Clara raised her head slowly. "The day is not over yet, my lady," she said quietly.
Cecilia laughed, swept out of the cell, and the heavy door slammed shut behind her.
That night, Clara did not sleep. In the morning, through the tiny barred window high in the wall, she heard church bells begin to ring across London: bright, joyful wedding bells. It was 10:00, and still nobody came.
At half past 10:00, the cell door opened. Clara looked up from the stone bench, expecting the jailer with his gray bread. Instead, two people stood in the doorway: the first was old Mrs. Pike, holding a large bundle in her arms; the second was a thin young woman with red, swollen eyes—Hannah, Lady Cecilia's maid.
"Clara!" Hannah sobbed, running forward and falling on her knees in front of her. "Oh, Clara, forgive me! Please forgive me! She made me do it. She put the bracelet in my hand and told me to hide it in your pillow. She said if I refused, she would throw me out without a character and my mother would starve. I was so frightened! I'm so sorry!"
Clara stared at her, then at Mrs. Pike.
"The Duke's man from Bow Street found her two days ago," said the cook quickly. "She told him everything. Last night she swore it all again in front of Sir Matthew Kendall himself, the chief magistrate of London. Not that crook Judge Harlow—the highest magistrate in the city!" Mrs. Pike's eyes were shining. "The charge is gone, child. You are free."
Behind them, the jailer held up a paper with a large red seal and nodded. Clara could not speak; she could not move.
"But there's no time to stand here gawping," said Mrs. Pike briskly. "There's a carriage waiting outside, and His Grace said you must be at St. George's before 11:00. He said you would understand."
"The wedding," Clara whispered. "He's still going to the wedding?"
"He is," said Mrs. Pike. And for the first time in Clara's memory, the old cook smiled a wide, wicked smile. "And so are you."
She opened the bundle in her arms: inside was a simple, lovely dress of soft dove-gray wool, a warm cloak, a pair of new boots, and a cap—a beautiful new cap of fine white linen and delicate lace. Tied around it was a ribbon of dark blue silk.
St. George's Church in Hanover Square was full to the doors: three hundred of the most important people in England sat in the polished wooden pews—lords and ladies, generals and bishops, wearing silks, jewels, and feathers. White roses covered every pillar, the organ played softly, and the air smelled of perfume and candle wax.
At the front of the church, the Dowager Duchess of Ravenshire sat straight and proud in the first pew in purple velvet. Across the aisle sat the Earl of Marlowe, plump and pleased, smiling at everyone.