“Precisely.”
“May I ask when it was written?”
“The third of September.”
“And addressed directly to Your Grace?”
“Obviously.”
“May I see it?”
Julian gave a short, disbelieving laugh.
“You wish to inspect my private correspondence?”
“Only because the sentiment is so very unpleasant.”
“You have a remarkable opinion of your privileges.”
“Perhaps. But if Your Grace intends to marry the author, it seems a small matter to establish whether she actually wrote it.”
Something in her voice arrested him.
“What do you mean?”
Before she could answer, the door opened.
Mr. Pembroke, the elderly butler of Alderwick House, entered with his customary dignity.
He had served the family for thirty-seven years and possessed the peculiar authority of a man who had witnessed three dukes make fools of themselves without ever mentioning the fact aloud.
Behind him stood Mrs. Hartley, the housekeeper.
Both stopped at the threshold.
Mr. Pembroke looked at the maid.
Then at the duke.
Then at the letter in Julian’s hand.
For the first time in Julian’s memory, the butler appeared uncertain how to proceed.
“Your Grace,” he began.
“Not now, Pembroke. I am occupied.”
“I fear the matter cannot wait.”
“Unless the house is burning, it can.”
Mr. Pembroke drew himself upright.
He turned toward the girl at the fireplace.
And then, before the astonished eyes of his master, the elderly butler bowed with the deep, respectful courtesy reserved for distinguished guests.
“Miss Langley,” he said, “your chambers have been prepared.”
The silence that followed was absolute.
Julian did not move.
The maid removed her linen cap.
A thick fall of chestnut hair loosened beneath her hands, tumbling over her shoulders before she gathered it into a more respectable arrangement.
Then she turned toward the duke.
“Thank you, Mr. Pembroke.”
Her voice had changed very little.
That, somehow, made everything worse.
Julian looked from her to the butler.
Then back again.
“Miss Langley?”
“Yes, Your Grace.”
“Clara Langley?”
“The very same.”
“My—”
“Your unbearable bride,” she supplied.
His mouth opened.
Nothing emerged.
Clara folded the cap neatly and placed it upon the mantel.
“I believe you were explaining how unpleasant I am.”
Julian felt heat rise beneath his collar.
“You are not a servant.”
“No.”
“You have been standing there deliberately allowing me to believe—”
“That I was a servant? Yes.”
“For what purpose?”
She considered him for a moment.
“I wished to discover what sort of gentleman I was expected to marry.”
“And have you reached a conclusion?”
“Not entirely.”
He drew himself straighter.
For the first time that morning, his confidence was visibly shaken.
“Then perhaps you will permit me to explain.”
“I should be delighted.”
Her eyes moved toward the letter.
“But I think we should begin with the fact that I have never written those words in my life.”
Clara Langley had never intended to meet her future husband dressed as a housemaid.
It had been an improvisation.
And like most improvisations, it had succeeded rather better than she had anticipated.
Three hours earlier, she had arrived at Alderwick House in a hired traveling carriage accompanied by her companion, Mrs. Agnes Porter, and a trunk containing sufficient gowns to satisfy even Lady Honoria Vale.
Clara had expected to be received as a guest.
Instead, her carriage had stopped beside the service entrance because the principal drive was temporarily blocked by wagons delivering timber.
Mrs. Hartley, recognizing Clara from a description supplied by Sir Edmund Cross, had hurried out to greet her.
Before they could move toward the main entrance, a housemaid named Bess Finch emerged carrying a large wicker basket.
The girl's apron was stained with soot, her hair was escaping its cap, and her face bore the expression of someone who had recently been informed that an impossible task must be completed immediately.
“Mrs. Hartley,” she exclaimed, “His Grace has sent for more coal, and Thomas has taken himself off somewhere, and if I do not get it upstairs this very instant, there will be another lecture about punctuality.”