.
“My dear,” he said quietly, “I understand you have been asking questions about the school.”
“Yes.”
“That was unnecessary.”
“The building is closed.”
“Temporarily.”
“The funds appear to have been diverted.”
“A routine adjustment.”
“Without my consent?”
Sir Edmund's smile remained.
“You have always been so passionate where your mother's interests are concerned. It is charming, but I fear you do not yet understand the practical necessities of property.”
“My mother understood them very well.”
“Your mother was an exceptional woman.”
“Yes.”
“Nevertheless, she trusted those better placed to administer such matters.”
Clara looked at him.
“She trusted you.”
The words hung between them.
Sir Edmund's expression changed almost imperceptibly.
“Indeed she did.”
“Then I hope her confidence was justified.”
For a moment, he said nothing.
Then he gently took her elbow.
“Clara, we must speak plainly. You are about to enter one of the most distinguished families in England. Such an opportunity should not be endangered by romantic attachments to an old schoolhouse.”
Clara withdrew her arm.
“I do not regard the education of children as a romantic attachment.”
“You know what I mean.”
“I am afraid I do.”
Sir Edmund lowered his voice.
“The duke's finances are not what they appear.”
Clara remained still.
“His father left substantial obligations. His brother was incapable of managing them. The present duke has struggled honorably, but without the proposed marriage settlement, certain creditors may press their claims.”
“And that concerns the school?”
“It concerns everything.”
“Then perhaps His Grace ought to know.”
Sir Edmund's gaze sharpened.
“He knows enough.”
“Does he?”
“My dear, men of rank frequently prefer not to be troubled by the less agreeable details of their affairs.”
Clara thought of Julian standing in Mrs. Beale's cottage.
I ought to have known.
She looked back at Sir Edmund.
“I believe you underestimate him.”
The older man's smile disappeared.
“That would be unwise, Clara.”
“Would it?”
“Yes.”
His tone hardened.
“Julian Vale has a proud and difficult temper. He will not appreciate being contradicted in public, and his family will not welcome a duchess who has made herself an object of ridicule.”
Clara felt her cheeks warm.
“You are referring to the housemaid's clothing.”
“An extraordinary lapse of judgment.”
“Perhaps.”
“I can protect you from the consequences.”
She waited.
“Provided,” Sir Edmund continued, “you allow the marriage arrangements to proceed without further interference.”
Clara looked steadily into his eyes.
“And if I do not?”
Sir Edmund's expression softened again.
It was a performance she had known since childhood.
The concerned guardian.
The reasonable adviser.
The gentleman who regretted the world's harshness while quietly ensuring that others submitted to it.
“My dear girl,” he said, “I should hate to see you discover how little influence a young woman possesses when powerful families decide she has become inconvenient.”
Clara's heart beat faster.
But she did not lower her eyes.
“Then perhaps,” she said, “they should take care not to make themselves inconvenient to me.”
Julian found her twenty minutes later in the conservatory.
She stood beside a tall orange tree, staring through the glass toward the darkening gardens.
The conservatory was warm and fragrant with damp earth. Late roses climbed along the southern wall, and a narrow fountain murmured beneath the ferns.
Julian stopped at the entrance.
“Miss Langley?”
She turned.