Mrs. Hartley closed her eyes briefly.
“Bess, we have a guest.”
Bess turned.
She took in Clara's traveling gown, modest bonnet, and worn but well-kept gloves.
Then she curtsied.
“Beg pardon, miss.”
Clara smiled.
“You appear to be in difficulties.”
“Only the usual sort, miss. His Grace has a temper when his correspondence arrives.”
“Has he indeed?”
“Especially the letters from the lady he is supposed to marry.”
Mrs. Hartley looked horrified.
“Bess!”
But Clara raised a hand.
“Please. What lady?”
“Miss Langley, miss. They say she's dreadful particular.”
Clara had felt an extraordinary temptation to laugh.
Instead, she asked, “Who says so?”
“His Grace, mostly.”
“And have you seen Miss Langley?”
“No, miss.”
“Has anybody?”
“Not that I know of.”
Clara looked toward the grand staircase beyond the service passage.
An idea formed.
It was not a sensible idea.
Indeed, her father, had he been alive, would almost certainly have described it as the sort of notion that ought to be abandoned immediately.
But Clara had spent the preceding six weeks receiving letters that troubled her more deeply than any prospective husband's discourtesy.
She had come to Alderwick not merely to meet Julian Vale, but to discover why her name had appeared upon notices ordering the removal of families she had never encountered.
She had already begun to suspect that someone was concealing something.
And now a young maid had unintentionally offered her an opportunity.
“Mrs. Hartley,” Clara said, “might I borrow an apron?”
The housekeeper stared.
“I beg your pardon, miss?”
“An apron. And perhaps a cap.”
Bess grinned.
Ten minutes later, Clara was carrying a coal scuttle upstairs.
Mrs. Hartley had protested. Mrs. Porter had nearly fainted. Mr. Pembroke, informed of the arrangement as Clara passed the servants' hall, had looked as though the foundations of English civilization were collapsing beneath his polished shoes.
But Clara had insisted upon five minutes.
Only five.
She had wanted to hear the duke speak when he believed no lady of his acquaintance was present.
She had never imagined he would offer so thorough an exhibition of his opinions.
Now, standing in the morning room while Julian regarded her with an expression of profound dismay, she wondered whether the experiment had been too successful.
“Miss Langley,” he said at last, “I owe you an apology.”
“Yes.”
The bluntness of her response startled him.
Julian had expected conventional phrases.
Pray, do not mention it.
It was merely a misunderstanding.
I am certain Your Grace intended no offense.
Instead, she simply agreed.
“I spoke without proper knowledge,” he continued.
“You did.”
“And in a manner unworthy of a gentleman.”
“Quite.”
His eyes narrowed.
“Do you intend to allow me to finish?”
“I thought I was helping.”
Behind her, Mr. Pembroke coughed delicately.
Julian turned to him.
“Pembroke, leave us.”
The butler hesitated.
Clara noticed.
“I believe Mrs. Hartley should remain,” she said. “At least until my companion arrives.”
Julian's jaw tightened.
“Of course.”
It was not precisely the beginning either of them had imagined for their acquaintance.
Mrs. Hartley stationed herself discreetly beside the door while Mr. Pembroke departed to summon Mrs. Porter.
Julian gestured toward a chair.
“Please, Miss Langley.”
Clara sat.
He remained standing.
The letter lay between them upon the polished mahogany desk.
“You claim you did not write this.”
“I know I did not.”
“It bears your signature.”
“Then somebody has imitated my signature.”