another. "And this is the sworn statement of my late father, the fifth Duke of Ravenshire, who stood in the room and watched the Earl sign it."
A great wave of whispers swept through the church. The Earl of Marlowe had risen to his feet, his face a deep, ugly red.
"Lies!" he shouted. "This is outrageous! Those papers are forgeries! Hartley was a thief, and his daughter is a thief, and she is sitting in Newgate right now where she belongs!"
"Is she?" said the Duke calmly.
He looked toward the back of the church, and the great doors swung open once more.
Three women stood in the doorway: one was an old cook in her best black Sunday dress; one was a thin young maid with frightened, tear-stained eyes; and between them stood a young woman in dove-gray with a lace cap tied with a dark blue ribbon. She was pale and thin, and there were red marks on her wrists, but she held her head high and walked down that long aisle as if she had every right in the world to be there.
Three hundred heads turned to watch her. Lady Cecilia made a strangled sound like a cat that had been stepped on.
"Ladies and gentlemen," said the Duke of Ravenshire, "may I present Miss Clara Hartley, the daughter of Thomas Hartley—the young woman who was thrown out of my house in the rain and dragged to Newgate in chains for stealing a bracelet." He nodded toward Cecilia's glittering wrist. "That bracelet."
"She stole it!" Cecilia shrieked. "It was found in her pillow!"
"Hannah," said the Duke gently, "will you tell them how it got there?"
The little maid was trembling from head to foot. She looked at her mistress, and for a moment it seemed she could not speak. Then old Mrs. Pike put a strong hand on her shoulder, and Hannah lifted her chin.
"My lady put it in my hand," she said in a small, clear voice. "And she told me to hide it in Clara's pillow, and she said that if I ever told anyone, she would see me starve in the gutter."
"Liar!" Cecilia screamed. "You ungrateful little liar!"
She flung her bouquet to the floor and rushed toward Hannah with her hand raised, but Clara stepped in front of the maid. Cecilia, wild with fury, turned on her instead, reaching up with clawed fingers to tear the lace cap from Clara's head, just as she had done in the rain.
A hand closed around her wrist. The Duke of Ravenshire held it fast. He did not hurt her, but he did not let go.
"Never again," he said quietly. "Do you understand me, Cecilia? You will never touch her again."
Cecilia stared up at him, panting, and for the first time, she saw what was in his eyes when he looked at Clara. She began to cry: loud, ugly, furious tears.