“And for what purpose?”
“That is what I came here to discover.”
Julian folded his arms.
“Explain.”
Clara reached into the pocket concealed beneath her borrowed apron.
She withdrew a small packet of letters, carefully tied with blue ribbon.
“I have received eight letters purportedly from you since June, Your Grace. Their general tone has been cold, but the most recent were positively extraordinary.”
She untied the ribbon.
“In one, you stated that the management of your estate was no concern of mine, and that upon our marriage I should confine my attention to the ordering of gowns and the production of an heir.”
Julian stared at her.
“I wrote no such thing.”
“Then perhaps you will understand my concern.”
“I never mentioned an heir.”
“I was particularly relieved to learn that.”
Despite himself, Julian almost smiled.
Clara continued.
“In another, you instructed me to dismiss my companion, because a wife ought not to retain independent advisers. In a third, you informed me that the village school established by my mother was an expensive indulgence.”
Julian went very still.
“The school?”
“Yes.”
“I know little of its management.”
“So I had gathered.”
She selected another letter.
“This one suggested that the schoolhouse should be converted into a grain store.”
Julian stepped closer.
“May I?”
She handed him the paper.
He read it once.
Then again.
His expression darkened.
“That is not my hand.”
“Nor are those my sentiments.”
He examined the seal.
It bore the Alderwick crest.
“That,” he said slowly, “is my seal.”
Clara watched him carefully.
“Then somebody has access to it.”
Julian looked toward the desk where his correspondence was ordinarily arranged each morning.
A faint uneasiness moved through him.
He had never considered the possibility that the letters might be false.
He had received them through the usual channels, accompanied by assurances from Sir Edmund Cross that Miss Langley possessed a rather severe character but was nevertheless sensible, wealthy, and thoroughly respectable.
The letters had confirmed precisely what he had been told.
And because they had confirmed it, Julian had not questioned them.
Now he looked at the woman sitting before him.
She was wearing a borrowed apron.
A smudge of coal darkened one of her fingers.
Her eyes were steady upon his face.
She did not resemble the officious creature of his imagination in the least.
“Why,” he asked, “would anyone wish us to misunderstand each other?”
Clara's expression became serious.
“Because someone has been conducting business in both our names.”
She replaced the correspondence in its ribbon.
“Three weeks ago, a widow named Mrs. Beale wrote to me from Mereford village. Her husband had worked on the Alderwick estate for twenty-six years. She has two young daughters and a cottage held under an agreement made with your late brother.”
Julian knew the name.
“Beale. A mill carpenter.”
“Yes.”
“He died last winter.”
“After which his widow was informed that her rent had doubled.”
Julian frowned.
“That is not possible. I gave instructions that the existing agreements were to be honored.”
“Nevertheless, she received a notice.”
“From my steward?”
“From your steward, Mr. Vane. The notice stated that the increases were necessary to accommodate improvements requested by Miss Clara Langley, who would shortly become Duchess of Alderwick.”
Julian's face changed.
“What?”
“Apparently I have already begun turning your tenants from their homes.”
“I authorized no such thing.”
“Neither did I.”
She reached into her pocket once more.
This time she produced a folded document.
Julian recognized the estate's engraved letterhead.
Below it stood several neat paragraphs in a clerk's hand.
At the bottom was his signature.
Or something very like it.
Beside it appeared another.
Clara Langley.
Julian stared.