When he came home for the ball, his mother told him only that a maid had stolen and been dismissed. Henry had asked every servant where Clara had gone; nobody knew, nobody would say. He had stood in the ballroom beside Cecilia and announced their engagement with a smile on his face and despair in his heart, because he did not dare to stop now.
And then, three days ago, late at night, there was a knock on his study door. It was old Mrs. Pike, the cook, trembling and twisting her apron in her hands.
"Your Grace," she said, "forgive me. Your father made me promise not to tell anyone, not even you. But I heard Lady Cecilia laughing this afternoon, telling her mother that the Hartley girl was rotting in Newgate." The old woman's voice broke. "I cannot keep silent anymore—not if it means that child dies where her father died."
And she told him everything: the key, the bank, Thomas Hartley's daughter. Henry left for London within the hour.
In the darkness of her cell, Clara had lost count of the days. It had been three, perhaps, or four. She ate the gray bread they pushed through the door; she drank the bitter water. At night, she lay on the stone bench and listened to the other prisoners shouting and weeping, and she thought of Polly, alone in that cold room, coughing, holding the rag doll.
On the fourth morning, there were footsteps in the passage. The jailer's keys rattled; the heavy door swung open.
"Visitor for you," the jailer said, his voice oddly respectful. "Mind your manners, girl."
A tall figure stepped into the cell, bowing his head beneath the low doorway: it was the Duke of Ravenshire.
For a long moment, he said nothing at all. He only looked at her: at her bare, ragged hair, at her filthy dress, at the red marks the iron cuffs had left on her wrists. His face went very pale.
Clara rose slowly to her feet; she did not curtsy. "Have you come to see the thief, Your Grace?" she said coldly. "Or have you come to bring me an invitation to your wedding?"
"Clara."
"I don't need your pity, Your Grace."
"I am not here to pity you." He took a step toward her, his voice low and rough. "I'm here because you were right about everything—about Marlowe, about your father." He paused. "I know who you are, Miss Hartley. I have known since the night in my father's study."
Clara stared at him. "Then why?" she whispered. "Why did you let them do this to me?"
"Because I did not know where you were until three days ago. And because if Marlowe had guessed that I was hunting him, he would have burned every page of the truth and run." He looked at her with dark, steady eyes. "I owe you an explanation, and you shall have one—all of it. But not now; there is no time. Listen to me: do you still have the key?"
Clara hesitated. *Do not trust anyone,* Mrs. Pike had said, *not anyone.*